Logs:Can't Go Home Again
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| RL Date: 18 July, 2012 |
| Who: Brieli, N'rov |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Brieli asked N'rov to see what's happening with 'Aishani' - and he does. |
| Where: Vijay Trader Camp, 'in the area where coverage between Fort, High Reaches and Telgar gets muddy'. STed by Brieli. |
| When: Day 9, Month 4, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions |
| Somewhere, out of the way, in the area where coverage between Fort, High Reaches and Telgar gets muddy (and in an area certain weyrlings indicated as likely), and there's not a lot of close attention paid, there's a trader camp that's in the process of pulling up stakes from their winter rest. It's not all that unlike most trader's camps, though there's definite differences: rundown wagons; women, older and worn, for the most part; the few men around... used up, in some way, like they've had a lifetime's hard work in just a few short turns. The stall or two that they've bothered to set up as a nod to commerce has a random assortment of things for sale, watched over by a few young women - a few of which actually have Brieli's look, though something else is off, the height or the age or the build. They talk amongst themselves, clearly bored. No one is expecting any company, not today. A suitable amount of mud, not all the local shade, decorates the workboots and cuffs of the man that plods down the path, towing a rickety wheeled cart. It must have been a long walk from wherever he'd come, and he does slow with relief upon catching sight of the camp, but he doesn't actually halt until he's in rough conversational range and with a decent view of the stall, not just the girls. A deep breath later, one that relishes the lengthening shadows and their coolness, "Afternoon." No, he's not from around here, or not initially given that muddled-up down-south accent, but another difference is that he does look decently fed, and his easy smile shows that he still has all his teeth... at least those can be seen without an actual open-wide inspection. The girls, though bored, are not terribly observant - mud is likely mud to them. It takes most of them some time to even notice the man or the cart, even though it's not all that hard to miss either. One of the younger ones is the first to elbow the others as he approaches, and they assemble themselves into some sort of order, pretending they're interested in selling; more likely, they're just all interested in a distraction. A distraction with an easy smile isn't bad either, even wandering the roads from who-knows-where, so one - likely the oldest - will venture, "Afternoon. Been traveling for awhile? Did you get lost?" They're sort of off the beaten track. "Anything we can do for you?" A quick smile. "I hope not," the man says jocularly, tipping his cart back far enough that he can sit on it. "The man down the road didn't look like he'd point me in the wrong direction, but if he did, he wouldn't be very good at such things, now would he? Me, what I'd like is something to drink that isn't my own ale, for starters." He'll share his smile freely with each girl in turn, meeting their gazes with an eye towards being able to tell them apart and letting them have a look at him in return, though in the end it's the maybe-eldest that he returns to. "Wish the roads were drier than they are, but what can you do." With another smile, the older girl admits, "You never know around here. I hope not, but..." She trails off, lifting her hand to make a 'eh' gesture. Glancing at the others, then back towards the camp, most of it too busy to pay attention to what's happening with them for the moment, she agrees, "We have some water with us. Just a second." She'll just go stick her head 'round the side of a nearby wagon, where it looks like there's benches in the shade. The other girls total three; the youngest about nine, dark eyed, dark haired and curious; the middle one in her early teens, complexion and eyes shades lighter than the others; the next-eldest much shorter than the older girl, but likewise dark. And when the oldest returns with a waterskin, it's with one more young woman - about the right height, right look, right description for a girl called Aishani. One thing is off; she might be pregnant. But how could Brieli know that? Oldest girl, girl-in-charge, offers the waterskin with an underhanded toss. "Catch?" Perhaps the youngest, in particular, might then notice the way the man's eyes catch for a moment on the fourth girl, the way he gives her a nod that's only half-smiling in comparison to the attention he'd paid the others. Maybe he doesn't approve of pregnant women? Maybe he likes them too much? Maybe he's just tired, and thirsty, and unable given the constraints of the harness to reach very far when the distracting waterskin comes. Still, it's a fair enough toss that slapping the incoming prize drops it into his hands, and then he's whistling appreciative thanks before unstopping it and taking a long drink. No stop to scent the water, no stop to sip it: the man's entirely too trusting. If the youngest notices, if sharp, dark eyes narrow in a familiar way, it's not for long - she's shoved back off to sort some trinkets in the stall, where she can only peek over now and again. And if the camp at large have begun to notice they've a visitor, it's a good time for it; how harmless does a dusty, muddy traveler on the road look? Maybe less so, to one or two men - but it passes for now. Water delivered, the eldest shoos the other girls off to some sort of other tasks so they at least look busy under attention, while possible-Aishani sits beside an embroidery basket, taking it up in her lap, glancing over at the man curiously. Eventually, she has to ask, "Which way did you come from?" Her accent isn't quite like the others - there's Crom in it she's trying to push down, stamp out. "Down the road a ways," the man says agreeably, now that he's refreshed and all. Standing in the traces as he is, if he's made visibly too clumsy to do much to a waterskin were it thrown in a less adept path, surely he's not likely to do much to bother a maybe-pregnant woman under her menfolk's eyes or otherwise. Reach into one of the bags strapped behind him, though, that he can do. "You sew?" he mentions with a nod towards her task. "This girl I know, she does that too, only this pouch of hers needs repair." He holds it loosely, dangling from one hand, old and perhaps not quite empty to the young woman's eyes. That doesn't seem to enlighten the seamstress - let's call her that for now - and it seems to frustrate her a little; looking up with her eyebrow arched, she says, wryly, "No, I just carry the basket around for fun." Not quite sure what he's getting at, she's entirely bemused and not a little tired -- it seems like she barely even hears what he's saying as he pulls out the pouch, but as soon as she sees it... Her expression changes - first, she's very nearly delighted, nostalgic - like she's brought him a gift from home. Which would be less odd if she weren't at home. Next, she goes pale, nearly white; jumping up, basket still in hand, she takes the pouch from him quickly, looks in it with her back turned to the camp. Brown eyes wide, she hisses, "Where did you get this?" "Nice life," the man says, not ungently, if also a little tired in his own right... and a little tense, the more so with her response like that, though he relaxes somewhat once she's turned her back. Perhaps it's some inner prompt that has him scratching his head, putting a placid expression on his face. "I'd like to think you... know a girl, name of Aishani," he says, staying right where he is, no move at all to snatch that pouch and its contents back. No move to say a dragonrider's name, in this camp that he's been warned against. "It's a relief to me, that you two really do look something alike." The seamstress is trying very hard not to lose it again; she lets out a long, slow breath and looks into the pouch with shaking hands. It takes the time to look at the scrap of hide cursorily before she can find her voice, blink at the man in shock. "She told you?" There's nothing to say to that; all she can do it turn over the pouch in her hands, staring down at it before, "This wasn't what I thought it would be." After a moment, handing it back, she asks, "A relief? You do know her? She wouldn't have bothered if it weren't going to work. And if she wants my help, she should know there's nothing I can do." Over at the stalls, only the youngest has noticed the conversation, brief as it is, so far - she's watching quietly from where she's meant to be working. The man replaces the belt pouch a little too slowly, but then, he also has to pocket the scrap so very discreetly along the way, and perhaps there's this and that else to adjust to as well. At least, he starts to replace the pouch, and then he stops. "Would you like to keep it?" he asks hesitantly. She'd seemed so happy. "Yes, I know her, yes, she sent me, yes, she's happy, mostly, but she misses you," this last because he can be an embroiderer too. Or, perhaps, just a patcher of seams. "She wants to know what's going on, she hopes you're all right. I wouldn't be here if she hadn't sent me." "I..." She pauses, it seems silly, but: "I would, thank you." Shifting the basket over her arm, she glances over at the stalls, where the youngest has slipped out and is with the others, forming some sort of gossip-huddle that might be meant to shield the discussion from the camp, but might not actually be working. Amongst the men, there's one now standing tall - very tall, grey-haired, once strong, but still somehow wasted-looking - he's watching before something has him bending very suddenly, turning away with hitching shoulders. Seeming to notice the attention from camp, the seamstress turns back to offer a slight, anxious smile, telling him quickly, "I don't know about that. But it's kind of you to say. And I'm glad, though... happy." That last is said wonderingly. "I am all right, will be all right, but there's nothing I can do. Things are different now. I wish I could tell her there was something she could do, but Dev... he's decided." She's sad, and apologetic for it, but; "Unless he goes back to the mines? And that's not likely." And so the man hands the pouch back, a gift, and steps back in the traces. For all that he'd been the one facing more in the direction of camp, he's the last to notice the fuss, not attuned to it the same way they are. When he does notice, though, he waves, cheerful in that 'just a minute' sort of way. Perhaps all she's saying is going in one ear and out the other. Except, "Hard for a man to go back in there," the man says with definite, added weariness, and then hooks the borrowed waterskin over one cart pole and hoists the pair up, starting to plod towards the camp. Not away. Towards. Slowly. Slow enough to say, softly, "Is there anything else I can give her? Does she know you're married?" Is she married? She tucks it away in her basket, grateful in her smile, her nod. Stepping away, she notes softly, "No one here had a choice. Didn't you... ?" She's confused, all the more so when she sees where he intends on heading - 'BAD IDEA', says her expression - she doesn't look like she's exactly in the position to be rocking the boat. Not sure what else to say, she just answers as quietly, "She doesn't know, but it won't be a surprise. I hope... she gets what she wants." And that's about all she's willing to risk, heading away, back to her spot in the shade. Maybe everyone will forget who she was talking to if there's trouble later. The youngest girl, by sharp contrast, seems fascinated, and intent on seeing what might happen - even if that means trailing a little ways behind. "I hope you do too," the man says after her, not too loudly, and doesn't bother looking after her. Maybe it's because she's not in that boat-rocking spot that he keeps walking, with a wink towards the youngest girl when he finally does spot her. Not that he's heading for that tall fellow or anything, but rather, one of the matronly-looking women, letting down his poles and looking tired and a little abashed. The way he explains it, he's appreciative for the water and all, she's got polite girls (not pretty girls, he won't be saying that), and is there anything he could swap for a meal? He's got some nuts that aren't wormy, a little jerky, a few bottles of ale that maybe shouldn't be opened tonight but he hasn't been shaking around, either. The youngest girl grins, and looks just full of questions - but is smart enough not to be asking them, not now at least. She runs up ahead to the woman and is helpful enough about making sure the deal goes down well enough, arguing for the use of ale, especially what with the packing up and all - and so, the trade is fairly easily made. And while that's going on - whether he's looking to head over to the tall fellow or not, he certainly makes himself present, coming uncomfortably near, perhaps. On the plus side, it's easy to keep track of him; he has a brutal, racking cough that kicks up now and again. It doesn't seem to stop him from finding work to do though; from finding work nearby where he can eye that mud on boots and clothes versus wagon, consider that for a little while. The carpet matches the drapes, in that the mud on his boots matches that of the little cart, for that that's worth. And the things in the cart, they'd match too, if the man ever left it long enough for someone else to search. But he doesn't, the way a usual traveling man wouldn't, and he bargains likewise, except without trying to drive too hard a deal: just a respectable bargain, the sort that might make both sides happy with the seasons turning warmer rather than to winter. Under normal circumstances, at least. Are these normal? The cough gets the side-eye more than the cougher, through sheer willpower if nothing else, and the woman, a murmur that he hopes that's not catching. After a time, the large older man gives up the pretense of not watching the man with the cart, taking a bench just far enough away that it's not threatening - for he could be a threatening sort of guy and seems aware of that - and taking a break. Maybe he just heard something about ale. As he idly chats with a few men that treat him with immediate deference, his hands move, perhaps noticeable by permanent dark stains on the fingertips, knuckles. As for the bargaining, the woman isn't inclined to be all that hard on someone on the road this time of season; with her niece pestering her, it's easy enough to manage a good deal for a meal. She seems to think it's normal, even if the little girl knows it's not, the man with the cough suspects; as for the cough, the woman explains quietly as she puts something together, "Oh, no. Dev's been in the mines for turns, just came in. They say it won't get better." With a sympathetic tsk, she shakes her head. "Sorry to hear that, ma'am," the man says genuinely. "They take the good Turns out of a man... at least he has family, and good-cooking family by the smell of it," the very last more teasing for the truth of it, and more audible, too. "Nice meeting you, ma'am. I'd better see how much further I can get before sundown. Ma'am," this last for the little girl, brighter humor in those gray eyes before he settles the repast and takes up the poles again, hooking them into the harness so his shoulders can take most of the load. At least that load is lighter now, with what's stayed behind in camp. Maybe the girl will wander along with him while they're in her parents' sight, maybe she won't. Maybe he can get down the road without the older man having him followed. Maybe he won't. And the pregnant girl? Either way, he leaves her behind. Those comments bring a wry smile to the matron's lips first - then widen for the second, giving her thanks with some little embarrassment; she likely doesn't get much in the way of compliments, even just for cooking. Though the older man - the aforementioned Dev, it seems - seems to consider getting up for a word, it's possible he decides to just settle for having that cart followed a ways down the road. And maybe the girl won't wander along with the cart while it's visible from camp initially (or possibly while he's being followed?) but maybe she will turn up out of the bushes suddenly at some point, as if out of nowhere, to run up and offer one thing: "Tell her Jyani's coming. Some day." And then she's gone, as quick, running off as fast as she can.
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Comments
E'gin (Elgin) left a comment on Thu, 19 Jul 2012 19:44:51 GMT.
The end was precious! Almost made me tear up. Jyani, love the name too.
Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Thu, 19 Jul 2012 23:28:57 GMT.
I will not say it was not a little sniffly there. Thanks!
Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Fri, 20 Jul 2012 00:20:58 GMT.
This was a fascinating look into Brieli's past. And I agree with you both! Jyani is a fantastic name.
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