Who | |
What |
A'lira, Divale, and Nasrin meet up at The Pit to discuss what they learn of humanity in The Pit. None |
When |
It is sunset of the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth month of the eleventh turn of the 12th pass. In Igen: It is the twenty-fifth day of Winter and 40 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day. |
Where |
The Pit, Igen Weyr |
OOC Date | 18 Sep 2017 05:00 |
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.
Sunset brings with it the cold of winter's night and for those who find the hour still too 'young' in which to retire to sleep, it's a matter of finding somewhere warm to see them through. Tonight, the Pit sees a flurry of activity. There are some scheduled matches tonight and the usual crowds have swarmed the viewing galleries. Those who are curious and the regulars and likely a mix-match of other sorts lurking about the rows. Divale's tastes for bloodsport is not generally widely shared but a few have likely spotted her here regularly enough to peg her for 'interested' at the very least. Currently the brownrider has tucked herself midway up the gallery, with a decent enough view of the fighting pit below. With the first match due to start, her eyes have a distant, far away look ? don't be fooled though, she only appears distracted.
Perhaps there's one more for bloodsport here tonight; a new face, never before seen within these particular walls. His tall, muscled frame may grant him some slight protection from the foolishly cocky, though he's no professional fighter, and the experienced eye would suss that out immediately. Nonetheless, A'lira is reasonably wary when entering this particular place, knowing too well that the rougher places of Igen require full attention and alertness. He'll search about for a good place from which to watch the matches, and ends up near Divale, settling himself on the bench, yet aware she knows a person is near. No sense in trying to be 'sneaky' — that's likely to get him nowhere, except likely right into snarksville.
It's both ironic and apropos that Nasrin be in the Pit, a kind of dichotomy to the Igen goldrider. Temperate young women like her don't come to these abhorrent displays, yet the owners are her family. Thus, she her presence is not totally out of place. She possibly visits not quite as much as Divale, but cares very little for the clashing of manflesh. Instead, she gathers information by being a spectator. Neither disguised nor flamboyant, she infiltrates quietly and comes behind the brownriders. "Exhilerated yet?" She looks like she wants to smile, eyes batted once to both of them.
A'lira has nothing to fear! Divale doesn't bite… at least not yet. She's in a relatively calm, relaxed mood even if her posture would say otherwise. His arrival is met with a subtle sidelong look held for a fleeting moment before she's looking ahead and down. "Didn't know you enjoyed the fights," she muses dryly to her fellow brownrider. Nasrin's quiet approach from behind does draw a turn of Divale's head and a vague grin. "Ask me after the first match?" A small gesture of her hand then. "Join us?"
But much to watch. A'lira likely wouldn't mind being bitten at least once, but he's certainly not going to casually let that one slip just yet. His shoulders lift in a relaxed shrug as he sprawls comfortably, long legs crossed almost primly before him. They're nice legs, or so he's been told a time or two. Mostly by the too-flirtatious Vinia, whose commentary he ignores as one would growing grass, for the girl is as obvious as the sun in her desires. Any man will do. "Here's t'learnin' new things, then." He winks at Divale playfully, then turns to spy Nasrin. Oh, hey, there's another rider in the house. "Weyrlady." He offers her a gentle greeting, then scans the arena curiously. "Enh, what she said." Regarding exhiliration, and all that.
The russet-colored cloak's hood bunches around Nasrin's ears, pink from the outside cold. Early evening in the Pit still has a fair swell of watchers in the stands. "If you came to see the Pounder, he's sick with an infected tooth and won't be featured." Quick, there's still time to change your bets. "Thank you for the invitation, I'll accept," she chooses some bench by Divale, posture maintained as her arms are finally visible from behind the outer garment. It isn't very long before keen Steen eyes spy them. "Weyrwoman?" A tray of candied figs are offered to Nasrin and her company. She seized one between her fingers and waits to taste it.
Don't mind Divale. She just had to bite her inner cheek to keep from bursting out into snickered breaths over that name. Of all the names? "No, I'm not here to see him. I've yet to really have a 'favourite'. I'm more drawn to the… hmm. Chaos isn't the right word. The unknown outcome?" She glances between Nasrin and A'lira both. Surely they may glimpse at what she's getting at? "Anytime, weyrwoman. I do not mind your company. Either of your company!" Extended, of course, to the brownrider on her opposite side. As the candied figs are brought over, she'll duck her head down a bit to hide the next faint smirk that curves her lips. Ahh, the perks (or curse?) of family! "Thank you." Gruffly, low whispered but extended all the same as she plucks one of the figs from the tray and likewise waits. "What would you expect to learn here, A'lira?" she muses.
A'lira rubs a hand over his face, carefully hiding his own smirk. Oh, the jokes…! How's a man supposed to remain polite and all that with that running around the Pit? Seriously. When he's certain he's not going to do something irrevocably ill-advised, he, too, denies any 'favorite'. "Time and past I put m'face in here. Seen some of the worse-off in the Infirmary, before; now's as good a time as any to see the action." And the chaos, the which he acknowledges with the barest flick of his eyebrow and a long look at Divale. Of course he knows what she's getting at. What else would a body come here for, aside from covert work to gain information when one's defenses are down in the excitement of it all? Oh, hey, figs! One's picked off, with a wry salute. They do know their responsibilities to the Weyrwoman. "Thanks." And then the crowd is scanned, the people numbered and assessed silently. "Human nature, Divale. Stripped of its polite veneer."
Perks indeed. Nasrin offers a display of thanks for the server and sinks her front teeth in the fig, considering Divale's words in the process. Adding, once her mouth is clear, "and complete sense of risk." Riders know a thing or two about that. "A sense of kinship perhaps?" Look at that, the young server left the figs. Nasrin circulates the copper tray, gently aged.
"I suppose that is one way to view it," Divale admits to A'lira's remark on polite veneer. She'll nibble at the candied fig and, when finding it's actually not too overly sweet, may just sheepishly help herself to another. "Saw enough of that stripped from folks in my time in the Underground. I come here merely to watch ? of course there is risk," This said a touch wryly to Nasrin. "Which is why I do not participate myself." No explanation necessary. "No matter how much I may wish to. We train to spar in Parhelion but nothing quite to this… nature." For very obvious reasons! "Kinship?" Her attention draws back to Nasrin and held, even as the first match begins and the crowd begins to cheer the arrival of the first two combatants.
A'lira has a rather peculiar idea of what happens in The Pit — to both the combatants and the watchers. The idea of kinship raises his brows, all thoughtful consideration at the novelty of that. "… kinship." He drawls, finishing off the fig he'd been nibbling at. "That's not entirely out of the realm of possibility." For he certainly could feel some form of relationship with the fighters and their fans. Or whatever passes for such in here. "A new name did not supply that place with much in the way of gentility." He'd had the… misfortune of being assigned there post-discovery and elevation to an actual hold, of sorts, though he'd — fortunately — missed the worst of the worst of the place. Risk. It all comes down to that. "You'n me both." He mutters softly, possibly too low for any but the sharpest of listeners to hear.
Nasrin sharply recognizes one of the fighters, but his bearded adversary has an unknown face. In addition to the figs, a different youth serves the triad of riders iced water cut with dark agave syrup. The Pit favors metal wares, less likely to break in a moment of passion. "Yes," Nasrin closes her dominant hand around a copper cup, the ice striking the sides with a quieter timbre than it would glass. "A certain kinship with the contenders who willingly face a threat they must both avoid and return damage to." And with some camraderie, "I don't plan on leaving this portion of the circle." She is good with demure smiles as the first of the fighters draws the first blow to the challenger's upper waist. His style has roots in boxing.
Divale tilts her head as her brows furrow to mull over Nasrin's explanation and her agreement comes in the form of a small nod and a faint, wry smile. "Never would have considered that," she murmurs, while darting a look sidelong to A'lira. "Kurkar Hold has come far from what it was before. But you're not wrong, either." One of the metal cups are taken in hand, though she isn't quite prepared for the slightly sweet edge to the drink. It's almost too much for her, but she is not about to turn away Steen hospitality. Oh, where is Ramita and that fiery alcohol of hers! "To each their own!" And she purposely addresses it as a toast, which happened to coincide with the first blow. Divale's attention is immediately upon the fight below, though her nose wrinkles for that challenger. She clicks her tongue, "Tsk. That style has never been a preferred one…" Of hers? Or to watch?
Yea Ramita, where art thou~
"Mmm — a fair point." He'll have to agree with Divale's assessment, having no frame of reference for comparison. A'lira will take a cup as well, and a considering sip of it. Oh, dear, this is quite sweet, for him. But — Steen hospitality, indeed. Politeness demands its enjoyment. "To each their own, indeed." He lifts his cup in salute.
Nasrin and sucrose are BFFs, which is why she has to avoid it and make it into something like a frenemy. She's attentive while listening to Divale and A'lira reference Kurkar, a place that was sort of a pergatory in her life, a place to wait until the next is available. She responds favorably to a toast, gamely lifting her cup while everyone else has to pay for local ales and sour beer. "…the bearded one agrees with you," corresponding to Divale's criticism. "Sirocco has welcomed you with arms open?" Managing to address A'lira before both fighter are on the ground and trying to wrest control with their legs.
Divale chuckles low in her throat, sparing a quick glance to Nasrin. "Seems so, doesn't it?" It's the only comment she'll make on the fight as it progresses. Only now the two fighters are locked and wrestling control and the brownrider's interest soon wanes. With a quiet sigh, she'll nurse a little more of that drink, which is now growing on her a bit. Her attention does return to A'lira and Nasrin both, remaining silent though intrigued for the brownrider's answer to the weyrwoman's prompt. Only when there's a shift in the crowd and atmosphere does her focus shift again, however briefly, to take note on the progress.
"Sirocco's gonna kill me with sand injuries." A'lira laughs, tipping his drink for another sip. Perhaps the stuff will take some getting used to. He scans the crowd, and the fighters; their style is quite the interesting thing, though not so interesting he loses track of Nasrin's question. "In all seriousness, Sirocco's the place for me." A little danger, a lot of innovation, some brashness — oh, yeah, A'lira's home, kids.
It's a solid wonder no one's shoulder is getting dislocated as it becomes pinned behind one of the fighters. His pain mask is very evident, but his lack of a scream is a credit to his durability. In this interrim, Nasrin listens, fleecing the hapless crowds for notes of gossip, or tendrils of near truths. "If it isn't Sirocco trying to kill you, it'd be Arroyo or Whirlwind," et al. "But at least it isn't Sandblast." The sly side comment is totally meant to make A'lira seem at ease. "I see someone I should say hello to," before he croaks. Bless great-uncle Domigan. "Can you hold my place? I'll leave the figs." Nasrin doesn't disturb more than half the row in maneuvering around spectators, as it's only half full.
Another quiet snickering from Divale for Nasrin's choice of words to put A'lira at ease and if there's any shift in her expression, it's lost to the rim of her cup as she works on draining the last of that drink. She then sets it aside, to be collected later. As the weyrwoman goes to excuse herself, Divale merely dips her head in respectful farewell. "Of course! We'll speak again shortly," As she's in no hurry to leave. While the first match is finally heating up, the brownrider is still invested enough to wait out this one in hopes that the next are ones of bloodier, fast paced ones. "So you have been busy then, with Sirocco?" Divale eventually murmurs to A'lira, when the fighters below once again reach a near stalemate, locked together as both wrestle for control.
Sandblast — the literal worst possible collection of dimglows. A'lira would want to start clubbing people upside the back of the head, were he forced to spend time with them. "Yeah, thanks." But Nasrin is gone, and doesn't hear his sarcasm. Divale's given a sidelong look, and finally he laughs. "Yeah… she right, though." The fighters are watched, then, for a good long moment, his drink forgotten in his hands. "Oh, yeah; they got me eyeball deep in dragonhealin' when I ain't doin' drills and thangs." The fighters earn an eyeroll for yet another stalemate. Goodness, where's the excitement, here?
"So you have managed to pursue your interest in dragonhealing? I thought I'd seen you more often around the 'Yard." As always, it's difficult to pinpoint just how sincere Divale is being at this point, but as there isn't any follow up in sarcasm or teasing barb, it's safe to say the brownrider approves. "It's a lot to absorb at first. Wait until a bad 'Fall… It will make you cherish the 'dull' lesson work." Oh, now there is a smirk there and a undertone of sarcasm as she needles just a bit with her teasing. Thankfully the first match will end once one of the fighters gains the upper hand and makes short work of his opponent. To the noise of the crowd, they leave and the next round begins almost right off. Divale sits a little more at attention when the new fighters come out; rougher looking sorts and right brutes. Promise of some good fighting here! And they don't disappoint! To the raucous cheers of the crowd, this match proves to be more violent than the last. Divale? Divale is hooked, dark eyes watching with keen sharpness of one not at all put off by it.
"Enh — trainin' to standard as a Healer wasn't easy. I'm used to it." A'lira's proud of his intelligence, and the ability to adapt to challenging situations. "I'm lookin' forward to really workin my skills out, actually." To sit in on dull routine is to stifle the man's growth. But he grins sideways at Divale, amusing how thw woman likes to get in her digs; he'll withstand her ways, as they're so completely a part of her that he cannot imagine her otherwise. And then he, too, sits forward to watch the newcomers onto the Pit. Now this — this promises to be a real show. And so, there's that whole companionable silence thing to be brought to bear on the pair as they settle in for their evening's entertainment.