Who

Threvobek, Yansa

What

Yansa leaves her runner at the Weyr stables; Threvobek ends up with a pocket full of money.

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of the sixth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Stables, Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Stables

The powerful odor of hot runner lies heavy in the air here, and even the relative open of the stable design - roomy stalls, lofty arches, this is incongruously one of the best designed buildings in the entire Weyr, legacy of a long-ago Weyrleader of Herder origins - cannot altogether dispel the stink of Animal. The Stables serve for the Weyr's population of runners, and house a small menagerie of other creatures. Avians, caprines and porcines all have their homes here, and all add to the earthy feel of the place.


Inspection! Single file please, beaks up. If only the poultry were martinets, this would be so much easier. Threvobek is within the small aviary rigged with woody vines industrially woven. Their creator was even something of an artist, forming a six-pointed star in the vines on two of the sides. "You know the drill. Hey! Don't peck that." A pullet is caught on one of several tiered roosts is inspected for comb color and clear eyes. Oh, then he's checking out her butt, peering through the feathers under her tail. Her legs are tense, feet balled into fists. The remaining flock of seventeen disperse to higher perches while some take their chances on the ground. The stables are moderately active, several apprentices covering large amounts of ground like the birds they tend.

There's nothing abnormal about a runner and rider appearing in the stables. It's what they're for after all, those lofty arches designed with the height of a mounted man in mind. There are several unusual things about the specific pair that enter however: the gelding is clearly Akzhan bred, and the man mounted atop it is in fact a woman, and obviously an extremely rich one at that. She's draped in a delicate cream kirtle that's impractical for anyone who does anything physical, she's riding sidesaddle, and the toes that peek out from under her voluminous skirts are encased in leather boots that have been polished to perfection. Her identity however is hidden, a veil pulled up to her eyes against the sand. No sign of an escort, which is unusual for a bazaar daughter, and both runner and rider seem to be out of breath. “Will you help me down, please?” Apparently that's aimed at Threvobek, in a voice that seems agitated. The young woman can't stop looking back over her shoulder as if expecting someone else to come by.

The pullet passes muster. Butt too. Threvobek releases her, isolates an older hen and catches her with one hand as she tries to dart between his feet. He can register Timmons in the background asking for some slaked lime. Preparing to bellow its location, there's movement beyond the vine husks, ripples of runner muscle privately framed in irregular geometric lines. Eyes narrow, drawing conclusions, as neither the rider nor her mount are citizens of the stables. The hen incurs temporary amnesty as he presses open the door to receive the woman. Prompted, he glances behind the rider too, asking neutrally, perfect Igen tone, "something wrong?"

It takes Yansa a moment to realize that the boy has been — doing something? With avians? She's very vague on this whole livestock thing. Her sphere of influence begins when you can glaze something in honey, stuff it with herbs and serve it at a dinner party. Pale eyes flick from Threvobek to the hens and she shakes her head quickly. "No. No, I'm fine. Just— " and then either she's too agitated to wait or has decided against the propriety of letting a stable boy touch her, because she frees her legs from the saddle and drops to the floor on her own. The flash of ankle that is revealed is more flesh than any man but her husband has seen in six turns. "I need somewhere to stable my runner. Can I do that here? Can I pay?" She has no idea how these things work. You know, the things common people use. One gloved hand is raised to pull down her veil (though the headscarf remains firmly in place over her hair), and the face revealed is red-eyed with crying. She's trying to hide it with a smile, but she doesn't have her mother's control of herself yet.

Shock fires through Threvobek's brain as he stares at his hands. "Your clothes, I may have," palms turn up as if feeling nonexistent rain, "they're dirty." Her clothes are worth more than his life and that knowledge is an alien threat. Several sets of eyes track their interactions, if they cannot rationalize Yansa's wealth and esteem they see it resonating from the exquisite runnerflesh. The novelty of sharing the same shadow as these creatures has the stablehand's eyes roving over the divet of an ankle that probably hasn't seen the sun in six months, a turn, and onto the four-legged specimen indicted. Beast flesh is a language he speaks and he fluently studies the charger. "There's room," that is something to look forward to. "I can see to him myself and won't overcharge, ma'am." For no one with this obvious pedigree is unmarried. "You…need to sit down?" Males may not be born with a fount of intuition, but her status is plain. "There's a booth just outside." A spare avian pen currently unused. Stables don't have any such luxury of a waiting room.

Yansa shakes her head quickly. "I don't care about my dress." She says it with the carelessness of someone raised with a silver spoon in her mouth. Why should she care about one piece of cloth when she has dozens more at home? There's an effort of a smile made for Threvobek, but the effect is one of the sun trying, and failing, to pierce stormclouds: a faint glimmer that is unable to warm the ground. "I don't need to sit down. Please just — show me where you can keep Boreas." The runner, apparently, because Yansa looks towards him and tears well up again, blinked back hastily as a kiss is pressed to the beast's cheekbone. The runner himself eyes Threvobek with a well-trained neutrality, tail swishing at a fly.

Threvobek isn't sure he should be charging any fees for a Weyr-owned structure but she imposed the offer first, has access to pockets deep enough to be a Hold's cistern. Perhaps this is cosmic deliverance for the losing streak he's carried through the bazaar as of late. "Certainly, ma'am, follow me." If she'll let him he'll draw a hand under Boreas's harness and deliver them both to the vacant stall bedded with fresh sand this morning. Again the dark-skinned faces turn to their passage, some struck mute, two whispering fervently. Threvobek arms a withering stare as the stall is reached. "Fine runner. He easy to manage?"

Yansa is used to whispers and looks. She's never known anything else or been just another bazaar girl. More glances are given towards the stable entrance as she follows Threvobek, but once they reach the stall she is all business. The eye that glances over the space is unexpectedly sharp, the way she moves about the stall displaying an easy familiarity with stables that one wouldn't expect from her clothes. A family related to runners, then, a rich one, with a daughter in her late teens. It's certainly narrowed things down enough for some of the onlookers; the name 'Malach' is heard audibly from one of them. Yansa flinches for a moment before she turns and looks back to Rev, her nostrils flaring as she takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Good as gold," she reassures the boy, a hand reaching up to pat the runner's neck. "I can't be — I'm not sure when I can come back for him. You'll take care of him, won't you?" Her eyes flick between his as if trying to assess his trustworthiness from his look alone.

Threvobek hastily flicks avian dander off his shirt though his appearance suffered the moment Yansa showed. He coordinates some unkempt hair around one ear, leaves the other side untended. He wants to be one of the gawkers, truly, but has enough breeding and training to minister to the beast first and spare the female from further harsh study. "Is that right," picking up the name, "are you… Malach's wife?" Voice dropping enough volume to carry only a feather of a name. The last time Threvobek glimpsed Yansa was at her family track and she was robed in emerald from mouth to toes. He was lobbied far enough away to lose her more important details. Something buds as an afterthought. "Are you in danger? We have another stall." He grins humbly.

The reminder of whatever might be waiting outside has Yansa turning her head again, wide eyes going over to the door. No sign of Aile yet, but her chaperon isn't that much of a slower rider. It can only be so long until she arrives and — well, the less Yansa thinks of that the better. An unconvincing smile is returned to Threvobek. "Who could I possibly be threatened by? With a husband and six brothers." Well, quite, unless of course the person who's angry with her is one of those men. She seems slightly calmer though, gloved fingertips briefly skimming under her eyes to check for any tears, a gesture she hopes he doesn't notice. As the adrenaline dips she's suddenly left aware that she's alone in a room full of men, one of them so close to her it makes her breathless. (Not that in anyone else's estimation it would be that close.) Her eyes track the movement of his fingers, a little flush coming to her cheeks. "I'm sorry I've been so rude. I'm Yansa. Thank you for helping me." A naturally sweet disposition and a lifetime of lessons in etiquette come together in a perfectly judged little dip of her body. The fact that Threvobek is below her doesn't mean he isn't worthy of respect. Everyone has a station in life.

Threvobek has undone the buckles and trappings of Yansa's side saddle and, whistling under his teeth, calls for nearby Adris to arrange it on a proper stand. "Don't let it out of your sight else its replacement'll be stitched from your hide." The apprentice, only been around their stables for a few months, has sense. So he has one hell of a work load. "Threvobek of the Weyr," volleying greeting decorum. Already bent at the waist he casts forward a degree further, feeling the heat lance off Boreas. "Maybe one of them." From his observations families inflict enough grief onto their members as easily, if not more so, than any influence outside their sphere. "So why are you hiding him here in the Weyr stables?" A good spot, but nothing like the palacial sprawl of the Akzhan livery.

As she calms Yansa becomes more aware of the other workers watching them. One particularly leery glance has her stepping to one side, placing Boreas between her and the watching man. She observes Threvobek's work with sudden fascination, partly because it keeps her eyes firmly occupied and partly because the boy's… well. That blush isn't going away, and Threvobek's question makes it worse. "That's a very impertinent question," Yansa says sharply — but she's never been so good at rank as her family, and the anger isn't deep. She leans to rest against the runner's neck, a hand raising to stroke at his jaw. "I behaved badly," she says finally. Her mother's voice rings in her ear: a good wife never criticises her husband. "I'm not allowed to go riding for a while. But I want him close, so I can visit him." On which subject she reaches to a pocket in her kirtle, pulling out some bits (what other currency would an Akzhan girl use?) "Is this enough for a sevenday?" Hint: it really, really is.

Threvobek subtracts himself from the stall to produce a small quantity of mixed grains for the runner's benefit. It attaches to rung on the stall's wall, each equally dented. "Sorry, but he could have been stolen and a liability for us here." Not that he has ever stored four-legged contraband from the cotholds razed by bandits. Never. "Not that I think you're a thief, but I have to consider all possibilities." He'd rather not part with his own hide as a saddle. Those bits glinting in Yansa's palm may as well be dubloons, Rev nursing a guarded look at the socialite, calming his inner 'I'm rich!' "A little too much, but I don't exactly have change…" Pursuing the contents of his pockets, chaff and lint, he purposely comes away empty handed. Until he absorbs the bits into his own hand and makes a protective fist. "So you'll be visiting how often?" May as well shuffle his schedule a little in advance.

Despite everything Yansa cracks a smile at that, the genuine look as different from her previous grimaces as night and day. "I feel like thieves might dress less conspicuously," she points out, the first hint that she has any sort of self awareness. "You can't steal a horse very well in a floor length gown." Though the veil she had on before would certainly have been useful. Boreas is given one last pat as she begins to draw away, studiously ignoring everyone else. Threvobek seems nice and safe so she stays within his orbit, reluctant to walk out through the stables on her own. "I'll be back as often as I can," she says, looking as pained to leave the runner as most rich girls would be to leave a lap canine. "A sevenday at the latest, so I can pay you again." Hopefully Malach won't be angry for long and then she can take Boreas back to her family to ride as normal.

Boreas soon has an attache of two firelizards, curious beasts stablehands work with just like any other sentient thing within their scope. Threvobek, looking up from watching the fine runner eat, has an airy smile to share, "it's irony like that that'd offer you the perfect cover." Someone's been hanging around Veresch too long. Pay him again? Threvobek rubs at his scalp with one of the tokens, envisioning having each pocket matched in weight. It's lovely imagery, something to keep him warm at night in addition to Yansa's titillating ankle. "Let me show you out, ma'am." Because he believes she can handle walking a straight line, but does not need a gauntlet of prying eyes, some harmless, some predatory. "I'll treat your runner like he was my own." Which, maybe he might take for quick joyride, but he'll serve it like it was made of 24 karats.

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