Who

Brynn, Diem, Divale, Eala, F'in, Ilhuidira, Ione, Keelie, Oz'keyn, R'xim, Tezca, Topiltzin, Xanthee, Zisiene, Ziniel

What

Disaster strikes a party at the menagerie. Attendees high and low are sick! What happened!?

Instances of vomiting (non-graphic)

When

It is afternoon of the seventh day of the fourth month of the twelfth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date 22 Oct 2017 07:00

 

brynn_default.jpg diem_default.jpg divale_default.jpg eala_default.jpg f-in_default.jpg ione_default.jpg keelie_default.jpg oz-keyn_default.jpg r-xim_default.jpg tezca_default.jpg topiltzin_default.jpg xanthee_default.jpg zisiene_default.jpg

"You followed a woman with a seashell hairclip to a party?"
also
"I'm dying, dying."


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Menagerie

The labyrinth of square geometry was once a familial compound purchased by the Steens and reinvented to display animals of a different kind. A 10-foot high wall of neat stone and adobe encloses the menagerie's total property and in front, a trefoil arch with a gate leads the way into a small courtyard improved by several rock gardens and succulents, some many meters tall. Beyond brilliant alabaster pillars are quarters for a variety of animals: a pair of giant white cattle on loan from Igen Hold's closed herd, whersports from southern jungles, a dynasty of desert-dwelling snakes, and in a well-shaded enclosure heaped with boulders: a young watchwher still growing into his wing stubs.

In the northeast corner stretches many desert willows and a freshwater pool 3-feet deep at its margins, stocked with a breeding colony of pinioned waterfowl, striped and vivid-colored, once called mandarins.

Many benches are placed for strategic loitering, though a full troupe of firelizards with the run of the place monitor for wrongdoings and safety of the animals. The newness of the menagerie and several empty quads tell of more animals to come.

It is the sixty-seventh day of Spring and 82 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


It is a beautiful spring night in the menagerie. Crisscrossing strings of glowbasket lights. The tempting smell of smoke and cooking meat. The animals are quiet in their enclosures, each like a piece of living art, a symbol of the vaunted status of the garden's ownership. The luminaries of the bazaar are present here, and with them their friends and allies, their rivals and enemies, their hangers-on and parasites. Several merchants make the rounds, some of the lower-tier looking out for trade agreements. Some craftsmen dip in and out of conversation, the junior ranks sniffing out commissions.

Tezca moves through the assemblage into and out of pools of glowlight, slipping like the fragrant smoke here and there. In fact, the scent of the smoke might be from spices he himself sold.

There's always room for one more body in there, right? Ilhuidara finds himself in the Menagerie, gliding among the masses, long hair swinging free and in the wind. Of the merchants, he has little time for, though the craftsmen certainly have his attention.

The owner of a caravanserai of some renown, Naseem is an ebullient man in his forties or fifties, young-faced with winking eyes through the crow's feet. He is wearing a smart vest of dazzling blue color, brought on by the twinking of light on the little glass beads embroidered on it. He seems to know everyone, and his warm energy diffuses through the crowd.

Fancy people. His favorite. He'd rather be bellied up to drinks and cards by now, and that last game was going good for him, up until that bluerider girl Madhuri snapped a crisp set of queens on the table and declared a guard shift swap. Now Oz'keyn is making the rounds for Parhelion presence, a rough-looking and sunburnt man of almost forty turns, his uniform sharp, his boots brushed. Hell if he shaves for this though. He's waxed his moustache into points over an impressive ginger beard.

The Tlatoani don't actually arrive to places as a group, but several did show up at the same time: Ixtli all the way from Kurkar, her son left with nannies, dressed resplendently at the side of her father whose good graces she has finally worked her way back into. Tizoc, with Vitus, talking in a hushed voice about something-or-other that's bound to either be important or just bitter. And Topiltzin, he brought all the drinks Ramita didn't: never-before seen local brew beers here for first tastes, along with old (expensive) favorites. Some have been pre-poured, ready to be run off with.

Ione is on the prowl tonight, the young goldrider's presence less due to the promise of a delicious meal, and more due to the guest list. With the bazaar's very own who's who list in attendance, the goldrider is eager to observe. Her stores of knowledge about the bazaar can always stand to be increased, after all.

Dressed in rags, the waif slips quietly through the crowd. Begging a spare mark, or a spare meal as she goes. The girl looks pathetic, and out of place as she wanders but she's listening. It's more the intel gathering that has Zisiene doing her begger routine. How long before someone decides to toss her out? That should be fun.

Never one to pass up the opportunity to drum up business for the Tea Room, Xanthee sashays her way through the mingling people, holding a tray laden with glasses of a pale pink liquid, ice and topped with slices of lemon. She is wearing a sarong of fushia and dark turquoise, wrapping around her body and tied around her neck. In her ebon hair that tumbles to her shoulders, tucked behind her ear, is a flower of bright pink, a nice accent to her caramel colored skin. A bright smile is plastered on her face as she offers her drinks to those around her.

It's been a while since Keelie was at Igen, but Southern's redheaded Serval is present, having found herself here for some reason. She pauses at an enclosure, watching the creatures through the bars.

R'xim happens to be one of those Fancy People that got invited to this fancy event, therefore he's in his work leathers. That's right. He's a guest and he's also acting as a guardsman — along with an array of Parhelion riders scattered throughout the premises. Eala is somewhere close by and eye contact is made with his sole wingsecond, though his attention skips to the ranking individuals at this gathering. So far he's noted the presence of Steens, Tlatoani, and Weyrleadership while keeping on the move.

Naseem has just broken away from a cluster of people, laughing as he goes. He points out someone in the crowd, headed that way, but Xanthee serves as a lovely distraction. He ambles toward her, questing after one of those delightful pink drinks. "Is this the work of the Tea Room, then?" he asks. "Poor thing! Are you trapped here with us all tonight?"

The animals seem to watch Keelie in return. A banded whersport, a long way from its home in the southern jungles, is weaving back and forth slowly in muted agitation. Some ways off, one of the white cattle stomps its hoof, its voice a muffled lowing.

Divale is among those scattered Parhelions, dressed in her better leathers and on her "best" behaviour. She drifts along the sidelines of some of the milling crowds with an Igen Guard to pair her, her dark gaze scanning a few faces as they pass. Some familiar, most not so much. The scent of smoke and cooking meat is alluring, but for the most part ignored.

A tea merchant guides his son through the crowd, a boy of perhaps twelve turns, the heir to a modest yet trusted enterprise. The boy is overwhelmed by all the talk around him, all the important-looking people, in the midst of rare and unusual animals, in the heart of a weyr. Young Hikmat walks stiffly in his fine clothes, picking at his collar, his big dark eyes called every which way for attention. "Father," he whispers. "Is that— is that one of the weyrwomen?" He tugs his father's sleeve toward Ione, as surreptitiously as he is able. Fareed plays it off coolly. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you'll see one or another around, this -is- the weyr," he says. "Now where is that old fool of a dealer… " Hikmat looks on, and manages a shy smile if Ione catches him.

Brynn is one of those Parhelion riders, with her stick quarter staff affixed to her shoulder, observing the goings on with sharp brown eyes. Zisiene is spotted in her beggar routine, and she squints a bit at the girl, perhaps recognizing her, perhaps not. The dimple appears in her cheek. She shakes her head as Xanthee comes by with drinks. She's on duty. When is she not! Haha.

Ziniel makes her way into the menagerie. The girl is dressed in her finest, which alas means she looks more ready to perform than attend a party. She'll have to do something about that, but for now this is the best she has. She has a ready smile for any who look at her, and she quickly finds something to munch. A growing girl's got to eat you know.

Oz'keyn weaves through the gathering. "Nothin' to report, sir," he gruffs to R'xim in passing. "You'd think with so much self importance in here, we'd get at least -one- honor duel… " The grouchy greenrider is entirely disappointed.

A stuffy and self-important merchant shuffles along with his lanky servant in tow. New to his money in the last twenty turns, Wahed wants all to know it. He is wearing an outrageous and expensive robe, whose unusual dyes must have cost him dearly. Already he has a food stain on the front of it, despite his servant's best attempt to blot it out with a cloth. He decided he never liked the outfit anyway, and off he goes, offering commentary and missives to his captive audience of one. He is eyeing the animals of the menagerie, his lips curled in distaste. He goes in by Keelie for a better look. "I want mine like this, of course," he says to his servant, "but better. We'll have TWO of those, but I don't want any of— whatever this creature is. It will never do." He wipes a greasy hand on his sleeve. "They look so dirty. Are you taking this down?"

Xanthee smiles and bats her lashes at Naseem, offering the tray in his direction, "Yes, it's a lemon verbena iced tea, flavoured with crushed berries and a twist of lemon. Most refreshing." At the comment of being stuck here, she merely giggles melodically. "Not at all. I don't usually get a chance to get out and about, and meet new people." she says with an emphasis on the last part, her smile bright, "Help yourself." she says nodding towards the tray, "Think of it as a free sample." she says with a playful wink. Xan really knows how to charm her customers.

Oh, wait, are there white herdbeast over there? Ilhuidira will edge over that way, taking a moment to stare at the sportwher on the way with a wrinkle of his nose. Nothing like dragons or firelizards, really. He hurries on to take a view of the herdbeasts, for at least they're familiar creatures to look upon.

Dressed in fiery colors is Igen's senior weyrwoman as she enters the menagerie with the weyrleader at her side. Diem is dressed in more traditional native garb, clothing that would gather the Steens' approval even though the yellow-orange colors push the very limit of what the Family would consider appropriate. The colors certainly make a statement — one that says, 'proddy', should the dragonriding guests take notice. The goldrider strides with purpose toward Topiltzin to pay her respects to the Tlatoani family as various sequins sparkle with her every move. The guards won't have trouble keeping tabs on her tonight.

Tezca intones, to Zisiene's opportunism, "No need to beg, girl. The food is here for the taking." He offers a plate newly mounded to the waif, canny eyes watching her closely. "Here."

On point, is Topiltzin; while Tizoc will certainly give the Weyrwoman a nod when he gets around to it, the Cantina owner is the one far more involved with the dragonriders. Unfortunately for him, he's not as well aware of the particular cues given by Diem's dress, and only offers her a welcoming smile and a highball glass of something spicy and alcoholic.

Ione is ever-so-slyly sidles up to a conversation between two traders, listening in while making a point of slooowly getting herself a drink. She's certainly no master spy, but she's innocent enough with her wide eyes and feigned ignorance. Young Hikmat does catch her eye after a moment, and she gives him a sly smile before raising a finger to her lips. Tell no one she's here. Never mind that she's in public and everyone will likely notice.

A thanks is mumbled by Zisiene as she takes the plate, and passes it on to someone who looks to need it more than she does. She fades into the crowd, tucking the information from Tezca away for future use.

"Bahaha. Perfectly done." Naseem lifts a glass from her tray to toast Xanthee with. His eyes crinkle up at the corners. "I would introduce myself as a rival, but we are all comrades in hospitality. I run a humble establishment on the trade route. Perhaps you've heard of it, the Whirling Wherry. You would remember a name like that, ha-ha. How long have you been working at the Tea Room, now?"

Keelie has big sad eyes for those poor animals. She leans against the bars, her long hair wild with static and clinging, lifting towards them, even as she doesn't move. She turns her head and sighs as the spoiled holder comes up. Wahed gets a bit of a distasteful look, although she does not comment. She moves a bit away from him.

Ione saw him. That is likely a moment that Hikmat will remember all his life. The boy gapes as his father takes him by the shoulder to steer him off. "There, there's our table," Fareed tells him. "Now, be on your best behavior… " He does a last-moment check of the boy's sleeve and mantle. "Stop picking at this. Your stepmother spent so much time sewing all those beads on." He'll drag the boy on to the table with his associate, but Hikmat will be too nervous to eat.

Wahed's long-suffering attache clears his throat quietly at Keelie, "Excuse me, ma'am," he points at the creatures beyond, "Do you happen to know what those creatures are?" He'll be expected to produce some sort of report and, eventually, some approximation of these creatures. Earnest eyes tinged with desperation meet Keelie's sad ones.

Raed is never good at this. He's never been good at any kind of talk, and he even searches for words when he stands before classes in Tanner Hall. He is a respected journeyman, a saddlemaker and expert in tack, whose pieces grace the finest hotbloods in the stables of the elite. No piece is the same. Each has its own soul, its own story. He is best known for the saddle he made for a western noble, the leatherwork more a mural or a ballad in its own right: carven images in rich leather that depict a Telgari folktale, where a flying wind transformed into a gale of running herds. Now he is here against his will, a tall slender young man with pensive dark eyes, feeling overdressed and overwhelmed, pressed with stupid commissions from self-important people. They only want his things as status symbols. Few ever understand or appreciate the real spirit of what he makes. He is lingering unhappily somewhere near the cattle enclosure. Catching Ilhuidira's eyes, he shrugs and smirks. "I wonder what they're thinking," he says. "They can smell us cooking their own. Eating them. It doesn't seem right— to do this here."

Ziniel wanders through the exhibits, nibbles in hand and she pauses to look at this or that animal before she turns to try and find a place to sit.

"It must be close to a Turn now since I got the job there." Xanthee replies to Naseem's query as she adjusts her grip on the tray she is holding, making it look near to effortless. "I don't think I've heard of that establishment. I don't get out of the Weyr much at all." Except for that short stint at Southern, but we don't talk about that. Her eyes cast downwards as she gives him a once over and a smile bright as Rukbat, "Rivals or no, always nice to meet someone else in the hospitality business. Has business been good for you?" she asks conversationally.

In the wake of Diem's bonfire beacon comes F'in, dressed in fighting leathers, saffron headscarf pooled around his shoulders a complement — perhaps intentional — to Diem's display. He lifts his head, drawn to the scent of cooking meat but, seeing Diem engaged with a Tlatoani, reluctantly eschews making himself a plate and follows along with Diem, trailing her as much as the guards are trailing them. They are not, in fact, difficult to find at all. "Good evenin,'" he offers. "What might we sample o' the Tlatoani t'night?" He hasn't totally abandoned the notion of food.

Diem will happily take the drink Topiltzin offers her with a slight brow lift and smile. "Thank you, love." Her Fortian accent puts an edge to her subtle flirtation as she collects the glass and continues onward with F'in trailing behind. Teasing, perhaps? She glances over her shoulder at Topiltzin as she makes her way past R'xim who is eyeing the goldrider rather suspiciously. "Weyrwoman." the bronzerider greets in that typical gruff tone of his. Great. All he needs is to be distracted by that dress of Diem's and by Shalnth who is lingering near Zsaviranth out in the central bowl. It's going to be a long night… The Parhelion wingleader nods to Oz'keyn and decides to settle near the menagerie's entryway to keep better tabs on who arrives and who leaves.

Keelie's brown eyes move to meet those of the holder's assistant. "They should not be in here," she says simply, not answering his question. "They do not belong in deserts or cages, although these are more larger than some I have seen."

Naseem appears to enjoy the treatment, even as he knows the charm— and approves of it. Certainly a measure of that same charm has served him well in life. "It is as good as I can wish for, Faranth be thanked," he tells Xanthee. "I am good to my guests, and they are good to me. Of course travel has changed much since I was your age— we'd no Thread then— but the caravans must always go marching on." He toasts her a last time with the drink. "My dear, I must go catch up with some friends, but I will tell them all about these drinks. Ha-ha, and I think I see a poor young fellow who could use a restorative.. " As Naseem heads off into the crowd, he points out to her a swaying young man in a green robe who holds himself up against a pillar, drunk perhaps. Sweating in the face.

Ione works her way around, eventually spotting a fellow flame-haired clutchmate. She sidles up to Keelie, attempting to slip her arm through the brownrider's. "Are you telling people off for keeping animals locked up again?" Not that she has ever seen Keelie do this before, but it just seems like something the woman would do.
Tezca narrows eyes in watching the Zingari waif disappear into the crowd after handing off the plate he'd offered her. Distressing, her ability to disappear while he's watching. He'll keep a closer watch on his person with those types wandering about. He sniffs and looks around for guardsman. Any guardsman.

A bazaar noteworthy arrives by litter. She is never late. She does what she likes, and she comes and goes as she pleases— as she has done for the last six decades. Qadira prefers to hold herself above these little gatherings, such as she calls them, but perhaps her curiosity has lured her out of her lair. She has wreathed herself in a blue robe of embroidered birds, and she wears a shawl fringed with pearls. Her hair is still full and thick, despite the turns, its color a dark silver. She has a manservant take her down from the litter, and a quick young girl from the bazaar to act as her helper, her maid, and her eyes and ears at this venue.

While Topiltzin doesn't have any food, he can present F'in with a menu card for the drinks: it's attractive, it's nicely stenciled, and they're numbered along with having names so people aren't as likely to mess them up. It's an impressive mix from a standpoint of mildly strong to extremely strong, and the spiciness factor is at least marked. He's all smiles, even if Diem's flirtier glance might get a flirtier glance in return (that is going to get him swatted in the temple later by one of his employees). "You'll probably be a toward-the-middle guy, Weyrleader, if I remember the Reika preferences right," he says, re: the drinks.

Wahed the merchant is slow to notice the 'beggar waif' Zisiene appears to be, but when he does, he's incensed. He has just gotten a new plate from the servers, and he holds it closer, jealously, as though the beggar will try to take it, or, or -breathe- on it, or simply exist near it. He makes an excellent face of disgust: very expressive, considering he paid a specialist from Ista to tweeze out his brows, hair by hair, and draw them back in with something like henna. He goes to the nearest guards— Divale and Brynn of Parhelion— and is popping an edge of flatbread in his mouth. "I simply can't believe you haven't noticed the -riffraff- circling here," he says. "You must do something."

A shadowed alcove is found, and Zisiene slips into it. Good thing she's so short, and everyone else is so much taller than she is. Makes it easy for her to simply slip away, and become lost in a crowd. Isie has a change of clothes on hand, should it be required. Fortunately, she won't need to do too much to her make up.

"Have a great evening!" Xanthee calls after Naseem and eyes the man in the green robes that seems to be in need of something refreshing, so she sashays her way over and looks at him with a critical eye. "Tea? It's very refreshing and cool." she adds, noticing his sweating face. The arrival of the litter grabs her attention and she watches the older lady descend from it. Wow, all the who's who are here. Standing a little straighter, she looks down at her sarong and wonders if she under-dressed for the gathering.

Ziniel stops as the litter arrives, and turns to look. Not recognizing the woman who descends from it, she goes back to wandering through the exhibits. Nope. Performance attire, though the best she truly has right now, is not acceptable. Should she excuse herself? Should she just continue on as though she belongs? After all she can't be faulted. She is dressed up. It's just that the girl is dressed to perform one of her arial dances rather than attend a fancy to do such as this.

They told him the green was unlucky, but it was the only one that would fit him in the tailor's shop. The young man in the green robe is wearing the apprentice knot of the Glass-smiths, and he looks Istan himself, tanned, short-cropped of hair, wearing a handmade necklace of small shells. He seems to notice Xanthee only in delay, his clouded eyes staring at nothing. He starts to reach for the glass of tea, his face showing pain, before he slips down along the pillar until he's on the ground. He begins the deep heaving cough of someone about to become dreadfully sick.

The back of F'in's neck tingles, not altogether his own sensation, rather borrowed from Rhakanth, who preens somewhere near his mate. F'in's pale eyes instinctively seek out R'xim and he takes a deep steadying breath. "Hmm?" He blinks, scanning the card that Topiltzin offers, "An ale would be appreciated." There's a spike of misplaced territoriality as Rhakanth detects Topiltzin's answering appreciation of Diem's flirtiness and the Tlatoani's response. They're tangled, bronze and bronzerider. Maybe some food would help. But what he really means is 'Distance.' He's wrong, as it happens, but while Rhakanth's territoriality prickles at him, he asks, "Would either of ya like somethin' ta eat?" He looks around for where food is coming from. Are there servers circulating, are there lines? He puts a hand on Diem's elbow, "'ere's an entrance for ya."

Someone's fancy mistress has gone off by herself. Earlier in the evening, she had been the jewel on a textile merchant's arm, but the man had become embroiled in an argument with his business partners. She was shut out of the conversation, left with a plate, and feeling somewhat judged. Now she wanders alone, her plate abandoned in a potted plant. Sweat beads upon her face, and she fans herself with the edges of her shawl, her look sick, overheated. She hasn't noticed she has lost a beaded shoe by this point.

Keelie is momentarily startled - she was busy going all Pocahontas on these rich people - as Ione takes her arm. She lifts her chin in defiance of the young lord and his assistant, pulling her clutchmate and friend away from them, breaking into a fond smile. Again, she does not answer directly, although it is not from annoyance. "It is so good to see you." So earnest, she is. She looks over Ione's face, then sends a sorrowful glance over her shoulder, towards the banded whersport. "Do you think they would notice if I brought it home back to Southern?"

Brynn takes a swift look around. "Don't see any at the moment, sir." She sniffs a bit, brushes the back of her hand across her nose. "But will get right on that." She nudges Divale a bit when Mr. Tweezed and Henna-ed eyebrows isn't looking. TOTALLY ON IT.

Divale gives the barest of nods to Brynn at that nudge, though her attention is still warily focused on the milling crowds. When her fellow Parhelion is ready, however, she'll follow the greenrider to investigate — or at least pass word on to the Guards on duty here as well.

You're welcome, rich people. Ione laughs quietly at Keelie's look of defiance, both amused and impressed by the brownrider's conviction. "It's good to see you, too. What are you doing here?" In Igen? At this particular party? All of the above, it seems. She follows the direction of Keelie's gaze with a faint frown upon her lips. "I think they might, and you wouldn't want to cause an incident."

Wahed seems to take Brynn at her word. The 'sir' seems to assure him most of all. He sniffs and goes off on his way, helping himself to his second plate. He doesn't attack it with as much gusto as his first; there is a weird look that crosses his face, and he chews more slowly, then casts about for water. His unease is not his alone. Some of the other diners look put-off by their meal. Already some are making hasty excuses to leave their tables.

Some boob of a merchant is in conversation with Oz'keyn, at least until now. "You know," the man says, "you don't act like other greenriders!" To which the grizzled old bastard asks, "Yeah, 'n how do they act?"

When Zisiene finally slips out into view, her attire has been changed. She's dressed in her finest gather clothing. Not a single trace of beggar to be seen around the young woman. Bright smiles are given, and a short tumbler of whiskey is plucked from a passing tray. How lovely, they have Zingari whiskey. Though a sampling of food is discreetly put in a small pouch, and tucked into a larger pouch. She'll consult with Igraine about this. She'd noticed people making excuses to leave after eating, and she's not interested in being blamed for anything. Well, anything she didn't do anyway.

Looking at the man in green who is very obviously going to be ill soon, Xanthee's emerald eyes widen as she looks around as if there would be someone to help her. Deciding that she can't be of any help to the poor fellow, and on the small chance that he has something catching, Xanthee moves away from the poor wretch, plastering her best server smile on her face as she continues to mingle, calling out, "Tea, fresh iced tea to quench a thirst." holding the tray of glasses out in front of her.

"Just visiting," Keelie replies, leaning over to give her taller clutchsister a little side-hug. "It is so easy to get lost here." So, she got lost, probably, at Igen. "I saw a lady wearing this beautiful seashell hairclip… it was all sparkly, and green." So, she followed something sparkly? "Why are you here?" Then perhaps, judging by her smile, she remembers that their duties are quite different. "Still learning about the bazaar? There are many colourful characters here." she pauses to watch a woman walk by who looks a lot like a purple peacock. She has a defiant nose-scrunch for it causing an incident.

People are dropping like VTOLs. F'in straightens, altogether a different sort of prickling moving up and down his neck. "Diem," he says low, "Somethin's no' right." He steps a hair closer to her, chin tucked. He glances at Topiltzin and then at the gathering at large.

At F'in's gesture, Diem waves a hand and opts to walk one of the graveled paths toward a display of avians instead. It could be that she's attempting to break free from the growing crowd for some solidarity, or it could be that she just wants to explore the labyrinth that is the menagerie. On a normal day, she doesn't have much time to walk the grounds that belong to the Steen family, and it just so happens that she's behaving enough this evening that the lady Steens aren't glaring in her direction. Give her time, though. She'll probably do or say something to rile the Family up. A sip of her drink is taken and the goldrider pauses in front of some white avians to admire them for a moment when F'in approaches her again. Tawny eyes glance upward at him, "What do you mean?"

Normally lulled by darkness, the pinioned waterfowl are awake and alert now. Their chattering sounds betray a spreading sense of deep unease among the animals in their enclosures.

"You followed a woman with a seashell hairclip to a party?" For a moment Ione sounds skeptical, but then she seems to remember who she's talking to and shakes it off. Not so surprising after all. With an easy smile, she gestures toward the gathered guests. "There's always more to learn about this place." Like, apparently, not to eat the food. Good thing she's been too busy attempting to spy to touch the stuff. "What's going on?"

Somewhat abruptly, young Hikmat is left alone with his father at their table. The business partner excuses himself with some vague comment, dabbing at his sweaty brow, and Fareed wheels upon his son. "What have I said about talking when adults are talking?" he asks, in a voice somewhat strained. Hikmat bites his lip. "I want to go home," he whispers. Fareed sighs and pushes away his plate. "So do I," he admits. "This… it isn't going anywhere. He keeps bringing up… but it isn't even the season.. perhaps next turn—" His face flashes with a grimace. Something in his father's voice gives the boy reason to look up sharply. "Father? Are you all right?" Fareed says nothing, wavering only in a pained silence before he vomits across the table. The boy screams.

Having acquired another plate of food, Tezca pauses in eating as sweaty and faint men and women begin displaying signs of discomfort ranging from simply pained to vomiting openly. Something is amiss. He lifts a hand, summoning one of his aides, as a cramp siezes in his belly. He grunts, gritting teeth against the stab. "Water." He bares teeth at the aide, "Quickly." Another cramp stabs.

Diem pivots to look at the crowd and witnesses some Parhelion riders assisting folks to their feet and escorting them toward the exit. "What's going on?" What's happening?" The tone of her voice is sharp with concern and she finds herself walking back toward the gathered crowd, close enough to get some projectile vomit on her skirts. "What hap—" She pales. R'xim is by the Weyrwoman's side in a heartbeat and pulling at her arm, "We're leaving. Now." A glance toward F'in is enough to let the Weyrleader know that it's time for the goldriders to go. Until they can find out what's happening, he'll escort both Diem and Ione to the guardhouse for reasons of safety.

Cast iron stomach. That's what Ziniel has been accused to have, but the cramp she starts to feel states otherwise. She makes her way towards an exit, but she's afraid she may not make it in time. She's spotted her fellow Zingari a couple of times, but she's not seen the other eat a thing.

When the boy screams, Xanthee startles and almost drops the tray but manages to hold onto it with only a little rattling of the glasses. As she composes herself, she begins to notice that others are sharing the fate of the man in green. Her smile fades as she wonders what could have brought this on so quickly. Standing still, she tries to glance all around her at once, trying to figure out what is happening. As the weyrwomen are escorted out of the area, her eyes take on a worried look.

Naseem has unexpectedly vomited on a startled foreigner, a journeyman crafter, who repays him in kind. "Oh no," Naseem gasps. "But at least you have, urk, returned the favor! It is our way in Igen— "

"I'm dying, dying," Wahed is moaning to his manservant. He is laying weakly against a potted plant. His face is awash with sweat. His fancy clothes are rumpled, the sleeves wet and nasty from bile.

Zisiene slips up to Wahed, "Sip this. Sip mind," a small flask of water is handed to the man, "Did you eat anything?" she doesn't wait for an answer as she asks, "Was there anything off with the taste of any of what you ate or drank?" these are important questions, and she needs the answers to take to Igraine. It could be something, it could be nothing but paired with the sample of food she has secured it could prove useful.

It suits Wahed's sense of drama and entitlement to receive the immediate attentions of a helpful and beautiful young woman. He gets his greasy hands all over the flask. Piteously the merchant complains, "The beef tasted wrong— it was the sauce, I thought— inferior spices.. " Of course even in these times, he'll never pass the opportunity to slight another's merchandise.

This information is stored away, "Just sip that," and she's slipping away again to compare notes with a healer. Provided she can find one. Maybe she'll just head back to the caravan grounds, and take Zini with her? She'll be able to talk with Igraine at least.

F'in catches R'xim's look and nods, bristling at the Wingleader's presumption to escort Diem. He bares teeth, but his ire is for Rhakanth, » Cut it out. This is serious. « Rhakanth's reply, stone grinding on stone, « Yes. It is. » Though what the enigmatic bronze refers to is left to speculation. He makes sure to get any goldriders who haven't made themselves scarce on their own out. There will be an inquiry, to be sure.

Shaking her head at the bedlam around her, Xanthee realizes that she isn't going to be passing out any more drinks now that the majority of those who ate the food are revisiting their meals most violently. Thank Faranth she was just here to serve drinks and hadn't gotten around to sampling the food for herself. Making up her mind, Xan decides it is time for her own exit. Hefting her tray, she makes tracks back to the Tea Room, with fresh gossip to spread.

Qadira watches the dissolution of the party with a note of cold distaste. She remarks to her girl, "I would have thought Vitus would know better than to poison everyone in plain sight." She arches a dark brow. "Although there is much to say of boldness." The young woman tugs her sleeve. "My lady," she says, "we should go. We don't know what it is… " Qadira departs in the stately manner in which she arrived. She betrays little fear of the chaos around her; she has survived much worse than this in all her decades. It seems in no time at all the illustrious night has turned to filth and disorder, a mess of merchants and traders and other noteworthies. Parhelion is left to sort out the sick and overwhelmed, and the infirmary alerted from the other end of the weyr.

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