Ravene, Prineline


Ravene and Prineline get caught out in the sand, and seek shelter in the Cantina.


It is the eighty-fourth day of Summer and 80 degrees. A cloud is on the horizon, a dust storm is on the way.


Dustbowl Cantina

OOC Date



Dustbowl Cantina

To enter the Dustbowl Cantina is to descend: the heart of the ancient tavern lies half underground, at the foot of ancient steps, insulated from summer heat and winter cold by the volcanic rock surrounding it. A windowless place well-lit by glows, it is homey, even cozy, with a certain bijou charm - but for the deep gouges worn in wooden table and solid stone, some clearly lingering evidence of boisterous brawling. The wall behind the well-polished bar, though, remains free from scars or graffiti, as does the door into the small kitchen, and the stairwell up into the owner's quarters: the barkeep and his staff reign, and they guard their territory well. After all, only a fool angers the source of the booze.

The sand storm billows, picking up speed as it encases the Bazaar and anyone unlucky enough to be caught within it. Rare thing, Prineline not being prepared for an incoming wall of grit. Having been in Igen a long, long time, she gets the old woman aches when a storm is on the horizon. There's no fooling an old knee injury when bad weather approaches. However, this unfortunate day, the Headwoman had one too many appointments to oversee and here she is, sweeping into the tavern just as the light outside is extinguished. She gives herself a dignified shake, little pockets of sand falling heavily in motes about her booted feet. Pulling the handkerchief down from around her chin, Prineline runs a few fingers through her disheveled hair in order to re-pin where necessary. With a cursory glance at the other stranded Igenites, she makes her way to a vacant stool, her vacant stool, and waits.

Sand, sand, and more sand pours in behind Ravene as she ducks inside the Dustbowl in search of shelter. The shawl that was hastily thrown over head and across face, is slowly unwrapped before being given a quick shake over the pile of sand by the door. This earns her an eyeroll from one of the girls working as waitress, for which she gives a shrug. At least the daily deliveries have been made, so the baker doesn't feel too bad about being caught out in the sandstorm. She makes her way to the bar where she finds a vacant stool. Unlike Prineline, Ravene doesn't have a stool that's hers, though she really doesn't care. A small smile is given to the headwoman before the empty basket is settled on the floor. Empty basket except for the small bit of sand that has gathered within the cloth that lines it.

Prineline is in a soft discussion with Jharlodar as the owner slides a generous pour of Benden's finest across the polished bar top. As the sparsely populated stools find another patron, Jharlodar glides away from Prine to see after Ravene. Prineline, for her part, arches one thin red brow at the baker; gaze moving with some hopefulness towards the basket but a wrinkled forehead alludes to her disappointment at the lack of tasty treats supplied within. Taking a few long sips of her wine she allows Ravene to order before her attention lazily moves from barkeep to Journeyman and back again, undecided about who she cares to engage, if she cares to engage at all.

Jharlodar slides an iced klah laced with something suitably alcoholic across to Ravene who gives a nod of thanks. The basket is glanced at before an apologetic shrug is given to Prineline. Usually the baker has way more than is needed, but on this odd day the baker finds her basket empty. Of course she does have a reliable firelizard she could send for some of her stuffed breads. Mars (after all) can be trusted not to pick at food that is not given to him, the others? Not so much, "Would you care for something Prineline?" if it isn't too big that is.

Prineline murmurs something inaudible as a couple fingers raise in protest to Ravene's inquiry and she enhances the volume. "No, no, that won't be necessary." Picking a few stray pieces of grit from her blouse, the Headwoman engages herself in another long sip of wine before she lets her free hand sidle up her shoulder and play along the dozing dorsal ridge of the barely-visible and impossibly tiny firelizard in her possession. "How has your establishment fared, Ravene? after the cleanse?"

"Much better. Thank you," Ravene answers, "Some of the refugees weren't so bad, and I've managed to find room for them in the upper rooms of my shop," not that she talks that often of the upper rooms, "Bit crowded, but it's good to have a pair or two of comptent hands helping in the kitchen," helps when she's slammed, which is almost always these days.

Prineline nods, mulling over the bakers words for a time as the sands whip outside in mournful notes. "Be careful with who you let in your shop. A pair of hands is nice in a pinch, but we've had more than a few 'helpers' in the Weyr who I've had to kick back into the streets. Pilfering more than even a lenient Headwoman can account for, you see." She points towards Ravene with quiet authority. "I know you tend to have a surplus of baked goods, but you'll be wanting to keep an eye on those scraps, Journeywoman. We've plenty of honest mouths to feed, and the dishonest ones seem to be getting more than their share."

Ravene nods her agreement, "I have been fortunate so far," probably owing to her policy of guards and riders getting a free pastry or bread and klah every morning, or whenever they show up, "Though I think my policy of giving every guard and rider a free pastry or stuffed bread and thermos of klah every day helps with that," most likely anyway.

Prineline nods, but only barely, her attention apparently on other things. However, eventually, after some sips and knit brows, Prineline returns her attentions to the conversation at hand. "Perhaps. Just keep good count on your stores, we've been able to supply most everyone so far, but it won't be like that forever. Not everyone tithes like they should, and free food, to guards and riders, make be coming to an end if a rationing is forced upon us." Eyes narrow slightly, her thoughts once more elsewhere, though unsurprisingly, on the subject at hand. "I fear Renalde isn't particularly reliable on his accounts, and some of the Southern shipments have been a bit light." It's no secret that Southern's Headman and Igen's Headwoman have no love lost between them, but exaggeration of not, Prineline does appear genuinely grim.

…fade out! Hopefully able to finish this soon. I'm only missing a couple closer poses, so you get the gist!

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