Black Rock Seahold is a haven for the ne'erdowells: from scruffy ruffians to hard-eyed sea folk, this place is not a place for the faint of heart. Or is it? Some days, a golden thread of cheer winds through the darkly victorian little Seahold when the hawkers come out and the day market springs up. Pirates may yet use this port for secret smuggling, but normal folk do as well. Which is likely why one 'under the radar' brown rider finds himself walking the streets sucking on a giant wherry leg dripping with roasted juices and flaked with crisp skin. A guard by trade before he was a Holdman-turned-dragonrider, Nik'las is comfortable in this seedy crop of bright stalls. Overhead, the sun shines a deep, rich golden as birds cry out their songs of victory and the harbor sounds crash against the ear. In the nose is a distinctly salty flavor easily transferred to the tastebuds. All in all: it is quintessentially a sea-faring Holdstead.

It's been a morning of commerce for Ulrika, much as she's ill-suited for it. With some purchases made at Southern, Theidith insists on further adventures while there is yet time - and, so, it's off to the Seahold to see what wares might be found there, far from the strange and oppressive air that's settling over their home Weyr. While Theidith indulges in some swimming or further flight elsewhere - ever the athlete, she's never still for long - her still-weyrling rider treks along the way, stalls regarded askance from time to time if something catches her eye just so. The tall blonde carries herself as expected - straight-backed, square-shouldered, and fearless in her bearing. Once a guard, always a guard, it would seem.

They would be of like minds then: for in Nik's bearing there is a definite remembrance of his time as a guard. Whether it be the watchful cast to ice-blue eyes or the too-casual stance he takes where his back is never left unprotected. Slurping on crisped skin, he watches Ulrika stride through the crowd, mildly curious. Nothing more, until she comes closer. "Didn't 'spect to see a weyrling out this way," he comments when she's close enough to catch his words. They're lazily spoken as if he cares not if she pauses. "But I guess it's about that time for exploration, eh?" A small boy runs a canine to ground, wrapping skinny arms around skinny ribs and carrying him off with promises of treats. A boat, far off, blows a horn as it navigates out of the harbor. Life teems here; human and animal, alike. A wet splash adds to the audible cacophony when a dolphin crests, playing with a group of little girls on the edge of the docks.

"Aye, Sir," Istan by birth, this one, but with the clear inflection of one well-trained in neutrality. "We're as near to proper riders as we can be without the knot." And, yes, there is a salute. There's always a salute - though whether because he's a rider or because she can smell the old guard on him is up for debate. Ulrika's purposeful stride slows deliberately, as she steps into a position better suited for conversation - and, like him, leaves no part of herself open for potential trouble. "And she reckons this is as fine a place as any to explore." The activity around is noted peripherally, particulars filed away, so. The not-as-tall blonde sucks her teeth in consideration. "Finding what you're looking for out here, Sir?" Curious, but not pressing.

Bemusement glitters in ice-blue eyes, though Nik'las doesn't allow that bemusement to impede upon his watchfulness. "I remember when the time came for our knots to be given," he muses, thoughtful. His own knot — Siberian — rests upon his shoulder, threaded with a fire-orange brown ribbon. Vulheimurath is hard to miss in all his perfect glory, even in knot form. "Nik," he suggests, glancing at Ulrika. "I'm no ranking rider and today is a rest day." The corners of his mouth quirks, as if a fun-loving creature of mischief lives within. "Maybe. I seem to be missing all my marks lately. First, the ice, and now the really good wherry legs." Gesturing with an angle of his head, he points to a stall where no meat remains. "They sauce them up with some kind of homegrown sauce that's to die for. Alas, right as I got to the front, they closed shop." Woe, Ulrika. Woe.

There's a dry chuckle for that. "Aye, well. Until this knot," and Ulrika flicks the senior weyrling knot, bright gold ribbon and all, "is a proper one, you're still a Sir." But, she relaxes some, if only to add, "But, I reckon Nik'll do unless we're on Weyr grounds. Ulrika, Theidith's." There's a glance at his knot, at his meaty meal, then back to him again, "How was that for you? When you were tapped?" She won't know that particular pleasure, which might not be a terribly sore point, but it does underscore the difference. The lack of wherry meat at the stall over yonder elicits a wrinkle of her nose, "Right pity, that. And I was half-hoping to get some decent meat today." The latter pulls a wry curve from her lips, something wicked flashing - there and gone - in her eyes. She's terrible. She knows. "There might be something further that way," she reckons and glances thattaway, though she makes no immediate move to get in motion.

A thread of disappointment furrows his brows: "Underwhelming," he answers, the word forming slowly. "Not at all what I expected and nothing like what the bulk of my fellows got," he adds, but shrugs it off. "Life, it is what it is. Siberian works as well as any other." To that, he quirks a good-natured grin, lifting his brows. "Want some of my leg?" He asks, humor glinting in that boy-next-door expression — echoing her own wickedness — while he waggles his … bone … at her. "Third row, fifth stall. Fuckin' amazing fried cheese curds and cheese-filled sausage." Beat. "If you like your sausage plump and filled, that is."

There's a grunt for that along with a nod, Ulrika glancing away for a moment in consideration. "Aye, well. Maybe you can appeal to the Weyrleader," though she has her doubts as to how all of that would work out. It's a thought easily offered and just as easily dismissed as the offer of some good, juicy meat- well, probably mostly bone at this point - is offered. That wolfish gleam flickers again, incorrigibility manifesting in the curl of her lips. "Brave man, trusting that to my teeth," she points out, though she doesn't take him up on that offer, not when cheese-filled sausages are somewhere nearby. "Please, Nik. If it's not stuffed, it's not worth it." A hand reaches, but only to offer a companionable fist to tap his shoulder; not a proper punch, as he's not that level of acquaintance, but he's good enough for testing contact. "And the saltier, the better. Coming? Or have you already had your fill of meat for the day?" Brows lift, half-inquiring, half-salacious.

"Appeal? For a shitty tapping?" Nik shakes his head, laughing. "I'm not so tender-hearted as to need that. I'm fine where I am." And there's no way he's going anywhere near what passes for a Weyrleader since Va'os vacated. Perhaps it's the first hint of his feelings regarding all the, ah, interlopers invading the weyr. "Brave or stupid," he adds, waggling his brows. "Personally, I tend to think I trend to a little bit of both." With a last tear of his teeth of the remaining flesh, he tosses the bone to one of the canines sniffing through some of the refuse on the ground. Happily, the creature snatches the bone and runs off to gnaw through the strings of cartilege and left over meat to get to the juicy marrow within. At her not-quite-shoulder-punch, he throws back his head and laughs. It's a joyful sound, this. As if he hasn't laughed in decades. "Oh, I wouldn't miss this for anything on Pern," is his comment as he gives a mocking, teasing little bow. "Please, allow me to follow you to the great stuffed," his eyes twinkle, his grin sparks of no good, "sausages." Dropping his voice, he adds, "Some of them are turgid with cream." Vulheimurath must have a say in all this display of wickedness!

Another grunt, though it's one of understanding; say no more, she feels you there, Nik'las. Ulrika starts to move at long last, a heel gritting against the ground. "Have to be both, I reckon," says she of brave or stupid. She won't express where she fits on that spectrum; maybe she's not on that one at all. A glance to the canine as it snaps up the prize and sets to work - and then she's off at a measured stride, casual and unhurried, but still with purpose. The clothing stalls in the other direction will just have to wait for another day. "Here's to hoping your ill-fortune doesn't follow us, aye?" The ice and wherry, that is; already noted and filed. "Or I might find some way to take it out of your hide." The devil's own grin lurks at her lips, the goldling well beyond the bounds of being shameless. Her chin lifts vaguely in the direction of the stall in question, "Only some? I'd hope most of them were swollen with the stuff, just begging to be touched." (Un?)fortunately, she is keeping her hands to herself. For now. Theidith, fortunately, doesn't seem to have any involvement in her rider's shenaniganery.

"You could try," Nik'las answers, resilient in his ability to keep up with her as well as to dodge the implied threat. "But you'd find it not such an easy target." A quick flash of teeth before the brownrider ducks beneath a low overhanging stall front. "I am sure your luck will hold for I have already set my teeth into such succulently firm sausages." He's a growing boy, okay? He needs his crunchies! A low chuckle chases after her comment, "Oh they are. Some of them fairly ooze with ripe anticipation." Down the row they go, surrounded by many who would sell them food at cost, until the stall in question looms ahead. Boasting a crudely drawn sign of a fat little sausage with white filling spilling out alongside the soft-encasement of freshly baked buns… well. "Here you are. Your sausages await." Surprisingly, the owner is a skinny little fellow with a nose like a hawk and predatory dark eyes. Still, the smells drifting up are enough to make the mouth water!

That flash of teeth is met with her own, a bit lopsided but still plenty dangerous in its own right. "Aye, well, I'm not always after the easy targets. Sometimes I like a challenge." Ulrika's grin is unwavering throughout, a soft laugh escaping her for his reassurances of good luck. "We'll see to that," she muses, "though I'll be right disappointed if your aching need for meat means I get none after all." But, fortunately for all involved, the stall is still open, the signage absolutely adorable for its inadvertent lewdness, and the goldling leans in a bit to Nik to mutter, "I know the fellow stuffs them himself, but now I wonder just how he stuffs them." Not that it'll stop her from stepping right up to order a few - well, three, to be precise. Two without a bun and a glance given to Nik, "Reckon your gut's full of salty goodness, but do you want one? With a bun?" She's paying. Might as well ask. Either way, it'll be sorted, marks offered for meat in an exchange that's above-board but certainly feels like it should be handled under cover of darkness.

Nik'las widens his green, eyes fairly sparkling with hilarity. He mutters something to Ulrika, glancing at the stall and then nodding at something behind it. "You've no idea what any need of mine may be," is all he states aloud, merely giving her raised eyebrows to her comment of a challenge. Leaning up against the post of the stall-front where it looks in danger of leaning and falling over, the merchant is quick to give Ulrika whatever may please her. "Mmmm, I think I'll just watch. I like my sausages outside the bun." Beat. "Full and salty with a little," teeth snap together, "bite." As far as his salty guts go, Nik says nothing. But suddenly, he jerks upright. "Oh shit." And just like that, Ulrika's challenge wiggles away, like a fish escaping the hook. The merchant turns back to murmur someone behind the stall, but all is left for Ulrika to thrust those sausages into her mouth and Nik'las misses it. SO NOT FAIR, VULHEIMURATH. When he catches his dragon — the reason for his sudden departure — he might just need a cold DOUSING in the ocean.

There's a laugh for that, a feral flash of smile and pure impishness in grey eyes. "Aye? I reckon not, but I can guess," or he can tell her of his needs, but that would take all the challenge out of it, wouldn't it? Of course it would. There's a lifted brow for bot that muttering (snrk) and the 'outside the bun' bit, but Ulrika doesn't question it; she's a 'no need for buns' girl herself, the package of sausages taken and held in a firm grip to keep them from slipping out of their parchment wrapper. And, of course, by the time she turns at that 'oh shit', Nik'las is gone and she's left woefully alone with three sausages and only two firelizards to share them with. So much for a leisurely indulgence! She'll continue along her way, off to explore the remaining stalls, but this abandonment won't be forgotten, oh no. And Nik will probably kick himself later for not being able to enjoy the show. This Istan loves her sausages, okay.