Who

Mayte, G'deon, Taryn, Tallarn, Feroz & Yishai (NPCed by Maryam), Erikkhan, Ravene, Sadaiya, Linny, R'xim, G'tan, Malach & Yanskar, A'lory, V'dean, E'bert

What

Weyrleadership comes to meet with the great families of the Bazaar to discuss the difficulties of the ongoing food shortage. It goes as well as you may expect.

Language. Violence.

When

It is sunset of the tenth day of the fourth month of the third turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date 08 Nov 2014 08:00

 

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The Pit

One does not enter The Pit so much as descend into it. Why else the name? The Steen ancestors paid for their square footage with sweat, excavating the area and building curved walls up around it. Wide, smooth steps descend into a large entry area that overlooks the pit and galleries. Floors, ceilings and walls have been whitewashed with limestone paste, increasing the amount of light reflected back from the numerous glow baskets hung on the walls. A rounded doorway to the right leads one into the business' "office", which is furnished in spartan style: cushions for kneeling or sitting upon, a desk that's low to the ground constructed of the same whitewashed stone as the rest of the building, and niches carved out of the walls themselves for decorative pieces. Here is a small sculpture of men wrestling, there is a wooden carving of a champion with a foot upon his vanquished foe.

Continuing on through the lobby brings one to another set of six stairs that descend into the galleries surrounding the sand-filled pits. A low wall separates audience from combatants, but even at its highest point, those in the galleries are never more than twenty feet away from the action. The sand is raked daily, with fresh sand added whenever the blood to soil ratio becomes too great.

It is the seventieth day of Spring and 82 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


Late afternoon. Perhaps the organizers of this meeting felt that people might be more civil following the traditional afternoon siesta, but between the strain of once again hosting the first trickle of refugees and the rising prices that have led to belts being tightened, tempers are frayed. The Pit's risers are full of Bazaarfolk. Some come earnestly, looking to hear hope. Others have come already scowling, certain that the news will be bad- and will surely favor the Weyr, as it always does. The hum of conversation in the crowd has the dark buzz of a disturbed hive and anticipating this, the Pit's own gladiators have been stopping every man at the door to pat him down for weapons. Other fighters stand sentinel, a few to every level of bench, all of them loyal to the large man who sits impassively on the dais. This is Feroz, Mama Steen's older son, presumably here to serve as her proxy for no one has seen hide nor hair of the Steen Matriarch in months. An older and burly man, he looks grim but resigned, and scans the crowd frequently as if daring anyone to be the first to disrupt his hospitality.

Also in attendance is Yishai and clustered about him are other Steen males, those who tend to the rangier side, the hungrier lot. They sit well away from their bulkier brethren and anyone who strays too close might hear conversation mostunkind to Feroz's invited guests.

For there are Weyr envoys here, to speak for the folk who ostensibly shelter the Bazaar. They too have been accorded seats on Mama's high dais, of a height equal to Feroz's. There they are served iced citrus water, but no nibbly foods- it would be in poor taste, after all.

With the great and the…. 'good' of the Bazaar in attendance, how could the Akzhan not have their rightful place by the Steen? Men resplendent in the family colours of red and gold share prime place with the other worthies. Native Bazaarites will surely notice that there is an unusual division in their ranks, but riders less used to these subtleties might not. Yanskar, the Old Akzhan patriarch and owner of the racetrack, sits close by Feroz in matching silence, each of his six tall sons arrayed around him. When Malach of the new family enters however it is to Yishai that he moves, a broad smile coming over his face as he greets his new brother-in-law as if he has not a care in the world and owns the very ground that he walks on. If he is surrounded by perhaps one too many burly men who look very displeased to have given up their weapons — well, just don't look up into the galleries and try to work out exactly how many more New Akzhan men are hidden their in plain clothes.

The presence of all these suspiciously large men has whispers moving through the stands, but no one is stupid enough to say anything too overt.

Sadaiya's looking distinctly over-dressed compared to those in the crowd, and distinctly anxious. Her short fingers riffle through the various parchments hooked onto her Very Official Clipboard (tm), and her lips move as if reciting something silently. As things settle, though, she exhales gustily, takes a sip of something in a flask handed to her by another rider, and stands to approach the podium. With a bright smile for the crowd, she begins: "Hello, everyone. It's safe to assume that you are all here for the same reason: you want to know what the situation is at the Weyr. Well, we've gathered everyone here today in order to answer any questions you might have to the best of our ability." She clears her throat, flipping to the next page in her notes. "So, on that note, I figure we should begin. Please raise your hand if there's something you want to contribute. Someone will hand you this, ah, stick thing here, and only the audience member holding the stick is allowed to talk."

Tallarn circulates through the crowd, collecting empty glasses and mugs, refilling same, eyes wide and light of step. He might as well not even be here. He certainly wishes that were true. How is it he always finds himself in these most tense of happenings?

The suspiciously large men don't bother G'tan too much, being a suspiciously large man himself - though he might be slightly bothered on behalf of others. Bothered might be the wrong word. On alert on their behalf. That fits better. The Whirlwind bronzer is on guard himself, hanging about close at hand to Sadaiya and any of the other goldriders who may be there or may come along at some point. Unofficial, unspoken bodyguard, right here.

Linny stalks not too far behind Sadaiya, a rather unpleasant look on her face. True, it could be because of her clothing: having to dress appropriately for the meeting means very little skin is showing, and for a woman like her, being so covered up is enough to put her in a terrible mood. Not to mention the reason for the meeting and the weight on her shoulders as the diplomatic tie between the Weyr and the Holds. Guilt and annoyance jockey for the main emotion of her face, which basically just leaves her looking pissed off as she takes her place behind and to the side of the Weyrwoman. And, for the record, it may have been Linny who handed Sadaiya that flask, but with all of the commotion going on, it's hard to tell. Just get in, get out, get it over with.
Seated quietly near the exit is the still figure of Ravene. Beside her, and with one hand firmly holding the girl in place, is Zisiene. The hand that holds her? E'bert, if some of the riders haven't noticed the subtle shiftings; E'bert has and it has him distinctly wary.

It's like a fresh graduate's homecoming, Taryn's ascension of the Pit's stands. The healer who has worked in the sandy rooms below surely is familiar with the men who guard door and risers. It must be intentional, that her choice of bench is overseen by a pitfighter whose crossed arms are heavily scarred but whose nod is politely receptive to the subtle smile she offers along with the dip of her scarf-covered head. The oldtimer is of no particular note as she settles herself amongst the shifting mass of un-Named Bazaarfolk. No bright pink or happy blue for her today; the demure wrap of her Igen garb is in quiet shades of cream and dun. Her eyes, though — those are a wide of stormy blue within rims of kohl as she fits them attentively upon the Weyrwoman's opening remarks.

Erikkhan has been thoroughly searched and patted down and is looking grumpier than when this began. Resplendant in clothing of the deepest harper blue, Erikk sweeps his way to the front of the rows, sitting where he can both be a voice, and an ear in this big meeting. Sadie's rough introduction has him laughing a little behind his hand, but he's soon back to being stern. HIs hazel eyes sweep the crowd, inwardly he's thankful he'd left his wife and children home.

From the stands, someone yells, "We don't need no stick to talk! How 'bout you tell us why I can't put bread on t'table but at night, now! How're we supposed t'fit all t'ese new folks in and feed our own if we can't even buy grain for decent prices." That was a male voice, but there are enough angry faces turned towards the dais, enough nodding heads, that it's difficult to tell the source.

One might think, after his recent encounter with the wrong side of a knife, V'dean might be more appreciative of the fact that men are getting patted down upon entry. And yet, the invasive handling by the Steen's men has left the rider's mouth thinned and his eyes twitched narrow as he moves for a seat in the crowd. Not that he sports anything that would outwardly identify him as a rider, his knot absent for this assembly. He is, however, undoubtably an outsider in his more Western-styled garb — though there is a desert man's scarf that's been pulled down around his neck from where it protected against the sand and sun outdoors. It almost makes the fluff of fingers through his hair a practical thing as he slides towards a seat. Not far from the door. Weapons or sticks or no, the uneasy waves of tense voices don't exactly make descending further into a pit seem all that appealing.

Does Malach crack a smile to see the Weyr's plans fly out the window so fast? Perhaps he does, though the look is quickly stifled. The impression given as he pushes to his feet is that of a wild canine raising itself, heavy muscles unfolding under the flesh. You can dress a beast in fine clothes all you want — Malach certainly has — but you can't make him look any less brutal. "Weyrwoman." It is said with a polite incline of the head, though there is no reaching for the stick. The voice at once effortless and loud enough to carry. "As you can hear, the Bazaar is stretched to breaking point. The charity of my family's wives can only reach so far. We are concerned the Weyr will offload more hungry mouths to us. As you can imagine," a slight pause, eyes flicking over the two lone women on the dais surrounded by men, "that doesn't fill our hearts with joy."

Tallarn continues to circulate. It's not likely the minted water is poisoned is it? Could that be tasted? The mint is very strong. What better way to lighten the load on the stores of both parties Weyr and Bazaar than to poison a whole mess of people all at once. Where exactly IS Tallarn circulating? And who is he serving? Is there some pattern? Or is it the path of least resistence? Or, perhaps more accurately, the path of least terror-if-i-cation?

Before even entering the Pit, R'xim almost gets into it with one of the men reaching over to pat him down. "Hey, what the fu—" The bronzerider steps back and is just about to haul off and teach the grabby man a proper lesson, when a woman pulls him aside and explains just what exactly is happening. Rix nods after the explanation and is better prepared now to have his pockets and jacket checked for any weapons. Truth is, he doesn't carry any. Once permitted, he strides through and takes his place amongst the crowd, scoping out where his wingmates are right away.

G'tan's expression follows the pattern of what seems to be the norm for this particular meeting: grim, lips pressed into a thin line. He's concentrating more on reading people right now, however, only giving one ear over to actually listening. That the stick idea doesn't work, has him inwardly wincing. Not all that surprising; the anger and frustration in the room is palpable. Glancing over, he spots R'xim and waves his wingmate over. The more bronzeriders near the weyrwomen right now, the better he'll feel.

E'bert firmly presses his hand down on his sister's shoulder which effectively holds the girl in place. Now is not the time for being the bazaar rat that she is. The rider's attention like Ravene's, is focused on Sadaiya. Unlike his fostermother, he's not focused on her for what she has to say but rather because of who she is. Ravene shifts in her seat, aware of the girl's restlessness and greatful for E'bert's presence.

Linny's practically vibrating behind Sadaiya, her petite body tense as things seem to immediately become out of control, flicking her eyes quickly between the Weyrwoman and the crowd, physically having to stop herself from speaking on her behalf. But, as junior, she stays silently and supportively behind the Weyrwoman, clenching her jaw tightly together. If there are guards in place for them, she doesn't seem to know it, or at least she doesn't acknowledge it, as she seems to be taking on the job as The Muscle for Sadaiya, despite the inch difference between them. But hey, Linny's the taller one with that inch, so she totally can guard her. Totally.

On one hand, avoiding identification as a resource-demanding dragonrider might be a good thing. On the other — R'xim is the kind of big guy that might be nice to have on hand if the Steen fighters need to be get-into-it with. Therefore V'dean's eyes slide towards the ex-Reachan when the bronzerider makes it through the door nearbly after the almost-scuffle. He gets to the point of lifting his chin a little — universal 'hey there, man' — but then the more overt wave of G'tan's draws his eye too. The bluerider has no qualms about remaining at ease on his bench and leave the bronzeriders to sentinel duty. And really, the new transfer barely qualifies as wingmate, having yet to be bumped up from drill rotations into Fall.

Feroz's finger twitches and gladiators are on the move, homing in on whomever it was that called out of order first. Malach is left unmolested- a fact which brings a blade-thin and unpleasant smile to Yishai's face- but soon enough those fighting men find the first malcontent. It would seen the Feroz faction falls firmly on the side of the Weyr, for the fellow who dares speak so disrespectfully to the Weyrwoman- a thin and scrappy gentleman who is either really dirty or wearing very brown clothing- is hauled towards the exit via hands held under his armpits. His friends protest…but not loudly, nor for long. In the wake of the silence that falls as others see the man manhandled from the stands, another voice lifts- and this one is Yishai's, who speaks to Sadaiya but looks directly at Feroz. "And pray tell, ladies, whether the Weyr proposes it will open its store to those of us whose are left hungry now? Perhaps you will share what food you set aside for your riders, while you look at these…various options. Since you imply this will only be a temporary situation." Yeah, he's not going for the stick either. Naughty.

Erikkhan clears his throat loudly, a hand shooting up to signal his intent to talk. The stick will get to him either through other hands or Sadie throwing it at him, either way… "As for those who are here, The Zingari have offered to host some of the refugees." Erikkhan gives a bit of a bow to the head bazaar families. "We hope that will take the strain off of those who are already helping. As for others, My cousin, Ayla, rider of brown Jhakkarath and I, also offer up our homes and space to those who need it." Erik can feel the tension rising in the room, he doesn't know how much his offers will help, but, there they are.

You can call her late for many things, including this meeting, but Mayte is here now so it's all good, right? She saunters in, her stride unhurried and eyes bland. Hands stuffed in pockets, the youngest of the Weyrwomen pauses just inside the door to take a long look around, stepping to one side to let others in.

The Weyrwoman of Igen speaks, and so Malach watches her — though don't think for a second that means he isn't very aware of the shift of Feroz's finger and the answering shift of muscled men all over the cavernous space. It leaves his shoulders ever so slightly more tensed, his polite smile to Sadaiya with a disconcerting chill at the eyes. A drudge attempts to bring the stick to him, but Malach avoids taking it by seating himself again. Is his chair scraped ever so slightly closer to Yishai's? Perhaps. Suddenly Sadie seems not so very interesting: it is his Yanskar he watches, father of his ex-wife and supposed member of his own clan. Though surely the smile Malach gives him is just a little too sharp for an ally. For now he seems content to watch and wait, though surely all those men in Akzhan red and gold are watching him very closely…

G'deon is dressed in his most dapper of clothing, only his knot identifying him as a rider. He pauses right next to Mayte to get the lay of the land, sizing up the crowd… and the atmosphere. "Care for an escort?" he offers the junior-most weyrwoman, grinning as he offers his arm, then indicates a spot in the direction of the other weyrwomen while giving Mayte a questioning look.

Once R'xim's eyes catch sight of G'tan, he nods and begins to make his way toward his wingmate. Some people are pushed to the side as Rix presses onward and he continues to observe those around him. V'dean is given the same chin nod just before he steps up near G'tan, taking a position to the right with arms folded across his chest. Woe betide anyone who dares start something with him tonight — he's in one of those moods. There's silent communication between he and the other bronzerider with a look that says 'I got your back' should anything happen.

Zisiene would bite the hand that restrains her if not for the stern look from her foster mother. A look the girl has learned not to push. For her part Ravene continues to watch and listen, she has her shop and the small garden out the back of it but those small resources can only go so far. The walls that enclose it can only go so high, and the shutters that protect it can only be in place for so long. E'bert continues to scan the crowd, tense and alert he has nothing useful to say or add. Concern is present in Ravene's eyes as she too takes time to look around the crowd. She'd offer space, but the baker is out of room she already has people camped out in the dining room after closing. Kitchen, and private doors firmly locked.

Far up in the stands there is a rustle of clothing as a gaggle of demurely covered women are escorted to an exit. Whoever thought it proper to bring their womenfolk along to a meeting has apparently decided that it was not such a good idea after all. The movement leaves one row disconcertingly dominated by large men with plate-sized hands. In fact, the more you look at it the more you realize men with plate-sized hands make up a truly disproportionate percentage of the audience.

Tallarn works for Sadie, ultimately, and since folks seem to have lost interest in the water he's circulating, so he gives himself new work. Ever-dutiful, despite watery bowels, he takes it upon himself to ferry The Stick to and fro. When Malach doesn't take it, the drudge stands looking at it puzzled for a while, then holds it up near Malach. Watching keenly for the next speaker, to whom he will sprint with all the speed in his wiry frame.

Feroz's quick dispensation of what the bazaar considers 'justice' leaves Sadaiya openly gaping and gray-faced. "Ah, you don't… you don't have to… do … that…" she says lamely as the procession exits the area. Again, she clears her throat and straightens her shoulders in a parody of confidence to regard Yishai. "We have shared as much as we possibly can, given not only the tithing situation itself but the state of last year's crops. Our Junior Weyrwoman, Linny, along with Weyrsecond F'dan, have been burning the candle at both ends, working as hard as they possibly can to come to an agreement with our outlying holds who still owe some measure of tithe." One manicured (if shaky) hand gestures towards the two in turn. "Also, next time you have a question, if you could please hold the stick so that no one else talks over you, that would be great, and as Erikkhan here has the stick…" She shrugs. "Ah, thank you, Harper. Your and Ayla's offers are exceedingly generous and much MUCH appreciated by all of us." Though she stops vocalizing, her lips still ascribe a broad THANK YOU towards Erikkhan.

Looking up, Mayte huffs slightly in surprise at G'deon's offer. "Oh hey," she says with chippter tones, "didn't see ya there." The exeunt of the womenfolk has Mayte shifting her attention briefly to them and then to the rest of the crowd. Still, Mayte mutters something quietly up to the tall bronzerider before settling herself back on her heels and watching the crowd for a moment, listening to Sadaiya's words while her hands are withdrawn from her pockets so Mayte can fold them over her chest.

You overhear Mayte mutter, "… … … near … … … … … … need to … or … you … okay waiting around for a …" to G'deon.

Taryn has chosen to seat herself near a pair of veiled women who may almost seem to be of one party with her. Of course, the oldtimer is not veiled, and while her neighbors' attention flutters inward to shared whispers the healer's is fixed more firmly across the stadium. From the other side of the great circle of sand, the beast wrapped in Akzhan finery holds the watch of blue eyes long moments before they turn to note the younger Steen. And while the strong-armed removal of that first discontent was not enough to steal her focus, the flutter of the departing ladies snags it and turns Taryn's head. From there blue eyes are slow to scan back to the thank-you mouthing Weyrwoman. The healer is a woman who is given to straight posture and squared shoulders, but now hers a pose run through with an added buzz of alert.

The riders will likely feel the spike in atmospheric tension but they may not be certain of the cause. Bazaar folk, however, will surely realize- Yishai and Feroz are brothers. One brother hosts this meeting, another speaks in such a way as to subtly attack the invited guest. It is as good as throwing a gauntlet at a man's feet here, to be so rude to a kinsman. It is, in effect, a declaration of war. There is a sense of collective breath holding among the cannier Bazaar residents and now many heads have turned, attention ripped away from Sadaiya, so they can survey the power players in this new drama: Steen and Akzhan, traditional (hidebound) faction and the new (ambitious) graspers. Gladiators are looking to Feroz for guidance and Feroz is staring hard, hard, at his younger brother- and receiving only that same razored smile in return.

It's a smile that leads Feroz to slowly rise to his feet. Even old, the man has the size and strength of an ox. He cuts an imposing figure up there, beside the more diminutive female riders. He takes a breath, he opens his mouth to reply…

And a man that Yishai surely did not pay to do so (okay, maybe he paid him a little), yells, "You kiss the Weyr's ass while my children go hungry!" Maybe it's another bribed minion who throws something- was that a shoe?- and bellows, "Fuck your stick!" while a third shouts, "Weyrsecond's not burning the candle at both ends, he's taking whores at both ends! Saw 'im in Rosie's just t'other night! You fuck and we starve!"

That's all it takes. There is a hiss of steel from several hidden knives being drawn- hey, no one was searching the Steen fighting men!- and the guards are lunging while the crowd scatters. A stripling lad, not more than fourteen, shouts in pain as he's shoved aside, another man screams when he falls beneath sandal-clad feet as Feroz's Steen converge on Yishai's men.

The shift is very much noticed by Linny, who takes a step or two closer to Sadaiya, pressing a hand into the small of her back. A reassurance for both of them, but mostly for Sadaiya to know that Linny is there to support her in her words as well as physically. Any sort of guilt or mixed expression is gone, and left in its place is close to a menacing look. Stupidly, the petite weyrwoman isn't at all frightened of the size of the men left, the men currently staring them down, and the way she tosses her chin up when Sadaiya mentions her name is almost daring someone to say something about the work she's been doing. The arrival of Mayte is noticed briefly noticed by the woman, and she receives a very subtle shaking of her head. Stay away, Mayte. Stay away. But her attention is soon pulled back the yelling starts, pressing herself even closer to Sadaiya. Still, somehow or another, Linny stays silent.

Erikkhan nods a solemn 'You're Welcome' at Sadaiya before taking his seat once more. He hands the stick to a drudge so that he may take it to the next speaker. One hand comes up to listlessly run through his hair, showing nerves that had not been present in the timbre of his voice. And then the room is exploding, shouts and guards and steel being bared everywhere. Erikkhan stands quickly, looking around for the cause of the ruckus.

Tallarn stands in the middle of the fray holding The Stick aloft starting this way and that as men shout. Who has permission to speak?! He just doesn't know!

You overhear G'deon mutter, "… … stand with … best … them." to Mayte.

G'deon leans down slightly to reply to Mayte just as quietly. By the grin on his face and the twinkle of pale blue eyes, it's something positive, at least. For now. That gaze sweeps back over the crowd as he continues trying to catch where they are in the conversation thus far. Assuming "conversation" is a good word for it, of course. He catches Linny's gesture to Mayte and ends up looking back down at the woman at his side. Maybe he's no spring chick anymore, but the rider straightens a little as heated words reach them.

There is a feeling when you walk into a room and just know there's been an argument going on. That feeling is ALL UP in the Pit tonight. For once the Weyr is not the enemy and Sadaiya and her people have walked into something much, much bigger than they intended. There is no time to work out the tangled web of allegiences that have brought it to this point, with half the Akzhan siding with half the Steen against the others. What could be bad enough to prompt fratricide? And yet as Yanskar gets to his feet and stands beside Feroz, Malach is taking his place beside Yishai. Peacefully! Only standing there with that half-smile still present, shoulder to shoulder with his brother-in-law. Very large shoulder to shoulder.

It is a turning point, though the riders might not be able to read it. Malach doesn't say a word and yet suddenly his men move as one, those in the stands in plain clothes surging to their feet, those on the sands lurching towards the fray. They may not have knives but they have fists and long years of dirty fighting behind them, and in this fight it is clear whom they stand beside — Yishai's men, against Feroz.

Well, G'tan might have to grab hold of R'xim for just a moment when the Weyrsecond is thrown into the mix of sneers and verbal jabs . "Hey, say that again you piece of—" is snarled, then quickly silenced. There's a sharp realization that the senior weyrwoman is standing only a few feet away and his rage subsides very, very briefly. Whoever slandered F'dan better hope against hope that Rix doesn't figure out their identity. Hands smooth his riding jacket as brows narrow at the crowd. Ohh, tonight is just not the night to be testing him.

It is not that anyone is trying to hit any riders or civilians — really, for once the Weyr is not the least unpopular guest at this particular party — but it is not always possible to keep a brawl contained once the fists start flying.

At the eruption of shouts and other things, E'bert stands and quickly places himself between Ravene his sister and whatever fighting may erupt. Or at least he tries as Zisiene jumps up on the bench, and glares at all and sundry. Don't touch her mama, or else.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Igen Weyr," Sadaiya announces over the fray, unconsciously shifting slightly backwards into Linny's comforting hand and closer proximity to the half-circle of riders that surround her. "Please, if you'd just speak one at a time by using the stick, we can address everyone's concerns in time" No amount of volume will reach any but the closest ears, but she presses on, waving her arms frantically around. "If you could take your seats, please, and just… have patience for a time… and maybe stop hitting each other? If we work together… eep!" And she's ducking to avoid the incoming rock that's shied at her from somewhere in the crowd.

G'tan is one of those who senses the spike in tension without knowing a cause…but it doesn't matter. The moment the shouting starts, he's jerking his head at R'xim (rather than moving to restrain him) and flicking a pointed glance at V'dean as he sidles up closer to Sadaiya and Linny - the sort that more or less screams 'get up here.' No one's going to be getting near them, if has anything to say about it! Blue eyes cast around sharply for the source of that rock, to no avail. "Don't think talkin's gonna work anymore, ma'am," the bronzerider asides to Sadaiya over the noise, fists unconsciously tightening in preparation for action.

It made very clear, very quickly, where Erikkhan's loyalties are. Too late to stop the flying rock, but soon enough to be of help, Erikk imposes himself in front of Sadaiya and anyone who may be standing near her. He may not be a rider, but he comes from a long line of them, and he has friends amongst them. He pushes a wayward punch out of the way and looks imposing. He looks to Sadaiya for orders, after all, she far outranks him.

"We're not of Igen Weyr!" howls someone from the chaos in the stalls. "We're the BAZAAR!" This rant might continue but whoever's shouting seems to realize at this moment that the time for Weyr-baiting is done. The time for running is here.

Maybe Sadaiya ducks that rock, but Linny doesn't have any idea it's coming, and it thwaps her firmly in the center of the forehead. "Dammit!" gets yelled as a hand is immediately raised, her palm pressed over the angry, red bump that's surely about to start forming soon. "Fucking animals." But at least there's too much going on for anyone to hear the junior weyrwoman talking badly about those gathered. With that hand still firmly on her forehead, the other hand starts tugging at Sadaiya. "C'mon. Give it up. Let them kill one another. Less mouths to feed. We need to get out of here."

Annnnd now it's just another conversation in the Bazaar. The comment about notable riders' proclivities has Mayte's face going very studiously blank, because it can't really be missed, but she gives G'deon a wry grin. No time for a sly comment as Mayte catches sight of Sadaiya. "Oh shit…" she says and starts to make a gesture at Linny, something about shooing but that gets aborted halfway through as G'tan et all are there. That look is relief and then sheer annoyance at the ruffians all about. "So this is happening. Idiots," she tells the old oldtimer bronzer with forced casualness, "We should…" Oh great, now they're running. Mayte doesn't even try to get in the way of that, instead stepping aside as best she can. The problem with staying by the door is the great evacuation.

Amid the gasps of feminine cries, Taryn is silent. Still, she sways with the throbbing potentiation of violence that washes across a too-knowing sea of Bazaar folk, one sari-wrapped reed amongst many. There's a moment of held breath when tension-laced eyes turn towards the guard whom she nodded at. But he's either ignoring her or has simply forgotten her presence as he is moved with his steel-bristling compatriots by the tides of power. She will move, too, clutching to the women she doesn't know as they all jerk upward and out of the way of oxen and canines and men with snake-sharp smiles.

R'xim makes his way over to Sadaiya and Linny, taking position on the opposite side of G'tan for maximum coverage. This is getting serious and he better focus on the goldriders rather than his on bro for the time being. Priorities. Rix has 'em. "I think they need to get out of here." he grumbles to his wingmate. "We better leave now before shit starts getting bad." Trust him. He's been in plenty of brawls to know the signs.

E'bert is able to push Ravene out the exit, or at least towards the exit seated as close to it as they are, "Take her with you," is said as he tries to push his sister after the baker. Zisiene glares at those nearby, by the time E'bert's finished speaking the girl has already punched some poor soul that got too close for her liking, "Get out of here," E'bert hisses at the girl, who only ignores him.

Feroz…looks furious. He is frowning hard enough that the heat of it might well start curling his beard. "Ma'ams. Sirs," he growls, turning that Angry Face towards his honored guests, "it would behoove you to leave now." Such courtesy from the old man! And that's all they'll get from their host too, for he is wheeling about to stalk towards his captain, a fellow who might even be larger and brawnier than the would-be-patriarch. "STEEN!" the ox-man bellows as he goes and the call is taken up from those gladiators and brawlers raising fist to New Akzhan thugs, trying to bull their way through the crowd to get to their leader's rival. The cry goes up, louder and louder: "Steen! Steen! STEEN!" and at its peak, one of Yishai's men- more a knife fighter to judge by his slender build- is bodily seized and thrown from risers to sands. His scream ends when he lands badly, head twisted strange on his neck. This doesn't stop anyone from continuing on- they want Yishai and if Malach's men don't protect him, it's a possibility that the younger Steen will be torn limb from limb.

G'deon presses himself against the side of the exit as people begin fleeing the Pit. "Not quite what they were going for, I think," he comments to Mayte, sounding… not gleeful but perhaps intrigued. "I haven't seen a god brawl in a long time," he adds in more of an undertone, and that time there might be some glee. A tiny bit. More like childlike excitement. He makes a fist-pumping motion as all those men rush to the other weyrwomen's aid and very nearly checks a deserting Bazaar lady in the shoulder. It does check the giddiness, so he goes back to making himself as small as possible, as out of the way as possible.

For a man more than seventy turns old, Yanskar the Old Akzhan patriarch moves with a surprising grace. How is he so suddenly by the press of gold- and bronzeriders? How is it so suddenly evident that beneath age his body is still strong? How does he arrive so perfectly timbed as that Steen man falls to the ground and suddenly it becomes clear that people are dying in this chaotic crush of bodies? He takes the place vacated by Feroz with ease. "Weyrwomen. Bronzeriders. Please. There is another exit. It is not safe." And then, as he waits for their answer, there is an incline of his head to the only one of his many sons who has not joined the fray. His voice is low, but a glimmer can be caught: "his fucking head on a plate." Oh dear.

"But I'm their Weyrwoman! I should be out there STOPPING this!" Briefly, Sadaiya struggles against the hands that push her towards safety, but then acquiesces suddenly enough to send those grabbing at her off-balance. The reason? The unmistakeable crunch of neckbones snapping not too far from where she stands. As Erikkhan, Feroz, and Yanskar come to assist the other riders, she finally lets herself be ushered towards the back exit. "Oh shards… what have I done here?" Her voice is a bare whisper that cracks against the tears that threaten to escape her control.

"Sadaiya, let it go," Linny calls to the Weyrwoman as she clings to R'xim, the one bronzerider in their midst that she knows the best and the one that she wants by her side in case a fight, like this one, breaks out. She may be many things, but she's not completely stupid. Hands tighten on his tunic as her body presses against him, showing off that bump growing on her forehead from the thrown rock, happy to go with the flow that will hopefully lead them all of out of there safely. So much for her bravado of earlier.

If this is madness, there is method in it: those of Malach's men that were not on the dais are now converging on it. Their speed is unstoppable, unsuspecting civialians pushed back over chairs and crushed into the dust as they roll forward in a wave of muscles and scars. Fists impact with bodies in breathy grunts, knives rip through clothes, and always they move forward with the brutal force of men trained to kill. They do not aim for the riders, but still it must be a terrifying sight, bloody-faced and bloody-knuckled men punching and kicking and choking to this point. This point, where Malach is looking to Yishai with white hot eyes and jaw set in a hard line. "So it is." The thing said simply as if this is not civil war, not the impact of Bazaar families with more armed men between them than Igen has guards. As feet away Malach's men break bones and scatter teeth to keep Yishai safe, Malach — the most cold-eyed one of them all — only jerks his head. "Now." Time to escape, in the crush of bodies, four burly Akzhan retainers waiting to guide their path. Guide their path with lots of punching.

Look, G'tan, there is a lot of distance between the dais the Weyrwoman's been given and the door. And one of those things is looking a whole lot more appealing right about now. Maybe it is just that V'dean doesn't actually look to see the bronzerider's glance. He is less concerned with the threat of failing rank obligation at the moment and more with the nearer men who — yeah, that angle of that guys neck who just got thrown into the pit does Not Seem Good. Hierarchy of needs, he is its slave. Instead of plunging into the fray to try and come to valiant defense of his new Senior, brave Sir Robin will turn about and gallantly chicken out. To the door!

As the sudden press of the violent crowd gets to be too much, and the all to clear sound of bone crunching rips through the air, Erikk is suddenly sure that if the leaders don't leave, they'll die. Sadie's shouts are heard loud and clear, Erikk turns to her, and with a pleading look, he shoos her away. "Go! Get out of here! You're no good as their Weyrwoman if you're dead!" Erikk shoves off a man who rushes the riders, and punches another in the face. Realilina is going to kill him. Its an unfortunate iscalculation that has Erikkhan turning in to a blade and not away from it. Its wrenched from his gut before he even knows what happened. Erikkhan hopes this madness ends soon as he sinks to his knees with a grunt. Lina is definitely going to kill him if he survives this…

"What the fu—" That's the second time R'xim has growled that phrase tonight. An arm shoots out to block the weyrwomen from potential risers flooding toward them and he moves to position his body as a shield. People are fleeing and there are shouts from strange men Rix doesn't know, therefore he can't size up their abilities to fight. They are unknown and dangerous to him. "G'tan!" he shouts over the crowd now, cutting a look at the fellow bronzerider as Sadaiya is ushered out of the Pit. Now it's Linny's turn. When he spots the petite weyrwoman, Rix scoops her up into his arms and makes his way out with her in a hurry.

No need to tell G'tan twice, seeing as he's been in his fair share of scraps, too. Nodding, he's one of the ones with hands on Sadaiya - probably the main one, at this point - and nearly stumbles when she relents to being led. "Not by yourself, ma'am," G'tan tells her as sympathetically as he can as he concentrates on just getting them out safely. "Not your fault." It's clear to him at least - this is a Bazaar thing. Any involvement the Weyr proper has is just kindling in a far bigger fire. V'dean's exit is peripherally - and unhappily - noted, though there's nothing for it right now. The old man's advice is nodded, R'xim's shout is heard and met with an, "On it!" Which he is. Out they get.

Mayte snorts cheerfully, "I think you're thinkin' right. Gotta say, I'm not that surprised, though." For a woman who's had her nose up to the sinuses in books for the past few months, Mayte is strangely casual about this: "Spent a few years working in the Bazaar," because G'deon's new and doesn't know, "and this… Well." If Mayte isn't awfully surprised, she's also not impressed. But then, "Sadie will kill us if we get hurt." Le sigh and Mayte peeks up at her would-be escort: "Wanna check out?"

There will be guards pouring in soon but can Igen's guard corps truly handle this? The Old Steen gladiators are a formidable lot, their lives spent for this, for the thrill of the fight- and they are all here. But they fight most for spectacle and are facing gutter-born goons who fight not to impress an audience but to win- and they are all here too. At some point it will become more an issue of containing the brawl than extinguishing it. For once Yishai is whisked away, surely hostilities will end and both sides will retreat to lick their wounds. Yishai himself sees that making this the first and last battle of brother against brother is perhaps not the way to go- one cannot rule family and Bazaar interests if civilians and riders alike are scarred by the fight. So he nods curtly to Malach's summons and steps into the center of the phalanx, to be escorted away. Just like royalty. Or weyrwomen!

It is a swift thing, the leading of the goldriders and bronzers to the exit by Yanskar. Strange, that they are not molested on their way there. It is almost as if Yanskar has his own men here, though if he does they do their protecting in a much subtler way than Malach's. Which they would, of course, since Yanskar was born into money and taste and Malach… well, you can take a boy out of the gutter, but you can't take the gutter out of the boy.

There's going to be a really angry Ravene to deal with, but right now E'bert doesn't much care. A second hissed, "Get out of here Zisie," is accompanied by bodily shoving the girl in the arms of a fleeing person. This frees the brownrider to work his way towards Erikk.

Of all the places for three Weyrwomen to plant themselves — has the entire Weyr gone mad? Fortunately for the confused and struggling Sadaiya, A'lory has been lurking amid the crowd; it can never hurt to have more eyes than none. "Sadaiya. Go." He growls, possibly from right near the hustling arms carrying the short woman away. "He'll be seen to. Get out." For he has spied E'bert moving toward the downed Harper.

Someone probably needs The Stick. Who? Who needs the stick? Tallarn is standing still, as ever, in the middle of swirling blows and anger and fists and mayhem. It is his lot in life, it seems. And a miracle that the young man has and continues to weather these incidents without a scratch. Some preternatural ability to Bear Witness to Chaos and stand untouched by it.

It's a relief to be swept up by R'xim, arms immediately going around in neck, and Linny buries her face in the crook of his neck, definitely not wanting to see the fighting and the aftermath of said fighting. The bodies, the blood, everything else spilling all over the place. She even seems to tune out the horrific sounds, the yelling, the screaming, the moans. There's the hope, somewhere in there, that Sadaiya smartened up and is on her way out as well, but at this point, the junior weyrwoman has self-preservation in mind. She wants out, and she's not foolishly sticking around, body tense in R'xim's arms to brace herself from any jostling as they hurry out.

Erikkhan is seeing stars. He can hear Sadie screaming and he tries to yell back, tries to tell her he's ok, but the words don't come. He tries to stand, one hand lifting to his torso as the world blooms red and black around him. Erikk fights to stay conscious, fights to stand, but the floor keeps coming at him and he finally collapses. His eyes watch feet skirt by and he hears the commotion, but he's disconnected from it.

In all this chaos there are people — men, women, some children who snuck their way into the back — who cannot find an escape. Malach however was born for chaos. It is with absolute self-possession that he escorts Yishai towards some hidden exit (for surely his Steen brother-in-law knows one), unflinching in the sound of cries that assails them. When one lunging Steen man makes it particularly close Malach's composure does not flicker, as if he knows that his retainer's hand will impact the Steen man's face with a sickening crunch. If you hire the very best you trust them, after all. And these men are the very best at… well, this. Perhaps that is why Malach's hands are still so bloodless. He is innocent as a lamb! A lamb that braces hand between Yishai's shoulder to push him forward quicker. Only moments before their exit is a nod given to one of the retainers, the mountain-sized man turning back to the room and wading again into the fray. This time it's to bring things to a close — but it might take a while to get everyone's attention in the ruckus.

It's no hardship for G'tan to use one brawny arm in restraining the much smaller Senior, though he has to grasp at the shoulder of someone near him for a moment to keep his balance. He manages a look back at the man she's screaming for just as A'lory speaks, and he looks up at the Arroyo bronzer and nods agreement. "He'll be helped. Right now, we just need to get you out." And taking a page from R'xim's book, he easily swoops Sadaiya up into his own arms and bears her out, not keen on any more distractions or blockages to impeded their progress to safety.

The early-comers of the Bazaar's guards have arrived, but seem to have decided against getting involved after seeing that it's apparently Gladiators Vs. Thugs night at the Pit. For now they linger at the exits, shooing women and children to safety… and trying not to catch the attention of the men they should be apprehending.

There's no fight as G'tan joins the fun that is carrying around a goldrider. Sadaiya has gone almost entirely limp, her cheek resting on the bronzerider's shoulder as she stares back at the chaos listlessly. The only indication that she's heard G'tan's reassurances is a small bob of her head.

E'bert has reached Erikkhan's side. Not without a few well placed, and well landed jabs as evidenced by the blossoming bruise that rings one eye along with the blood that flows a bit too freely from his nose, "Harper, can you hear me?" is asked as he leans over the other man, all the better to look at the wound. He needs stuff. Stuff he doesn't have. Stuff poor little Leeezarrd can't carry, and Erikk is a taller man than E'bert is.

It will indeed be some time yet before the brawl finishes. Yes, Yishai is gone, and Feroz is left to gnash his teeth and commiserate with Yanskar for the loss of their prey- er, their oh so rude kinsmen. The call will go out, transmitted in shouts and yanks and occasionall berserker-rage breaking punches that the fight is over. But these things, they needs must burn themselves out on their own, no matter how much blood has already soaked into the sands of the Pit. Still, that burning out will go much faster once the old patriarchs stalk off, surrounded by their own phalanx of loyal men, of sons and brothers and cousins. The first battle in this particular war has ended but there's no telling who actually won.

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