Who

Veresch, Finn

What

Veresch seeks out Finn to pay up on the wager she'd lost.

When

It is midmorning of the thirteenth day of the sixth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr, Caravan Grounds, Reika Caravan

OOC Date

 

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Caravan Grounds

Deep grooves in the hard packed earth criss-cross a large patch of denuded ground, bearing mute testament to the caravans that frequent this area. Despite the midden holes set back a ways from the main center of traffic, the air is sweet, redolent with the sagebrush that forms a loose perimeter around the flattened expanse. In what is as close to its center as the vague boundaries suggest, a stone ringed fire pit has been dug and surrounded with the odd log or two, ash overflowing from its darkly blackened core.

It is the thirteenth day of Summer and 78 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


It's some time since the Hatching, and whilst promises may be postponed they always have to be honoured. Given the way that errands have run the messenger girl ragged, it might not even have been her fault. Still, with the fine morning sun behind her and body clad in the kind of clothes that wouldn't make anyone look twice, she's off to the caravan grounds with a small pack in her hands. In lieu of humming she's whistling, as much to cheer herself up as irritate her mother at a distance. The whistling stops as she enters the ground and makes for the section that the Reika stay in, greeting other traders along the way. Once there, likely to duck around Kalfor, she makes for the back of the caravan.

Finn is doing his favorite thing. Polishing. NOTE: This is not Finn's favorite thing. But it is a neccessary thing. A big detractor of not being part of a Craft… no Apprentices. So the scutwork falls to whoever is around to do it. Namely Finn. Sitting on a stool with a light wrap around his face to keep the dust off, Finn works the pedal of a grinding wheel, a blade in his hands which he draws back and forth over the wheel. Intent on his work, the metal-dusted Reika smith is unaware of the incoming messenger or her mother-irritating whistling.

It's an interesting watching a smith at work, even if he's not part of Smithcraft. Veresch watches for long moments as the blade is polished slowly, swipe after swipe. The noise covers her approach well, enough so that she can sneak around and approach from the blind side. One finger reaches out to poke gently at his ear, and crisp messenger-voice speaks up, close enough to be heard. "Finn. I finally managed to track you down." It was such an ordeal too, given that he was totally not hiding and she's friends with his sister. "You won."

"Haghh!" Finn shouts inarticulately, tensing and flinching away from the ear poke. "Ka-" he begins and cuts off at a decidedly un-Kalfor-like voice and presence at his elbow. Pivoting on his stool and pulling the dust mask down, "Veresch," he grins at the messenger girl. His face is particolored, blue eyes standing out brightly against dust-darkened cheeks and brow, "Chance-y thing sneaking up on an armed man," the grinding wheel rattles to a halt. He purses his lips at her pronouncement, then grins wolfishly, "Did you doubt I would?" He tosses his chin at a stool nearby, "Have a seat," and turns back to the wheel.

Veresch wrinkles her nose - how did he get the metallic grit even on his ear? - and lopes around to perch on the stool. She flicks her fingertips clean, fastidious, before she wiggles back in it, putting her feet up on the little rung. "Of course I doubted that you would! I was out by only a few hours." Her lips purse. "It could have been me." Her gaze drops thoughtfully to the wheel and the half-polished blade, lips pursing a bit more. "He got my ear the other day too," she shares, mind likely not even on the thought. Then, "Say, how much does a blade like that cost anyway? I guess it's very expensive? Metal and all that…" Pause. "I owe you a favour," she enunciates clearly. "What do you want?"

Pro-tip, "Next time, make the one who sets the parameters of a wager bid first," he winks. He draws the mask over his nose and mouth again, looking a right-proper Bazaar lady, fluttering his lashes at Veresh over his 'veil,' and with a few treads, begins polishing again, the blade hissing against the stone under his fingers. "Or better yet, BE the one setting the parameters," blue eyes flick up to Veresch at her limby perch. He tilt his head, considering, "Belt knife like this? A full mark." The blade is about three or four inches long, maybe an inch deep. Entirely utilitarian. Blue eyes glint with a mask-shrouded grin, "You do. And… I haven't decided. Make me an offer."

She considers the knife quietly, covetously, before she gives a nod. Fair enough, that price, from everything that she goes. "Since I'm to be the one setting the parameters… nothing hinky, okay? No pranking anyone, or getting me into trouble with the weyrwomen, or standing out in a thunderstorm on my head singing Dixy-doodley. I don't want to catch a cold that badly. Other than that, and asking me to smuggle you some firestone…" Hey, she doesn't know anything about him, okay? "…I'll probably be fine with most things. So. It's your favour, you ask." A grin blooms into being. "And don't bat your eyelashes like that, you look like a mix between a bazaar woman and a llama." The lashes, see? Too unfairly long for a man.

Finn nods, eyes narrowing in a pleased, canny look that flashes briefly across the normally happily-vacant face. Eyebrows climb at the llama-lady comparison and drop back down, fluttering again. Totally unfairly long. He pauses and lifts the blade from the wheel, wiping it and studying the progress. Set aside, he swaps the grinding wheel with another. If she looks, Veresch will note that there are seven wheels and, in order, Finn is retrieving the second and returning the first. Before he begins the grinding again, the smith mops his brow with a swipe of his forearm that smears the metal dust, but does little to clean it. He shakes his head, "No pranking, no smuggling. Where's the fun in that?" He readjusts the mask, and works the treadle again, the finer wheel spinning up, "Hmmm, what to ask… what to ask…?" He's enjoying this.

Honestly, if Finn doesn't stop fluttering those things and making her feel inadequate, Veresch is going to sneak up one night and cut them all off. They're that unfair. She leans back slowly, though her keen eyes are still settled on trundle he's working. "Why do you have seven of them?" she asks finally, reaching over gingerly (and safely!) to point to the last one in the row. As she waits for him to stop polishing and start talking, her mind meanders. "I was on groundcrew the other night," she says quietly. "It was … weird. More exciting than I thought, like I couldn't breathe and my heart wanted to explode." Her fingers thrum nervously on her thighs; seconds later she fixes him with an intent hazel glare. "Offers that don't get taken up expire," she says snippily. "Choose!"

Blade buzzing under his hands -really, he's long since lost any feeling in them with the constant vibrations of the grinder telegraphed through the blade into the pads of his fingers, tingly-numb- Finn cuts a look at the grinding wheels, "Finer and finer polish," he holds the blade up for Veresch to see, it's very smooth and there don't appear to be any hammer marks, but it's matte and the grain of the first wheel's work is plain in fine parallel lines that catch the mid-morning sun dully. "Ground crew!" His brows furrow, "Are you one of those criminals they rounded up?" He blinks at her description, a fine shudder shivering through his long frame. He puts the blade back to the wheel, "Who coordinates the ground crews at the Weyr?" He gives Veresch a look of cagey disbelief, "It's no offer, Veresch. It's a debt. You wagered, you lost." And STILL no favor asked.

Veresch's brows pull together. "Do I look like one of those criminals?" she asks flatly, clearly irritated. "I'm not. One doesn't have to be a criminal or a lazy shifter to be on groundcrew, you know?" Her nose wrinkles and she looks away from the grindstone, preferring to focus on the simple, severe lines of the caravan behind him. "I came here because I'm honourable. Don't make me regret that."

"Did you think I was serious?" Finn lifts the blade from the wheel as a laugh locks him up, "Oh, you're the limit." He chuckles, "You're about as 'criminal' as 'Nari." The young trader tips his head 'Nari-ward. Sensing he might be on the cusp of further offending her with his laughter (Onari went through her tetchy phase not so long ago), he softens, "Hey, I know that," he shrugs, "I mean, I guess I know. You're here, right?" he smiles. Not that she can see the teeth, but grimy cheeks and brow and bright blue eyes telegraph the sense.

"Of course I thought you were serious. You didn't look like you were joking around at all," Veresch says — it might be a good thing that he didn't mention a phase. Her clenched hands spasm once, then relax slowly, smoothing out the folds she scrunched into her skirt. "I guess," she allows at length, taking Finn-picture in from hidden smile to numb hands to the other, incidental, inbetween bits. "I'll have the ground leader come speak to you, or something." This time she doesn't mention the favour, but she does stare expectantly at him, as if waiting for the matter to be resolved.

Finn waves a finger, "Oh no," he tugs the veil down, still smiling, "It's not going down like that. That's my business to see to. A favor is personal." He squints, considering Veresch on her stool, hands smoothing skirts, expectant look. "Track down T'line," The other favor-owe-er, "And tell him, all polite like, mind, that -at his convenience- I'd like to meet his dragon. Up close."

His face looks so curious like that, with half of it dusty and the other half clean and smiling. "Is that the favour you want?" she asks with a squinching crinkle of her nose as she digs a handkerchief from one sleeve. "To meet a dragon? Because if that's it, there are others to meet as well? I don't see T'line all that often." She doesn't quite spit on the piece of cloth and demand that he hold still, but it's held out towards him, obviously for his face. "You can meet my mentor, Kyara's? I don't think she'd mind, and Liareth is wonderful."

Finn waves off the handkerchief, "I'm gonna get a lot dirtier before this is done," he gestures with the blade." At her inquiry and counter-offer, "Oh, this is a negotiation, is it?" He sits back, smile falling away and a canny light entering his eyes, "It's not a matter of minding. Sounds like something she'd do in any case." He cocks his head, grinning side-long at Veresch, "Don't think you can track T'line down? Or… don't want to owe me a favor longer than you have to?" He turns that smile full on at Veresch, shifting on the stool to consider the girl closely.

Veresch considers him carefully, fingers linking together as her offer of the handkerchief is rejected. "It's not a matter of minding for Kyara, true," she counters. "But then there's more than one in that partnership, and Liareth's got to say yes as well." Her eyes narrow as well, slowly, until her lips purse. "Or is it the rider you actually want to see again and not the dragon?" The curious look in her eyes turns rather more so, and her hands curl on her skirt's material again. "If you just wanted to see him again, you could just say so. He's pretty enough, I guess."

"Naturally. Same for T'line," about the dragon having to agree. Not that Finn had really considered that part. What he really knew about dragons could fit in a thimble. His brows knit briefly, considering this. "I'm a direct man, Veresch, I'll ask for what I want." When he knows. He clears his throat, "All right. T'line's or three other dragons of your choosing." Assuming that it wasn't wildly presumptuous to ask such a thing of riders with all of their responsibilities with a Pass upon the Weyr. But -hey- Veresch can work that out, since she seems to know about these things.

Veresch stares suspiciously at him, and the frown only deepens. "I don't mind any of the options. I think you'd have better luck arranging it yourself, but if you really want to use your favour on something that I would have done anyway if you asked, I don't mind. Just … is that really all you want?" It bugs her, see; the Weyr has a lot of dragons and as a weyrbrat she's so used to seeing them around it's nothing new to her. "There's nothing else? It's kind of … I dunno. I didn't expect a trader like you to ask for this."

"Ah." He sits back again into a comfortable slouch, "That's where you're wrong." He dips his chin, "I'm taking advantage of your contacts. It's EXACTLY what a 'trader like me' would do in a new market." He grins wolfishly. "Plus… dragons!" Forgive him. It's novel. He squints up at the sky, a pair of dragons awing on the high desert air. He points up at them, "That's not thrilling to you?" He squints at her on 'thrilling' baring teeth, a feral glint in his eyes. "To fly," he watches the dragons spiral in and disappear, and takes a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs and letting out, shaking his head, in wonder, "It seems…" He shrugs, "…you know." Blue eyes dip down, a flicker of embarrassment flashing across his face before he turns back to the grinding wheel.

Veresch is just going to blame this whole conversation on the lashes and try to ignore its weirdness. "I don't know. A trader would have taken advantage of the fact that I'd do it for free, not so? But I'll track down T'line and ask Pearenth if he's willing to meet you, and three more others, if you're willing to do something for me as well. But…" Thoughtful, she turns to stare up at the dragons, watches them wing around each other, roll and play, and for a single moment it's clear that yes, it's thrilling and tense and a host of other emotions. "Fine," she finally says hoarsely. "I can understand that. I'll make you a deal: I'll introduce you to as many as I know, I'll even see if I can manage to ask one of them to take you up for a flight, but then, if anyone ever asks you to Stand, trader or no trader, you have to say yes."

"Hah!" he grins, "Well, we've only been a train for," his eyes go skyward again in thought as he counts with unnecessary deliberation on his fingers, "Three turns." He grins broadly, "So I'm just making things up." He grins conspiratorily, wrinkling his nose, "If you ever hear me talking about an 'old family tradition' to someone… play along." Lots of teeth. And lashes. And bright, merrily twinkling eyes. He spits in his hand and is about to extend it to seal the deal, "All ri-" Oh, and look, a line. He drops his hand, smile faltering as he shakes his head, "No. You don't get to decide that for me. That," he swallows, "That's not something to make part of this."

Veresch is distracted by the spit in his hand just long enough for the deal to go sour on her, and her eyes flash as she looks back up at blue-blue eyes surrounded by metallic dust. "No?" she questions idly, but there's a hint of irritation there. "You can't force a dragon to choose you for Search. If they do, then all I want is for you not to be silly enough to turn it down. I'd ask the same of Onari." Given that the grindstone's quiet, she reaches across it to take the hand that had been spat at. Her fingers, much smaller, wrap around the wrist to turn the (yuck, glistening!) hand palm-up before his chest. "Hands that can make things like yours do? They can take care of dragons just as well. Have you ever oiled one?"

Finn slowly shakes his head, "No." He blinks slowly, he's not angry, simply very serious. Shifting on the stool brings him forward slightly, "This isn't a matter of whether a dragon can be forced one way or another," what? He's not really sure what she's talking about, "It's that you don't get to make that decision for me. And I won't agree to it." It was a gesture at spitting, not actually a glob of spittle, but, uh, there may be flecks. He narrows a look at Veresch, and his hand. He curls fingers closed and pulls his hand gently from her grip. "No. I haven't."

That more than anything stings at Veresch; it's there in the way her cheeks pale and she lets his hand goes. "Of course," she says quietly, standing to take a step back. "I'll let you know what I manage to arrange then. Thank you for your time, Finn." The handkerchief goes up her sleeve again, neatly tucked there.

The normally jovial smith peers up at Veresch, then down at the ground, eyes casting around for words that are, by the appearance he gives, scattered around Veresch's feet. Hands on his thighs so his elbows stick out, he sits for a moment. Then, scratching at his jaw, with a soft, bristly sound, he looks up again, the scratching slows, "I'm sorry." He is. Much as he's serious about what he's said, he didn't mean to give any affront, "Veresch?" he squints, "Did that hurt your feelings? It wasn't my aim." He drops his eyes again, "You surprised me is all."

The messenger considers him thoughtfully, looking down with little expression. "It did hurt my feelings. I know what problems my friends in the bazaar and with the caravans normally face, having to get their traditions to agree with the idea of Search happening. However, if you could point to our bargain and say that it was just that, a bargain, then at least you'd have a chance to escape most of the problems. I know someone… a trader just like you. Things got bitter. Onari's my friend. I wanted to spare her brother that, because from what I can see, you like dragons. I'm sorry if you saw that as pushy." Somewhat logical, at least in her head. There's a long pause. Then, out of the blue, "Doesn't that itch?" The scruffy jaw, that is.

Finn nods, hand dropping to his thigh again. With pursed lips and considering eyes he listens quietly. He smiles crookedly up at Veresch, squinting, "You're sweet," he clears his throat, "But anything like that would still be a matter for me and my family to consider, however iron clad our marble-wager-spit-shake agreement was." He blinks at her question, brows knitting briefly and then lifting, aaaah. "Well, yeah. That's why I scratched," and, as if talking about it summons more itches, he scratches again. The other side. Gotta keep it balanced. "So. Three dragons or Pearenth. Whichever you manage first." Elbows stick out like wings, the trader leaning forward, eyes intent. Eyebrows tick upwards in query: Is good?

Another long look, and finally a nod of Veresch's head. Good enough at least for her to gather her skirts, shake them off and make for the other caravans, likely with business in mind. Over her shoulder, "Shave it off," is advised heartlessly, logically, before she disappears around the curve of his caravan. It's a good thing his brother isn't around to cross her now, with the scowl that develops as soon as she does disappear.

Finn rubs at his jaw. Shave? That was work. The trader watches the messenger swish her skirts and Is that stalking? AHEM swish her skirts and walk purposefully towards other caravans. Foot to the treadle, Finn gets the grinding wheel spinning up again and as Veresch makes a turn that takes her from sight, the smith tugs the veil back into place and bends back to his work, wondering what dragons she'd turn up and -belatedly- what trouble she might cause turning them up. He lifts his head, eyes wide, "Uh oh."

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