Logs:Flares
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| RL Date: 15 January, 2015 |
| Who: A'rist, V'ros |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Tillek Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: A'rist and V'ros follow up on the sailor V'ros saved. |
| Where: Docks, Tillek Hold |
| When: Day 25, Month 10, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions |
| Storyteller: K'del/ST |
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>---< Docks, Tillek Hold >---------------------------------------------------<
Tillek's docks are impressive in size, weaving around the coastline for
some distance via an occasionally convoluted collection of swaying wooden
walkways that reach out into the natural harbor. There are berths here for
ships of all kinds, from merchant vessels to fishing boats, and even the
pleasure ships of Tillek's elite. A narrow expanse of shale beach
separates the Hold's docks from those of the Seacraft, off into the
distance.
Surrounding the actual docks, a collection of grey stone buildings with
wide eaves are built close around narrow alleys. Away from the road that
leads back towards the Hold itself, some parts of the docks area are
dubious indeed.
Wet, rainy autumns are the usual fare for Tillek. Even when it's not a
real storm, the sky is usually overcast and drizzly.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
A'rist M 18 5'8" slim, dark brown hair, light brown eyes 17s
V'ros M 21 5'8 Slim, Brown hair, Brown eyes 27s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Beach Tillek Hold
>-------------------------------------< 25D 10M 36T I10, autumn afternoon >---< Overcast skies, and the potential for rain, are no obstacles for their mission; there is information to be had, and eager ears to get their fill. Zmeyth's dark form stands out starkly against the grayish backdrop of choppy waters and tethered ships in the harbor. His rider stands nearby, huddled against the reptilian-patterned bulk as if seeking respite from the weather, and jerks up the collar of his leather jacket in earnest. "Think it'll be hard to find him?" V'ros asides to A'rist, squinting his eyes towards the distance, and their immediate goal, like that gesture could filter out the murky sunlight that comes through the heavy clouds overhead. "There's.. a lot of.. uh, sailors," with a sniff and an uncertain step towards the pathway that will lead them down to the docks. A'rist has his shoulders hunched up, and hands deep in the pockets of his riding jacket. He doesn't use Lythronath for protection any more than the bronze is like to use him. Lynner's tail twitches, just at the very tip. There's one click given to express the excitement of a hunt, and one scrape of a talon for knowing it's not that kind of hunt. Yet. "Which means probably at least a few people who'll know who we're looking for, even if they aren't him." And he sniffs back some snot. The weather's not yet so bad off the Tillek coast that ships have pulled in for the winter; the docks are bustling, cargo being loaded and unloaded, and people, everywhere, going about their business. From the top window of one of the stone buildings, a woman leans down, cleavage deeply on display, to catcall the two riders; a few paces ahead, there's a dingy-looking bar, sign creaking in the breeze. Another man sits atop an upturned barrel, off to the side of the walkway, tossing his knife in a desultory kind of way. Brown eyes lift to the bosoms on display and the catcalls, but V'ros knows well enough to talk through the stare. "Yeah, that should.. I don't want to come down here for nothing." He rolls his shoulders, adjusting his jacket, and starts towards the docks with only one self-assuring glance over his shoulder to make sure A'rist is following. "Try the bar, yeah?" he says, pointing towards the creaky sign and making a wide path around the man with the knife; just to be safe. Zmeyth remains watchful and still, a gargoyle perched on the ground, his blue-green tinged eyes following his rider. A'rist isn't following, such as it is. He's also moving forward, though, looking back toward Lythronath once, though his line of vision never quite makes it to the bronze. He doesn't give the man with the knife a wide berth. After all, he's got his own knife (no, really, his, not Rh'mis') on his belt, and a massive bronze just right there. "One sec," to V'ros. And A'rist stops before the man's barrel, and tilts his head. This is sort of like the bar. "Watcha got in the barrel?" "Who's asking?" The man on the barrel is scruffy-looking; a sailor of indeterminate age, skin roughened by salt and sea. He gives A'rist an up-and-down glance, knife tossed into the air another time. Those dark eyes follow towards V'ros, too, and then back again. "You don't belong here." That the bronzerider doesn't follow hasn't deterred him, but the request to stop, does. "Huh?" V'ros lets his head lead his body into turning, his eyes flicking from his friend to the knife-wielder. He instantaneously looks anxious about the situation, that A'rist is confronting the sailor, that the sailor is even near; he may as well he wringing his hands for all the nervousness he exudes. "We.. we're," he answers the man's question, remarkably, "looking for someone." This time, A'rist's gaze does make it all the way to Lythronath. Pointedly. And then back to the knife man. "Nope," is agreement. "A'rist," he adds, after the brownrider's voice, with a thumb toward his chest. V'ros is left to give his own name. Or whatever name it is he wants to. "Probably, our guy's not in the barrel. I was just wondering." The man indicates one of the buildings with his thumb, showing yellowed teeth as he smiles: "Whore house is thatta way. They'll treat you boys nice enough." And, "Wouldn't go around talking about men in barrels, if I were you. Liable to get a person looked at more'n once, eh?" There are those teeth again. Uneasy, scared, same thing. "Uh," V'ros looks around uncertainly, "we aren't looking for a whore house, or," this time his eyes settle on A'rist, "a man in a barrel. Simiron. Have you heard of him?" "Gotta pay for those." A'rist still looks at the barrel for a moment, but doesn't ask what's in it again. He'll see if there's answers, first. Lythronath's tail twitches, twitches. "Nup." The barrel man is full of useful information, isn't he? With a quiet inhale and lustier exhale, V'ros steels himself. "Thanks, anyway," he says, with a nod, and aims to slap A'rist's arm. "We should try the bar." His eyes linger on the old sailor, certainly unsteady, while he speaks, and only waver to the bronzerider in search of an answer. The brownrider is given a nod, but A'rist is still looking at the guy. "So what's in the barrel?" This time, asked with a bit of a grin tugging at his face. Okay, no really, here he comes. The man just grunts. Whatever is in the barrel... he's not telling. V'ros is neither interested in whatever the sailor is sitting on or patient enough to sit around to ask question; they've come to find Simiron, not grill a yellow-toothed vagrant about his barrel. He pinches the bridges of his nose and turns away, aiming towards the bar with barely a glance up to make sure he's on track. "We might find someone in there," he mutters just loud enough to reach A'rist, if he's following. A'rist grunts back, and moves after the brownrider, meandering a bit on purpose and scanning the environs. "Maybe more barrels, too," is a bit droll, but it comes with a frown at the end of it. A'rist is suddenly serious. And straightening up as they go through the doors. Inside... well. It's a dock-side bar, and this is not the finer end of the docks, where wealthy Tillekians might venture; it's seedy, dimly lit and none-too-clean. It's still early in the day, but that doesn't mean the place is empty: there's a man 'cleaning' glasses behind the bar, and others, scattered around the seats, some asleep with their heads on the table, and others digging in to plates of greasy-looking food. The man behind the bar glances up as they enter, and though he doesn't start, there's a definite watchfulness in his gaze. Part of being best friends is ignoring the stranger parts - like obsession with barrels - and V'ros is good enough to keep on the trail, rather than get detoured. He shoulders the door and stops just within the entryway, passing a suddenly self-conscious hand over his short-cropped hair, a sense of unease settling over him again; now that they're in the sailors' haven. "Where do we.. start?" A'rist digs his hands out of his pockets, and this time, they stay out. If fingers are splayed, it's only slightly, and his arms don't bow away from him. Not yet. He considers, a moment, and then offers up, "Bartender's gonna talk to everyone. I could go see some of the sailors if you want, but they don't know me here." Hard to tell if he thinks this an advantage or not; his tone is pretty ambiguous. His hand makes its way from his head and drops to his side, listless, while he weighs their options. "We could start with the bartender. Don't want to.. piss anyone off," V'ros says with a grimace, but he's already moving through the tables, wending his way towards the watchful-eyed bartender. When he gets to the bar, he slips onto a barstool and offers a hopefully amiable smile, as much as he can do amiable. "Crappy weather out there." A'rist doesn't want to be playing wingman tonight. His gaze slides to one table of sailors in particular... but this time, he follows V'ros, and props himself against the bar, still standing. Two fingers are held up as his greeting to the 'tender, and not in a rude gesture. It's an order. For two drinks. Whatever is usual, presumably. The bartender grunts rather than comments, loquaciousness evidently - at least at the moment - not one of his strong points. Still, the promise of an order draws more of his attention and, perhaps, a little less distrust... though that might be asking too much. The drinks are poured; it's a dark beer, likely not terribly palatable to the uninitiated. Silence descends as the bartender pours the beer, and V'ros slants A'rist a look, that could mean a thousand things. He pulls his drink near and nods his appreciation. "So.. uh.. get a lot of riders down this way?" he asks, conversationally; awkwardly, of course. A'rist slaps coin to the bartop, a bit more than necessary, but not by much, and reaches for that beer once it's presented, bringing it up, tilting it back, swallowing a mouthful, with eyebrows raised slightly in an attempt to return V'ros' look from over the edge of the glass. Lythronath helps with an intonation of, « Blood, » that Zmeyth totally gets to hear as much as A'rist does. "No." So much for bartenders being, you know, chatty. But then, perhaps it's just too early in the day; or perhaps it's not the right kind of question. Discouraged by the bartender's attitude, V'ros, too, takes out the appropriate mark amount and slides it across the bar. He lifts his glass and takes a long pull, closing his eyes when the taste hits his mouth. "Ah," he says, setting the glass back down a little heavily, "good stuff. So.. know anyone named Simiron?" He's no Sherlock and A'rist sure as hell isn't his Watson. A'rist's glass hits the bar with a thud. And his free hand hits his forehead with a dull smack. Faranth. This time, the bartender pauses, hesitating. "Simiron," he repeats. "What do you want with him?" And, "Don't cause him no trouble. Won't stand for that, you hear?" V'ros' eyes shoot to A'rist, confusion writ across his face, but they're quickly honed back in on the bartender. "Uh, no, not trouble. I got him off the.. the ship, during the storm, the last time. I just.. I wanted to talk to him." He's not eloquent, but at least, sincere in his words. "He saved him," A'rist offers, hand falling away from his face. "Not looking for reward or anything, don't worry." He's still standing, and that lean shifts as he glances back to V'ros. Maybe it's a look to answer whatever V'ros' was earlier. The barkeep turns his gaze from one rider to the other, and then sighs. His expression remains dubious but, finally, after a moment's more hesitation, he gestures sharply towards one of the men in the corner - a man whose head lolls against his shoulder, wheezy breaths carrying across the room. A shrug answers A'rist's look and then he's staring off towards the sailor the bartender indicates, his eyes widening as he takes in the lolling head and wheezing. "Is he.. is he alright? He didn't suffer any injuries did he? I didn't.. we didn't.." He sags against the bar, continuing to stare, openly. A'rist has already gathered up his beer. "We could ask him," he suggests to V'ros. Standing is an easy thing when you're already pretty much there. All it takes is shifting his centre of gravity to be fully over his feet. "You wanted to talk to him," says the barkeeper, already turning away. "Wake him. He's fine." Mostly fine. Semi-fine. Not dead, at least. Shaking his head, V'ros stands up and nods his head towards Simiron. "Alright," he says, more to comfort himself than anything else, "let's ask him." He closes the short distance to the sailor with uncertain strides, stopping a couple feet away, where he can hover. "Uh. Simiron?" A'rist hangs back, but this time, not with those bored-little-boy looks about the place. This time, he's watching, both the sailor being woken, and the rider doing the waking. He holds his beer easily, and there's no sense of readiness for a fight in his other arm... but he does wait on the balls of his feet, nonetheless. Simiron starts, thrown into wakefulness without warning; sleeping he may have been, but not, evidently, all that deeply. He looks old and sick; older than he did when he was pulled from the water, but... drier. Those eyes are the same, though, and they turn up to meet V'ros' face without recognition. "What?" he barks, before pausing to cough noisily into his (dirty) handkerchief. V'ros is as equally startled when the sailor awakens, almost taking a half-step back before he corrects himself and, firmly, stands his ground with a less-than-firm expression. "Hi. You.. probably don't remember me, but I, we, got you from the ship.. during the storm." He lets that sink in, glancing aside to A'rist, and clears his throat. "How have you been? Well?" Though, he may not look it, there's always inquiring politely. A'rist doesn't facepalm this time. He does clarify, "Him and his dragon," with a point to V'ros. Not V'ros and A'rist. As an afterthought, "Hey," and an upward nod of greeting. "Do I... look well, to you?" Simiron is surprisingly well-spoken, with a voice more obviously cultured than those around him - those of the sailors and barkeep, anyway. He shoots A'rist a wary glance, but evidently dismisses him; "So, what, you're here for thanks? For gratitude? I can't--" Pause, while he coughs into that handkerchief again, "-- even work anymore. Do you know what happens to sailors who can't work?" They get bitter and angry, apparently. V'ros frowns. "I'm sorry. I didn't know when I.. we.. pulled you out that you wouldn't.. you could come back to the Weyr? You could.." He falters, looking at A'rist, again, for some kind of guidance; help a bro out, bro. "No, I didn't, I.." But this just won't do. He keeps frowning, but grabs the nearest chairs he can find, shoving one at A'rist, before plopping down in the other, knees spread, elbows on his thighs so he can continue to address the sailor on his level. "I wanted to ask some questions about.. what you said, after we got back to High Reaches." His tone is imploring, probing - does he even remember? A'rist's eyebrows drop down a little bit, and he looks from V'ros, to Simiron, to V'ros again. Finally, what help he can offer, is to give another one of those upward nods to the old (ex-?) sailor, and ask, "You want a drink or something?" "Whiskey," says Simiron - demands Simiron - bypassing everything V'ros has said in order to focus on the offer of a drink; the important things, naturally. And then: "I saw what I saw. You don't want to know about it; no one does. Pretend I'm crazy, go on. But I saw it." Whiskey. "Yeah, okay, we can.. we can do that.." V'ros entrusts A'rist with the task, passing on an affirming nod, and focuses on the latter part of the sailor's rant. "No. I want to know. I remember.. kind of.. you said something.. something hit her? What did you see?" He is certainly serious, now; no faltering, wavering, of any sort. "Hold this." A'rist's beer is thrust into V'ros' hand, though not so hard that it's likely to actually slosh. He's off to the barkeeper again, where, "Whiskey," is relayed. He leans on the bar again, glances over his shoulder to monitor the activity back whence he came. Simiron's gaze follows A'rist, slightly petulant, as if he's not quite convinced of this whiskey, not until he gets it into his hand. But V'ros' question has given him a soapbox, too, and so he glances back, raising his voice so that the whole bar can hear it (though everyone else seems inclined to ignore, rather as if they've all heard this before). The barkeep, rolling his eyes, slides the whiskey across towards A'rist. "Something did hit her," confirms Simiron. "Like one of those fireworks you see, at turn's end. I saw it. It came from my ship, it did; we all saw it. But they're all dead, so there's only me." The beer, V'ros will hold, sparing his friend another meaningful wince before redirecting his gaze to Simiron and his story. "From.. what ship.. your ship? What was it's name, again?" Not that he knew it to begin with, but he's going to say it anyway, without a twinge of uncertainty. "A firework? A firework hit Iesaryth and killed her?" He tries hard not to sound incredulous, but his eyebrows knit together just the same, his face that of someone trying to puzzle something out. A'rist offers a nod in thanks - and payment, of course - as his fingers close around that whiskey. He's watching the rest of the bar as he goes. Watching especially those whose responses seem closer to the barkeeper's. "Here," to Simiron, the whiskey held out. "Thanks," to V'ros, his own beer recaptured. And then he's leaving again. Heading over to a pair near Simiron, a pair ignoring the old sailor. "Need another round?" And that offer before any questions have been asked. Live dangerously. (Die broke?) "Alasna's Prize," is a prompt answer; Simiron sounds wistful and proud, and perhaps a little melancholy. "Her name. She was a beauty, too. Finest ship I ever sailed on. Marovel - our captain - ran a tight ship. He wasn't much of a fan of your lot, not since they lost the Lady's heir, but he was good to us." He pauses in order to take up the whiskey, pleased with it, and sips long and hard - and without coughing - before he adds, "It didn't kill her. Just startled her. Like a flare. You don't aim them at people." The pair approached by A'rist glance up from the cards they're playing to look at the bronzerider. "Whiskey," they agree, one after another. The whiskey here may not be expensive... but it's more expensive than the beer. V'ros is listening, leaned forward as he is, but his face stays on the brink of confusion the whole time. "You think someone pointed a firework at Iesaryth to.. to scare her? On your ship? They would be.." He leans back, scratches his nose. "Dead now, right?" This time, A'rist signals the bartender from afar. Two more, say those waving fingers, the mouthed words. But now, he's not leaving that table. Now, he sweeps up a chair, and rests his beer on the table, hand still around the base of his glass. "This guy," free thumb juts back toward Simiron, "talk this sort of stuff always, or just since the storm?" Asked in light tones. Shooting the breeze. Buying the drinks. "They're all dead, now," says Simiron, morosely downing his whiskey - all of it - and setting the glass back upon the table with a thunk. "But we saw it. We all saw it. From up on the top deck, it was, I think. Near the wheel." The bartender, for the record? He may be glad for the business, but he's less than glad to be pushed into table service-- clearly his waitstaff aren't on duty, yet, not at this hour of the day. The two men consider A'rist, then each other. "Nah," says one of them. "Educated-like, that one. Good man. Good sailor, once. Sailed with him, once, before he joined Marovel's crew. Never understood why; he's not Tillekian, Simiron, and Marovel was always--" He pauses. It's important that the whiskey be here so that he can lift his glass and announce, "The Tillekiest of Tillekians, if you know what I mean. Hold pride." "You.." V'ros licks his suddenly dry lips, scouring the sailor's face for answers, as if there would be more there than in his words. "Didn't see who did it? Could it have been one of.. your crew?" His eyebrows hike up, at his own audacity. "That's.." Those wheels are turning. A'rist raises his glass along with them, because that's what you do, surely. Even if your accent isn't from here. Once he's had his drink to Marovel, the young rider nods, all the while doing his best to make it worth the bartender's time. Yup. Gettin' broke. "He sailed with him a long time, anyway? Even not being from Tillek?" Simiron lifts his empty glass in the barkeep's direction; evidently, one of the riders is going to buy his next one, too, because it doesn't look as though he has so much as a thirtysecond piece. "Would've had to be," he declares, as he does so. "No one else up there." It's a Good Day in barkeep land, really; keep the drinks flowing, says his expression. The more the merrier! "Long enough," confirms the other man, in answer to A'rist's query. "Couplea turns, I think?" "A couple. At least." "Aye." They are, at least, in agreement. "Reckon he might've signed on after the boy got stolen. By your lot, I mean. Around then." "You don't.. you don't have any suspicions? About who it could have been?" Now V'ros just sounds deflated, sinking back in his chair and linking his fingers in his lap. "A guess? Why would.. why would anyone do that. Your ship was.. it was on fire." He frowns, again. "Couple turns," A'rist decides to focus on. Even if he's shifted his feet a little bit under the table, more ready to push himself up, to action. But he still takes another drink of his beer. "How long was it, you said you'd sailed with him?" The bartender arrives to refill Simiron's glass. As this happens, the former sailor shrugs. "If you're going to die anyway," he says, unconcernedly. It's something of a shift; a glint of something in his expression. If you're going to die anyway... what? Kill a dragon on your way out? "Couple turns, too." A pause, and then, from the other: "No, longer. You remember; he was a kid of a thing. From inland somewhere; odd choice, really, going to sea." The two men shrug, one of them picking up a card from his hand in order to place it on the table. The other man rolls his eyes. "If you're.." V'ros sits up straight, tense, and regards the sailor with an unfathomable expression. His motions are stilted, wooden, as he leverages himself up out of the chair and stands up to his unimpressionable height. "If you're going to die anyway, what?" He's not looming, but his hands are clenched at his sides; that escalated quickly. "Guess it would be, wouldn't it?" A'rist takes another sip. So far, any further gestures of magnanimity are kept at bay. That probably was his last cash on hand, that the 'tender has taken. "He have family here or something?" Oblivious to V'ros right now. He's still watching the two at the table he's joined a bit more closely. "Shells man, I don't know!" Simiron breaks into a coughing fit... a very conveniently timed coughing fit, really, mere moments after V'ros has stood up. He can't talk; sorry! Both men at the other table shake their head, silently. It's after another play of their cards that one thinks to says, "Pretty sure his family is all inland. Crom, Nabol; somewhere like that." "Crom," puts in the other. "But not the main hold or anything." The tension doesn't leave the brownrider's shoulders, nor do his fists unclench. "Thanks for the information, anyway," V'ros says, though his eyes are searching for A'rist. He is annoyed, when he slants his eyes back to the sailor. "If you think of anything else.. anything.. I'm V'ros and that's A'rist, and you know where to find us." "From the mines, straight out to the docks, huh?" It's not as poetic as A'rist might've liked to come up with. Oh well. "So think that storm made him ma-" the 'd' to end the word gets lost as he picks up his name, and turns to look over to V'ros. And his shoulders. Simiron coughs. And coughs some more. He is actually going red in the face, here; hopefully that means the coughing isn't entirely put on. It does mean that he's not answering V'ros any further, regardless. Neither are the two other men answering A'rist: they're staring, now, at V'ros. So's the barkeep. Is it cooler in here, suddenly? Cold, even? There's nothing humorous about the way V'ros laughs, or his muttered "fuck" as he turns away and starts walking towards A'rist. His shoulders are still tense, strides clipped, and when he gets to the bronzerider's side, all he says is a grunted, "let's go." But he will wait, in V'ros fashion, to hear if the other dragonrider agrees to this leave-taking business. Maybe it's because he's used to Lythronath that A'rist knows when to skedadle. "Have a good night, huh?" goes to his table mates. And he's escorting his friend out. All eyes - even those of Simiron - watch as the pair of riders depart. It's for the best, really. Really. |
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