Difference between revisions of "Logs:Money Talks. But Fists Talk Louder."

Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#250RJs)

The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north.

Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.

Tall-and-burdened turns, obliged, at the word. Hey, he's used to it! No-one seems to really care enough to learn his name. No-name Isz is just fine with that. A dark eyebrow sweeps north at who's motioning him over, however. Whistling ceases. "Sir?" he questions, carefully measured respect inserted into his facial expression and tone of word. If his name wasn't I-S-Z-something, maybe more people'd use it! But probably note N'thei, in truth. First; "What is that." Pinky, being a free digit, is used to indicate the candidate's burdens, which are given a distrusting once-over even while the rider turns so he's headed roughly back the way he came, more toward the caverns, more out of the middle of the open bowl.

"Laundry and toys, sir," Isziyo replies. "Rider Callina had her children last sevenday, and wished to send all the debris they left in her weyr back to the nurseries." He shifts a glance to the direction that N'thei is turning in, and does what Isziyo's do best: falling silent.

"Ah." This time of day, there's always someone coming-or-going across the bowl, and it's easy enough for N'thei to flag down some other candidate-- one that's probably more appropriately intimdated and thus eager to be at his beck-and-call. "Take this crap to the nurseries," is his directive. "And you--" Isziyo. "--come with me."

Isziyo, not properly intimidated. Check. He hands over the baskets to he appropriated candidate, lifts a brow just slightly, and turns to N'thei. "Ah-- yes, sir," he finally states, a hint of wary curiosity crinkling the edges about his eyes as he half-narrows them. It's a thinking expression. (What the heck is this strange-ass bronzerider trying to do with me?), most likely.

Pardon N'thei if he eats while he walks-and-talks, hedging over till they can come to a stop out of the general thoroughfare, with the wall of the bowl to his left maybe a dozen feet away. Prevents the likelihood of anyone meandering up and getting an earful. "I know where some of our ale is. You're going to help me find out how it got there."

At N'thei's words, Isziyo's eyebrows tick upwards just a bit. "Sir?" he neutrally questions, though there's a certain dark gleam in his eyes. He doesn't ask questions, yet, simply looks somewhat expectant-- with a side of growing eagerness, as evident by said hunter's-gleam in the set of his eyes.

Rarely will N'thei bother to explain, but-- in case this conversation ever gets out (in which case Isziyo will probably get killed)-- he notes, "This is normally A'son's business. Doesn't have the stomach for it, plus he could actually stop me." So. "At a bar, not far off Tillek, they're selling it. And there's two things as talk to men like that-- money and fists."

"Well, I've got one enough," Isziyo companionably states. "When are we going?" Beat. "Or when am I going?" Cue expectant look times two. Questions? Isz don't need no stinkin' questions. He wants the ale back just as much as the next 'Reachian - or maybe a little more, come to think.

"We try money first." Scooping oatmeal with his toast, N'thei chews in silence that could be taken for speculative if it weren't for the fact that he's not exactly a thinking man. Upon swallowing; "Best we get this straight first. You have to be a decent fellow, offer a little cash, all he has to do is tell us who sold him the beer. When he says no--" Not if. "--remind him that we don't have to be so generous. Then we take him out back and beat hell out of him till he talks." Which makes Isziyo the good cop?

Man. Take all the fun out of it! And here Isziyo was looking forwards to going /directly/ to the interrogation practices illegal in four weyrs, seven holds, and one crafthall. "Works for me," Isziyo states after a moment or three to think over 'the plan'. He contemplates N'thei for a moment or two as well, just for the hell of it. "When?"

"No time like the present." There's a little tiny partial bitty lilt of question on there, like N'thei's kinda almost asking 'now?' Of course, he still has to finish scooping oatmeal into his face. "Wasn't but one or two drunkards there when I left, dead quiet."

"Works for me." Hey, at least the kidlets haven't managed to make a mess of Isziyo's clothing yet, this early into the morning. "Hopefully Milani won't have my ass for shirking chores." There's a slight smirk given for that statement, though, and the words themselves are delivered in a tone only bored enough to indicate the fact that... Isz is really not that worried over that.

Confidently, N'thei answers, "Milani won't have your ass. If she asks--" Well, no, the first thought that occurs to him does trigger the flicker of a smile, but he doesn't follow through with the explanation. "If she asks, tell her it's my fault, and she can talk to me about it. Take this in the kitchen and get a coat on your way back, damn cold at altitude." With bowl held out expectantly.

"Sir," Isz states in a netural tone of acceptance, taking the bowl and turning towards the kitchens. If he rolls his eyes, it's only after his back's turned - hey, he's only mildly snarky, not suicidal. Even, measured strides carry him into the caverns and back out, a few minutes later, a heavy, well-worn leather jacket carried over a shoulder. Professional Thug Isziyo ready to go!

Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area(#1636RJ)

A little ramshackle and moss-grown around the edges, most riders would probably have a fit about the green condition this place is in. Perched on the side of the road between High Reaches Weyr and Crom Hold, this is your typical small waystation comprising a four-walled building with a main room filled with dilapidated tables and chairs, a splintery bar and copious quantities of bad beer. There's a kitchen at the back and a single large room where cots can be set up for sleeping. A small beasthold provideds shelter for up to a half-dozen runners.

There's little enough to be said for the trip here. N'thei does not offer a hand to help his new friend, cough, up, does not give him warning before Wyaeth starts aloft. He expects Isziyo to know what to do with the strap he's handed, presumably before the bronze has made the pop into *between*. It's not until the Tillek shoreline comes into view that he has a word for his passenger, actually. "They know who I am, but they don't know who you are. Best you play like you've got a dragon, not like you're still waiting for one, neh?"

Several things Isziyo may be, but he has enough experience to know to strap himself in and brace for the cold of /between/-- and little experience enough to clearly be soaking in the sight of the world laid out before him from a dragon's-eye view. Hey, he's not /that/ jaded yet. It's pretty! "Yes, sir," Isz replies, at the statement. Good thing he's not wearing a knot. "Should be easy enough to fool them, if they don't have that much experience around riders." Because a rider Isz is not, even if he has callouses enough. It's easy enough for Isziyo to fall back into his typical, perpetual silence-- though it's thoughtful, now.

Whatever. It's Tillek on the verge of winter. Soon enough, it'll all be gray and bleak-- though it's not so bad with the sun peeking through. "Just try and pretend like you know, no matter how bad it goes in there, there's a big damn dragon as has your back," explains N'thei, underscored by an amused rumble from beneath the pair of them. Wyaeth sounds like he begs to differ, and the landing-- a sudden drop of six or seven feet, him landing hard on all four paws-- is an especially thumpy one. The bronzerider is at least partially braced for it, though the exhale afterward is pained nonetheless. To go along with the Isziyo-the-rider ploy, Wyaeth settles a good quarter-mile down the road from the ramshackle bar.

As tough as he is, Isz wasn't expecting the sudden drop, though he gives only a somewhat-startled grunt at the impact to indicate as such. "Got it," Isz states after a moment, waiting for Wyaeth to come to a complete stop before unbuckling himself from the straps and finding his way down to the ground. If he winces when he finally hits the ground- well, it's probably the bronze's fault, given the opaque glance askance. "Only one barkeep?" Isz questions, after a moment, unbuttoning the leather coat to leave it hang open.

Low; "Eight fucking turns of that." But N'thei hits the ground not long afterward, tossing straps back up so they don't drag in the dirt, then already on his way toward the bar. "Was when I left, likely still just the one. Never seen but him and one waitress on a busy night, think it might be his wife. Damn ugly woman, that one." There's hardly a sign of life on approach to the building, the door swinging partially open, the lights on inside. "And he thinks I left drunk as sin, so best we keep it as you're back from your own long night carousing, neh?"

There's only a matching glance askance to N'thei's eight-turns comment, and a slight glance back at the bronze. Heh. Go figure. An asshole dragon for an asshole! How fitting. Isz falls in step next to the older man, loosening the muscles of his shoulders with a couple of languid shoulder-rolls. Regarding debauchery and the general application thereof, the younger man snickers under his breath. "Of course," Isz states formally in reply, a smirk slowly lifting the corners of his lips. Hey! This is going to be fun. Right?

N'thei tugs open his coat, fusses at his collar till it goes appropriately askew, runs a hand across the top of his head-- not much hair there, but he makes the short bristle of it unsmooth. He pats his cheeks a couple times, rises color in his expression, and pushes open the door with a loud, "Could just as well fly straight fucking home, brother. Not like it's that fucking far!" He's been drunk-and-loud often enough that he plays it pretty well, dragging Isziyo in by a big mitt heavily on the younger man's shoulder. Inside, all is as one would expect: a drunk face-planted on a table in the corner, one man weaving on a stool in front of the remnants of his beer and dignity, and a bleary-eyed barkeep ready for the place to clear out so he can hit the sack.

"Not so far at all, but I'm not fucking done," Isziyo replies - loudly, and with all the staunch beligerance of a man well into his whiskey. "And you know just as soon's as we've winged in, me damned wingleader will be on my ass," comes the complaint, Isz leaning his frame towards the bar, shifting to haul the bronzerider over with him. Hey! Look! It's a bar! "Two more beers, an' I'll babysit your ass back to your ledge," the candidate proclaims. "Unless you're too much of a wuss. Barkeep! A round for me and mine." He gestures at N'thei with a grand sweep of one hand. "Ale, if you have it."

And it's a heavy-footed progress to the bar, hand mostly falling off Isziyo's shoulder and on to the top of the bar with a loud thud, leaving N'thei to proclaim, "Beer!" And sit down soundly on a stool he hadn't left so long ago, by all appearances so far in his cups he can't form rational sentences. Which leaves the bartender to eye the pair of them-- big boys-- disappointedly. "You lads seem a bit deep in it already," he says doubtfully, even while he reaches for a pair of mugs. "Sure you shouldn't just be calling it a night?"

"Oh, come now," Isziyo returns, all bluff humor, "Our marks spend just as well as theirs," with a hitch over his shoulder towards the two other drunkards. He settles down into a barstool with a near ominous creaking heard-- damn faulty old furniture-- and snorts towards N'thei. "Never mind him," he continues, a friendly front overtaking his facial expression, "He's had a rough few turns." Said to the barkeep, but of course, with a jerk of the chin towards the bronzerider. "/We/ keep gettin' blamed for things that we've had nothin' to do with, y'see, and it makes a man paranoid after a while." Playing the part of the verbose, cheerful drunk to the hilt, "S'why we thank Faranth /every day/ for /beer/."

"I'm not saying they don't," answers the bartender conscientiously, watching while N'thei fishes around clumsily in his pockets to find his markpurse. Which is, indeed, quite plump with coin. "Just your friend's dropped half Bitra's marks here already, and I don't think I can cart both you lads out on my own." Not a little man, with his portly gut and beefy shoulders, but he's not up to snuff compared to this pair of big gents. "So long as you'll carry him, here you are." And he sets down those two mugs, brim-filled with Tillek's finest. Not the sort of stuff usually found in backwater establishments.

Tillek's finest! Isz takes a long draw, followed by one longer still, settling down the mug with a sudden light in his eyes, nose crinkling and eyes narrowing. "Thei, did you /taste/ this swill? It's horrible." He seems to ignore the barkeep's questions, and takes a long sip of his own. "Absolutely terrible. How much are you charging us for this pisswater?" Happy big man go boom. What was the plan, again, N'thei? Oh yeah. Wait! He'll take it back. Give him a minute.

Also, N'thei can be a belligerent drunk, giving his new-friend a cross look from over the rim of the drink he's not actually sampled yet; "That's not my fucking name. It's--" He closes his mouth like he's swallowing a particularly unpretty burp. Then. "And it's not fucking swill. This is Edeline's beer, and you'll not be calling it-- wait. This is Edeline's beer. Where'd you get Edeline's beer?" Under the bar, a big-booted-foot aims a stern kick at Isziyo's calf, only one person can be a loose canon if this isn't going to become a nightmare real fast, remember?

Isziyo slides a rather big, perhaps sly grin at N'thei. Hey. He had to coax the bronzer out somehow, eh? Competitive bastard. "Edeline's beer? /Lady/ Edeline? If the good 'keep has Edeline's beer, he certainly must have a good reason for it," Isz takes the good-cop mentality in point zero zero seven seconds. "He must have bought it from someone." Dark eyes swivel to the bartender, and Isz executes one of those large, bluff smiles of friendship he's so good at, when he wants to be. Charming, even. "Information like that would be worth somethin' to my buddy here, you know," he leans forwards to offer the statement in a lower, conspiratorial murmur to the bartender. "We would make it worth your while," and the long reach of one arm tags past the beer-mugs to rather obviously ping against N'thei's mark-pouch. "/Well/ worth your while."

To stay in business this long, the barkeep must have a few ounces of smarts buried under all that pudge. He eyes the pair of them with a conscientious gleam while he fishes none-too-subtly under the bar for a handy-dandy beat-stick. Though he drops a look to all that money, now steepled beneath the slope of N'thei's fingers, after he licks his lips nervously, the man looks Isziyo square in the face and says bravely, "I'm not telling you boys anything. You better just take your leave." And he points to the door with his sturdy wooden bat.

Craaaaaaaaaaaack. Those simultaneous popping noises are courtesy of Isz, who's bridged his fingers and flexed them, as a man is wont to do before getting down to business. His drunken demeanor hasn't yet completely slid away, but he does stand, and simply Loom on the other side of the bar. "Maybe you want to rethink that, good sir," in the tones of a very serious, very polite, very sober young man with dark eyes just this side of earnest. It could possibly be scary as crap. Isz wouldn't know. "We could get what we want, you get what you want," a flick of fingers towards the marks in question, "And we wouldn't have to get anything bloody in the process." Cue significant look here.

"Hah! I know all about your lot," says the bartender courageously, bouncing the stick on the edge of the bar like he's quite confident that stick alone is going to save him from certain doom. "You think you can--" But he's cut short, because N'thei's hand closes neatly around the end of that rod and yanks it unceremoniously away, lays it down on his side of the bar. "You'll get nothing from me. I don't know nothing about where that beer came from, save it's mine legitimately," the bartender continues with a new note of panic, now skittering hurriedly toward a backroom, one he can presumably lock safely behind him. Given a moment, N'thei'll be over the bar after him, but let's hope Isziyo's quick enough to keep that lock from sliding home first.

Isziyo was ready for that-- he takes the bar in a standing, one-handed vault that would be impressive if one wasn't aware that Isz works with beasts for a living, and fence-jumping in a handy skill for survival when you handle herdbeast bulls. If the bar is still standing after the force of his hand coming down on one spot, like that-- now, that's a different story. Long strides catch up with the barkeep quickly enough, and his half-sprint turns into a linebacker rush as one shoulder comes crashing down on the door. Let's hope that the guy wasn't standing directly behind it...

Enh. It's a seedy bar. If two big men climbing across it were to bring it down, the place would need a new bar every week. N'thei's not nearly so graceful, but he's over well enough with the wood-scrape of his new toy coming with him. Leaving the door to Isziyo's delicate management, he stays a step behind till the splinter of wood betrays that the doorjamb gives way, the door swings hard inward, and the man is fishing around in his small office-back-room for anything weapon-like. "It won't do you any good," he says, realizing he's just stuck, coming to a stop a few feet from the broken door. "I don't know anything anyways!"

"Who the hell sold you it? That's all we want to know," Isziyo, ever logical and, uh, nearly polite given the circumstances, barges in, skidding to a halt approximately three feet into the room. "We only want to know where you got it from." He shifts his weight, one foot coming slightly ahead of the other, hands closing in loose fists at his sides. "This your last chance for this to go easy."

"Fuck easy," is N'thei's solution, and he steps neatly around Isziyo with momentum gathered to catch the portly barkeep up by his collar, to step him swiftly across the rest of the room till the back of the man's head hits the wall hard enough to see stars. "You knew whose beer it was when you bought it. And my friend there? He likes his beer. So tell us what we want to know, or I'll" To his credit, for all his face is red and his eyes bulge worriedly, the man just keeps shaking his head and shaking his head and insisting, "I don't know who stole it!"

"We don't care who /stole/ it," Isz patiently states, stepping after N'thei with careful feet placement. "We care where you /got/ it from. I'm sure you didn't just find it on the roadside somewhere, eh?" The young man leans in, a slight smile on his face. "Hey, man, don't get me wrong, I like you just fine. I'd have been fine with sitting out there drinking and carrying on. Hell, I'd even have helped you clean the other drunks out. But now you've gone and made /him/ mad," he hooks a thumb towards N'thei, "And really, the only thing that will make him happy at this point is if you start talking." There's a pause to let that sink in. "I would start talking if I were you. But maybe I'm smarter than you, or--" A semi-distasteful look crosses his face. "You're not /into/ being beaten within an inch of your life by big men, are you? Because if you're getting off on this, I'll probably need to go throw up," all matter-of-fact.

Puffing, puffing, puffing because N'thei's gone and put that stick right up against his adam's apple, face red as beets, the bartender insists, "I-- don't-- know-- who--" But that's the wrong answer, and there's a fist to back it up. The bartender flails about a little, manages to land a glancing blow across N'thei's temple that'll likely leave him puffy-eyed later, but it's a very gasping, breathless effort. "I don't-- I-- call 'im off'n I'll talk I'll talk I'll talk!"

Isziyo strides forwards, and places a heavy hand on N'thei's shoulder. "Ease up, let's see what he has to say," is stated in a low, companionable voice. Isz' gaze is focused on the barkeep, a single eyebrow raised in question- and silence.

But-- but-- but no one ever lets N'thei choke people out. He shoots a disgruntled look over his shoulder at the candidate/faux-rider, the stick coming away from the bartender's neck, both hands clutching the front of the man's shirt to keep him pinned to the wall. "It was--" And the poor man's got a hand going to his neck, rubbing fleshy folds. "Never did business with him before. He said..." There's a lot of panting to be done. "He said he had a good deal if I was interested, and I was."

"What'd he look like?" Isz finds something that looks fairly stable, and leans up against it, a tabletop at hip-height, gently backtracking the man. "Did he seem as if he was from this area? Have an accent at all?" Descriptions are key. And Isz ignores any sulky looks from N'thei. He's a big boy. He can take care of himself.

Since Isziyo hasn't started beating on him (yet?), the bartender tries to keep his focus on that man instead of the beefy-fisted-fellow keeping him flush against the wall. "About-- about my height, brownish hair, light eyes. No accent, never seen him before. I told you." He casts a wary glance at the fingers tightening on the front of his shirt when his tone turns plaintive. "I don't know what you want to know. I just paid the man and he went on about his business!"

"His team-- I'm sure he had to have a wagon, to deliver it, right? Did he use burdenbeasts or runners, or drays? What'd his wagon look like? Did he come /here/?" Isziyo drums his fingers absently against the tabletop, as if he's quickly tiring of this thread of conversation.

"What do I look like, a herder?" The bartender gets a hard shove against the wall for his impertinence, another smack of the back of his head that makes him cringe. "He had a wagon. A small one. Two ponies, the little ones like they have up at the Reaches. Hairy."

Isziyo gives a flip of his fingers, an impatient gesture. "Sorry, man. I was wrong. He obviously doesn't have any information that's worth our time. Go ahead and have fun with him, if that's what you want," his face turning dismissive in an instant, Isz righting himself and turning as if to leave, shaking his head and muttering under his breath about tavernkeepers without decent information.

"Wait wait wait wait wait!" says the bartender, right around the time there's a happy-sounding sock in his nice fleshy cheek. A little blubbering then, all he can add is, "He was a middle-man! He said-- he said he could get more if I wanted it, but he'd have to meet his contact up near Crom before he could deliver more. That's all I know!" Itchy though he might be, N'thei holds himself with a peer toward Isziyo; beatings to commence now, boss?

Bossman Isz pauses, a slow smile spreading over his face. He half-turns, his silhouette to the pair, and the smile has turned into an expression that cannot bode well. "You know how to contact him?" Isz questions, in his same polite tone, an eyebrow tilted over dark eye.

Bummer. That's the slump to N'thei's arms, though pressure still holds the barkeep to the wall. Especially since the guy nods, though he actually says, "No, not directly. He said he expects he'll be back this way before the roads're blocked. I could--" He looks warily at the bronzerider, hopefully at the other fellow. "I could let you know, somehow? When he's back?"

"Why on Faranth's good Pern would we trust you to contact us once he's back?" Isziyo's rumble is still focused on those selfsame polite questions, but there's a bit of incredulousness behind his voice, this time.

"Because you don't have any choice? Ow!" For another lump on the back of his head on account of the bartender getting impertinent there.

"We could stay here, I suppose. Get me out of sweeps, at least. Lump-o'-bones out there wouldn't mind." Isz states this with a thoughtful demeanor, though his gaze turns, guardedly questioning, to N'thei.

Trying to rub the back of his head is hindered by the mitts still holding his shirt, but the bartender gives it a shot. "Not today, you dummies. He was through here a week ago? Maybe more, and said he'd be back. You wanna stay here that long?" Even N'thei has to give the man a 'he has a point' shrug. "But you make it worth my while--" See? Money talks. "--and I'll send word up to your Weyr when he's here next, yesss?"

"You betray us, and they'll never find the body." The sentence is oddly lacking of emotion, and the remote expression on Isz' face is eerily scary, as if from a man watching a bug.

N'thei adds helpfully, "Hey now, they might find a few pieces." With the butt of the stick, he prods the man in his bulgy belly and then takes a step back, smoothing out the bartender's shirt with hands brushed across his shoulders. "Wouldn't dream of it, sirs," he assures, eyes lit with a little avarice. "So long as I'm well-paid."

"Half now, half when you send word," Isz states, almost dismissively, and does head for the door this time. "Give the man the information he needs to send word, would you," is half-stated half-questioned to N'thei with an only slightly significant lift of one brow. Wouldn't do to give the man the name of a candidate, after all, and Isziyo is too young in this game of intrigue to know exactly what the elder man has in mind. With that said, he smiles, a bare-bones smile, and states, "It was a pleasure doing business with you," and exits out the door into the tavern proper.

N'thei, left alone, exits a few moments later, flexing his index finger experimentally, testing how far it'll bend before his permanent knuckle-scab breaks. Outside, he puts the man's stick back where it came from, leaves a fairly sizable sum of marks on the bar, and collects Isziyo outside the door. All that distills to: "Well-handled, lad."

Isziyo nods, once, an introspective expression on his face. "Thanks," he replies, a side-glance given and a half-shrug of the shoulder. "You too, sir." He lapses into silence for the duration of the trek back to Wyaeth. If he has questions, he doesn't ask them.

Which is why Isziyo'll probably get invited along for the encore whenever chubby gets word that his contact's come back to town. --The trip back is nearly as uneventful, with Wyaeth stopping in the bowl-- again, thump-ow-landing-- only long enough to let off his passenger. N'thei has not yet seen his bed, and it's high time that issue was resolved.