Characters

L’xan
Tall and powerfully built, L'xan is a man in his prime - turns of dragon riding have honed his physique admirably. His Istan tan compliments the sandy sun-streaks in his brown hair - the ear length cut often in need of a trim. He has a face full of character and charm; straight-winged eyebrows hood slightly protuberant sea-grey eyes and anchor a fine roman nose. Sandy stubble and expressive mouth mellow the rugged angles of his jaw line.
Who says utility and style need to be separate? L'xan has managed to turn fairly simple brown trousers and white shirt into a sartorial statement. Mostly it has to do with the accessories, from the brown leather suspenders to the matching wrist braces. Knee high boots of the same leather keep his feet solidly grounded. No outfit is ever complete without that last finishing touch - the large loose woven kerchief of Prussian blue, handily wound about his neck for those just in case moments.
Double cords of black and yellow twisted in a single loop with a long tail accompanied by silver thread and bronze ribbon tells you that L'xan is an Igen wingrider of a bronze dragon. The badge on his sleeve tells you he rides in Parhelion. Currently he is wearing the bracelet that indicates he is on active duty. He is an adult of about 30.

Zh’ain
Ruggedly handsome and well aware of it, Zhaine is all brawn and bullshit, a mountain of muscle that's only equaled by his bad temper. At just over six feet, broad shoulders are solidly cut, his chest and limbs thickly toned to delineated perfection thanks to a life of hard physical labor. Messy mop of ebony locks typically fall a shade too long around his face, though he'll often wear them slicked back or tucked into a stocking cap, emphasizing a high widow's peak. Light scruff underscores a strong chin and arches in a trim moustache over full lips that tend to scowl more than smile. Eyes are narrow and hued a rich brown that matches his hair, amber-lit depths capable of a fiery blaze when his ire is raised. A faint scar is visible at the back of his jaw on the right side, shadowed by perpetual stubble, but on the rare occasion that he’s more closely shaven it's jagged path hints at a violent history. He bears a strong resemblance both in looks and demeanor to his twin, Zarrah. He is an adult of about 23.

Scene

It may be late night, but it's also the Pernese equivalent of a school night, so the lingering crowd is sparse and jovial thanks to the efforts put forth earlier in the evening. L'xan sprawls at the table he customarily claims as his own, long legs stretched out in front of him and sandy hair angling across his eyes as he tilts his head inspecting his glass. He appears to be brooding, which immediately makes him stand out from the rest of the patrons in the Cantina.

School night or no, Zh'ain is in need of some distraction of the alcoholic kind so the Dustbowl Cantina is right where he wants to be. Typically when he chooses to spend some time here he fits right in with the brooders, the scowl that most often casts his rugged features discouraging the worst of the garrulous sorts. Tonight, however, he spies a familiar face in a wingmate as well as fellow bronzer so sidles over to the man's table. "Finding the meaning of life in that glass?" he asks by way of greeting.

"Contemplating how much I'd need to burn this whole shithole down." L'xan responds with a wave that indicates he has nothing personal against the Cantina itself, but he'd probably wouldn't shed a tear if the bazaar died a horribly flamy death. That's an impressive wave. But that's not social, so L'xan does straighten his sprawl and arranges his face to be a little more pleasant. That expressive hand moves again to indicate he has no problems being joined. "Late night?" He asks the obvious.

Zh'ain slides into the opposite seat with an agreeable snort for the other man's general pyromaniacism. He isn't a fan of the bazaar either, even moreso since taking up guard duties with the Parhelion wing. That place makes his nights in the Reika camp with drunks and thieves about look like a slumber party! Catching the eye of a blond waitress he signals for a drink, then leans back and scrubs a hand briefly through the slightly over-long lengths of dark hair. "Is it? Wasn't sure if it was that or early morning and I just lost track." Yep, it's been one of /those/ days. Nodding toward L'xan's glass he asks, "What's the poison tonight?"

"Zingari whiskey…I think." L'xan squints suspiciously at his glass, he's pretty content with wet and alcoholic at the best of times. "And good point. It could be morning." He shrug suggests he just don't care. "It's been a shit couple of days. Sorry." Now he'll really try to rally. "You been seeing more riff-raff lately? My greenrider got herself hurt in the bazaar." Note the upgrade from 'chick I knocked up' "I don't like the noise I'm starting to hear coming from it." It's kind of personal, kind of work related and all of it makes L'xan an unhappy guy with arson on his mind.

The blond waitress arrives just as L'xan replies so Zh'ain gives her a tired nod and orders some of the same. She lingers a moment longer, glancing between the two men as if waiting for them to say something more but when they don't she merely pouts a little and leaves. Zh'ain grunts in his usual monosyllable manner in acknowledgement of L'xan's news, though his question earns a thoughtful churn of stubbled chin. "I haven't been around all that long, I guess. I thought the level of riff-raff was normal. Is it not usually so bad?" L'xan's mention of /his/ greenrider garners an extra lift to dark brows and an added comment. "Got yourself mated? Congrats." Not much enthusiasm there but at least he offered. "Too bad though. I think the waitress has the hots for you."

L'xan snorts, he honestly hadn't been paying attention to the barmaid. "I've had that kind of thing since I was old enough to shave. It gets…tiring." Not straight away of course, but eventually. "I don't know if we're that formal yet. Although she is starting to talk about moving in together." There's a small roll of his grey eyes. "Still time to run away." Right? Winkwink. "Your guess is as good as mine as to the usual levels. I'm new to this duty myself." It's not that long ago he made the transfer after all. "But you have to be a special kind of arsehole to kick a pregnant rider in the belly."

A small hitch settles at the corner of Zh'ain's lips for L'xan's assessment on the barmaid, his own thinking on the matter once much the same. Now, however, his interests run in a more singular vein. The blond woman returns and deposits Zh'ain's drink, again pausing to offer them both an extended smile. Zh'ain simply arcs a brow at the other bronzer. When she again gets no reaction the barmaid whirls on a heel and stalks off. Zh'ain gathers his glass for a drink but pauses almost to his lips to advise over the rim, "If you're gonna run, man, might as well run where the goods are available." How's that for sagely advice? At mention of what happened to the greenrider, however, Zh'ain whistles low. "She ok?" he asks.

L'xan gives a terse nod (damn even his body language is not saying alot). "She will be. The baby too according to the healers." Of course that has him flipping the bird in the general vicinity of the infirmary. "Bastards finally kicked me out." Which is why he is here, being so nice and friendly. "I've had better offers." L'xan points out with a bit of grim humor. "I've got better at home." Well figuratively, seeing as she is currently in the infirmary. "Well bred, and well bedded." His lips twitch as he winks.

Zh’ain nods and takes another drink to the good health of mother and child, then adds another for L’xan’s ill opinion of the infirmary. “Can’t say I’m a fan of the place myself,” he empathizes. Though he hasn’t had any major issues with the healers yet, any trip to the infirmary meant being restricted so was avoided whenever possible. Just to be sociable, however, he adds a mumbled, “Slimy bastards.” As for the blond barmaid, who wasn’t bad looking at all, Zh’ain gives the other bronzerider another raised brow look for his apparent excess of better offers. But then L’xan mentions his own woman again and that is a comparison that makes total sense to Zh’ain even without knowing the greenrider. The bronzer’s witty summation has the younger man snorting with amusement. “Well then,” he says with a swirl of dark liquid in his glass. “To beddable women, and men like us who get to bed them.”

“Just don't bed mine…” L’xan’s dark toast promises dire things, despite the brief twinkling in his grey eyes. His expression falls serious once more. “It concerns me.” He starts, his eyes drawn once more to the golden whiskey in his hands. “It shouldn’t happened at all.” He refers to Selaine, and the boy-thief. “Such a move speaks of a desperation that I’ve not seen in the pickpockets and petty thieves so far.” His frown deepens as this new thread of concern wraps its way along his slightly inebriated thought processes. The infirmary gets another one finger salute, as he lets that matter drop. Tonight probably isn’t the best night for him to be expressing his ‘feelings’.

Zh’ain laughs then, a deep sound of rolling Telgarian hills and the country burr they often produce. “Well then you’d best tell me who she is so I don’t accidently bed her,” he says, brandy-rich hues beset with their own sort of twinkling. When talk turns back to the serious matter of the attack, however, the dark-haired rider’s eyes narrow and thick brows furrow. Sobriety is tempered by the levity of such strong liquor but Zh’ain gives it a good attempt considering the topic. His speech is shadowed with a depth of context that discourages a closer examination as he says, “To be honest, I’ve seen men desperate enough to do such a thing – and worse. Any chance they didn’t know she was pregnant?”

“Selaine, Akitith is her green.” That should be sufficient to prevent accidental bedding. “She’s not far along. But she is starting to get a little thicker around the middle.” He cups the air gently with one large hand to demonstrate, perhaps betraying a little more tenderness than he would prefer given his current conversation companion. “There are places where it is more likely to occur than others. By all accounts this was in the middle of the bazaar, in the middle of the day.” He shrugs. “If she’d been deeper in the bazaar perhaps…” Then he snorts. “One of the disadvantages of being well bred is that they don’t get desperate enough come at you face first. Stab you in the back, sure. Kick you in the belly, not so much.” L’xan is man enough to admit that his experience is lacking in this particular area.

Selaine and Akitith. Zh’ain nods with a solemn, “Duly noted,” and raises his glass again to seal the deal, although by this point there really isn’t anything he won’t use as an excuse for another drink. If L’xan gets a little mushy-toned when he speaks of the greenrider Zh’ain won’t tell, only a ghosted twitch at the corner of trim moustache even betraying acknowledgment of it. As for the politics of the bazaar he doesn’t know much about that. Of violence and those who deal in it, however, he knows quite well. “Shame that,” he notes, “When good folk can’t even walk around in the light of day safely. Especially surrounded by a whole weyr of dragonfolk.” And there goes another swig of the whiskey. “I always found nothing beats a good right hook, myself. Fast and hard. Takes’m down every time.”

There’s a sardonic snort for the younger bronzeriders words. “Right hooks were kind of frowned upon in my great-uncle's court. Not a good look for a Lord Holder.” L’xan doesn’t bother with bazaar politics, he grew up with the big boys. But that is neither here nor there compared to the problems he faces at the moment. “That's what I mean about it being not normal. I haven’t been back here long. But if I were a betting man…I’d say there is a goad behind this all somewhere. Something we haven’t heard about yet.” Because they’re dragonriders not actual cops or even guards. But that could be the whiskey talking again. “I can’t put my finger on it.” But hey, he’s in a state where he’s prepared to go looking for trouble if he can find a good excuse for it. “I know they’ve got us on extra patrols at the moment. D’you think you could keep an ear out as well?”

Zh’ain blinks twice, impressed at what he thinks he heard. “You decked a Lord Holder?! Great flames of fire, man, I hope you got him good before they through your arse in the brig!” Because surely nothing short that would occur, right? The shadowed lines of concentration reappear across his brow as L’xan speaks of the troubles in the bazaar again and his suspicions of what’s behind it all. “Of course!” he agrees, lifting his glass for a brief salute and a drink that empties his glass. Lowering the glass solidly to the table he makes it land loudly so as to get the waitresses attention. “Anyone causes any trouble we’ll lay’em out flat till you can get there. Jos is always threatening to sit on someone.” Eyeing the older bronzerider a moment he asks, “How’s your fighting arm now?”

The barmaid appears with ready pitcher in hand and refills Zh’ain’s glass. At his comment her blue eyes dart to L’xan’s arm and slide over the fine display of muscles there. “Anything for you, Rider?” Significant pause. “Anything at all?”

L’xan gives Zh’ain the gift of the mighty side-eye. “No, my great-uncle is Lord Holder Igen. If there were fists, it was before my time.” On account of his grandmother (sibling to the august Kievol) being a bastard. The barmaid gets a modified version of the same expression. “No.” His voice curt and dismissive. “Nor for him either.” Because clearly the younger man isn’t taking care of himself, if he gets confused over a simple tale. “I’m not normally one who answers with violence…” Honestly, L’xan is more like a detective - a gum-shoe if you will. “But should the need arise, I don’t think there will be a problem.” He’ll just flex that arm, so the barmaid can get a good eyeful. “I don’t think it’s that time yet however. Just keep an eye out. See if you can pin down something I can’t.” The frown returns as he downs the last of his drink.

“Oh.” Disappointment limns the younger man’s single-worded reply. Punching a Lord Holder was a much better story. Zh’ain lifts his newly refilled glass and takes a generous drink, hissing through clenched teeth once it goes down. Good stuff that whiskey! The barmaid looks doubly disappointed at L’xan’s dismissal but still lingers, apparently not used to being turned down. Zh’ain leans back in his seat and eyes that flexing demonstration L’xan offers with a heavy dose of skepticism in the rise of dark brows. Then he nods once in agreement at the other bronzer’s repeated request. “Of course.” The barmaid isn’t paying attention to any talk of the bazaar, however, her attention intent on what was clearly an invitational show of muscle. She swoons in L’xan’s direction, batting lashes and fawning like a wind-blown reed.

L’xan exhales in a gusty sigh of distaste. Ugh. And then he slams his glass down on the surface of the table, with the practised consideration of a was-regular, but now probably not. Thanks barmaid! “I best be going. Sweeps.” Or something, the excuse doesn’t really matter. “In the morning. Early.” He elaborates in his best, ‘so not interested lady’ manner. “Safe skys Zh’ain. Keep your ear out.” The quirk of his brows suggests that if Zh’ain really wants, the barmaid might make a suitable lady-friend for the night.

The barmaid whirls away as before, this time to a nearby table where men way further into their cups than the riders give her the attention she wants. Zh’ain leans back in his seat, lifting his glass in farewell to his departing drinking mate. Any hints toward the possibility of him taking the blond woman up on her not-so-subtle offer are dismissed by the younger rider as well, his own interests well and firmly taken by another. As for finishing off the evening with a few more glasses of the whiskey, however, that is definitely on the agenda. Settling into position he prepares to enjoy the rare opportunity of solitude amidst company, his darkly set rugged features and perpetual frown discouraging any to approach casually and leave him to leisurely observe.