Difference between revisions of "Logs:Brewfest Gossip"

Lacking the seedy quality many major ports might have, Tillek is actually surprisingly clean from its whitewashed stone walls that glitter in the summer sun to the immaculate marketplace courtyard where vendors trade and sell their various wares. Fish. Scarves. Sweaters. And of course, the ubiquitous Tillek red. Though perhaps it's not so surprising as the yearly Tillekian brewfest is just days from starting and the entire Hold is not only rolling out the red carpets but dusting them thrice to be sure of their cleanliness. The gossip of the Hold is that Lady Edeline, cause no one takes Lord Potipher seriously really, might name her only child as the official heir finally. "I don't know why it's taken her so long," gossips one ruddy haired girl as she hands over a pair of geese to a rough-faced fisherman. "Maybe because he's never sure it's actually his. Happened so quick she got with Thedrin after she and Potipher up and married. Too quick if you ask me," returns a hunched over old woman tending to her pottery stand. "I hear it's because of all the talk of Lord Rynien's troubles with th'Weyr." And so on and so forth, as with all gossip being at most, about 50% truth.

The two exiles -- or pseudo-exile, in Raum's case -- have been here almost a seven, now, long enough to find somewhere to stay, and to get vaguely familiar with the layout. Devaki's taken to dressing as a local, even going so far as to wear the knot of a Tillek resident. Today, he's making his way through the marketplace, not so much on the lookout for something to buy as he is listening to the rumors, pausing here and there as some interesting tidbit or other catches his ear.

In a port this busy, there's enough strangeness come through that even this stranger doesn't stand out /too/ much. Like Devaki, Raum's adopted something of the local way, and for now he's content to trail along after his boss, with an expression more bored than anything else, even as they eavesdrop on the marketplace gossip.

"Fish chowder, sir?" says the littlest girl in the market, a scrawny thing of what appears to be ten, but is more realistically a malnourished fifteen. A hollowed out bread bowl is initially held just beneath those overly large eyes and quickly thrust towards Devaki. He warrants a sir, perhaps due to a manservant, Raum, trailing not so far behind, whom the girl eyes warily. "S'all fresh caught today." It does appear to be a popular sort of stand, the little rustic bar seating nearly filled but for three seats and the haggard looking man behind the counter cooking (and yelling) up a storm. "Please?" is the girl's most eloquent beg.

"Fish?" Devaki echoes, drawn to the girl, his gaze passing over her, countenance amused as he tosses a glance back over his shoulder towards Raum. He crouches down as the girl begs, leaning in as if sharing a secret, "I would," he replies, "But I've sworn a solemn oath never to eat fish again. You wouldn't make me break an oath, would you?" He exhales, as if frustrated, then tips his head to Raum, "But I don't believe my friend here has sworn such an oath--" he lifts a hand to gesture towards Raum dramatically, as if doing such will set the girl on the Other like a pack of monkeys commanded to attack.

The pleading of another would-be seller doesn't much register for Raum, at least until Devaki responds to this one. Then Raum turns to give the islander a look, frowning, before he glances at their entreater. "Maybe not in /your/ hearing," he notes. "Don't you people have anything else?" That, to the girl, as he looks a little bit hopeful of that at least.

A continued wary look is cast to Raum and the bread bowl darts back away, clutched close to her body. "He don't serve servants. They never pay. /They/ eat scraps in the Hold kitchens." The little girl cringes as the cook yells once more and scurries away. "He's a cranky one, but best chowder this side of Ista," calls over what is, from his smell, a dark-haired fisherman at the counter. His pale blue eyes glitter, bemused, above the scruff of a growing beard, "Funny sort of vow to make bein' in Tillek and all." But, like much of that particular breed of worker, he turns away and minds his own damn business. The bustle of Tillek's marketplace is quick to engulf the unsuspecting as late morning starts to shift into early afternoon and the stench of fishermen recedes with their disappearance and leaves in its place the heraldry of Tillek Hold coming out to clean up the courtyard. Much of the talk centers about the heir of Tillek, a bright little boy much doted on by his mother, though there isn't as much talk of the father and if the right questions are asked of the right people, the story of Edeline's ascent to her holdership is all too forthcoming. "Aye, they say that she murdered her own father to claim his lands and title and the Lady Ysave tried to save us from all her manipulations," is cut short by, "Lady Edeline would never do such a thing. It was proven Lady Ysave had a hand in it all. That's why she's banished." - "S'what they'd have you believe. I saw it with me own eyes when the old Lord tumbled. He was /pushed/ to his death right there at the brewfest. It's a wonder they still run that cursed event."

"If I'd known I'd end up in a sea port, I'd probably not have made it," Devaki replies with a rueful sort of shrug and a low chuckle. As the vendor turns away, Devaki straightens, grunting, then pushes onwards. As they walk, he casts a glance towards Raum. "I'd like to meet Lady Edeline. And her son. Her son first, I think." He rubs his hands against his chin, pausing to glance over his shoulder in the direction of the girl and her stall. "Think you could find me a little girl, about the heir's age? Or a boy, but a girl will be better. I think he could do with a playmate."

"Not the brightest kid I've worked with," Raum adds as they walk onward. Of the heir, "He's, what? Six, seven now?" Raum is thinking this idea over, lips pursed. "I can get you one--" are there really doubts about the results? "--but I can't say as to how well she'd do. Kids are pretty bad at playing along with, oh, whatever hell it is we're doing here."

"That's the beauty of kids. They play with whoever, regardless of their Blooded status. Besides, Uncle Raum and Uncle Devaki will spoil her rotten." Devaki seems unconcerned by Raum's words, chuckling to himself at that particular image.

Around the pair, Tillek continues to hawk, make merry, and gossip and the subject turns from how Lady Edeline got her throne, so to speak, to the state of affairs up at the Weyr. "If /I/ were the Weyrwoman, I'd be cuttin' that man's balls off by now," says a saucy, well, womanly friend of sailors everywhere. "If you were the Weyrwoman, we'd be tithing to you on yer back." This sends off a gale of laughter that only quiets somewhat as some of the Hold guards pass by, but when they do, the conversation continues. "They say that those savages were doing some 'orrible ritual in the Weyrleader's weyr. Covered in blood and dripping off the ceilings." There's also some talk of how the price of stuffed firelizards have skyrocketed since the incident, but it's only incidental conversation, right? "Can't 'magine life's good up there, despite how much more the Weyr's buying up of our fish s'pplies," says one, far too sober fisherman. "Haven't seen the likes of them spending so many marks, but they do say them savages eat like-, well, savages." More laughter roars from this little, slightly seedier area of the marketplace.

About this, Raum still looks dubious, but he shrugs. "Uncle Devaki can," he notes. Some snippet of gossip has his attention now: something about bloody rituals and the Weyrleader's weyr that he listens to impassively before glancing back at Devaki. "I suppose Uncle Raum will be stuck playing bad guard, and teaching her actual useful things."

Devaki, too, catches that snippet of gossip, his mouth drawing tighter. Pointedly, he doesn't look at Raum. "Teach her whatever you want," the islander says, with a shrug of shoulders. "Might even prove useful down the track. We have to find someone first. Well, /you/ do."

As if on cue, children scurry past the pair, but it's the children that stop short all conversation of the raunchy little corner of the world and almost all at once, the sketchy dockworkers and slutty wenches scatter. Children and wharf waifs, sadly, seem to always be the precursor to the arrival of the upper echelon of society, a trio of runners, atop which are three elegantly dressed women sitting side-saddle with the colors and badge of High Reaches Hold draped along the steeds' haunches. They don't look down upon the riffraff they ride through on their way towards the manor household. It doesn't stop people from staring up, even as they're being parted with gentle force by the bodyguards. "Here for the Brewfest," seems to be the consensus of the crowd. "Didn't bother with the dragons this time," notes another. "Would you trust them riders?"

Raum, with the rest of the crowd, steps aside for the runners and their riders, though he's only got a brief look for them. He's still watching Devaki as the High Reachians make their way through. "Of course. I am your most loyal servant," he agrees, dryly. "Enjoy the party, relax for a few days. I'll see what I can do."

Devaki is forced to move along with the crowd, though the tenseness in his shoulders suggests he doesn't much care for the deference. At least, not when it's High Reaches Hold. Pale gaze tracks the riders after they pass, eyes narrowed. "They'll be plenty of people visiting for the Brewfest," he says, abruptly. "Maybe even an heir of High Reaches. He was fostered here, Issedi said." And there's a pause as a thought occurs to him, and he nods to himself. "Let's hope the Weyrleaders don't make a habit of visiting. Do we need to keep a low profile?"

Someone overhears Devaki's words and snorts, "Them? They're not invited this turn. Not officially at any rate." Another joins in with, "But they aren't banned."

A nod takes in that speaker; 'there's your answer' in the gesture. But as to low profiles, "Wouldn't hurt. We're--kind of distinctive." Beat. "Well, me, anyway." Considering that Devaki looks like half the High Reaches region. "Stay close to the docks; plenty of going and coming there, so what's a couple more?"

"Not invited?" surprise colors Devaki's tone, as he glances over at the gossiper. "Lady Edeline not too happy with them? Or-- doesn't want another repeat of the High Reaches Hold gather?" he guesses, seeking to cover the clenching of teeth with another rub of his chin. At Raum's suggestion, he nods, giving a brief smirk at the mention of being distinctive. "I hear hats are common, for brewfest. Worth investing in."

The riders pass and the crowd shifts to fill in the empty space. The man that spoke before eyes Devaki incredulously. "Can't remember the last time the High Reaches Weyrleaders were invited formally to Tillek. Not since the last Weyrwoman killed herself. Hey, Jem, is it true that she did it to get away from her Weyrleader?" This, my friends, is how gossip is born. The other speaker, a clean-shaven man of the middle class just shakes his head. "Heard it was at the request of the Lord's fosterling, the Reaches heir Braeden."

For that, Raum gives Devaki a Look. "Never got on with your Northern fashions," nevermind that the islander isn't really one of them, either. Must be a genetic thing. The gossip about the Weyrleaders is only half-heard, more for the feeling of it than the actual details. "Seems like it all goes back a ways now, doesn't it."

"You said to blend in," Devaki reminds him, oblivious to the look. "There's certainly histories here to make use of. I'm going to see just where those riders went, and who they're meeting with. I'll meet you back at the docks later." And he's off, sliding neatly into the crowd.