Logs:Who Needs Murder When You Have Whiskey?
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| RL Date: 23 December, 2004 |
| Who: Kassima, M'rek, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 21, Month 8, Turn 1 (Interval 10) |
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| Your location's current time: 18:46 on day 21, month 8, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer evening. You meander through the tunnel, emerging in an enormous cavern. You walk up a short flight of steps into the galleries. In the Galleries of the High Reaches Weyr Hatching Grounds(#510RJas$) Tiers of stone carved benches rise uniformly above the hatching sands, set against both the southern and western walls of the enormous hatching grounds. The warmth radiating from the sands make the cool stone benches a welcome change, especially for sand baked feet. One section of the galleries has been roped off for special spectators, and the seats within have cushions done in the dark blue and black of the Weyr. To the east, the cavern narrows and short flights of steps lead down to the cavern entrance or to the sands themselves. From the galleries, the many dragon ledges are visible, scattered all along the hatching cavern walls. The cavern which has stood empty for so long now fills with visitors and weyrfolk, dragons and firelizards, all come to get the first glimpses of the gleaming flaccid eggs as the Queen lays them. To see things down on the sands, you can 'view', or to see a specific object you can 'view <object>'. +viewhelp gives you egg specific viewing help. Contents: Kassima VIP Hospitality Table Obvious exits: SAnds Bowl It might be a slightly odd thing, that someone would come to the Hatching Grounds--to a foreign Hatching Grounds, no less--and seem to be paying so little attention to the eggs. Kassima isn't regarding the clutch at all, at least not at this moment. In the seat she's chosen a few tiers up from the sands, she's writing something on scraped hide, which along with a leather-bound book is propped against her legs. Kassima Kassima is a woman gifted magnanimously by genetics: one would likely guess her to be younger than her actual age thanks in part to high cheekbones and a brow lines dare not touch, and metabolism and height have both dealt a good hand in her slender 5'10" build. Her fine-boned features are framed by a black river braided and confined, allowed free only in the wayward forelock; there, it threatens to dangle into canted eyes the color of emeralds in shadow. A shrewd glint lightens these even when mirth does not, and the well-shaped brows above lend eloquence through their mobility. Kassi seems to be in excellent health and condition. She is strong and fit, with enough tan to suggest time spent in warm climes recently; shadows may sometimes ring her eyes, but they shine for all of that. She currently wears a wine red blouse and black slacks that have become careworn in their Turns-long service. Two pouches and a long dagger hang from her ornamented belt; the glints of metal at her fingers (+detail available) suggest that she likes jewelry. On one shoulder of her exquisitely crafted riding jacket is the black and white knot of a Telgar Wingleader, with a thin cord of red to honor her Benden Weyr origins and a strand of grey-green to show the color of her lifemate, Lysseth. The patch on the other shoulder identifies her as the leader of Thunderbolt Wing. Evening chores have most likely begun, given the lack of people in the galleries, and the few there are scattered throughout, leaving large chunks of space open. And it's into this scene that a slightly built candidate makes her way up the short flight of stairs, pausing at the top to study those gathered before looking to find an empty spot to lean against in the front of the visiting rider. Satiet's elbows rest against the railing, the bulk of her frame leaned forward, but the cool words she speaks aren't directed to the eggs, and instead behind. "Strange place to come study, don't you think? Especially if you're not from here?" Her chin touches her shoulder lightly as she looks back towards the Telgari greenrider, gaze flicking briefly to the knot. "Reaches and Tillek's duties." "Oh, I'm nay studying," Kassima answers without immediately looking up, shifting her position slightly; her boot heels rest on the tier in front of her to provide her with a better writing surface. "I'm sitting in dire ambush, lurking and awaiting m'chance t'strike out against m'prey. Only m'prey isn't here yet, so in the meanwhile, I'm writing a letter." She does raise her head after delivering this helpful explanation, looking towards the direction from which that voice came. "Duties to the 'Reaches and her queens. To Tillek and her Lady, too, if'n those be due. You're a Candidate?" "Studying, writing letters. People seem to pick the oddest spots to do such sport here." Idle remarks from lazy lips. After giving the greenrider one last look over, the slender figure returns to focus on the eggs. "Lurking? Or meeting? If you're lurking, are the galleries that great of a place to lurk? You miss what goes on out in the bowl, or the comings and goings of residents, riders, and visitors." Satiet's finger lifts, a visible count starting, before it's interrupted by the last question. Her alto is tinged with dry amusement, "And here I thought the white twine they gave us was self-evident of that fact. Satiet." The last is said with clear politeness, a simple turn of her waist allowing her to introduce herself properly. "Here for the ride. And you?" Kassima's brows twitch upwards. "I'm nigh afraid t'ask what other spots you've seen used," she quips. "If'n you've found people writing letters in the necessaries, please don't tell me about it. You'd have the right of it if'n 'tweren't lurking for the person that I am--" She points her charcoal stick towards the Sands; not the eggs, though, but rather the bronze sire guarding them. "Volath's a Telgar dragon, and his rider a friend of mine. 'Tis him I'm here t'see. So I figure m'odds of ambushing him are at least fair t'middling here, and I'm out of the way of most people doing their business." No mention of the white twine, although amusement of a droller sort lurks in her green eyes. "Kassima," she introduces in turn, indicating herself. "Green Lysseth's rider, here t'see a person or three. A pleasure t'be making your acquaintance, I'm sure." "V'lano. You're looking for V'lano." The statement is simple and the look of dry amusement deepens, curving Satiet's lips into an almost heartfelt smile. "He's not bad looking, but for so many people to be looking for him... there must be some secret to his charms I've missed?" A self-assured touch graces her grin, blue eyes narrowing on the greenrider with more interest. "I confess, the mechanics of how dragons communicate and for what purpose are still out of my grasp, but isn't it easier to have your dragon, Lysseth was it? To have her ask him out there," a chin jerk to indicate the bronze, "For where his rider is? Convoluted. Perhaps it's better to just sit and wait in the end." The girl shrugs, a pivot of her feet realigning legs with torso, which allows her to hop over the first set of seats and settle into the second tier beneath Kassima. "I've found, when people need things done, they'll do it just about anywhere, but no more on the latrines or what goes on there. You're from Telgar, then? I've never left this area. Nay, I've never left the Tillek area until now. And, ma'am, the pleasure is entirely mine." Silken words, from an angelic looking face. M'rek strides up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl. M'rek has arrived. "Aye; or waiting for him, more than actively seeking. Have many others been searching for him? From Telgar, or...?" Kassima seems not particularly concerned by this news, but rather curious. Black brows jump upwards just that much more. "Many and myriad are his charms. I'll resist any urge to expound further until he's present, so that I might see him blush t'hear. As to that--you're essentially correct, always assuming I could be talking Her Magnificence out of exchanging sweet naughts with Volath long enough t'communicate aught of *substance*." The faint and muffled sound of a dragon's indignant snort might be audible from outside. "I did have her ask, and so I know he's preoccupied for the moment. But he might nay be preoccupied forever." She moves her boots off the tier when Satiet seats herself, tucking the charcoal stick away into her pocket and folding the hide for good measure. "Nay originally. Greystones and Benden are more m'original homes. I've seen Tillek, a'course--but please, Kassima or Kassi is fine. Never ma'am. The word gives me hives." The galleries are sparsely populated, the beginning of evening chores giving some explanation for the lack of gawkers. Near the center of the stands, Satiet is seated in the second tier, shifted enough to allow her to look up at the higher placed Kassima. "Perhaps he's preoccupied with attending to the weyrwoman, though I've heard he's only allowed the hospitality of the guest weyr. Poor boy." Pale blue eyes slant to the side to gaze towards the dark tunnel leading back to the bowl and a smirk lingers on her lips. "Magnificence, she requires you to call her that? How.. droll. And of course, Kassima, it wouldn't do to give you hives, would it?" The inflection of her speech is a healthy mix of sarcasm and teasing that it's hard to place whether or not she's truly just joking. M'rek staggers just a little bit as he makes the entrance to the galleries and he pauses, leaning into the stone of the wall to settle up with his usual sense of balance and pay the check that whatever he's been drinking has made due. There's a slight flush to his face and his eyes are bright but he does seem able to get himself under better control and so he makes the stroll down the steps in an easy fashion and his intoxicated state is only further revealed by that soft undertone of chuckle that travels with him. If he's sneaking up on the Telgari rider and/or candidate, he's doing a poor job. If he wants them to know he's approaching, well that..he's doing very well. "Good evening to you, ladies." He pauses a few steps above Kassima and gives a flourishing bow that ends with him upright once more and smirking to beat the devil. "Looks to be a pleasant one." If he caught any of the preceding conversation, he doesn't indicate it. This commentary only amuses Kassima further, if anything. The greenrider smiles quite brightly indeed, and assures, "He's making do quite well with that guest weyr. Although 'twill have t'be admitting that *'tis* a bit on the small side. From what I've heard, R'sel's more likely t'be attending t'Josilina--" Her train of thought and indeed her conversation is interrupted by the arrival of M'rek. Perhaps Lysseth warned her. More likely, the chuckle did. Swivelling about on the bench, she observes, "*You* look... well-pickled; do tell me you brought some of the culprit t'share? G'deve right back t'you. But I'm nay going t'try and do such a bow as that in return; I'd never manage. What, oh what have you gotten into now?" Only with these pressing questions asked does she turn back to Satiet to inform, "She *likes* me t'call her that. I indulge or nay depending on how much I currently feel inclined t'poke her in the eye. I'd certainly say 'twouldn't; but then, who'd say else, unless they had some sort of fetish for watching people scratch?" Her delivery is on the deadpan side. As she's facing the greenrider, keen eyes are first to spy the bronzerider, rather than being drawn to his arrival by the noises of his less than sneaky entrance. With interest, she watches his progress, the smirk shifting to a look of bemusement. "When he's in his cups, he's in his cups," is muttered, though due regard is given towards Kassima's continued talk. "So I've heard. They've no attachment towards each other, a fact, I've gathered, is typical of flight pairings in most riders? Riding, the Weyrs, seem to be, in varied degrees, all about indulgence. Indulging riders, the dragons, people. Here there. Scratch?" To M'rek, the pale blue eyes go to rest, eyebrows arced gracefully, "It'll only be pleasant if you share. It's never gentlemanly to show off the effects of what you have, and not give us a nip." She pauses, her grin twisting wickedly, "Though, attributing gentleman-like qualities to you would be rather stupid of me." M'rek takes another step down, pauses a moment for another of those telling chuckles and then he takes a farther step down and moves in to plop down upon a bench one level above the Telgari. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a flask from an inner pocket and he offers it towards the greenrider with a nod then towards the candidate, for M'rek has no limits towards neither corrupting nor corruption, or at least it would seem, "The ignoble batch 21 from still number 4, brewed up only two days before and allowed to age as such until this afternoon and then she was given her coming out party. L'vor, a'course, could only drink two and that leaves me to finish her off right. I think you'll find that she's rough at first taste but surprisingly smooth on the downtake. Just something to drown all thoughts of..nobility." He props his boots then up on the lower tier and laughs, "Aye, lass. Satiet that is. Don't be attributing any such qualities to me these days unless you intend to meet me at daybreak with a length of blade to finish me off." "And amusing cups they are, too," Kassi murmurs in exchange, with some fondness for the subject. "Typical, although nay always true. A flight can occasionally lead somewhere or just speed things along. But most times, 'tis only a necessity of dragonriding--I don't think I'd quite agree with that statement." Dryly said. "We indulge and serve the dragons, 'twill grant that. Howso people? Scratch, scratching: a natural result of having hives." Glancing between M'rek and Satiet, she adds to the latter, "You might be surprised. I've seen him act with all the polish and grace one could wish from a gentleman... albeit only on one occasion. M'rek, M'rek, I thought 'twas ahead of her in the line t'be killing you?" Not that such potential disappointments can distract her from drinking the flask. Wise woman: she hears him out before opening it, and so has some idea of what to expect from the long pull she takes; she thus only coughs twice, careful to swallow first and waste nothing. "Mmm." A second swallow, as trial. "Should do the trick. Why are we drowning thoughts of nobility today?" She holds the flask out in offering to Satiet as she asks this. Rachiel walks up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl. Rachiel has arrived. "That, sir, can be arranged. I'm handy with a knife, though more so to fish scales than the skin of man. But with you, it's hardly a difference I suspect." Satiet responds tartly, a look of indulgence spared for the tipsy rider. Her hand reaches for the offered flask, and narrowed eyes inspect the contents through the tiny circle of vision allowed by the top. "Your brew? Rotgut then?" Cynicism pulls up one corner of her lips as she sniffs the rim before taking a short pull, followed by one choked cough and soft breath against the back of her hand. Quick to regain her bearings, and after taking up another, longer pull from the flask, she smiles at the greenrider, "Tis the Interval, the Weyrs are indulged in favor of a day when Thread will fall again. That's how with people. Dragon indulgence, rider indulgence." M'rek watches Kassima drink with those alcohol bright eyes of his and then he laughs and leans back to rest his elbows on the seat behind him so that he's fairly reclined now, "Flights, huh?" all he seems to have to say on that and then he laughs again, "Aye, I can play that part, I suppose. Not as much fun though, unless of course there are feet as nice as there were that night under the Bitran table." A wink from the bronzerider that's followed by, "Aye, Kassi-love, you're well ahead of many in line to put Pern from the misery of my bungling hide." His voice gets drier then and Kassi knows him well enough to see the rawness he must be drinking to dull these days, "And maybe it should be done sooner rather than later before I meddle again over my head." He watches the candidate drink and there's amusement in his eyes now as he reaches for the flask, "Aye. Rotgut. I have a friend at Ista and together we make it as a bit of a hobby. Another indulgence." A sharp bark of laughter then, "Indulgence. The weyrs aren't the only ones indulged. Not these days." Kassima's eyebrows seem to get a lot of exercise around Satiet. The left one rises first this time, with the right soon to follow. "Such interesting rules the 'Reaches must have for Candidate behavior," she murmurs; not quite amused any longer, but closer to wry than censurious. "Interval 'tis, but 'indulgence' would seem t'imply we return naught in exchange for what we're given. Nay quite accurate. Threadfall is the core of what we do, but nay the whole." These words could easily sound pedantic, but Kassi says them amiably, conversationally, and without offense, then shifts her attention to M'rek once again. "She'd suggested V'lano might be attending Josilina," comes the amused explanation for flights. "M'rek-m'dear, you know full well there are always feet available for you. Just as you know 'twill make your death quick, should need be." It starts out a jest, but she trails it off with a quieter thoughtfulness and lifts green eyes to give him a more thorough scrutiny. "Only I happen t'think the world's better for having you alive. As would others I could name. Whatever you seem t'think you're t'blame for--and you're right. We aren't. Holds, too, I'm guessing you mean." "Rules, greenrider, are there as.. guidelines. I'm not breaking any of them currently." Satiet's fingers curl around the flask possessively, daring to take another sip before her arm reaches out in slow reluctance to pass it over to its owner. Only the soft flush along her neck indicates the drink's effects, a side effect easily passed off with any number of explanations. "I said he was attending to the weyrwoman's needs. I didn't specify as a mate. She had thoughts of painting the eggs. He seemed.. helpless," is her uncertain assessment of the sire's rider. But subjects move forward, as does the girl's own line of thinking, and she shrugs, gesturing towards the flask, "It's good enough, serves its purpose if it's purpose is to get rip-roaring drunk in as little time as possible." What she perceives as flirtation is given her own set of raised eyebrows, gaze skittering from bronze to greenrider curiously, a thoughtful turn to her lips. "The larger Holds require indulgence. Would it be wrong to say that Pern is, at its core, a very indulgent society? Working on those beneath the structure of titles." M'rek has almost rested his chin to his chest when Kassi's words make him snort and he lifts his head once more, "Josilina loves R'sel, and for her. Well. Love and attendance are not mutually exclusive. I wouldn't be looking for V'lano, good lad that he is, on Josilina's ledge in any sort of a permanent sense. Duties of flight, and so forth, but I doubt anything more. We aren't all without restraint, after all, and Jos is of the hold bred sort. Though, aye. She might enlist him to help liven up the hues of the eggs." Then, "Aye, Kassi-darling, she can drink, just not too the point that I would and will." A wolfish grin covers his mouth now and he laughs, "Oh. I'm well to blame this time, was all my idea. Such a clever idea." He shrugs his shoulders then, "Big stakes mean big losses." spoken as if he's quoting someone and then he looks to the candidate and reaches forward only to take up the flask and get a pull that makes him shudder for all that it's his creation. He sets the flask on the bench so that the others can get to it again if they so desire. M'rek breathes, and therefore he flirts. "You're too kind to me, Kassima. You should be giving me Oblivion." There's laughter at what must be a joke of some kind then he carries on, "Aye. And some of the larger holds crave more indulgence than others, and get it too. Burning away all that stand in their way. Mayhaps it won't be too long before it won't be seen so much as indulgence in keeping the weyrs, even without thread, if other things are allowed to sear away the greenery and flesh of pern with such impunity." M'rek raises his eyebrows then and laughs, "I sound like a raving lunatic. I should either finish off the flask or make my way to a pub for the duration of the night." "On this 'twill take your word, or M'rek's; I know Telgar's rules only. Nay those of High Reaches." Kassi watches the passing of the flask with almost wistful eyes. "Ah, well, that I can believe. Far from helpless is Vel, but he's nay so long out of the Weyrling Barracks himself--I do nay believe he's been confronted with the need t'protect eggs from paint a'fore." Quite as if this is an ordinary riding hazard. "Indulgent, I don't know. I'd say self-interested. As any society comprised of people surely must be. Holds indulge the Weyrs in the interest of having lands left t'Hold when the Pass comes around again, as well as transport and aid in other things; Weyrs indulge Holds and Crafts t'receive the benefit of the tithe; Crafts indulge both in order t'have custom. Though things like gratitude and artistry and wanting t'do the right thing come into it too." M'rek's words receive a satisfied nod: that's what she thought. "Vel isn't with her," she agrees simply. "We've spoken of it." As well they might have done, given that the greenrider's spent more than one evening at the 'Reaches since Volath became Sands-bound. "Oh, I meant more in how she was talking t'you. But it doesn't seem you mind. Are you of a mind t'speak of your clever idea?" Casual curiosity; he might, sloshed as he is, miss the current of concern beneath it, or not. As for herself, whether she flirts or simply teases her friend might be in the eye of the beholder. "I haven't Oblivion with me, but I could conjure it, so long as you had Rebirth with which t'be following it. Assuming 'tweren't too unconscious after." Whatever amusement remained vanishes into seriousness entire. "You think Weyr attention might be needed soon?" Quietly asked. Then, "If'n you decide the latter and would like an ear t'rave in, I'm sure I can ambush Vel another evening. But you're welcome t'stay too for all of me. You don't sound half as lunatic as I might wish, with some of that." "The Lords are allowed those rights. Holding is autonomous of the Weyrs." The words of a small time hold girl is at odds with the shadowed look offered her companions - inquisitive and intent on discerning. As most of the conversation begins to skirt over her head, Satiet makes eyes at the flask, the greenrider's wistful expression matched by her own, but instead her alto lifts to reply to Kassima's words. "I don't disrespect the rider. But I'd say my brand of respect for him is a notch higher than the simpering of most other candidates. For him," she pauses to peer towards M'rek, "At least. It wouldn't do to be so respectful of .. other riders such as Semirath's." Her sun-dark face pales underneath, an uptilt of her head pulling the dark locks out of her eyes, studious silence ensuing on her part. Rachiel walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance to the bowl. Rachiel has left. M'rek moves his legs so that the heel of one boot rests over the toe of the other and he leans back to his elbows once more, "Oh. That." In regards to the way Satiet speaks to him, he shrugs, "I'd rather have scorn or amusement then some false accord. I'm not looking to be coddled these days. Such as Semirath's, huh?" He regards the candidate in question through eyes half slanted closed and then laughs in such a hollow tone that it might be unsettling to those who really do know him before he shifts that look over to Kassima, "I meddled in His affairs." He shakes his head now, "Meddled and another paid the final price for it. As well as losing, well..." He pauses and says with what could be frustrating vagueness, "An important link in the chain was lost." He shrugs as if this summary will at least indicate something and then he smiles, "I'll not keep you from V'lano. I can find Oblivion and even Rebirth any other night, this bender seems to be unending after all." Maybe because he hasn't gone seeking help to end it. "Aye. We'll all be needed soon enough. Unless of course folk decide they want to see half the northern continent all under one bloodied crest. Ah. Enough politics for me, makes me melancholy when I've been drink so much for so long. Sharding Lord holders." Kassima's agreement comes distant, preoccupied with thought. "To a large degree. Assuming there's nay shorting of tithe... or other breaking of covenants. 'Tis the Conclave which handles Holds thus, you're right." Drawn slightly out of whatever reverie caught her, she flicks Satiet a half-grin. "Ah, well. That sort of respect. 'Tis an oddity, how often I hear such things of Semirath's." And that's outright bland, as if to hide some emotion--amusement? Possibly. If so, none of it remains in the look she flicks to the bronzerider. "M'rek...." She's a loss, though, for what else to say to express her worry, or what exactly to ask. "Final price." She repeats this softly. After a moment, cautious, "I've been recently t'Beastcraft. Matters there seem well." Well, that made sense. "Vel, believe me, sees me plenty. Even if'n Volath's told him we're visiting--Faranth only knows about that--he'd understand wanting t'hear out a friend, I should think; but that's your call, and the offer's open whenever. I wonder whether the Holds would cry autonomy should that occur." Muttered. Then, "We could speak of something else?" A charming smile is allowed the riders at their varied reactions to her statement of respect, made flat by the blankness of her eyes. The smile, however, serves to alleviate the girl's sharp features, and with a quiet murmur of indiscernible words, she turns to direct her attention to the sands. For all she's silent and seemingly distracted, Satiet's head tilts just so to afford her the vantage of hearing the conversation between the riders, and allows her to mull over the words of M'rek's loose tongue without the study of others. So when the comment of bloodied crests arises, followed by Kassima's answer, the startled paleness that penetrates beneath her tan is most likely invisible to those behind her. In all likeliness, she'll sit till she's heard the end, but the greenrider's request of a change in subject is met with a lightly intoned remark, "If Oblivion and Rebirth are drinks, I'd like to add them to my request. Sir. With the knowledge that the chore you require may be expanded upon." M'rek does have a loose tongue. Or. At least he had one once upon a time, in such a convenient sort of spreading of information fashion, and maybe it's a bit of the old Merek that reaches again for the flask and drinks deeply before he looks so very thoughtful, as if he really is considering spilling that one particular slice of the ongoing drama that has him a sodden drunk so many nights in a row. "Aye. Oblivion and Rebirth are drinks. Only really Kassi can make the first. Though. I can give it a solid try if we have all the ingredients. But. It's a one drink trip to drunk, and so it might be more than what you really want, Satiet. Hard to do chores, or anything really, when you can't move your limbs or open your eyes. Still. Maybe at some time. Arrangements could be made." Really, does M'rek have no regards at all for rules these days? He drinks once more and the passes the flask to Kassima, "Better have another one. I've not even told the Harper what's happened yet." Oddly enough, it would even seem that M'rek's been avoiding the Harperhall of late and all who reside there. "Did you ever meet one of Vorlin's potential brides, one of The Flock, by the name of Kasedy?" He seems to be asking Kassima but he's not excluding Satiet from the conversation either, which may bode well or ill for the candidate, depending upon her temperament and what she might do with any knowledge gained. Kassima takes a turn at being somewhat out of the loop, slanting an inquisitive glance between Candidate and bronzerider at this latest comment by the former. "I could possibly be convinced t'mix Oblivion, for a good cause." Pause. "Getting drunk off one's mind is a good cause. But--aye, that, 'tisn't a drink for having unless or until you *can* get drunk. So 'twould only make it once rules nay longer bound." There is a brief flicker of exasperation in the glance she gives M'rek, but the wry grin that curves her mouth is real. It broadens for the flask, which she gladly accepts. "Rodric hasn't mentioned being particularly concerned about you of late," she agrees, mild again, "so I could guess he hasn't seen you--always assuming a'course that he would speak of such t'me. Thankee." She helps herself to a swallow of the rotgut, and a swipe of the back of her wrist at one watering eye after. "Kasedy--oh, aye. The one with an accent nigh as thick as mine. Daughter of the Bitran and Keroon lines, aye?" She likewise addresses this to both, so that perhaps it's more clarification for Satiet than true inquiry. Under her breath to M'rek, "Are you going t'be inviting death again by talking about this?" "I'm as good a cause as any. And rules, rules," Satiet manages to venture a lopsided smirk. "Rules only matter if you get caught, as someone was so nice to point out to me." As to who this is, the downward cast of feigned demureness gives no indication. Her expression stills in that mix of demure and smirk, the melt it takes of fading into a more neutral look slow and a bit displaced. "Vorlin is...?" the question trails off, brows peaked upwards in inquiry. Not one to confess ignorance unless pressed, the girl looks back again, glancing from Telgari to High Reaches rider. M'rek snorts a little bit as Kassima mentions the Harper by name, "Aye. I doubt as much. He's busy with other interests while.." He halts then just as a rather surprising amount of anger seems to creep into his voice and M'rek actually seems to bite at his tongue before he runs one hand over his shaved head and gets his, albeit intoxicated self, in more check. "The Master of Harper's is not like to be worried about me these days. There are too many other things going on, I'm sure. And after all, I can take care of myself." Ha. So it would seem. He's taking perfectly good care of his liver. He looks to Satiet and raises one eyebrow before he supplies the answer, "Lord Vorlin. Him. Lord of Bitra." That guy that some circles frequently talk about without ever actually saying His name. "Keroon Hold recently changed hands. Almost was Kasedy's. Fake accent and all. Anyway. She's dead now." Now M'rek is deadpan in delivery. "So close. So sharding close." "True in a sense, but 'twould advise caution in whom you discuss the breaking of rules around," suggests Kassi with dry humor. "Nay that I'm of a mind t'tattle, so long as we're--as far as I know--speaking hypothetically. Telgar this isn't. And Vorlin is the current Lord Bitra." M'rek's anger gets the biggest jump of eyebrows tonight--surprise bordering on startlement, followed by... what? Her expression becomes difficult to read, beyond being a bit still. "Given givens, I feel a sudden compulsion t'be apologizing," she finally says, neutral-voiced. "Yet if'n you haven't spoken with him recently, how can you be sure? I can swear t'you that he worries for you. He speaks of you often. I believe he counts you of great import." She lets it lie there, at least for now, with a last skeptical glance before that path is forgotten in the wake of a new startlement and cause for still posture, widened eyes. "She's dead." It doesn't manage to be a question. "Since when?" M'rek's reaction is observed, as per norm, Satiet's lips twisting into a set that's neither thoughtful or amused. What seems to be the final straw for her, at least after the trace, tightened smile cast towards Kassima for her words of advice, is the bronzerider's continuation of, to her, ill-advised remarks. The news of Kasedy's death is met with widened eyes that quickly narrow down into calculating slits. "I'll have to come find you for your wares later, sir. Ma'am." Her rise from the bench is languid, the tilt of her chin that of leisure as if they'd been speaking of the weather, the eggs, or the state of klah at the Reaches. The final title is punctuated by a small, knowing smile for Kassima, and the last comment is tossed towards M'rek, "You ride with crowds far above a poor holder's head. And here I thought you a simple drunk and brawler. I'll seek you out next time, sir. Good evening." Without awaiting a reply, hands shove into her pockets and a whistle, if a trifle forced, precedes her out the exit. You walk down a short flight of steps and head out through the entrance to the bowl. From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek sits a row above Kassima and watches Satiet leave with eyes that are unreadable in such a fashion that he could actually be up to something. Or not. Never can tell with this wreck of a bronzerider. "I am a simple drunk and brawler. Sometimes." His attention goes back to Kassi and he looks still blank of feature a moment before he says dryly, "That's like the ale apologizing for my general state of being." The words roll right off his tongue even though he's likely too drunk to walk smoothely from the gallery at the moment. "Aye. She's dead. Since a couple of months ago." Coincidentally when M'rek started to spend every free moment with the scent of alcohol on his breath. "Just haven't told anyone before now." From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel stands aside as the candidate moves past him on his way in. His mug held high enough the girl can pass under it before he continues up the steps with a bemused comment to her back of, "Was it something I said?" He shakes his head as he moves farther into the galleries and starts to lift a hand in greeting, the one not already occupied, "Good eve, M'rek, m'lady. Reaches Duties." From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima comments in Satiet's wake, "I told her nay t'call me that." By the ruefulness, however, it's not as if she's really expecting the woman to care. "Is that one really a Candidate? I'd swear she's up to or after something from the look of her. But she didn't know who Vorlin was? Bizarre." Her dark green eyes are thoughtful as she casts them back up to the bronzerider, and narrow in yet more thought at that expression. "Nay often enough for your peace of mind," she mutters. "I suppose so; but if'n ale could think, it might choose nay t'slosh you, mightn't it, if'n it meant causing damage elsewhere. Nay that I'm certain I'm sorry since I still think you may be wronging him. That long and it hasn't gotten out?" Surprise again, unsurprisingly. "Because of Keroon, or...?" She's pulled away from this conversation--held, on her end, just barely above a murmur, in a last attempt at discretion--by R'sel's greeting, and turns about to offer a wave. "More like something we said, I shouldn't wonder," she calls. "Duties to the 'Reaches and her queens; I don't know what lady you might be addressing, though. 'Tis nay, I fear, a word that can really be used t'describe me, whatever Vel says." From the sands> In the galleries, "Maybe she's one of His. Wouldn't be the first time He's managed to put one here." Obviously. M'rek shrugs and then says, "I like her." For whatever that's worth. "Aye. Not nearly enough, though I'm making up for lost time lately. Only missing a really good brawl to finish me off, I think. Maybe. Well. Someone will turn up for that. I'm thinking I'm going to make arrangements with a certain someone in particular and we can sell tickets. Maybe I'll even train a little for it." He certainly wouldn't seem up to fighting Gerome in this condition, that's for sure, certainly after the way they nearly did kill each other last time. "Aye." He nods, "Likely I am wronging him. But I'm just saying. Well. I know which poison has me by the groin and I don't let it keep me from..well." He settles back, "I do what I do regardless. Shards. Listen to me. Like it matters." Even he seems unsure for the root of his anger there. A nod comes for the brownrider, "R'sel." and then, "No body for it to get out." Oh M'rek. Such a busy lad. "Aye. Because of Keroon. It was..well. I meddled." As R'sel arrives, M'rek falls broodingly quiet. From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel takes his time to look out over the sands a minute or two, then flashes a grin at the visiting rider, "R'sel, brown Svraoth's. And trust me, its an old habit m'lady, that many have tried to break me of." A glance back the way he came and then he chuckles, "Just my timing then." As he catches a word or two of the other and makes his guess, he waves a hand, "Don't worry M'rek. A little fish told me to stay out of that pond. And you know how it goes when they have their say. I can't break my word, until she breaks hers, or some such." Doesn't keep him from looking at least mildly curious though, despite his words. From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima snorts with abrupt, dark-edged humor. "Don't be silly," she says. "She wasn't wearing ridiculous boots. I might admittedly have liked her better if'n she hadn't seemed out t'make me think V'lano and Josilina had a thing going a'fore you got here. She doesn't even know me; why would she do that?" She sounds less bewildered, however, than slightly tired. "Mayhaps a group brawling trip would be more the thing?" she tentatively suggests. "Work off the steam *without* getting killed? I'm nay of a mind t'let you get killed. Just so you know. Whatever you think you've done. You didn't do it t'her yourself." Complete certainty in her voice there; it would ring, but quiet voices don't really allow for ringing. Her eyebrows do their jumping routine again. She doesn't seem to know whether to laugh or be vaguely affronted. "Poison. Faranth. She'd probably love t'hear you call her *that*. You should talk t'him--see what he says, and tell him besides; he'll surely have t'know. I shouldn't ask what happened to the body, should I. Talk about questions I never foresaw m'self asking. Did you try and put her up for it?" She summons a grin for R'sel, wry but genuine, and says, "There are worse habits t'be having, come to that. Kassima, green Lysseth's, and Kassima or Kassi are just fine." Puzzlement replaces her wan humor though: "Fish? Pond?" From the sands> In the galleries, "Boots." M'rek stills a moment, brow furrowed as he seems to be considering something he hasn't let him think about yet. "No idea why she'd want you to think that, or even what good or ill it would do. Still. Sometimes there's just no telling." M'rek's all driving addiction to politics just can't let that topic slide by without just a little speculation and then he nods, "Aye. Perhaps. Or. Perhaps I should be considering that which I previously would not have allowed myself to consider." Vague enough for ya? He rubs a hand over his head and then listens before saying, "Aye, and I appreciate the sentiment, Kassima. Well. I didn't actually do the killing this time, but I might as well have. All or nothing. Everything seems to be so all or nothing when that 'pond' is concerned." He nods to R'sel, "Jos knows what she's talking about. Best to stay out of Bitran matters all together." As if M'rek would or will keep out himself. "Aye. You could say that. I arranged a path to circumvent an alliance with Him that would result in..well. It's a long story all together. And. Well, this is just how it ended. Her dead. And me knowing it was her instead of me." Lord Vorlin does seem to enjoy keeping M'rek alive even when he seems quick enough to finish others off. "You two don't know each other? You should. And now I suppose you do." From the sands> In the galleries, Both shaggy brows lift towards R'sel's brow line and he looks again to the bowl, "She thought Jos what?" Then a sly grin, "Shards. What a rumor to start. It'd take more than catching her dragon and a clutch on the sands to open that door with Jos. I should know. Took me turns to get her to take notice of what was there all along." He shakes his head, "Might be amusing to see her try and suggest that one in front of Josilina." He only listens to the next part, at least to a point, then glances to M'rek, "Just tell me not your charge, or I can think of a pair of sisters that should be forewarned and standing by for her sister." He pauses to nods again Kassima's way, "There are worse, but this one's been enough to earn me a slap or two along the way. Not that it's so easy to give up." Especially if you don't try? "I'll stay out if she doesn't give me reason to go dragging her out. She's of a mind that she doesn't have to heed her own advice and promise me exactly the same in return." The brownrider dips a shoulder, then shakes his head. "Never formally met before. Just had m'lady pointed out in passing on one of my...trips to Telgar." From the sands> In the galleries, "The unkind part of me," Kassima remarks, sardonically amused now, "has plenty of theories and each snarkier than the last, but--nay harm done, since I know better, and methinks in the long term I could come t'like her too. Depending. Still think she's up t'something. Tell me, M'rek: did I kill m'Wingriders, when I led 'em into Fall and Thread took them? If'n so, you'd better pass all your alcohol on over. I may just have more deaths on m'head than you. I worry what it may be that you haven't previously permitted yourself t'consider, that you'd consider now." Her concern is certainly real, but doesn't stop her from giving him another narrow, thoughtful look, nor speculating, "Some sort of power alliance between Bitra and Keroon? Or... but why would it be you, then? Unless you're Keroon's secret heir. I've heard his name, a'course," she adds, turning back to R'sel with a smile that for some reason is on the wry side. "But I'd never formally had the pleasure. And pleasure 'tis, I'm sure. Isn't it absurd? I won't deny I thought of it too, at first, and asked, but if'n she's been here then she should know--" She flashes another grin, this one warmer with humor. "If'n she does, I'd be appreciative if'n someone could pass on the tale of the reaction t'me. It sounds entertaining. The lady at the Beastcraft," even though the question of sorts wasn't directed to her, "was well when I saw her last, nay long ago. Well, I promise nay t'slap you, how's that? I'd rather be a lady than a ma'am for all that I'm nay truly either." From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek is quick to shake his head, "Nay, not my charge. At least I've still never lost one of those. Young lord Cain will be a turn old tomorrow." As if this were of interest at this point. "All seems well enough along those lines, and Cailin's not had a hair on her head hurt. Was one of the Flock." M'rek clears off the tip of that iceburg and then looks to Kassima with interest, "Perhaps. But. It wasn't your hand that put them to impression or into your wing. You don't pluck them from the safe life of crafter and make them into something. Well." He pauses and then says, "In some ways I guess you can say I've become as bad as Him. Meddling in lives and making plans." Or attempting to break plans, it would seem, "Aye, an alliance between Bitran and Keroon. Nay, I'm not a secret heir." At least not on today's episode anyway. He listens to the talk about Jos and V'lano then and yet, he doesn't look as if he's really listening. It seems more like he's thinking dangerous thoughts and that's what brings him to his feet, steady enough for all the rotgut that's been poured into him tonight. "I have to go see someone. Kassi. See you around soon, maybe even for a full story. Say hello to that Harper for me when next you run into him. R'sel. Always good to see you." From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel just grins a bit wider as he agrees, "Ah, well. If I see it. I'll be glad to pass along the tale. I'm sure it will rank right up there with telling her she's wearing orange or grey." He gives a little bow for that, "And a pleasure to meet you too m'lady, properly that is. And if I might be so bold. I've always thought lady the more polite term to use if one has the option to choose." There's a nod as he adds the impute, "Not everything can be your fault, M'rek." But he refrains from more as a look of relief crosses his features, "Ahh good. Not something I was wanting to tell Jos. I think she's still half for kidnapping the pair of them." Anything more keeps as he nods, "Always good to see you as well, M'rek." From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima gives M'rek a keen look. "You speak true, but wouldn't it be the blood that makes any of the Flock what they are? That's born, that's nay made. And you're too young t'have done her siring. Recall too that if'n nay anyone meddled for good now and then, 'twould leave the field clear for those with ill intent t'do whatever they willed." She reaches up to attempt to catch one of his hands and squeeze it, if she can, a gesture of friendship and worry; should she catch, she lets go readily enough when he stands. "Aye. Give a yell if'n you ever feel like talking; 'twill bring the liquor. I'll do that. You take care of yourself, all right?" She nods to R'sel then, with a halfhearted chuckle. "Oh, the fireworks that'd happen if'n you did *that*. I've only really run into the lady a time or two, and I can be imagining. I'm nay going t'disagree with you on terms. Ma'am makes me feel old. Or worse yet, respectable." From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek has his hand caught by Kassima's as he gets to his feet and he looks surprised and perhaps even more before he nods to her and then to R'sel as well for some of his words, "Aye. I suppose I can't claim responsability for all of it. Still. It's a dire setback, and I'm not liking the ramifications I see." He moves his head then, stretching his neck as if he's reading for a fight, and yet, all he says is, "Aye. I'll take care. I'll be around." Clearly he's ready to get this particular burden off his chest." He squeezes the greenrider's hand back and then nods before he scoops up his flask and makes his way out, careful of the steps in his condition. From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance to the bowl. |
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