Logs:Benden Gather: Runner Auction
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| RL Date: 17 August, 2008 |
| Who: N'thei, Satiet, Persie |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 28, Month 6, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| Crafter Row, Benden Hold Crafter Row turns out to actually be quite a few rows, their booths set at right angles to one of the minor roads that link the main Hold with its cotholds, bustling during the day and quieter at night. They also host far more than crafters, though representatives of every craft are present, offering their wares for purchase now or commission later. Food and drink can be purchased here, a more varied selection or just plain /more/ than the free portions served up by the Hold. Dented pots can be mended. Bootsoles can be repaired. Fortunes can be told. One of the back aisles features handwork, mostly by locals at a price that can compensate for quality and lack of crafter's mark. Corrals on the far side allow for animals of most types to be admired, raced, or bought outright. And, wandering around, there's a man in a motley cap making up doggerel on the fly for a thirty-second or a song. At the base of the ramp leading up to the main courtyard, the watchwher's kennel has been locked for the occasion. The day's still young, the party still early, the people still vigorous despite this afternoon's heat, and the prices are dropping steadily. Way over at the back of the rows, on the edge where all the corrals are, N'thei and a fairly young gentleman have climbed up on to the fencing and taken a seat to watch an auction for some prime-looking runners. The fairly-young-gentleman can't be more than four or five at most, and teeters precariously on the fencerail with his babysitter-- babysitter?-- in apparent oblivion. The kid's positively delighted by the appearance of one ridiculously expensive pony being trotted through the ring. This is exactly the sort of thing that suits certain greenriders with a penchant for color. There's color everywhere! Pretty boothes full of pretty things, people dressed up in pretty clothes. Pretty! And so the thin blonde in a spring green dress doesn't stand out much, as she might in drabber, stonier locales, when she spots a familiar figure on the corral fence and leaves off her bracelet perusing to wander over. She goes not to the man, but his little companion, hands going out to steady him on the rail. "Who's your friend?" she asks the boy, turning a rather teasing smile toward N'thei as she waits for the child's answer. Even the kinds of little boys that someone would trust N'thei to watch over don't just go blurting out life stories to strangers; the kid, brown-haired, brown-eyed, considers Persie suspiciously while he tries to hook his feet through the rails like he doesn't need help from this lady. N'thei's kenned to her presence already, of course, and glances over sidelong before giving the kid a barely-visible nod of reassurance. So the little boy pronounces emphatically, "Who are /you/?" Have to start breeding mistrust in them at an early age. Once he's got his feet in the rail, the blonde takes a hand off the boy's back and offers him one. N'thei's little go-head nod makes her grin rather impishly and she tells the boy, "I'm Persie," with a chuckle ot follow for all that mistrust. Of course, it would be a rather awkward hand shake with her on the wrong side of the fence, behind him and all, but she doesn't seem to worry about that. "What do you think of the ponies?" Being all of five, the kid's not really sure what to do about the handshake right away, whether to let go of the fence-- which he's been warned against-- or to be rude and ignore it-- which he's also been warned against. So he explains; "Hi Persie, I can't let go or I have to get down and go to my gramma. But when I get big, I'm gonna buy a pony for me." After which N'thei contributes, "And we'd invite you to you join us, but that dress isn't exactly a fence-sitter." Yes, he /looked/ a little more intently there. No handshake then. Persie just gives the boy a pat. Close enough. "Probably a good idea," she agrees emphatically, "Not letting go. You keep a good grip there, alright?" But she looks to N'thei, then down to her dress, and the fence. It brings a bit of trouble to her brows, makes her mouth frown faintly. "I could probably sit if I could get through the rails," she considers aloud. "Or if you help me up." "Nuh-uh 'cause watch me." The boy is barely off the rail and climbing down when a sharp rebuke stops him dead in his tracks; "Ah! Park it or we're going to your grandma right now." So it's N'thei that rearranges himself, being an adult and thus allowed to be a hypocrite, and twists part way around with his toes hooked on a lower rail to extend a hand toward Persie. "Guess hold that skirt out of the way in one hand, climb like a ladder with your feet, and I'll make sure you don't fall." It's a recipe for disaster if ever there was one. "No, no. You stay there," Persie tells the boy, though her own words are far softer and much more negigible than N'thei's, spoken at the same time. "Don't scuff your shoes," she tells the Weyrleader as she takes his hand and gathers up the green fabric. But this whole climbing thing doesn't seem to go very well for her. She gets a pink shoe on the rail and seems rather uncertain what to do next. With one hand in N'thei's and the other busy with dress, there's no hand left to hold onto the fance. She looks to N'thei. N'thei pulls. Which means Persie's either going to have to walk up the three rails or get her shoulder dislocated. Probably, in his mind, they're both equally viable end results. Luckily, the ponies keep the kid occupied while this all shaking down. "Work with me here, love, or that dress is going to suffer the indignity of landing in a pile of dirt-- or worse." Pony poop! Persie makes a fretful little noise, but with her weight being forcibly lifted, she gets another foot on the rail above, enough to turn her backside onto the top of the fence. Sure, her knees are still pointed away from the corrals, but she's sitting at least. And still holding the bronzerider's hand securely as her balance teeters. "Maybe... maybe I can turn around..." And past N'thei, for the child, "I'm much better at this sort of thing when I'm not all dressed up." Just in case her fence-climbing skills are in question. "It's ok. Girls don't know how to climb stuff anyways." The boy fires this remark off with all the surety of fact, his chubby legs swinging happily now while ponies go trotting by, both him and the runners oblivious to Persie's troubles. Quietly, N'thei contributes, "Just swing one leg over at a time. Here." And he scoops up a big handful of fragile fabric from her skirt to dump it over the ring-side of the fence helpfully, keeping his grin mostly in check the whole time. Poor Persie, precariously perched and engulfed in foofy dress. She does her best to try to keep N'thei's help from accidentally tearing the delicate fabric or making her flash the ponies--there are still plenty of glimpses of pale legs that, with her dressed so, seem rather indecent. And there are a number of protests, "Wait, wait," and "Eee! Don't let go!" but in the end, she's got herself turned around, her heels hooked on a rail, her dress in one piece. But her expression is still uncertain, a faint flush to her cheeks and her hand still holding tight. "When I picked it out, I was thinking of dancing not... climbing fences." Amused; "Might have been wiser then to loiter around the dance hall, not the runner stalls." Or N'thei could have been a gentleman and offered to get down off the fence and do something more conducive to frilly dresses, but let's move on. To his left, the boy has a running dialogue about each pony, which one's spots he likes most, which one he would go fastest on. So he addresses the flasher on his right-- "Buy anything yet?" Yes, but since when does Persie do wise things? She can only look bashful as he points out the folly. "I saw you here," that's her only defense. And she leans foward a bit to look past the man to the boy beside him. "Who's your friend?" she asks, meanwhile getting her skirt smoothed out a bit more. Her grip on his hand starts to loosen, some sign that she's feeling more stable. "Not yet. I don't have much to spend so I want to make sure I buy the right thing. But that booth over there," turning and pointing now so that her balance sways again, "Has some really pretty glass jewelry." In answer-- "Don't know. Some ragamuffin I found in a ditch at the end of the road, neh? Going to fatten him up and feed him to the watchwher in the morning." N'thei elbows the boy, who certainly doesn't look like the lost-waif type of boy being plump and well-groomed and making a mean face in response to what must be a long-standing quarrel. Then, to Persie, "Nephew. And you need glass jewelry?" A fact which seems to cause him some confusion; why would she? "Your nephew?" Oh that does make Persie's face light up. She has to look past N'thei at the boy again, now that he's a relation. "Your sister's?" Because she knows at the very least that there is a sister. "Is the rest of your family here? His gramma... your mother?" For that, she needs to take another look backward, letting go of N'thei's hand to use his shoulder for extra balance instead. Of course with throngs of people about, one woman would could possibly be related to the bronzerdier does not immediately stand out. And Persie is suffering from a little information overload. "Glass jewelry?" It takes her a beat. "Oh! Well... I don't -need- it, I guess. But it was awfully pretty." N'thei answers none. If Persie thinks she'll spot his mom in this crowd, good luck to her. And the boy's just too into his own world to provide any insight, bouncing on the rail while he pretends it's each runner that trots by them. "Cheap though." Glass jewelry. "Wire and glass beads, all looked like it was a glance away from falling apart. There was a whitesmith table that had some nice baubles somewhere." Nice does not equal cheap. Persie just shakes her head, pale hair catching the light breeze. "I can't afford anything like that," she tells him quietly. And he should know that already. She links her arm through N'thei's and once more leans to eye the boy, this time with something to say. "Have you picked a favorite yet? You know, if you wait until you get bigger, you won't be able to ride a pony anymore. They'll be too small." But then she leans into the bronzerider, stretching up so that she can murmur closer to his ear, "Uncle N'thei." That thought does tickle; she can barely keep the laughter from her voice. Satiet heads in from the gather grounds. Satiet has arrived. Still a big bustling bunch of business over here, people buying, selling, looking pretty. There's an auction in the runner pen, right now selling off a fine stock of ponies that go trotting around the corral; it's on the fence of that corral where N'thei can be found, arm-linked with Persie on his right and a little dark-haired boy on his left, the three of them sitting on the rails while the auction goes on. It's the boy that chatters right now, nodding busily and explaining, "I like the ones with spots." So pretty much all of them. "I can buy a pony and it gets big too, so when I'm big I can wait till it's big." Said in such a way as to imply that Persie, being a grown-up, ought to understand these very simple facts. "Then I can ride it. But I'll have this many--" Seven fingers. "But ponies don't get bigger. That's as big as they grow," Persie tries to explain. But when the child holds up so many fingers she ahs brightly. "Well, if you only wait that long, I bet a pony will be perfect. A gray one with spots, maybe? How old are you now?" she asks, holding up her own fingers: one? two? three? four? five? More than that and she'd need another hand. "What's his name?" she wonders of N'thei. With a summer parasol rested lightly over her shoulder, Satiet and a taller blonde woman pick their way through the crowds, pausing at the stall of a crafty sort of Bendenite woman and her amateur bracelets. A quick smile brightens her features, the repartee she grants her companion visible, if unheard by others, in the bright flash of wit in her pale eyes, and the two Reachians share laughter. Presumably, it's laughter not at the expense of the woman for her craggy features also set amused. "Perhaps later," the dark-haired woman promises, "To buy something now and to have to carry it throughout the gather..." Understanding, the woman waves them off without trying to push more wares on the pair, and they continue on their way down the row, closer to the runner pen. Proud; "When it gets cold, I'll be five, and then I can go with granpa instead of gramma." As if on cue, when N'thei's just starting to answer Persie, a small chubby gray-haired woman approaches the trio with quite the frown for the girl all in green perched up on the fence like that. It's obvious, in an instant, where N'thei "gets it," for she says nothing to them but just pulls the boy off the fence to the ground. And neither grandson nor son are big enough in the britches yet to muster complaint or defense. "Mum, Persie. Persie, my mum." With a chubby baby across one hip and her grandson held by the elbow, the older woman holds the pair on the fence with a look: And? --At least the parasol-women are still distant enough not to compound what's got to be an intensely uncomfortable moment for him. "How about that one there?" Persie is suggesting of a flashy little bay with faint dapply across his haunches. Spots. And with her eyes on the pony, she nearly misses the boy getting dragged off the fence. She looks over her shoulder at the woman, then at N'thei, then back again with her mouth slightly open and a really flattering blink. "Hi," she smiles, sudden and bright despite mum's expression. She does, however, start to remove her arm from N'thei's, rather as though asking with that hesitant motion if the presence of his mother should require a bit more distance between them. "He held on tight the whole time," informed to gramma. And "Didn't you?" to the boy. Distant, but approaching. And approaching all the faster for the blonde's growing delight for the show of runners to be auctioned. Pulled along to the fence a few clusters of people from Persie and N'thei, Satiet's delicate little nose wrinkles at the sudden onslaught of runner smells. "Look there, look there," says the taller woman, her thirty-something face transformed into a look of an enchanted teenager once more, as she points out the same bay Persie's just pointed out. "Joi-," begins Satiet, but then just sighs, shaking her head. Giving up at the whole adult and image thing; it is a Gather after all. "What would you /do/ with a runner? What would Vanoroth think?" Persie's hi-- "Yes." Baby gets a better grip; for all her hardness, the boy's unaffected and chatters a cheerful affirmative to back-up Persie, to start telling the tale of watching the runners; it's really only N'thei, filing his lip with his teeth, that seems to suffer any. Likely to thank the greenrider later for loosing his arm. "Help your father take that damn piece of machinery home tonight." With that, she shoulders through the crowd sans apologies for those who get in her way, makes a disparaging comment about people and their stupid f-ing umbrellas while she passes the pair under the parasol. Persie's smile doesn't last all that long with mum looking so grim; she waits for the woman leave, watching her move away and finally noting the parasol down the fence. She cranes to see who's under it but there are too many heads in the way so she turns back to N'thei. Then it's bewilderment written on her face, "So that was your mother. I don't think she liked me." A hand comes up so she can rub lightly at the bridge of her nose. "What machinery?" It's a good thing the woman disparaging parasols is so determined on her path, for the -look- Satiet darts her back could possibly instigate one of those once-in-a-million knock-down drag-out fights between women. Possibly. And after she's spared that woman that look, pale eyes travel up the path she came from and land first on distinctively bright pink shoes and travel up to find Persie. Then across the way, N'thei. Her head tilts, dry amusement thin along her curved lips, and low words are imparted to the entranced Joilin. "Doesn't like anyone, so don't worry. Least she talked to you?" For a whole syllable! N'thei shrugs helplessly, both in response to his mother's demeanor and to Persie's question about the machinery. It's all pure coincidence that he follows a look toward the parasol, that he attaches his attention to Satiet in profile while he's already started saying, "But let's--" Train-of-thought derails for just a second, just a pause, then he's clamoring down on the safe side of the fence. "But let's get down from here before she finds out I let him put half a pie in his pocket, neh?" A hand to help her down, let's hope it's easier than helping her up. Oof, getting down. Persie goes about trying to get the fabric of her dress on the proper side of the fence again. And trying to turn. And... oh this is not going much better. She reaches for N'thei's hand but seems wholly uncertain about how to get herself and her dress off the rail in one piece. "Just help me down." But also, "Why would he put pie in his pocket? Did you see those pretty parasols? I wonder if they bought them here." Distracted, Joilin is easily departed from, the blonde woman striking up an amiable chat with a stranger in regards to that bay and costs and if she might inspect it, so-on-so-forth. In departing Joilin, Satiet pulls her parasol down, shutting it so it lies slim against her side as she takes a leisurely stroll to intercept N'thei and Persie, something helped along by Persie's difficulties in hopping off the fence. A congenial smile floats across her lips, though an arch quality flares in her bright eyes, and pleasantly, she makes small talk, "Looking into buying a pony?" Again, N'thei's part in helping mostly involves pulling gobs of green gauzy cloth over the rail so the bulk of the skirt hangs on the right side of the rail, one hand held the whole time up so Persie can keep her balance. He just has time to drop the last wad of fabric, to turn and offer both hands helpfully, to put a shoulder toward Satiet and untangle a careless smile in response. "No." --Wait for it to register that he ought to clarify, that 'no' isn't sufficient, a good three second lapse; "A parasol." Persie's jump off the fence is a rather discoordinated one, trying to make sure no delicate bits of dress get caught and torn. She stumbles when her feet hit the ground and then scrambles to right herself and get her dress back in order with the Weyrwoman looking on. There's another hint of pink on her cheeks, her eyes kept rather downward until N'thei says something about buying a parasol. Then she blinks at him. Her glance falls down to the parasol, now all folded and sleek. "Yours is really pretty." The smile shifts, curving deeper as it glances past N'thei to Persie, the slightest nod of acknowledgement also favored the greenrider. "A parasol," she repeats, fingering the handle of her own, before she lifts it up, held in both hands as an offering to Persie; look if you wish. The shade of it's heavy fabric is matched to Satiet's dress, with floral patterns embroidered along the edges. There is no lace trim. "Isn't it?" Pretty. "Weaver Hall, though a suggestion to the weavers for next time? I'm sure they'd sell more of these at a Gather than before one. Hello, Persie. Sir." The formality of her greeting is offset by the barest twinkle of her gaze as it returns to N'thei. "I've just left Joilin to figure out the logistics of how she'll transport a runner across Pern to High Reaches in time to ride it before winter." Sir. Something remembered then put away passes across N'thei's expression while he looks at Satiet, not at her parasol or her dress but at that particular twinkle. The whole Joilin story gets answered with a completely disinterested, "Have you." Then he pulls a breath, looks warily at the parasol offered from one woman to the other-- it's a trap!-- and tries for a conversational tone, little wide of the mark. "We'll have to Weaverhall then, pity. Have a name we might ask for?" Persie is rather afraid to so much as reach a finger to touch the parasol, offered or not, but she will lean in to peer more closely at it. "Oh, look at all the embroidery," she gushes readily. "And the little flowers. And it matches your dress so perfectly." She seems quite astounded as she righting her posture again, smiling for Satiet and looking just a little sad that there isn't a booth full of umbrellas just around the corner. For all her enthusiasm, she looks up to shake her head at N'thei, some sort of refusal. If it's a trap, the parasol isn't quite so obliging as to spring it when Persie leans in closer. In fact, it just sits there pretty, but dull and once Satiet's ascertained with a flickering once-over that the greenrider is done inspecting it, it drops back to lie flat against her dress. "Commissioned, but at a discounted rate. They had excess fabric left after the dress was made, but not enough to be useful for much else." For the blonde, there's small talk. For N'thei, there's not even the name of the weaver. "Are you enjoying yourself-... -ves?" Her free hand lifts to reach across and brush at the air about Persie's dress, as if to smooth it out, but not quite touching. N'thei has only himself to blame for talk of parasols and fabric and embroidery, can't even look hateful while they chatter about useless accoutrements. Protective reflex puts a hand to the small of Persie's back when Satiet's reaching out like that, her harmlessness notwithstanding, and his paranoia precludes hearing the goldrider's question or noticing the greenrider's mute refusal, makes for stilted so-called conversation. "You're here by yourself." Sounds just a little bit like a question. "Well that would make sense, using the extra material." Persie looks again over the goldrider's lovely ensemble. "Your dress is so pretty. I love the blue. And the ribbons," she goes on fawning. Her glance also lands on the glittering ruby around Satiet's neck but such things are so far beyond Persie that she can't even bring herself to comment on it. Instead she smooths her hands over the straps of her own dress, which also happens to cover it a little, hide it from comparisons. "I am, yes. Are..." The hand on her back cuts off her thoughts, expected as it is, and she glances at N'thei's profile before continuing to the Weyrwoman. "Are you? Enjoying yourself?" Did she even hear any of those questions? Any of Persie's continued attempt at small talk? If so, then the unchecked flat, wounded look that flicks to N'thei isn't coincidence and all the response she's able to grant. There's only so much talk of parasols and weavers that Satiet can be bothered to oblige with, and after her hand drifts away from Persie's skirts, she readies her parasol again to protect her head from the sun while she walks. Throughout, she maintains her congenial hostess smile, but an escape is imminent with her cool, "Have a good afternoon." And with that tiny chin drop she's so adept at granting, the slight woman turns, not to return to Joilin, but to walk somewhere else within Benden's hold. Running in to N'thei's mom was uncomfortable for him; running in to Satiet is just insult added to injury. She's leaving, and he should look relieved, but his hand not at Persie's back curls fist-like and his face twitches with a difficult expression-- hate to be around her, hate to be away from her. Called before the crowd absorbs the blue dress and the parasol-- "Dance with me." Now? Later? Pretend Persie doesn't exist? Persie's fingers land lightly on the brocade of N'thei's vest a moment after she is so forgotten. "Go walk with her. Buy her something pretty," she suggests quietly. It seems reasonable to her, at least. She even gets half a smile onto her lips. It's less than a half beat that Satiet's measured steps into the crowd pause, almost impossible to differentiate, before they resume as if she'd never paused, headed, perhaps, back to that bracelet stall to indulge in the retail therapy rank and through rank, more importantly marks, allows her. Satiet heads to the gather grounds. Satiet has left. |
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