Logs:The Champion of Nabol
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 10 December, 2014 |
| Who: Y'rel, Aslon |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Nabol Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: The champion of the Nabolese people meets a trader. |
| Where: Bar in Nabol |
| When: Day 2, Month 7, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm. |
| Mentions: Tevrane/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Ivaora/Mentions |
 |
| With the sun descending in the early evening hours, what remaining sunlight there is casts warped shadows over Nabol's landscapes. On the western end of Nabol, amid the overgrown forests and verdant orchards, a roughly-built structure of stone and mortar stands out like a flower amongst brambles. Its shape is square and squatting in the dark soil that surrounds it, and looks to be in a midway point of decay, at odds with the majestic location it inhabits. Wooden boards, in various stages of deterioration, corral several graying beasts - herd, runner, and otherwise - off to the side, though a pair of energetic-looking runners are tied to posts nearby. Inside the establishment, the air smells of burnt meat and sweat, mingled with the smoky char of ashes not long put out. Tables and chairs set at haphazard positions fill the main room, and wobbly stools sit before the long wooden bar; behind, a barrel-chested barkeep mans his station, filling demands for ale and slop, which he doles out with a large ladle. Today, men fill most of the seats, bumping elbows as they laugh over their tankards of stale, bitter brew to wind down their days; farmers, crafters, and the odd rider alike. Nothing out of place, nothing untoward to be told - even if tensions are rife without, on the roads, where bandits thieve and it's easy to fear for one's life. But here, several men hold up the bar, one with a curly mop of black hair, squinting one eye as he sings a giddy tune: "She was a rom one. Fol-the-diddle-di-do-day, but a bonny one. Dol-the-diddle-di-do." Clearly, he's drunk. Y'rel and his Kavith are no strangers in these parts. There's a surety about the bronzerider - Nabol's bronzerider, if you were to ask him, ever since leading the rout against Rone - as he enters the squat little building. There's no clear circuit around those tables, but he makes his own, stopping to clap shoulders and exchange greetings with those he recognises from his semi-frequent visits here, when he and Kavith have flown sweeps. One man even receives a little wood carving out from the rider's pocket, a gift for his daughter. The drunk man at the bar, the drunk man next to whom Y'rel comes to rest while waiting to order his own drink, is not the only one in good spirits, despite the tension. Perhaps because of it. "Then I sowed high and I sowed low," lifting his tankard high, "and under the bush the seed did grow-" Cut off sharply, perhaps because he forgot the rest, or more likely, because of Y'rel at hand. "Ahh, the people's rider, the champion of Nabol, Y'rel," the drunkard intones with the same sing-song quality that he had so recently been using with his ballad. "Come ta drink? Have one on me." He signals to the barkeep, but that portly gentleman dusts his hands on his apron and chortles disapprovingly. "Y'ain't got a mark left 'sides, Werstyn, how ya gonna get the man a drink?" And while he is figuring that one out, the flaxen haired young man on his other side raps a knuckle on the counter top. "S'on me, then." It's another Nabolese, a familiar face, at the ready with an easy smile for the bronzerider. He leans forward, to better see around his drunken barmate. "Everything alright?" There's a reason that Y'rel comes to this bar; the bronzerider himself seems to remember it, as an easy smile creeps over his face. He settles more resolutely onto the stool, and gives a tug to his riding jacket, adjusting it around his shoulders. "I'll get the next one," he promises, looking from the one man to the other, including them both. The people's bronzerider must, after all, see to his people. "All quiet today, at least," comes in the broad and deep voice of reassurance. "So far as Kavith and I saw." And were seen, implied. The barkeep plunks a frothy tankard down in front of Y'rel, then retreats to wipe down a watery mess down the way. "Heard them thieves got into Gamrey's stock 'gain, took e'ry last one of em. Gamrey's not too happy y'kin?" says the drunken, followed by an unconcerned shrug from the blonde on his other side. "Does the Weyr have plans or are they letting Nabol handle it?" the second asks, looking mildly curious as he takes a drink from his own glass. "Some of it's down to what your Lady Tevrane asks of us," Y'rel shrugs. "But," and one thick index finger comes down, tunk, on the bar before him, right next to that tankard, "something of a better night presence... Alpine won't leave you all to your own." An oath which he can toast with that ale just set before him. Cheers! "Lady Tevrane won't let it go on long. She's fair," the man muses, and slants the drunken man between them an amused glance; he's, now, snoring while sitting upright at the bar. "Aslon," and his hand stuck out in a gesture of introduction and good tidings. They are, after all, sharing a bar and a round of drinks on him. "You'd be Y'rel, champion of Nabol." His voice is imbued with humor in mimicking the sot next to them, but there's an undercurrent of respect for this bronzerider, this man so many Nabolese place their trust in. And so many others blame; but that's not in this bar. "Aslon," repeats Y'rel with a nod, reaching around their snoring would-be companion to take the blonde man's hand, in a firm grip. "Kavith's rider," Y'rel simplifies, though the modesty doesn't ring with perfect sincerity. "I'll thank you officially for my drink, now." The bronzerider leans back on his stool, checking for free space on the other side of their friend. Their friend, who seems to be slowly sliding down from his propped position, head destined for the bar. Aslon has better things to think about than the destiny of their inebriated bar companion, for now. He tastes his drink contemplatively and braces a forearm against the lip of the bartop. "Least I could do when you're keeping Nabol as clean as you are," he says with a grin. "Can't say I don't see why Ivaora worships the ground you walk on. And the rest too." All those men whom he greeted and greeted him when he entered, and who would line up to buy the dragonrider a drink if given the chance; which they might. "Not as clean these days, it seems, " muses the wingleader, standing just long enough to slide his stool a ways, and shift down the bar. Just before an arm flattens out much too near where Y'rel had formerly been resting his drink. "Are thing- you know Ivaora?" What might have turned to business becomes, instead, an affection grin, paired in time with a more careful look (over the back of the dozing Werstyn) at this Aslon. "How's that?" Pale brows lift, good humored still, and the boyish grin on the young man's face gets wider with this new revelation. "I wouldn't be doing her a favor if I didn't say I did. We've been together," no specifications here, no labels, "for around three turns now, not counting when we were friends. She's a lovely girl, can't lay my heart anywhere else for anything." Aslon swirls the contents of his glass and sighs affably, "Only thing she wants now is a marriage and I've got my eye on a date," accompanied with a conspiratorial wink. "Three turns." Y'rel's face has turned slightly less amused. "She'd only mentioned to me that she had an interest maybe a turn back." He grips the tankard, but doesn't lift it, still studying this man, his chest rising and falling with a steadying breath. The shock, if that's what it can be called, is settled after a moment. "What is it you do, Aslon?" Wounded! Aslon presses a hand into his woolen doublet and bows his head in comical affair. "The woman hurts me to the quick, she does." But no actual harm done, his thin lips flare into another smile. "I do a bit of this and a bit of that, though lately I've been moving large shipments throughout Nabol. Getting harder with all these thieves running amuck. Could've worn I saw one the one night, but.." Here he is, uninjured and not robbed, so he must have gotten away if it was a thief, right? "Could always use the extra hands and protection," he notes offhandedly. Y'rel is more and more taking on the look of the disapproving older brother. "Shipments, hm. Good money in that? Money that provides?" Even with the sleeping hulk between them, he leans forward on his stool, and looks oh-so-intent. Now he takes the tankard, now he drinks from it. Thoroughly. "I guess that makes two ladies I'll have to speak with. And my weyrleader." Since the conversation has turned personal, Y'rel's voice has been kept more quiet. Now, louder, "At least today was calm. We'll look to, uh, perpetuating that." "Enough," is all Aslon says on the financial report, blue eyes dancing with mischief not quite conveyed in the quirking of mouth or set of his gaunt shoulders. "Ivaora won't have to worry about anything. I'll take care of her." He says is laconically enough, but with a certain fierceness backing his words; true to his talk, it seems, he does care about the woman. His glass lifts in a silent salute to the bronzerider. "Much obliged to that." "I'll see to it that you do," Y'rel promises, voice lowered again, for this Aslon alone. The empty tankard is pushed aside, and the rider stands from his stool. "You'll not get a beer out of me tonight, boy. Afraid I've got things to attend to." There's the slightest edge of threat beneath those words, and Y'rel certainly doesn't try to take the sting from his gaze as the blonde man gets a final once-over. "Would'nt be fair, with our other friend missing out." The drunken-sleeping man gets a clap to the shoulder, the room, a broad smile, and Y'rel turns to go. He has business, now. Solemnity meets Y'rel's threat, and when he's leaving, a pensive expression that draws his lips thin. It's only once Aslon's sure of the other man's leave taking that he, himself, slips off his stool and leaves a small stack of marks on the bartop for the keep. "Make sure everyone here doesn't remember tonight, hm?" with a parting smile, and he's moving off to the side and out the back, quite in the opposite direction of the bronzerider. |
Leave A Comment