Difference between revisions of "Logs:Taikrin Sells Her Soul"

It's late. Quite late, for convict work. And yet there are several still on the job... or rather, wrapping up the job. Several are hauling wheelbarrows of rubble away along a glow-lit path, while two - Taikrin and an older man - appear to be putting the last bits of mortar on a previously-crumbly lip of the hole by the light of another set of glowbaskets. They're not quiet about it, either, particularly Taikrin. "Bloody shards, just /had/ t'open my big mouth..." Though her arm droops with fatigue, her voice is full of good old-fashioned complainin' energy. "'Looks a little weak, Journeyman, might be dangerous, Journeyman.' Next time I'm just gonna let it crack apart!"

It's not precisely unusual for Zhikath to land relatively near where the convicts are working at odd moments during the day now and then. Either for some curiosity of his own, or to allow his rider to glower down at them for a few minutes before they move on with their day. Is a bit later than usual when Zhikath lands this time, however, and unlike normal, this time his rider is not mounted. Fog being what it is, he has to come a bit closer than normal to inspect the goings on, though the *people* seem to interest him not at all. Something about the path of glows and the wheelbarrows. He gets close enough to nearly nudge one of them as they pass, then draws back abruptly at a series of colorful invectives.

"And then he's got the stones t'tell me I found so /I/ better fix it! Or else he's gonna say I did it a'purpose!" Taikrin continues ranting in her work-mate's direction, though the man seems to have grown numb to her complaints to judge from his utter lack of response. "And /then/--" The sound of Zhikath's landing might be more or less ignored, but the combination of landing /and/ swears is enough to startle Tai out of her tirade. In fact, she's startled enough that she whirls, spraying bits of mortar long the length of the wall. Into the foggy darkness she squints at the large, dark shape, demeaner suddenly tense. "Oi, Ganner... you hear that? What the bloody shells you think he's doin' to 'im?"

There's not enough screaming for the man with the wheelbarrow to have been devoured yet. He's just annoyed, and goes about what he was doing when Zhikath withdraws. Unwelcome there, the bronze approaches the work site itself instead. Not close, of course. Just... looming, big and shadowy. Then there's more cursing, but that's not the voice of the guy with the wheelbarrow. That's W'chek. "What did I tell you about that? Get away from there." That would be the part that isn't just random strings of words good people aren't supposed to know.

Squinty eyes abruptly widen into terribly nervous eyes as Zhikath's looming shadow resolves into something slightly less shadowy, but no less loom-ey. Taikrin draws back up against the rock (complete with still-damp mortar), the paddle held across her chest in an unconscious - but pathetic - defensive gesture. "Think this's why we had couple people missin' from detail t'day?" is the muttered remark to her still remarkably-unconcerned companion. "Think he's hungry or somethin'?" A grunt and roll of the eyes are her only response from the fellow convict, though Taikrin doesn't even seem to notice. A moment's pause, during which her gaze remains riveted to the dragon, before her voice rises in somewhat shrill question. "Can we, uh, help ya with somethin', here?"

Soon thereafter, W'chek becomes a proper shadow, and then the shape of an unhappy-looking bronzerider. Well, an unhappy-looking barely-past-teenage young man who happens to wear the knot of a bronzerider. "What makes you think *you people* could be any sort of helpful? No. We're just leaving. Well. As soon as he'll leave." He sounds, for just a moment there, a little less than sure, but no less glowery, with the arms crossed and all. "What are you all up to this late anyway? I thought you were all supposed to be... out of the *way* by this hour."

If the wall weren't there, Taikrin likely would have backed her way all the way to Ista by now. As it is, she's pressed quite firmly against it... almost as though she'd been mortared into place. "Workin'." The comment is offered warily, and it takes a moment of silence until Taikrin elaborates. "Found a bad crack, miner was afraid freeze tonight might take the whole lip off. Uh. Sir. Ain't that right, Ganner?" Her companion is nudged with the business end of the paddle, though this elicits only a grunt of acknowledgement. "Nearly done, we was, so, uh, sir, if ya want us t'stop... pro'lly it ain't gonna fall off tonight no more'n we can go inside and you can--" Teeth snap shut on the rising flow of babble rather abruptly, and with an audible click.

The glower abates slightly at that first 'sir'. Maybe just a smidge, but it's something. W'chek's shoulders straighten. He's important. Yeah. Zhikath meanwhile is minding none of them, now off investigating a glowbasket again, but at least now there's nobody who he's directly in the way of for the moment. "If you have *legitimate* work, you're not getting out of it that easily," the rider says, loftily. "I mean, do you really think 'prolly it ain't gonna fall off' is enough assurance for the safety of the Weyr? It is most absolutely *not*."

Taikrin attempts to sidle away from W'chek in a motion that is first subtle then... not so subtle. Eyebrows knit together, and her response to W'chek sheds some of her previous wariness in favor of a dash of confusion. "Whatever ya say, uh, sir." A shoulder rises in a shrug-- or at least, it attempts to rise. In reality it only twitches up a few inches, which causes the look of consternation to grow. "Well, uh, we're just gonna get back to it then, so, uh, sir, it's real boring, uh, work. Sure yer not interested or nothin'." Yes, cool as a cucumber, this one.

That only serves to make W'chek look more suspicious. "Of course I'm not going to find anything you're doing out here *interesting*. It's not my area. Are you sure you've got approval to be doing this work this late?" He cranes his neck around, looking for someone more official perhaps, but in this fog who'd know? Zhikath finds a lot of the things out here interesting. The glow baskets. The project itself. The convicts, which is not likely to make this 'Ganner' fellow very happy, since he's the one on the business end of the bronze snout.

"Sure we do, uh, sir." Taikrin peers off into the darkness over W'chek's shoulder, towards the line of glow baskets. "Supervisor was over here earlier, reckon he went off t'the dump site." Finally, something that elicits more than a grunt or a shrug of response from the taciturn convict! Ganner lets out an oath in an incredibly hoarse voice, nearly toppling over in surprise. He is not, however, intimidated otherwise. A nasty glare is turned towards that offending snout, and he demands in that horribly raspy voice, "What's the big idea?!" Taikrin, on the other hand? Obviously freaked. She gives a harder jerk away from the dragon, and with an ominous ripping sound her problem becomes clear. The near shoulder remains stuck to the wall, though she has enough slack now to at least partially face that selfsame nose. "Oi, you leave 'im alone! Don't you dare eat 'im, or I'll--" The threat trails off, though not for want of glower.

Once there's glaring and freaking out, Zhikath pulls back abruptly, and W'chek's attention is turned to the bronze--"No. Absolutely not. Stop that. I've never seen you be so rude in my--well, in your life anyhow. What is the matter with you?" If his chewing out his dragon wasn't sufficiently odd behavior, he goes back to glaring at Taikrin--"Of course he's not going to *eat* him. Got no reason to eat any of you when there're perfectly good herdbeasts in the pens. Not that it wouldn't be just what you lot deserve, finally making you *some* use to society."

Taikrin is far from mollified. Another sharp jerk -- and another unfortunate ripping sound -- and she's free of the wall, finally. "Just 'cause we're here t'do yer dirty work don't mean I'm gonna be a toy fer th'likes of you." That 'sir' is notably absent, now; fear is fading quickly in the face of righteous indignation. "Six more sevendays, I'm free as you!" Ganner brushes himself off slowly, and, after a quick glance proves there is still no immediate supervisor to the area, he mutters, "Just going to go see if I can find Overseer Sitam." One eye carefully fixed on Zhikath, the older convict hurries away down the glow-lit path.

That's two for righteous indignation, then. "Six more sevendays and you're going home to raise a dozen well-behaved children, then? Have yourself a good set of useful skills, do you?" W'chek's sneering as he says it, with little to no attention paid to the other leaving to get the overseer. "Bad blood, the lot of you. Don't you think I believe for a second that you're going to spontaneously turn into an honest woman after this." Zhikath is sitting back, now. Almost shockingly well-behaved, except for occasional rumbles of--something, that get dirty looks cast in his direction, though few words, except once: "No, I absolutely will not."

Well, that touched a nerve. Taikrin's jaw drops, just for a moment, before her mouth closes back up into an almost comical moue. "Gonna be /jes/ fine, me. Got all sorts'a things I'm good at what might make a few marks." Take, for example, the fine, strong grip she's got on that mortar paddle held rigidly at her side! "'Least I ain't sneakin' around in the dark havin' fun at people what can't fight back. 'Least I'm honest 'bout what I am!" Eyes narrow, fear and caution forgotten in the precipitous rise of her temper. "'Sides, like t'see you fixin' this place up without me an' my useful skills."

"All sorts'a things," W'chek repeats back to her, mocking the accent openly now--not like this supervisor has returned yet to hear. "And not a one of 'em counts as illegal, antisocial behavior, I take it?" Though he did flinch, visibly, at the bit about being honest. "There are honest, hardworking folk as need work in the interval. People who deserve the jobs a lot more than *you* lot. And--" His eyes turn back to Zhikath suddenly, as he snaps, "I told you, no. Under no circumstances. I don't care what they said. We are not Searching any of this lot!"

Taikrin's accent does, in fact, seem to grow thicker the more irate she becomes. "'Least I can fend fer m'self! Ain't need th'Weyr t'feed an'clothe an' wipe me!" Judging by the subtly flapping cloth danging from the back of her jacket, that might not be an accurate statement. Taikrin doesn't seem to be aware of that fact yet, though, in her haste to spew more venom. "I'm doin' honest hard-working work right 'ere, me, an' I'm doin' it /just/ fine! Ain't so many of yer soft folk like gettin' their hands dirty on rock." At that last, her arms spread wide, though the paddle is still held firmly in one fist. "Go ahead, if it'll make ya feel safer," she taunts. "I ain't got nothin' I ain't s'pposed t'have on me. Not like I'd need it, anyways." Er, perhaps there's been a misunderstanding.

"You *stupid* woman." W'chek draws out that second word, too. Stew-pid. Dripping with unpleasant tones. "It's not my responsibility if you have contraband. I have bigger things to worry about than you." In his private world where he is important and not just 'the guy K'del no longer allows to talk to anybody important'. For, it might seem at this point, obvious reasons. But Taikrin's new. She called him sir! Therefore, here, he is Mr. Big Shot. "Search. For the *eggs*. What did your parents teach you, anyhow?"

"I ain't--- aint---..." Though hotly begun, Taikrin peters out relatively quickly as understanding finally blooms. "I-- you--" Her jaw moves side-to-side, as though chewing on the words she can't quite spit out. "He--" Dark gaze flicks rapidly to Zhikath, then back to W'chek. Finally, as that dumbfounded expression settles into one of wary disbelief, she finds her words again. "Hah, it ain't funny! I told you, I ain't no toy here fer you t'have fun with. Bet your like's got marks on how many o'us y'can make lick yer boots a'fore ya kick us in th'head. I ain't buyin' it, me."

Her confusion is not W'chek's problem; he continues to stand there, arms crossed, looking at her like she's just a total moron, until that last bit. "Yes, well. Good, fine. You hear that?" The last is directed at the bronze. "She's not interested. And no idea what you think she'd be any good for anyway. You want to Search somebody, why don't we find some lower caverns kid. Not some *lowlife*." Like Taikrin isn't even there at this point. Finally, to her, "Far as I'm concerned, none of you lot should be allowed on the sands. It's an embarrassment. Believe you me, no skin off *my* back." Then he turns and starts to stride away.

Taikrin remains clearly out of her element, gaze flicking rapidly from W'chek to Zhikath and back again. "Hey, you ain't got no right! I ain't some piece a'trash ya can just throw around!" As he turns, though, more than a little doubt flickers across her face. "You--" A half-step is taken in the direction W'chek is heading before Taikrin is even aware of it, and her voice has a rather plaintive note in it. "You ain't actually /serious/, are you? 'Bout that whole, uh, job thing?" She can't quite bring herself to say it, even.

"I," says W'chek, only just barely turning back around a few paces away, "don't believe you're capable of keeping yourself out of trouble for all of Candidacy and Weyrlinghood, much less caring for *another living being*. Hell of a responsibility. And as far as *I'm* concerned, you can rot." He turns halfway again, then stops, scowls at his dragon, finally says, "Zhikath, *he's* never anything but serious, for whatever damned reason." Under his breath, he mutters something about favors and owing and 'catching Jeibeth'.

"You don't know nothin' about me!" There's little heat left in Taikrin's voice, though, and that plaintive note remains in her voice. "You ain't got no right, judgin' me." Arms are folded tightly over her chest, her tool dangling still one one hand. A glance flicks up towards Zhikath, measuringly this time, then back to W'chek. A deep breath is sucked in, then, hesitantly: "He-- Zhikath? -- he said I could be a-- a-- candidate?"

Heave of a sigh. "Yes. We've established he has poor taste." Although what that says about W'chek, well. He scowls. "But I'm not coming back if you want to waffle over it. And this isn't my idea. And so help me, you prove an embarrassment and I will see to it you get what you deserve for it." From the venom in those words, hanging might be a real possibility. "So *help* me." Zhikath just sits there, a strangely serene shadow, evidently now content.

Taikrin's jaw works once more in that odd chewing motion, several emotions flickering across her rather dirty face. "I could..." A glance at the trowel in her hand turns into a few seconds of study before she turns and deliberately sets it down besides the hardening bucket of mortar. "Fine." Dark gaze returns to W'chek, still wary for signs of a trick, but as she wipes dirty hands on the sides of her pants and walks a couple of paces closer to the bronzerider, her expression is otherwise inscrutable. "If he thinks so. I'll go." From the tone of her voice, it's possible she believes she's heading to her grave.

Another sneer. "Fine," says W'chek. "You tell your supervisor. Sure somebody can help you find the barracks. Hear they've got you lot segregated, at least." This is probably something that Search riders are supposed to do, isn't it? Helping the person get settled in? Yeah, no. Not happening. "No drunkenness and you'll be on your best behavior." Not a suggestion. These are his only words of wisdom on the subject. "Congratulations." Then he heads over to Zhikath at last, to mount up.

Taikrin pivots on her heel, following W'chek's progress back to his dragon with increasing amounts of disbelief. "So-- that's it? I just... tell him, an' he's gonna believe me? What's yer name, so's I can tell him proper?" Beat. "Sir." She starts to slowly back away, though her attention remains fixed on W'chek and Zhikath as if still expecting to be bitten. "Then I'll just get me on t'finding 'im, like..."

"W'chek. Zhikath." He at least calls that much back to her as he's getting the straps set and checked--like mere proximity to convicts might have resulted in them becoming unsafe. He does not, however, actually inquire as to *her* name. No, he's got better things to do, like getting home to gripe for a few hours about how he was forced to talk to criminals today. Zhikath takes off as soon as his rider is mounted, and disappears into the fog above.