Z'bor, Sh'ro, T'ral


T'ral is undercover waiting for Kyara to return when Sh'ro and Z'bor recognize him. Shenanigans ensue.


It is midmorning of the seventh day of the second month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Igen Weyr

OOC Date


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Crafter Quarters

Set high against the steep slope of the Weyr caldera, the Crafter Quarters lie subtly removed from the Bazaar below them. They bustle, but it is a slower bustle from the mercantile flurry: the scurry of Apprentices being sent on errands, the muffled shouts of irate Masters, the bursts of bangs and clicks and clacks as Crafters carry out their work. The familiar abode brick buildings of Igen line this little web of streets, some colorfully painted, some drab and dull. With the portioning of space first come and first serve, some Crafts have laid claim to multiple buildings, while others are forced to share space - sometimes in rather incongruous ways. Private rooms are the domain of Journeymen and Masters, while Apprentices must make do with cramped dormitories, when they are not reduced to claiming mere corners.

It is the thirty-seventh day of Winter and 34 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day with a gentle wind.

For all that this part of the bazaar is busy, it is removed from the hustle of the Bazaar in most senses of the word. Kyara had stashed T'ral here. In the Crafter's Quarters. Apprentices scurry on errands, voices call out and sounds ring and crack from the workshops. Messengers huddle around a brazier warming their hands as they away responses to their missives. A man dressed in dusty looking Igen garb with a burgundy sash around his waits stands at the edge of the brazier's heat, He's not one of the messengers given that he holds a frame drum in his hands, distractedly tapping out a stacatto rhythm, dark eyes moving to and fro as he looks at the bundled faces of bazaarfolk going quickly about their business in the near-freezing morning air.

Ahhh Igen. Crisp. Cool. Full of scarved and hidden women….wait…why is Z'bor here again? Ahh, yes, because of rumors that there is a harper that may be able to do his Ozriath some justice on canvas. And so, he's here, looking for the Harper, and someone to fix the worn leather straps in his arms. After all, knowing how to fix one's straps is one thing, but having someone else do it, well, that's just good time management. Though, walking through the main craft hall, he spots a figure, one that may have become quie familiar in the weeks since his transfer to Southern. He steps forward, intent on finding out if the figure is indeed a familiar one.

The tall, handsome, fabulous Sh'ro that emerges from the bustle is definitely not a crafter. And he looks slightly lost. "They were just here. Where did they go? Sharding, flighty apprentices!" That last is said loudly enough that several of that can only be apprentices look to glare at him in unison. "I didn't mean you, for Faranth's sake. I'm looking for the one that's about ye—" He starts to measure out the apprentice in question's height until he realizes that several of them are just that. "Oh, never mind!"

Z'bor's stride is familiar as the man approaches T'ral. The bluerider-in-disguise freezes, tapped rhythm stalling for a few beats as he jerks his eyes away and looks elsewhere down the street. Then Sh'ro's unmistakeable voice rings out over his shoulder and T'ral wilts. I give up. Seriously. In all of Pern. TWO Serval riders. Right here. NOW. He shifts from foot to foot, studiously looking OVER THERE. Not anywhere near the riders.

Z'bor eyes the figure closely as he approaches, brow furrowing into something quite Cro-Magnon in appearance. And the figure shifts, and he catches a glimpse of face and he's sure. Sh'ro is ignored, for now… Z'bor is focused! "T'ral!" He shouts, and if that doesn't register, he puts his pointer to his thumb raises them to his lips and gives out an ear piercing whistle. He smiles and jaunts over to his fellow wingmate, none the wiser to anything this greeting might impact.

There are some words that Sh'ro can pick out of a crowd pretty easily. He's oblivious to T'ral's presence but he hears his wingmate's name and it's Z'bor that he finds. Blink, stare. What? So instead he yells, "WAIT, IS T'RAL HERE? WE SHOULD DO SOMETHING!" Wingmate funtime! Sh'ro isn't a very subtle person, man, sorry. He ignores anymore glares he's given and instead wades through apprentices in Z'bor's direction.

T'ral's eyes widen. Great shards of… He turns blandly interested eyes on Z'bor and Sh'ro, "Good morning, 'Riders!" T'ral grates in a gravelly voice very unlike his own, "A stirring Igen rhythm to get the blood moving?" He tappet-y taps the frame drum raising it to hide shelter his face from the waiting messengers. Voice lowered to a hiss, T'ral's eyes flash warily, "I'm not T'ral today! Play along!" Please let them get it…

Z'bor gives his friend and wingmate a raised brow. One of those moments that tells the other you'll play along, buuut, you better spill later. He digs in his pocket on the fly and is rewarded as a mark greets his questing fingers. "Sure!" He says with a grin and tosses the mark at the not-T'ral man and awaits his tune. HIs brown eyes whip around to met Sh'ro however, as the man's voice finally registers in Z'bor's ears.

Sh'ro is a smart guy. Really. It's hard to tell sometimes. It might be hard to tell now. "Lover!" he says instead, donning a brilliant smile that probably suggests he thinks he's fantastically clever. He even reaches out an arm to try wrapping around the… whatever T'ral is being's shoulders. "You should definitely kiss me. I insist. It's been so long since we've seen each other. You aren't seeing this guy, too, are you?" he asks, sounding immediately suspicious as he looks at Z'bor.

T'ral's eyes widen in thanks at Z'bor's playing along. He reaches out to take the mark and bows, Igen style, before he begins to tap out a beat. It's really missing the trill of flutes, but stirring none-the-less. T'ral is only a few measures in when Sh'ro is all arm-slinging and an innuendos. No, they're not innuendos. They outuendos. T'ral breaks away out from under the man's arm, "I think you mistake me, Sir. For…" he has NO idea who Sh'ro might be mistaking him for. In Igen. Dressed as he is. Stars and shards and talon clippings. He hisses at Z'bor, "Shut him up." Tappet-y tap, thrummety thrum. He continues to play. The rider did pay his mark and all.

Z'bor winks covertly at T'ral and turns to Sh'ro, arms spread out an a wide arc, he spins. "Oh come now, surely having this isn't all that bad?" He manages an overly charming smile, exposing white teeth. He slinks over to Sh'ro and smiles. "Can I buy you a drink?" Surely that's the type of question that'll distract. Right? Straps are forgotten on the ground for a moment, he'll get those later.

"Ugh, you are no fun," Sh'ro accuses Tappy McDrummerpants before rounding on Z'bor, his attention refocused like the flick of a switch. "I knew you had a nice ass but the rest of you is pretty hot, too," he greets the other greenrider. "I would love a drink." Pause. "Wait, is this real or are you going to string me along and then not kiss me, too?" Sh'ro, so confused by this acting thing.

T'ral wilts gratefully at Z'bor stepping in and mutters, "I'll explain it all later," as the greenrider sweeps the other off of him. The drumming continues with a little hop that takes him further from Sh'ro's predation. T'ral's eyebrows raise, I never! frozen on his lips. The expression is clear. Brows lower, exasperated amusment flickers, YOU. So gonna get you, to Sh'ro. "Ah, what is more fun than music for lovers?" T'ral winces at himself. As a Harper he'd been headed to the archives for a reason.

Z'bor chuckles and claps his fellow Serval on the back in a friendly type way. "No joke, let's go have a drink." A large robust laugh greets Sh'ro's second comment. And being a man of spontaneous convictions, he plants a firm kiss on the man's lips (if allowed) and grins, winking. "I would never!" He says, his tone teasing and light. He jabs in the direction of the one bar he's discovered in Igen. "If I ask to buy a guy a drink, I mean it."

Sh'ro's brows furrow at the kiss, which he's not entirely prepared to respond to. But then he's grinning this ridiculous grin. "I think I like you. I like him," he asides to not-T'ral. "Are we just going to leave him here? He's being so weird. Did he hit his head?" Apparently Sh'ro doesn't believe the bluerider's silent threats.

"Ah, gentlemen, my cousin owns a stand that sells the most delicious 'spiced' klah!" T'ral rasps, brandishing the drum. "Follow me!" He does a little jig and thrummet-y thrum dyed-drummers (?) them away until they're out of eye and earshot of the gaggle of messengers and nosy apprentices. Grabbing the two yahoos by their collars an pulling them close, "You guys. You could have blown my cover." He looks intently at Sh'ro, "You know how the bazaar has eyes and ears everywhere." He looks between the two greenriders, "Get the story from my father. I can't go into it here." He steps back into the open, "Right this way, gentlemen!" Thrummet-y thrum, thumpet-y thump.

Z'bor follows and only give's T'ral a shoulder shrug and his best aww shucks grin. "Sorry man." To Sh'ro he rolls his eyes and grins and gestures the man to follow. "Come, let's get that drink and leave T'r-….our friend here to his business. I could go for some spiced klah….mayhaps something a bit stronger."

Deep down, Sh'ro probably knows he deserves T'ral's annoyance. But that doesn't mean he won't look annoyed right back. "This is ridiculous," he says, voice lowered finally. "Does Arianne know you're here?" He doesn't seem to actually care about the answer, granted, refocusing on Z'bor, his new for-now BFF. "Screw klah. I want some real booze." There's a pointed look at T'ral, then he's trying to lead Z'bor off. This might work better with men who are interested in Sh'ro, but that doesn't matter to him!

"No names," T'ral hisses, turning to face the men walking backwards and thumping the drum showily as he leads them down the street. Veils are useful, he can talk without being seen to. Hmmm. He reconsiders the garbs usefulness. "She knows I'm… away." He looks expectantly at Z'bor, "This is why I asked you to cover me with Ry… to cover me." He thumps the drum, to keep up appearances, "Later." He lowers his voice to a murmur, "Later I'll tell you both everything. I promise. Sorry. And…" a heartfelt to both of them, "Thanks." He plants his feet and points down the street with a flourish, doing a skipping finger-roll on the taut surface of the drum. "That way! Fair skies to you both!" T'ral watches the two saunter down the street. The sense of a blade hovering just out of sight has returned. And here, in Igen, that may not be rhetorical. He rubs at his neck, trying not to disturb the headscarf. Turning to trudge back to where Kyara had left him, T'ral fishes the mark Z'bor had given him out of his pocket, eyes widening. A whole mark! He tucks the mark quickly into his robes. Not bad! He smiles to himself and notices the messengers eyeing him as he retakes his post near the brazier. He looks at the small gathering, "Riders," he rasps, rolling his eyes. Kyara. Hurry! I'm terrible at this.

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