Treivyshe, N'yulo, Ibrahim


Two wildlings enjoy the sunset — at least until a dragonrider interrupts the peace.


It is the seventh day of Autumn and 63 degrees. The night is clear and bright, stars twinkling merrily in the darkness.


Garden Terrace, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 09 Jun 2018 05:00


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"Is she sure I'll fit?"


Garden Terrace

Tucked-away and bejeweled, here is a hidden treasure of Southern, beckoning and beguiling those who may trod the entrance of weyrbridge: steps cut upwards, switching back and outer-railed, to terminate in a sheltered ledge of stone. Here, greenery blooms in fragrant profusion, scenting the air and quieting the minds of those who stroll amongst the cultivated rows of cultivars. Flowers, and tiny fruit-bearing trees limn the walkways. Tables and benches scatter organic throughout the rambling concourse, providing easy rest for those who challenged the stairs… or the craft shops beyond the scrolled wooden door at the innermost part of the terraced ledge.

Summer's end heralds no grief amongst the rank and file of Southern, by large: a sevenday into fall brings intensely lovely weather and an early sunset, coloring the horizon the color of the gods themselves, all gold and blue and bronze's brassy brilliance in-between. Treivyshe sits on the steps leading up to the terrace, drinking water from a rough-cast pottery mug and obviously enjoying the cool dusk air and the stars slowly starting to shine through the sky's canopy.

Southern's sunsets cannot be beat: they're the best on Pern. Not that Ibrahim has much to compare them to, having lived nowhere but Southern's jungles, but he's definitely going to be a staunch champion for the home territory. It's off to his favorite spot within the Weyr to catch those brilliant, brassy colors with his evening tea, but he finds his spot's been taken by a virtual wall of man. Ah, well, that's life in the Weyr, though! Ibrahim comes on anyway, as easy as you please. "Hey." He greets casually as he crosses to within conversational range.

Ware to he who would oppose the home-field advantage; Treivyshe, a similar son of Southern, feels no desire to understand the rest of Pern that lies north beyond the Southern Sea. Trei looks up at the greeting and his mobile face twists into an easy smile, brief and relaxed. "Hey," he replies. The flavor of the riverfolk rolls off his tongue. "Here for the view?" His blue eyes scan toward the sunset and then back to Ibrahim.

A view of what is the question: the gardens, the sunset, the gardens in the sunset… by the sketchpad in his free hand, one might assume both are important. "It's a good view. To draw." The slow, musical cadence of junglefolk lends his words a certain exotic air. He shakes the pad to ensure Trei catches his meaning. He settles the thing on his lap, opens it, and lifts his mug to his lips. "You?"

"Oh." A single syllable, but one obviously interested, lilting upward at the end in a near-question. Treivyshe lifts his water-mug, toasting the sunset, the gardens, or perhaps the wildling capturing the view. Perhaps, even, the whole triad. "It's a good view." The words echo Ibrahim, and then the riverborne mountain man gestures behind him, upward, toward the craft shops. "It's good business. Bringing parcels down." He jingles a markpouch by his hip, but the wood noise within could be buttons rather than marks, knowing this one.

Ibrahim looks sidelong at Treivyshe, and smiles in amusement. His pencil flies over the page, contentedly capturing flower, shrub, tree, and sunset in swift bold strokes. "Some of my clan admit a mild curiosity about the inner workings of the Weyr. Mostly because they do not believe what I tell them." Family. Whatchu gonna do. The pouch is squinted at, and the man holding it reassessed: "You the one they chased outta the Kitten that one time?" His amusement deepens as he pauses in his drawing. "I must admit, I was delighted at your creative use of buttons."

Treivyshe procures a modest air for his forthcoming shrug, borrowing it like an ill-fit garment too small for his shoulders. "Buttons are more useful than marks." His eyes drift across the landscape, from horizon to the arch of the weyrbridge, and then they track as almost second-thought Ibrahim and the workings of his hands and pencil over paper. "My tribe knows much of the weyr." Perhaps that is why they send their largest son to do their trading and tithing.

Ibrahim doesn't believe that modesty for a second! But he won't try and dismantle it; Treivyshe is allowed to wear whatever airs he likes. Ibrahim certainly wears the serene healer-man guise often enough to draw in most folk. "Sure they are," He agrees amiably. "These people prefer marks, though. More useful for them." His shrug suggests he hasn't bothered to figure out why, though he probably has. It just isn't important. "Mm. My tribe knows little of the Weyr, and they prefer it that way." His gaze shifts to Treivyshe. "I think your tribe has the better bargain."

A Southern sunset bathes the stone steps leading to the garden terrace in autumn glamour and glory, the syrupy light encapsulating a pair of wildlings lounging in the crisp air. The man with the rufus mane and mountain-man's beard holds a simple pottery mug in his hand; the other in the guise of a wise healer-man sketches the view. Trei, to Ibrahim: "It is unwise to be unaware of those who protect." In the lingering ideologic schism of the wildlings, the riverfolk side with weyr loyalty, albeit in their own brand of… strangeness.

Dryly: "You don't say." Ibrahim cants a brow upward. "Old ways die hard among mine. Hopefully, I can bring the younger generation toward the wisdom of awareness." This particular wildling, it seems, has much in common with the slim little jungleman who sits next to him, sketching flora and sunsets.

And unto this peaceful setting, another long tall Sally, though not quite so tall as Treivyshe! But then, who is, bar D'wane, or somebody like that. N'yulo's looking about himself almost frantically, nervously running a thin bit of braided leather through his fingers. Reports! So many reports! Why him, why today — and so much mental nattering like that. His eyes sweep the peace of the gardens, pass over the pair of wildlings, then swing back as sharply as if they'd been yanked that way. "You two. You look like men who might know a thing or two. I have questions for you."

Treivyshe raises his cup again to Ibrahim. "May the winds carry you favor, cousin." The riverborne's rich voice delivers the fare-thee-well in solemnity, as genuine as the stone beneath them. His whiskered mouth opens to deliver words which die stillborn at the arrival of the dragonrider. Blue eyes scan the length of the slim man and rest upon his face with polite attentiveness — his mama would not have to beat him this night, would she be there to see her son. "Me?" is all he asks, not at all low-key in his self-doubt upon the supposition that he might know something. "Him." More certain, the word firmly directed toward Ibrahim.

What. Oh! Traditional words! Ibrahim must recite his own, then: "May the trees shelter you — " Record scratch. They're suddenly being accosted by a dragonrider. This cannot bode well for the pair of them. Ah, well; Ibrahim just knew no one would leave them in peace to share wildling stories between themselves for long. "Uh. Yes?" He side-eyes Trei with something akin to disgust. Oh, thanks. Just dump him out there where he can be done for.

N'yulo eyes the pair suspiciously. Clearly there are shenanigans afoot here. He'll studdy Ibrahim closely, then swing his gaze to Treivyshe, chewing his lip thoughtfully. But finally, he comes to a decision. "You, sir — " A long finger is aimed at Ibrahim, " Are the Infirmary assistant." Where was the question in that? N'yulo apparently doesn't actually have a question about that, not now. "I need some more of that numbweed for Jia's shoulder. Can you get some for me?" Look, a question at last! "And you…" He turns to Treivyshe with a frown. "… can tell me what you know about the felines. C'mon, walk with me —" The pair are beckoned off their comfortable bench. Time is money, and N'yulo is all about expensive walks.

This time, Trei doesn't bother borrowing any ill-fit modesty: his shrug toward his fellow wildling is all what can you do?, and all the more shameless for it. The dragonrider's attention stills him briefly, his ruddy eyebrows furrowing. "Felines?" he questions, not able to divert the topic successfully, even as he unfolds himself to his feet. Mounted upon the firmament, his size is undeniable, the stretch and span of his shoulders nearly draconic compared to the trim neatness of waist. "They can be very angry." And then, after thought, "They yowl at all hours of the night when another's in heat." Wait, did N'yulo mean to ask him about the wild felines?

Ibrahim feels rather tiny, standing there with two men so much larger than himself. Well, isn't this just awkward — but since all N'yulo wants of him is some numbweed, he'll happily decide to play helpful and leave Trei to do all the explaining! So long, cousin. Love you. "Uh, sure, I'll go dig some up." With a mischevious smirk at his fellow wildling, Ibrahim is off to go get that numbweed. He'll likely meet the two coming out of the Garden in moments.

N'yulo doesn't seem to mind the mountainous presence of Treivyshe, or the relative petiteness of Ibrahim; he'll stand his own with whomever. But for now, it's past time they got out to the Bowl. "Yes, so I've been told. But look: I've a pelt I've got to get identified, but it's rolled up outside. Not dragging the thing in here to ruin it for others. Was wondering if you'd seen that particular pattern before…" He starts off for the Garden Entrance with long legged strides.

Treivyshe frowns after Ibrahim as his fellow wildling sheds the air of wildling for healer and scamp, escaping. His attention redirects to N'yulo, his own steps unhurried as he follows after the lanky dragonrider. "A pelt?" he questions, lifting his mug and tossing back the remainder of his water before following the greenrider down to the foot of the weyrbridge.

"As opposed to a rug, yes." N'yulo is now highly amused, for it seems he's confused the poor wildling. Oops. He moves over to his green, crouched as she is along the retaining wall for the Terraces. She twists her head, her nose aimed unerringly Treivyshe-ward. Jiagairanth snuffles, thoughtful, then cranes her head to her rider, who cups her nose briefly. "Naw, hold still Jia, gotta get this off so he can tell us — " Poke. That big green nose is insistent as an eye whirls with deep curiosity, fastned on Treivyshe. "What?" N'yulo spins about to look at the man himself, and grunts. "So, Treivyshe. Apparently, I'm gonna have to ask you about that hide later. This one," You know, the bigass green dragon staring at you. "Thinks you might just fit in the Barracks. The Candidate ones."

"That is the goal, then." Understanding replaces confusion as N'yulo gives the keystone to the conversation, the concept of a named rug tugging amusement into the lines of the big man's face. Treivyshe would give his opinion, but he's brought up to his full height in respectful silence as Jiagairanth affixes her attention wholly upon him. The riverborne is obviously not expecting what comes next, and incredulity-laced surprise widens blue eyes. "Me?" A world of questions opens at his feet, a metaphysical maw yawning, and all Trei can ask is, "Are you sure she thinks I'd fit? Are the ceilings high enough?"

"You're fond of asking that question." N'yulo begins to laugh. "Yes, sir: you, sir. And I can assure you they are. They have fit taller men than you. It's a bloody large cave, brah." Confidently, N'yulo tucks his thumbs into his beltloops and rocks back on his heels, settled against Jia's shoulder oh so casually. "She really believes you'd fit. C'mon, man, don't you believe her?" His challenge is playful.

Indeed, Treivyshe is happy enough to ask repeatedly the state of his fitment as the direct object of any verb sequence. The riverborne seems to be processing this twist of fate, his face showing much of the intricacies of such; denial, and brief suspicion and wariness, before — finally — a slow dawning of something much like cautious hope. "Well," he says, "As long as I fit." That's what he said. Then, boldly: "I'm not going to tell her no." He ducks his chin respectfully towards Jia, the whole movement remniscent of a bow without the excess requirement of movement.

"Smart man." N'yulo approves. "Knew I liked the looks of you." He shoves off his dragon's shoulder, giving it an affectionate slap. "Hang tight, babby doll; I'm gonna go stash him, all right?" Unabashed, he kisses the cheek nearest him, and collects Treivyshe with a welcoming beckon. "You'll fit." He assures again, grinning in amusement at Jiagairanth's soft grunt of satisfaction at both her find and his manners. She likes manners!

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