Who

Z'bor, Ibrahim

What

Z'bor and Ibrahim are suspicious about that Weyr food, for different reasons.

Backscened; happens before Another Episode of "What's Killing Us This Week?".

When

It is noon of the seventh day of the eighth month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Lving Caverns, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 31 Mar 2018 05:00

 

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Living Caverns

Grand and spacious, the cavern curves high aloft in naturally-vaulted ceiling that soothes any sense of claustrophobia. Rich woods line the cavern floor, varnished and stained a rich mahogany, while round tables scatter about candlelit and intimate. The largest table lies southerly next the sideboard, long trestles that seem oriented to providing for the Weyr's youngest. The rich blue of Azov can be seen from a distance in good weather, when the heavy stone doors covering the entrance are allowed to stand open.


Z'bor hasn't had the chance to talk to his wingleader yet, but he's going to. His talk in the kitten with R'zel and Alyna last night had set a bug to itching under his skin. He's got a creeping suspicion that something is quirky in or around the living cavern's and kitchens, and that someone is up to something dubious. It's the same sort of feeling that used to get him into some interesting situations with T'ral back in the day, and is like to get his weyrmates a bit aggravated with him. Z'bor has a knack for finding all the interesting trouble. And this time is no different, he's been up since the crack of dawn interviewing folks in the living caverns about food, who they know that's been affected by sickness and checking some of the more recent sets of dishware. Currently, he's chugging down klah and interviewing a young drudge by the name of Pepe, who's been right offended that anything might be amiss during his shifts in the caverns.

Who knows what manner of suspicious substance has been infiltrating the kitchens when nobody's looking? Or by whose hand those suspicious substances have entered the food? Were they by malicious intent or by the slip of a distracted hand? So many questions, so little time! In the meantime, Ibrahim has constrained himself to carefully assessing his physical reactions to every bite of food he eats, every sip he drinks. So far, he's been lucky: no sign of illness. It might help that he's been taking fewer meals at the Weyr, for various reasons; whatever the cause, he's managed to avoid the plague. Into the Caverns he strolls, spying Z'bor questioning a very offended Pepe, and covers a smirk with the cup of klah he picks up.

There is quite obviously a heated conversation going between the Serval Wingsecond and Pepe the drudge. From a distance, Z'bor is heatedly explaining why he must question things the way he does and that Pepe's obstinate nature is not helping but rather hindering the process. Z'bor isn't blaming anyone, just conducting a bit of an investigation. Pepe however, is having none of this and from this point on, staunchly refuses to talk at all, arms across his chest, face pinched into a scowl.

There is quite obviously a heated conversation going between the Serval Wingsecond and Pepe the drudge. From a distance, Z'bor is heatedly explaining why he must question things the way he does and that Pepe's obstinate nature is not helping but rather hindering the process. Z'bor isn't blaming anyone, just conducting a bit of an investigation. Pepe however, is having none of this and from this point on, staunchly refuses to talk at all, arms across his chest, face pinched into a scowl. Shaking his head, Z'bor gathers his things and klah and stands up to move away and refill said klah mug. He mutters about porcine headed teenagers the whole time, eyes rolling in irritation. Ibrahim is given a nod of hello as he passes, wishing like hell he could throttle Pepe from one end of the bowl to the next.

Ibrahim doesn't really want to be the first responder on porcine-headed teenagers, so is awfully glad Z'bor elects to walk away from the stubborn young man. "Tough sell?" He asks, wryly sympathetic as he eyes the stubborn teen go on about his business. Teenagers can be such difficult creatures to question, as they always take the worst possible position on being questioned. He lifts the cup to his lips, takes a small sip, tasting the various spices and flavors usual to the brew. Well, he isn't going to die by klah — that would simply be undignified. "He doesn't seem to have liked your… discussion." Whatever the heck it was about, anyway.

Z'bor hurumphs a little and leans against something near Ibrahim, tucking a rolled up hide under his arm. "I wish I'd been trying to sell something, would've been easier. No, people tend to clam up and get offended when you start questioning their work methods and how they handle them."

Ibrahim frowns thoughtfully. "Is it about the sickness going around?" Because that's the logical reason to question a kitchen drudge, isn't it. He runs fingers over his stubbled cheek — really, does the man even know what a razor is? — and eyes the spread of food with a jaundiced eye, wondering if he really wants to take risk-taking quite that far today. "Especially when they're idiot teenage boys, yes?"

Z'bor nods curtly. "Aye, and trying to get to the bottom of all this hullabaloo." Z'bor sips more klah from his mug, though, he is taking stock of how he feels after consuming anything down here now too. Z'bor might envy that stubble, if he didn't know certain personages preferred him clean shaven. Z'bor once again rolls his eyes to the heavens when Ibrahim brings up teenaged boys. "Right obstinate little shits, really. But, I think it comes with being a teenager, I'm not sure I was much better at his age." Which is stretching things, Z'bor the shy boy being impertinent? Don't make us laugh Z'bor.

"Yeah, good luck with that," Ibrahim mutters, grumbling into his klah. "From what I keep hearing, it sounds like some kind of… poison, or something, but I can't be sure." He eyes Z'bor sympathetically, wishing he could be of any real help, here — too bad Pern can't perform forensic tests of some kind. As for the teenager, Ibrahim will snort with wry amusement. "Name me a teenager that isn't full of shit and I will refer you to the nearest Mindhealer. Even the quiet ones are occasionally idiotic." He will include himself in that grouping: while he's likely one of the calmest men one will meet, he, too, has his moments of obstinacy and resistance.

Z'bor gives a wry grin at Ibrahim's first. "Yeah, good luck to me indeed. No one else is any closer to figuring it out either, that I know of." After all, he hasn't reported in yet, so there could be more to things. "Anyone you know sick?" Because Z'bor does indeed have to ask, just for the sake of being thorough. As for teenagers, Z'bor can only chuckle, agree and sip his klah, because the man is right. "I think we may have brushed once or twice, but I'm Z'bor, green Ozriath's." Z'bor sticks out his free hand for a grip or a handshake, whichever Ibrahim subscribes to in social situations.

For all his sympathy, note that Ibrahim isn't leaping to join the investigation; this is one of those times this Wildling is glad he doesn't have to be totally integrated into the Weyr. "Me? None, other than the ones they have in the Infirmary. Mostly, the Healers take care of them. I do a lot of the mixing and general stuff, but, yanno." That's how life works, here; when an 'official' healer is available, herbalists are mere assistants, even if they may know much of treatment and medical care. He'll reach out to shake the proffered hand, surrendering his name in the process: "Ibrahim. Infirmary assistant, I guess you could call me."

Z'bor nods. "Well met then." He looks more than thoughtful after Ibrahim's answer to his question and he sighs. "well, guess I couldn't expect to get the answers that easy hmm?" Z'bor spends a moment in silent reflection, drinking down his klah and letting the gears in his mind work. "This is more intense than I prepared for, I should probably take a break and eat, and then prepare for morning drills." Z'bor rubs at his face and then puts his hand through his hair.

"Yeah, you're in the wrong field for 'easy', brother." Ibrahim laughs, offering Z'bor a salute with his klah. Such is life: always throwing curve balls at those who want them the least. He scans the place, looking for somewhere to sit down; he has been running around like a madman today and is hardly a candidate for martyrdom. "How about over there?" He points to a place near the Nighthearth's entrance, out of the way of foot traffic, but conveniently place to watch — oh, everyone. "Yeah, you'd better. You can't run a good investigation if you're tired and starving. And there's Thread…" The more important of the man's duties.

Z'bor laughs at that. "You could not be closer to the truth there." He says of not being in the right place for easy. Z'bor follows Ibrahim's suggestion, and actually sits in the first spot he points out. "Works for me." It feels good to sit and not be on edge because he's questioning someone. Social interaction still takes it out of him some days.

Who doesn't like a nice, comfy seat to plant one's ass into after a long day of trying to figure out what in the actual hell is going on with the food supply? Ibrahim will certainly happily plant his ass comfortably across from the rider, taking up his klah again to drink deeply. Mmm, klah. "Does anyone even have a small idea…?" Of course not, or Z'bor wouldn't be cornering sulky teenagers to interrogate. "Stupid question, I know."

Z'bor clears his throat and sighs. "We have our suspicions, but nothing solid as of yet." Not that Z'bor could front up that information if he had/has it. Another hand through his hair as he slumps in his seat, mind whirling as fast as dragons blink ::between::. Z'bor looks over to the side boards and contemplates food, but considering what he's here investigating, and what their suspicions are, the thought of eating here makes him slightly queasy on it's own. Perhaps he'll stop and get something at the Kitten…or wait until he gets home. There's some fruit at home, and jerky he and H'ris had cured themselves a long while back.

Ibrahim, too, is eyeing the food with some suspicion, now — because Z'bor is. But as he has no real knowledge to go on, he can't exactly avoid the stuff, now can he. But oh, how he wants to! Perhaps he can go back to cooking for himself. But he'd gotten spoiled, naturally, by his relationship with Amani — all that Weyr food he hadn't had to make himself! What's a man to do, caught between wanting to have someone else make his food, and wondering how to avoid the disease? If he even knows where this mysterious illness is coming from. "Well. Do we just avoid the Weyr as much as possible if we're not essential staff, for now?" Or is that unnecessary panic?

Ibrahim, too, is eyeing the food with some suspicion, now — because Z'bor is. But as he has no real knowledge to go on, he can't exactly avoid the stuff, now can he. But oh, how he wants to! Perhaps he can go back to cooking for himself. But he'd gotten spoiled, naturally, by his relationship with Amani — all that Weyr food he hadn't had to make himself! What's a man to do, caught between wanting to have someone else make his food, and wondering how to avoid the disease? If he even knows where this mysterious illness is coming from. "Well. Do we just avoid the Weyr as much as possible if we're not essential staff, for now?" Or is that unnecessary panic?

Z'bor shrugs. "Might be a good idea, at least for the time being. The whole mess had me a bit leery, but if you want to eat, well, I'm not stopping you." Because the last thing Z'bor wants is to leech his own insecurities of on someone else. "Besides, we don't know for sure it's the food making everyone sick."

"Well, that's a great recommendation." Ibrahim smirks in amusement, making up his mind to maybe cook for himself more often; now that it's in the back of his mind that it could be the food, he's totally not going to trust it, like, at all. Suspicious wildling is suspicious. "Well, I guess it's back to eating my own cooking until this gets sorted out."

Z'bor nods and sighs. "Aye, I hear you there. Good thing I know how to hunt. " Sighing, Z'bor looks around and groans. "I need to get going. The sooner I get up, the sooner things get done. Thanks for the chat, and come. find me if you happen to hear anything. Thanks." With that, Z'bor stands and heads out of the cavern's, hide tucked under his arm. Perhaps he'll have better luck with his search later.

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