Logs:Nothing Is Free
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| RL Date: 23 January, 2015 |
| Who: K'zin, Oliwer, Simiron, V'ros |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Tillek Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: V'ros leads Secret Agent Blabbermouth and Side-Kick to the sailor he saved. Things go poorly, then better. K'del's still going to fire K'zin. |
| Where: Bowl, High Reaches Weyr and Tillek Hold |
| When: Day 22, Month 11, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Drizzly, then pouring! |
| Mentions: A'rist/Mentions, Aishani/Mentions, Gvanna/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions, Thedrin/Mentions, Zakari/Mentions |
| Storyteller: K'del/ST |
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>---< Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr >--------------------------------------<
Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge
bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever
so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and
surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but
less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's
grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained
meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake.
At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns,
including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to
the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the
southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass
through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of
redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the
very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake,
there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl,
standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
A lovely, cloudless sky offers warm sunshine during the day, though the
weather turns distinctly chilly after dark. K'zin is waiting beside Rasavyth, dressed in plain work clothes and even wearing his charcoal wool coat rather than his riding jacket. There's no knot in sight, and his lean against his dragon is casual, gloved hands tucked into pockets, brown knit cap pulled down over his hair. When he sees the healer, he raises a hand in greeting to make sure he knows which one is K'zin. The burnt cinnabar bronze shifts restlessly, his eyes whirling in a way that suggests he's vaguely annoyed, if Oliwer's read up on dragon eye colors. "K'zin," the healer greets the bronzerider, offering a warm smile as he approaches, though it fades somewhat after the few moments he focuses on the bronze himself. Oliwer clears his throat as he puts his hands in his pockets and stops a little awkwardly a few long steps away from the pair. He's wearing fairly typical clothes, nothing that screams 'healer' except for maybe his face. But he can't help that. In contrast to Rasavyth's apparent mood, K'zin has a broad smile as he says, "Oliwer, hi." He gestures to the straps, "Ready to go?" Nevermind that he hasn't given the healer the promised answers. "Need a hand up?" He's ready to provide it even as the dragon rumbles and crouches ready to receive his passenger. Used to much smaller dragons, Oliwer glances up to the straps on the slightly more daunting bronze, but he nods his head. "I think I'm ready. Were you going to fill me in on the way, or?" Hopefully there's no 'or' that includes him not filling the healer in at some point, but this is Oliwer, so he probably won't complain too much if that is the case. "Perhaps," he says, glancing between dragon and rider uncertainly. "Mm," is an affirmative sort of sound, "We're meeting V'ros on the rim," there's a gesture upwards. So perhaps he means to tell him there. Either way, K'zin is climbing the familiar path to the straps, settling himself in before leaning to offer down his hand to the shorter man. "Right. Of course." V'ros. A glance is turned toward the rim as K'zin mounts the bronze, then he's accepting the hand to take his place on the dragon. He's familiar enough with straps to work on strapping himself in reflexively, though he seems tentative, after a moment, about touching someone else's things even as he continues as though he's worried about the bronze taking off before he's ready. Oliwer's fear proves unfounded. K'zin is patient and even says, "Let me know when you're set," upon seeing that the healer doesn't require his assistance for the straps. Once he is, then up up up, the flight fairly smooth and landing on the rim, though the brown they're supposed to meet is not yet there. It's once they're landed that K'zin unbuckles enough to be able to twist in the straps to speak to Oliwer. "The long and the short of it is that this sailor V'ros pulled out of the ocean when the storm hit the Tillek coast at the beginning of the turn claims to have seen someone on his ship shoot a flare of some kind at Aishani and Iesaryth. If that's true, it means they were murdered. If it's not, it's a rumor that could hurt us." The Weyr and all who live in it. "We're going to see if we can get more information. Offer him a job since he says he's too sick to work. Need to know if he's really too sick or just too lazy. Speaks to his character and I'm not about to saddle good people with a lousy one." If he can help it. "If it's true, he needs to stay safe because he may be the only witness to what happened..." Does K'zin need to say more? To Zmeyth, Rasavyth's shimmer appears and with it his annoyance. It's not directed at Zmeyth, but rather at the disruption to the important things that this excursion has become. « We're waiting for you on the ridge, » for the pre-arranged outing. The thing he'd very much like to get over with, and the sooner the better. The healer listens attentively as K'zin gives him a more in depth explanation about their involvement with the man they're going to meet. There's a slight intake of breath at the prospect of the junior weyrwoman being murdered. Oliwer is not the sort of man you'd want on your poker teams. Especially since he has no idea if poker teams are a thing. "Okay. Yes. Thank you." He surely has more questions, but they might not be strictly relevant to his job here, so he'll keep them to himself for now.
Tillek's docks are impressive in size, weaving around the coastline for some distance via an occasionally convoluted collection of swaying wooden walkways that reach out into the natural harbor. There are berths here for ships of all kinds, from merchant vessels to fishing boats, and even the pleasure ships of Tillek's elite. A narrow expanse of shale beach separates the Hold's docks from those of the Seacraft, off into the distance. Surrounding the actual docks, a collection of grey stone buildings with wide eaves are built close around narrow alleys. Away from the road that leads back towards the Hold itself, some parts of the docks area are dubious indeed. Wet, rainy autumns are the usual fare for Tillek. Even when it's not a real storm, the sky is usually overcast and drizzly.
Of the three who touch down a ways from Tillek's docks, at least one of them looks like he'd rather be anywhere else; at a flight even! V'ros, too, wears a wool cap pulled low over his reddened ears but despite the frigidness has opted for a gray sweater under his riding jacket. He hangs back, watchful, until the healer and bronzerider dismount. His sniffle precedes his listless ambling towards the docks and their goal: one shady bar. Oliwer is here for a reason and that reason does not include getting lost on the way to the reason. The healer attempts to keep pace with the taller man, though fortunately the leading brownrider isn't significantly taller than himself so he won't be left behind even if he couldn't quite manage to match the casual pace. He doesn't talk along the way except for a brief, polite greeting for V'ros as they set off. The weather is pretty typical for Tillek; it's certainly not going to put off any locals, that's for sure. The docks are busy; and there's already a few people hanging about near the bar... and inside, too. "You don't own another coat?" K'zin has to say roughly half way to where they're going as a not altogether peaceable aside to the brownrider. Riding jackets are for riders, as it happens. Aside from that, he doesn't make trouble. Ducking into the bar, K'zin's smile pulls into place, "Drinks are on me." It's to V'ros who he says, "Why don't you find us a good place to sit?" Which probably means with the target of their search if he can be found before the brown-hatted man is heading toward the bar to order the drinks, whatever the local favorite seems to be. He's convivial, he's casual, he's doing this right. (Even if it's the only thing he gets right about all of this.) That commentary earns the bronzerider a slew of side eyeing and little else. He shoulders his way into the bar, and with with a grunt, nods his head to affirm his part in their play. K'zin might want subtle but there's nothing subtle about the way V'ros kicks the table Simiron is sitting at. "Hey. Wake up." Oliwer is left standing on his own for a handful of moments, looking after K'zin and then V'ros like he's not sure who he's supposed to be following. Is he supposed to follow either of them? Since it's K'zin who asked him to come, it's the bronzerider he trails after to the bar to help with the drinks even if he's not particularly interested in one himself. The man at the bar seems a little bemused by K'zin; it's too early in the day (it not being night, yet) for that kind of conviviality! Still, marks are marks, and wordlessly, the man slides drinks across the bar towards them. The glasses are none-too-clean, maybe, and the beer is unlikely to be terribly drinkable, but... It's cheap! Bonus points. At the table, Simiron wakes with a start, sending his plate flying across the table and onto the floor with a crash. Wide-eyed, and with a certain rheumy confusion, he stares at the brownrider. "What? What?" Yes, the whole room heard that. Good job! It's unlikely that anyone wants to be drinking these drinks, but K'zin has a smile for the bartender and one for Oliwer as he hands over two glasses, holding to himself, just in time to hear the commotion. If K'zin had a free hand, he might have to facepalm. But seeing as he doesn't he only grunts. They've already been seen entering together, there's no sense in delaying their own approach, but he does set down one glass on the counter to proffer more marks to the bartender to get that man a plate of fresh food and an extra tip for the mess and his apology. "He was raised by yellowtails," the bronzerider says of V'ros, sighing, to the man at the bar; perhaps he'll recognize the turn of phrase familiar to fishcraft. Remorse is for the weak, or caring as it were. V'ros grabs the nearest chair and sits down, folding his arms on the top of the table. He's leaning forward staring at Simiron with a not too pleased expression. "We have more questions.. about your ship and that night. The storm. You remember." Oliwer takes the beers he's handed, hesitating for a moment as K'zin pauses to leave more marks for the bartender before he precedes the bronzerider to the table. The beers are set down and pushed toward the center of the table so whoever wants one can help themselves. "Good afternoon, sir," he greets with his typical, warm politeness as he claims his own seat, one without food on it. So much for sociable bartenders; this one grunts in answer to K'zin, but does take the marks. Presumably more food will be forthcoming. Eventually. "Got nothing more to say to you weyr-types," announces Simiron, pitching his voice to carry. "Hassling a man. A sick man. Leave me alone! My crew's dead, the girl's dead; what does it matter? I--" Whatever else he has to say will have to be postponed as a coughing fit takes over; he hacks, and hacks, and hacks, apparently barely able to breath given the way his face turns red. Sorry, Oliwer; he doesn't have breath to reply. In the meantime, K'zin will follow Oliwer to the table with the drinks. There's one for each of them and the bronzerider arrives in time to suavely deposit Simiron's in front of him - it could help with the coughing (or make it worse), one never knows! There a slight cant of his head to Oliwer, in case the healer feels he needs permission to help if he can. "Stop being an asshole," he instructs the younger man bluntly in the meantime. It's intimated by his tone that K'zin will make him, if he has to. "Easy for you to say. You haven't heard him speak yet." And with that V'ros sinks back against the chair back and crosses his arms over his chest. He glowers at K'zin in the meantime. Frowning with concern as the man coughs, Oliwer says, "Sir, I can assure you we aren't here to hassle you." That might be as much for V'ros and K'zin as for Simiron. "I'd like to help you if I can, in fact. Would klah help? Or tea?" It would, surely, but he presents it as a question because there's no point getting any if the man isn't willing to drink it. Simiron's too busy coughing - and struggling to breath - to pay much heed to any of the men at his table, but Oliwer's manner draws at least some of his attention. He doesn't have breath enough to speak, but his nod is pleading. The sip he takes of his beer, then, may help a little, but he's still coughing, trying to hide the droplets of blood in his hand as he does so. "And I won't get to if you keep being an asshole," K'zin answers the brownrider without apparent regard for his glower. The bronzerider nods to the healer, setting his glass down quickly before looping back around to the barkeep with a swift stride. "Mug of klah?" He asks, proffering marks. His belt pouch will surely feel much lighter by the end of this. V'ros settles back to listen with a perpetual expression of irritation. "We're very sorry about your crew, sir," Oliwer is sorry, anyway. Losing people is difficult for anyone and he sounds particularly genuine about his feelings on this. And he's a rather genuine man to begin with! "I think these boys," yes boys, "would like to ask you a few questions, if you'd be kind enough to answer them. I'm afraid I didn't bring my bag with me, but I'm sure we can manage something for that cough of yours as soon as I can fetch a few things." He glances back at K'zin, who he's clearly hoping will speak to the man instead of V'ros. The klah is probably over-brewed and under-strength; that particularly foul mix so often favoured by establishments seeking to keep things on the cheap. Still, the mug that gets slid across towards K'zin is hot, at least; it's better than nothing. Slowly, even before the klah arrives, Simiron begins to regain his breath. He wipes his hand on his trousers, hidden beneath the table (and probably, let's face it, filthy), glancing from one man to the next. And then back to Oliwer. "You were at the Weyr," he says, eyes not so much narrowing as focusing; he remembers. And, "Don't want to talk to anyone. Said my piece. Just leave m'alone." "My thanks," K'zin says as he collects the mug and hurries back to the table to set the klah in front of Simiron. Then he settles, addressing the sailor, "Asshole, here," a flick of his hand indicates V'ros, "tells me you've been out of work since the storm. I'd like to help with that." No sound. No noises. Just annoyance, that's all the brown rider conveys, like an overtaxed teenager who doesn't want to do chores. V'ros flicks an imaginary bit of fuzz off his jacket. Oliwer's brow furrows uncertainly at the man, still obviously concerned for Simiron's welfare but not particularly willing to press him for information that could only end up causing another fit. The journeyman looks at K'zin plaintively when he returns, more than willing to let the bronzerider do the talking. Instead of answering K'zin, though it's plain he's heard the younger man, Simiron focuses on taking slow, careful sips from the mug. Eventually, his gaze flicks from Oliwer - upon whom he has been bestowing at least some attention - to V'ros, whom he dismisses, and then, finally, K'zin. "Can't work," he says. "Know your sick." K'zin says not without sympathy, but as fact. "Still know some people who would find you work, if not the kind you're used to, if you wanted it." He glances briefly to Oliwer, some question there but not yet defined enough to be read on his features. "Think he could if he wanted to? Something that didn't tax his body?" Then to Simiron, "Can you read? Write? Do numbers per chance?" There's no telling exactly what is said that sets the brownrider off, but next V'ros is standing up and turning to leave. He passes a muttered, "Going wait outside. Be there when you're.. ready to go." His eyes skip over Simiron, and then he's heading to the door and the cold outside. There's a small nod from Oliwer when K'zin addresses him, though his earnest blue eyes are back on Simiron. "Nothing strenuous. Something quiet. Especially if he has access to a healer. I believe it could be managed without significant trouble." Oliwer's gaze shifts almost anxiously when V'ros excuses himself, but he doesn't turn to watch him go. V'ros' exit startles Simiron, who follows the brownrider with his eyes for several seconds, but really, it's the rest that startles him more. "Work?" he repeats, dropping defensiveness in order to just stare, bewildered. "But..." It's like he honestly thought there was no work, ever, that he could possibly do. He straightens. It's subtle, but there. So's the narrowing of his eyes, the obvious thought-processes. "I can figure. And write. I'm not some un-educated lout." It's true; something in his voice suggests a higher class of upbringing, and, buried beneath the surface, hints of the Crom his healer file claims as his birthplace. K'zin can afford to be candid, or he thinks he does. "Nothing in life is free," he's probably addressing the narrowing of Simiron's eyes. "I just want your honesty with some questions about what happened during the storm, your ship and your captain." He pauses, "You don't have to believe me, but I am sorry we weren't able to save them." He has to say it because he feels it. "In any case, I've contacts in a couple places that have committed to taking you on, giving you a fair shot. You'll have to talk details with them. Do you want to stay here in Tillek?" Oliwer is an empathetic sort of man. It's most likely the slight change in Simiron's manner that makes the healer relax a little himself. He nods once or twice in agreement as K'zin speaks. They're very sorry. He might even look a little fond of K'zin for a brief moment for saying as much. Oliwer, easy to please. "Tillek," says Simiron, "is my home." And, those shoulders tightening with something akin to concern or dismay; "I already told the other two everything I know. What does it matter, now? They're all dead. It's done. What difference does it make? I didn't kill your goldrider, and the person who did--" Pause "--if that's even what happened, well, they're dead." He's lost all of his sailor drawl, now; a marked change. If K'zin takes note of the change, he doesn't react, but really, how could he not? "Then Tillek's where you'll stay." The bronzerider is quick to reassure the sailor of that. "We're not looking to lay blame at your door. Really, I'm not looking to lay blame anywhere. I just want to know what happened. She mattered to us, even had a fiance," well, near as one gets to that kind of thing in a Weyr, anyway. "You know how your crew died. A terrible, awful storm. If it wasn't the storm that took her, we just want to know what did. We want to know if It matters. But we can't know if it matters, if we don't know what happened, and you're the only one we know of who saw it, if it did. Would you mind telling us what you told the other two? As you might've noticed, they're..." He trails off, waving a hand, letting Simiron fill in whatever adjective he'd like. There's a possibility that the goldrider's death didn't affect Oliwer in the same way that it did the dragonriders. For him it was a death like any other, where the only difference between hers and Simiron's fellows is that he'd seen the former in person on occasion. Fortunately any lack of very earnest agreement on his part with K'zin's words is probably covered up with the curiosity piqued by the change in the sailor's speech. Simiron abandons his klah, now focusing upon the beer (though it is surely no better than the klah for actual drinking). Doing that is a distraction; it keeps him from needing to say anything for a few moments. "Thought I saw something arc up from the ship and hit her," he says. "That's all. A flare or something." K'zin isn't in a hurry, so he waits. He's probably glad to make V'ros wait outside. "What kind of a flare?" He asks, his tone keeping casual. "The sort of thing that might've as easily been an accident or...?" "Are flares that dangerous?" Oliwer has no idea himself, so his question is genuine. He looks between both men. "To send a gold dragon between like that?" The healer himself is definitely not reaching for any of the beers. Simiron's answer is delayed by his desire to drink. And, hey, if no one else is going to drink... he may as well reach for a second. (That replacement food? No, it never did show up. Yet. Maybe it just takes a while to cook.) He shrugs. "Can't say for sure. That's just what it looked like; light, arcing towards her. Up from the ship, not down from the skies. We wouldn't have been sending up flares, not then. The rescuers were already there, and the whole ship was going down." For Oliwer's question he has no answer. "Tell me about your ship?" K'zin requests, reaching to shift the remaining two beers in front of himself. "You can have them all when we're done." But he doesn't want the man getting drunk and passing out. "And your captain?" A pause. "The asshole said you mentioned you thought it came from near where he ought to have been." Those are only the first of K'zin's questions. There are more that come, with the ebb and flow of conversation. Oliwer, frowning pensively, doesn't ask anymore questions. He listens, though, and settles back into his seat with his arms crossing unconsciously over his chest. "She was a fine ship," says Simiron, and the way he says it, it sounds like he believes it wholeheartedly: a fine ship, a ship he was fond of. "Sailed with her for turns. Five turns. Bit more than that, maybe. Five and a half?" Most of what he says about the ship isn't interesting; she was a Tillek vessel, though not seacraft-sponsored. And her captain; "Best man I ever served under. Tillekian to the end. Never had much truck with you folk after losing our heir, but can you blame him? Weyr never did have much respect for Tillek's heirs." He goes on for a while, but in the end, there's a brick wall: he's said what he can. What he will. If they want more... well, it's clearly not going to happen today. K'zin, unlike another that could be named, doesn't show any signs of temper even when Simiron has ill to say of dragonriders or the Weyr. He even has words of sympathy for what happened with Tillek's original heir; he's not old enough to have been a rider then, but knows enough of the history to be sorry those who came before him couldn't do better by Tillek. When Simiron's well of information has run dry, the bronzerider thanks him. "If you can be cleaned up tomorrow by noontime, we'd like to meet you in the courtyard. Oliwer here will bring his bag and consult with the posted healer," he glances to the man for confirmation, "to see what relief they can give you, and I'll make your introductions to the Journeymen that will employ you." If that's agreeable to the sailor, then K'zin will rise to take his leave, grudgingly collecting V'ros as they go. It's probably pouring out there, by now. Lucky V'ros! |
Comments
Edyis (02:26, 24 January 2015 (EST)) said...
You've all been exposed to consumption! Stay awayyyyy.
More seriously: It is kind of disturbing, the idea that a flare could send a dragon between. Even more disturbing the implication that Iesaryth's accident wasn't so accidental.
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