Logs:Bizarre Bazaar

Bizarre Bazaar
RL Date: 7 April, 2015
Who: Farideh, Zadkiel, K'del, Schuyler, Alida, K'zin, H'vier, J'taryn, Edyis, Laine, Telavi, Taikrin, Azaylia, Keysi, Niahvth, Cadejoth, Zmeyth, Reisoth, Szadath, Qhyluth, Hraedhyth, Ilicaeth, Teisyth, Rasavyth
Involves: High Reaches Weyr
Type: Log
What: The Igen style bazaar goes well.. until everything catches on fire and the Weyrwoman dies.
Where: Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
When: Day 20, Month 6, Turn 37 (Interval 10)
Weather: Clear.
Mentions: Leova/Mentions
OOC Notes: There's many poses missing from this. Please fill in where necessary!
Booths and stalls have been set up in a loose semi-circle around a stage in the bowl. A food stall claims the opposite side, with seating and tables arranged for those that desire to sit and eat rather than wander. Dancers weave their way among the crowds while merchants hawk their wares. The whole area is riddled with the sights and smells and sounds of commerce - and consumables. Paper lanterns are arranged on the ground to light the way when evening comes, with torches set up near the stage for illumination later in the night. Native Igen music - drums and pipes and eerie voices - rises to fill in the gaps between conversation and the whole place has an air of lively festivity. Although the stalls have been up for most of the day, it's only as evening encroaches that things truly start to pick up. A few lanterns are already being lit, though there's still a fair bit of light in the sky, and the music has taken a subtle turn for the sultry. Dancers weave their way among the people that gather, with a few taking to the stage to perform slow routines that serve more as a warm-up than a proper performance. The sounds and smells of the food stalls occupy one whole side of affair - opposite the merchant's stalls that are arranged on the other side of the makeshift stage. Things are warming up, even as the air cools down - and there's yet plenty to see and do and, most importantly: buy. It's totally manly to baby-wear, isn't it? Not that Ishadel - now two-and-a-half - is actually a baby, but this is clearly a preferable method for K'del to cart him around, while Iska, two turns older, skips beside him. "Do you want your hands painted?" the bronzerider asks his daughter, indicating the henna stall with a tip of his head. "Uh-uh," says Iska, pointing instead towards the food stall. She's hungry. K'del's mouth twitches, but on they go: food it is. It is difficult not to be overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the festival. Edyis is wandering the stalls all smiles and wide eyes, tugging at the patchwork folds of her skirts. Several Candidates are strewn among the rest of the visitors to the bazaar; most are busy poking at wares or sampling the tunnelsnake skewers. Some are sulking and refusing to enjoy themselves. But, there's one that seems entirely at home here: an oddly dressed and marked up Zadkiel, locked in conversation with a handful of the dancers who aren't on stage or milling about. Some measure of familiarity is there, but how much is hard to tell. Schuyler heads out from the kitchens, his mood significantly happier now that no one is trapped and the smells bring him right to the food booths, must check out the Igen style recipes. The food stall is bustling - as such stalls are wont to do. The food is spicy - one can tell by smell alone that it's probably not for the faint of heart - but there seem to be some offerings that are tame enough for most to handle easily. Trying to snag a cook to converse with will be difficult - but placing an order? They have plenty on hand to help with that! Is it, or is it not, the best day ever. Teisyth is settled as close as she conveniently get to the set up for the Igen Bazaar. There's colors, excitement, smells, and people. Life just doesn't get any better. "Do you want juice, Iska?" K'del stands in the line at the drinks stall, patient (more or less), though his daughter is clearly less so: she's prancing beside him, constantly in motion, and it sets Ishadel to wiggling too. That can't be all that comfortable, given his position snug against the Weyrleader's chest, but... these are the trials of parenthood. "Nooooooo," says Ishadel. "Juice," says Iska. Schuyler makes his way to the spicy foods so popular at Igen and gets in lone for a plate. While waiting, he scans the crowd searching for anyone familiar. In point of fact, it's the people who seem to excite her the most. G'laer (in his infinite wisdom) has not let Teisyth Search a single person. (He's just the worst, everyone but Teisyth would probably agree.) There has to be at least one potential candidate here. There just has to. In fact, she sees a dozen promising options!! If only she didn't know that G'laer would be very upset if she tries to get more than one at a time. (To local dragons from Teisyth) At the drinks stall, a young woman overhears the discussion about juice - such as it is, and is quick to motion at one of the other servers to get a few samples of their juice blend. The server slide along the line to offer the small cups of sweet - yet, not too sweet - juice for those interested in a bit to try before they buy. At the food stall, however, the line is moving along at a steady clip and it's not long before a young lad is asking Schuyler, "What will you have?" Now that the captives are free, Cadejoth has been released from supporting Vrianth duty (not, it must be hastened to add, a duty he could or would ever complain about; not really a duty at all), and resumed his usual position high above the rim. He's watching the bazaar, far below, with vague interest: vague, but present. There's Teisyth; hello, Teisyth. (To local dragons from Cadejoth) K'del's smile is bright and effusive for the juice-- "Thank you!" he says. "Iska, say thank you." The four-turn-old's thanks are sweet and genuine, and her enthusiasm for the juice is plain: she likes this! Of course, it's not helping with her over-energetic bounciness, either. The sugar crashes are inevitable, surely. Schuyler grins at the server. "I'll take the sampler plate. I want to try everything!" he smiles and waits a moment for his food before stepping out of line and heading next for the juice, because if he has spicy food it's likely hell need that. To local dragons, Qhyluth's thoughts slosh and stir sluggishly in the background - a primordial ocean stirred to faint life only by the sounds that echo across those waters. His presence is little more than that, passively observing and experiencing the conversations of others. For now. For Edyis, it is the dancing troop that first draws her attention or at least what seems to be a familiar face amongst them. She skirts the tunnel snake skewer booth trying to confirm if that strangely marked man is infact, who she thinks he is. If Cadejoth is 'eye in the sky' surveillance, then Ilicaeth is 'boots on the ground.' Sort-of, since he's perched on his ledge. Still, the craggy blue is eyeballing the bazaar below, as well, his faceted blue eyes interested in the goings-on, his outgoing mind awhirl with conversations between himself and other dragons. Well, maybe not Cadejoth, yet. Teisyth gets a faint, sandy rumble of recognition, while Qhyluth's sluggish ocean is scanned by a faint scour of reflective, golden sands full of mica. Ping. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) "My pleasure," the server girl chimes in with a wink for K'del. She continues along, but the line's already moving nicely and it isn't long at all before the woman behind the counter is ready to take the Weyrleader's order. Meanwhile, back at the food stall, a plate is being loaded up with all manner of things; rivergrains with a curried wherry sauce, a skewer of tunnelsnake meat, a piece of flatbread made with some sort of flour that definitely isn't wheat. This is all handed to Schuyler with a clicking of the serving lad's tongue and a grin. "If you need something to cool your tongue, try the Kaffr. It's just over there. If you like yoghurt, you'll love it." Schuyler grins at the servers suggestion. "Perfect! Thanks." he inhales the smells on his plate. "Shells that smells good..." he heads over to get the suggested yogurt drink. Exiting the baths after a solid workout, Alida finds the scents of food from the bazzar too good to avoid, the damp-haired bluerider angling her lightly-clad form over towards where the Bowl is hopping with activity. Already, her stomach (or is it two?) is rumbling a little. K'del's dimples show in response to the server girl-- and once he gets to the front of the line, he's quick to order several cups of the juice. Drinks in hand, the trio turn to head back out into the bazaar. "Look, Iska. Do you think mommy would like a dress like that?" Iska stares at the dress in question, and shakes her head. "Nope." To local dragons, Teisyth has hellos for everyone!! A Hello for you! And one for you. And one for you and one-- er, what's that sloshing sound? She's not sure, but she's too excited to be bothered with that. G'laer is taking an uncommon afternoon snooze, which means she can't consult him about these people, but she can consult all the dragons. « What do you think of the one that looks like a tree? » She eyes a tall, spindly limbed lad wearing drab colors. « Not bright enough to be a tree, » she comments sadly as if this were an important criteria for her Searching efforts. A pause. « Do you want trees? » Cadejoth is confused. He also can't see closely enough to actually get a good idea about this. Perhaps he's not even quite sure what Teisyth is doing (she's pretty confusing sometimes). (To local dragons from Cadejoth) A small group of children dart between the stalls, chasing each other with handfuls of the colored dye powder each; they throw it when they get close enough to each other, resulting in clouds of color and powdered garments. One little boy runs past Farideh in his endeavor to get away, pushing against the slim young woman in his haste, and leaving a blueberry-colored handprint on her sleeveless, yellow caftan top. "Hey!" she calls after the weyrbrat, brows furrowed, but rather than pursue the culprit, she mumbles while she pats at the spot on her shirt with one hand, the other being occupied by a paper cone full of flavored, shaved ice. "Where are the stupid nannies-" Farideh grounds out, irritably. It's a sigh later that she sidles past two brawny Igenites and wanders away the shoe stall she'd been admiring, her eyes flicking over the familiar faces and familiar, nostalgia-inducing sights. Her lips are bright, cherry red from the flavored ice, and her eyes as equally luminous with excitement. For the festivities, her hair's been braided back from her face, but the rest of the chin-length bob is wild and curl around her ears, while she wears a gold caftan shirt and jewel-toned blue pants in tradition, gaudy, Igen flavor. To local dragons, Teisyth's thoughtful, « I think Niahvth would like trees, » is immediate. But Cadejoth doesn't think so? Perhaps she should look on. Teisyth wiggles a little where she sits, craning her neck over to try to eye up what everyone is doing. It couldn't be more fascinating to her. Notably, her dour rider is nowhere to be seen, but with festivities such as these, can that be much of a surprise? The drinks are served with a flourish and, once done, the next set of people in line move forward to place their orders. Another order-taker manifests to hasten the line along, which means Schuyler shouldn't have too long to wait before he's able to order the drink - or any others that might draw his eye, for that matter! Up on stage, the torches have finally been lit and a few of the dancers have filtered off to leave a trio of young women who might well be sisters to start swaying on the stage. The music shifts and builds in energy, with the crashing of bells and chimes punctuating the start of a wild, shimmying dance. Not too far off, Zadkiel is watching, with his conversation clearly being put on hold for the performance. He sucks his teeth, grunts once, and slips back in a swirl of dark fabric and glitter to snare one of the other darkly-dressed girls to speak with her on the side. Of course, that does bring the presence of a rogue green dragon into his awareness. The unfamiliar creature is regarded from what he perceives is a safe distance, the conversation pitched low enough that it has no chance of being heard. Oh. It makes sense now (not really). « I don't think trees belong on the sands, » is the bronze's comment. (To local dragons from Cadejoth) (Un)Fortunately, for K'del's patience, K'zin comes to a stop next to Weyrleader and daughter. Though judging from the way that he jumps (physically), just a little and steps to the side as he notices them standing there, K'zin probably didn't realize whom he was joining to look at that exact dress that is evidently entrancing. K'del's smile, as he registers K'zin's presence, immediately falters; his expression darkens. Still. This is a happy occasion, isn't it? A positive day. "Hello," he says, the lack-of-effusiveness at least made up by Iska's rather more cheerful echo... which is then echoed by baby-worn Ishadel, who, inevitably, copies his sister. "Nice wares." Oh. Oh, that makes sense. The bobble of Teisyth's mental head can be felt as she comes to instant agreement with her weyrleader. The thought process can be traced: trees grow on the Sands. What grows on the Sands? Eggs! Of course, she'll look for someone who looks like an egg. Perfect. (To local dragons from Teisyth) She'll supply the 'dour' for this pleasant place! Except that Alida doesn't look particularly dour, right now. In fact, the often flat-featured bluie's expression is a little lighter than usual - maybe even a tad relaxed - as she wends her way through the crowd towards where the scent of cinnamon and vanilla eminates from. A few people gain the pale-blonde's bob of head or even a low word or two along her way, but green eyes are on their usual, near-constant alert status. There is only the tiniest shifting of mental water at that sandy intrusion. The waters part to allow the sand to settle on the bones of ill-conceived horrors - only for the brackish fluid to sweep in and swallow it all up. The music of the bazaar reverberates across the ocean and shifts into strange patterns that mirror Teisyth's chatter. Terrible, twisted trees here; distorted eggs there. Yet, not a human face to be found. Qhyluth might be described as amused. (To local dragons from Qhyluth) Schuyler's hands are full now so he only orders one drink right now, but it's likely he'll be back. This time as he scans the crowd he's looking for a place to sit. The dancers catch his attention and he makes his way that way, but not before a puff of color bumps into him, covering him in blue powder. Well, at least it's blue! A dark blue dragon slinks in at the fringes, only to settle some distance away. Qhyluth is without his rider - this is perhaps for the best. He settles on his haunches, wings half-mantled and palms planted on his knees. His tail twists behind him and his neck curves, just so, to allow his chin to rest on the curve of his neck. He's watching. No. Listening. For his head tilts just slightly and he leans toward the source of the music. A throaty, damp sound slips free. Satisfied. Ilicaeth conjures up a mental egg in desert camo colors in response to Teisyth, sends it rolling, bouncing, spinning over the sands of the Hatching grounds like a drunken sailor. And 'his' egg has two human legs propeling it, too. Rumble-grin. As for Qhyluth's calcium-laced horrors, Ilicaeth dares to very-glancingly scour along them just before the other blue's 'waters' cover them again, and what he finds leaves the hairs on the back of his neck (make those Alida's hairs) prickle. Still, he's bold and brave...and damned curious. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) A cheer rises from one of the stalls near the beverage and food booths, where evidentially there's a fascinating, though good natured, game of dice being dealt. Tankards are lifted in toast and laughter echoes over the other myriad sounds of the bazaar, reminding many, perhaps, that despite the difficulties, this is a joyous occasion, to celebrate Reaches' fortune and Igen's assistance. "Er, hi," is not exactly panicked, but neither is it normal as greetings go for K'zin. "Hello Iska, hello Ishadel," he manages, but also awkwardly. He's having trouble looking at K'del, but fortunately the blonde bronzerider asks him about the wares, so he can look there. "Yeah, yeah," quick, "great. I was looking at that dress, for Tela." It's probably not the moment to unknowingly make a comment about their taste in women, but K'zin can't know K'del asked Iska about the dress moments before, can he? On the stage, the shimmying dance takes a dizzying turn, with the three women twirling in unison before settling into a circling gyre. The beaded bands about their hips throw off all sorts of bright colors, the torchlight catching the shivering bits of glass and scattering outward. They clap in time with one another, alternating the claps with stamping feet. A singer begins to lift her voice in a quavering cry, one that shivers on the air - there are no words, but the feeling is clear. "It's a yucky dress," pipes up Iska, managing to beat her father to the chase (which may or may not be for the best). It makes K'del frown - frown more, perhaps - and put one hand on her head as if to remind her, silently, to be polite. "I'm sure Tela would look... lovely in it. Despite my daughter's taste." So awkward. "You're enjoying your new job, I hope." Oh, sweet Faranth; *that's* where the heavenly scent is coming from: a vendor selling homemade cinnamon-nut rolls. The huge confections are warm and fragrant...and Alida is a moth to a flame as she lets herself be drawn closer, closer. Flypaper, meet fly. Though her marks are spare, right now, on of the wooden coins is unflinchingly given up so she can procure herself one of the gooey, frosting-laced creations...the thing devoured with slow relish as 'lida moves on towards the stamping, singing dancers, the music. Lovely! To local dragons, Teisyth admires Ilicaeth's imaginings for a moment. But no, she shall not be deterred! And none of these people look like Ilicaeth's wanted poster example. So, the next leap of logic is made (it's a doosie): eggs (NOT DRAGON EGGS) are food. Look for someone with food. Maybe they'll even share! Even if it's not bloody. There's a moment of forlorn stillness to her mind, before she's back on the job. Person with food. Person with food. Person with food. There is little to find on the surface of Qhyluth's ocean. The ripples in the water match the music in the world of flesh - but all is as it should be. Reflections of the bazaar shudder into warped life in that water, but there is no further hint of what resides beneath. The shores glow faintly with a sickly, green hue; the twin moons hang fat and full in his psyche. Fog is pulled over them, but their bloated presence cannot be denied. And those luminous orbs seem to be trained intently on Ilicaeth. Studying. Scrutinizing. Dissecting. Devouring. There is no notion of actual food to be found here; Teisyth's offerings are allowed to fade away on a breeze in favor of the abstract. (To local dragons from Qhyluth) Puffs of color are popping up at odd intervals throughout the bazaar, but the pint-sized deviants can't be caught as they dive and push and wend their way through the crowd of bodies assembling in the bowl. There's a giggle - as a warning? - before a tiny human bumps into K'zin and poof there's a pink, then green, powder cloud puffing into existence the air beside the two bronzeriders. Teisyth's boxy frame is shifting. She has to get closer, see? It's hard to see from here, only it's hard. With all the people and the stalls, so she just makes an agitated noise. The blue beast's attentions stir, but only briefly. There is a shift in the whirling of Qhyluth's eyes, the hues gone a strange combination of blue and green that's made sickly for the shadows cast by his 'ridges. His gaze travels not to the people but, rather, to the shifting of the green just over there. Another damp gurgle is issued, but the meaning is ambiguous. The blue remains where he is and re-centers his gaze on the musicians. Those ones. There. Awful! Awful! This was wonderful until it was awful! She can't get to anyone with food. Teisyth's mind casts about imploringly. Won't someone help her? Won't someone convince their rider to bring her someone with food and no candidate's knot yet to look at? It might be the one and only time that Teisyth is, in fact, a damsel in distress. (To local dragons from Teisyth) The darkly clad Zadkiel finishes up whatever conversation he's in the midst of and, with a shallow dip of his marked chin, he peels himself away. The curiously constructed hood of his has been fully tugged down - but it's of little consequence. He's tall enough that he can just look down and not need to tilt his head at odd angles to see what's happening. With a whisper of fabric, he weaves his way through the crowds; henna-marked skin and glittering dust do well to render him mostly unrecognizable to those who yet consider him a stranger. There is no way to get a good look at his shadow-draped visage and, so, he moves, his intentions clearly set for the drinks stall while the dancers on the stage continue to whirl and wheel in their wild patterns. To local dragons, Cadejoth would, but-- well. His rider doesn't look to be in the right kind of mindset to listen to that kind of logic. Such as it is. Sad. Not the right egg. Oh well. Ilicaeth finds Qhyluth's twisted staring engrossing much of his attention, now, the bulkier blue shifting his gaze from the bazzar to the abstracted newb out beyond him, faceted eyed locking with faceted eyes...but not in a stare-off. More an 'observe-off.' Teisyth's distress is noticed, but right now, Ilicaeth is busy. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) Schuyler finds a table that has been set out and plunks himself down, happy to watch the chaos around him. There's a smirk when the two bronze riders are color bombed and a wave in Alida's direction as a hello. Poor K'zin. He'd just opened his mouth to answer Iska's opinion or to answer K'del's question when that giggle and its fiendish follow-up occur. Pink gets in his mouth. On as much of the side of his face as was turned toward the puff, and green splatters his riding jacket. His barely two turn old riding jacket. The woe. At least as he raises a hand to splutter and try to wipe pink powder from his right eye and mouth, he should be a source of distraction for the weyrleader's children? Will K'zin ever grow out of being a bit of a buffoon? Unlikely. Tides shudder. Water groans. Teisyth's imploring tones are simply echoed across the great ocean that is Qhyluth's mind. Fractured voices moan a breathless « She, She, She » in the distance - but what purpose that will serve has yet to be seen. All of his focus is divided - for Ilicaeth consumes his inner sight and the exotic sounds made by man absorbs the remainder of his senses. « She, She, She » says he - but the images that scatter in the water are wrenched into obscene patterns and shapes. (To local dragons from Qhyluth) Shadowy visage? That's practically a call to arms with Alida...or a call to earn her attention. As she shifts her eyes around the crowd while eating her confection, Zadkiel's Igenite/candidate self is noticed as a bit of an enigma, and so tracked by the bluerider's green gaze...his form and face digested by her guard's trained brain. A faint shiver is her sudden reaction to Ilicaeth's own reaction to Qhyluth, but in a second, her prickling hairs are smoothed back down, her observations continuing. K'del and Ishadel manage to step back out of the way of the powder just in time, but Iska? She's four. And a girl. She more or less throws herself into it, even if it means almost toppling into K'zin in the process, her giggles of delight all the more unrestrained for the sheer joy of it. Ishadel is immediately in hysterics, and even K'del... well, what else can he do, though it's more of a smirk than anything else. "Suits you," he says. No amount of dye, or specifically blue dye, can staunch the flow of Farideh's happiness; it's displayed outwardly in the ever-near smile and avidly watching eyes. She moves from stall to stall, simply looking, and chatting occasionally with other weyrfolk. It's in passing by the tables afforded for eating that she notices Schuyler. "Sky," she says, cheerfully, pausing on the other side of the table from him, as yet standing and still taking unladylike bites off her shaved ice. "Isn't this wonderful? Are you enjoying yourself?" Of course, the bluerider's gaze will pick up the obvious peculiarities: Zadkiel's scarred torso is scattered with glittering dust of some sort, with a curious sort of shrug-hood claiming part his upper body. Then there's the loin cloth, long and black and heavily embroidered. And the beads. The henna. All quite odd, perhaps - but fitting for the here and now. His attention cuts askance to her in passing, green eyes glinting under the hood - and then he's at the drinks stall, requesting this or that or something or another. A couple of glasses are handed over in short order and he grunts his approval. Beautiful dancing women? Eventually H'vier was bound to make an appearance and now here he is, dressed rather casually in comfortable clothes that he probably hasn't worn much since he was transferred away from Ista. The women will have to wait for his attention until he's gotten himself a drink, though. A man must have priorities. Schuyler grins when Farideh make her way in his direction. "Hey! Farideh, we match." he chuckles in response to them both being covered in blue. "I sure am, about to try some of the festival food. You have a favorite?" he asks, digging in for his first spicy bite. It's possibly the most disappointing moment of her life (that she can currently remember) that no one rushes to her aid. Where have all the heroes gone?! This is so confusing. (And then there's Qhyluth who's a whole other kettle of fish.) So she mopes. But only for a moment. Teisyth is never down for long though. And this time, her hopes have a reason to soar. « Ilicaeth!! » She directs her thoughts excitedly (but so loudly, Teisyth, too loud). « That one that just waved ter Alida! He's got food! C'n you have her ask if'n that one's got a candidate's knot yet? Pretty please? » (To local dragons from Teisyth) K'zin stumbles when Iska's weight hits him, and he reaches with that hand, the one that has pink on it now, of course, out to grab something to steady him. And-- oops. Guess K'zin's buying that yucky dress after all! It's got a pink K'zin-print on it now. "Faranth!" is choked as he manages to keep his feet. It could be worse. At least he didn't say #$@%@!%@, right? "Match?" The candidate's eyebrows draw together and she tipping her head to the side, obviously confused by his meaning, until she glances down, and remembers-"They should have the dyes in the back so little brats can't get their grubby hands in it," Farideh whines, flicking at the stain on her shirt. She sighs and glances to the side, where she notices H'vier; she does not, however, try to get him attention. Instead, she looks back at Schuyler, wrinkling her nose. "I like it all. I'm from Igen, you know. I could eat everything and still not be satisfied." The dancers on the stage wind up for their big finale. They hold their wildly contorted poses through the final crash of music and then they all throw down small packets of something that send up colored dust. The three young women take their leave of the stage, leaving the musicians to take center stage - so to speak - for a little while. Schuyler smirks. "Well I've never been and I intend to try it all until I'm stuffed." he rolls his eyes as the new flavors assault his taste buds. No doubt the storekeeper will be thrilled: a sale! Iska's squeal is less thrilling (she definitely knows how to do that ear-splitting kind), and K'del's yell, though deeper, is far from pleased. Ishadel's attempt to echo K'zin is not perfect, but it certainly gets the impression across... and it still counts as swearing. "Fa-anth," he says, glefully. "Fa-anth, fa-anth, fa-anth!" "K'zin." Another faint shiver ripples Ilicaeth's oiled hide like a whitecap on a vast ocean - Qhyluth's freaky ocean? No! - but the older blue refuses to give in to fear, keeps his gaze locked with the other dragon's as he tries to (cautiously) suss more out about him. Wha-huh?! Someone's calling his name? *That* makes the gritty dragon's consciousness divert to Teisyth, her loudness meeting with a faintly shocked initial reaction, then an even-more faintly relieved, « Nope. » (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) Ah. There. No drinking for Zadkiel; the smear of paint on his lower lip, unfortunately, prevents him from imbibing anything for a time. But, his attentions turn toward those milling about and gathered just over there. Familiar faces pull at his attention and, while the music is in a lull of sorts, he takes that moment to move in the direction of Farideh and Schuyler. Yes, he looks dramatically different. No, he doesn't seem to have any sense of shame about his relative shirtlessness. And, yes, one of those glasses - filled with a fruity, but alcohol-free, drink - is set in front of Farideh. Without a word. "Fuck." It's out of K'zin's mouth before he realizes. His cheeks are bright under his dusky skin as realization hits like a Tillek storm wave. He looks down only long enough to ascertain that he didn't step on the Weyrleader's four turn old, and then sidestepping toward the vendor, "I'm just gonna--" Pay. And go. As quickly and quietly as K'del will let him. If he lets him. Schuyler looks up when Zadkiel approaches. "Woa! Man you look awesome!" is the greeting. Leave it to Sky not to care how bizarre the Igen-Candidate looks. Indifference stills the waters of Qhyluth's mind. When Ilicaeth's attention is pulled from bearing witness to the primal ocean, that ocean seems to recede. Ice slinks in at the edges, freezing some of the more anomalous images, while the rest quiver anxiously at the idea of their absorbtion. « She, She, She » those distant, broken voices moan - and then his mental presence subtly disconnects, retreating to leave only the broken bodies of nightmares along the wretched, colorless shore. All the rest is drawn into reverent regard of Her, She Whose Name Is Not To Be Spoken and he is too distant to be reached. (To local dragons from Qhyluth) There's relief from Teisyth at Ilicaeth's response, taking it to mean an answer and not 'no, he won't ask Alida to ask.' Finally, one. « Will she ask him for me? Do you think he's okay? I mean, good. Do you think he's good? I think he's good. Will he be my candidate? » A mental hiccup interrupts the tumble of words, « Our candidate? G'laer's not here. But he'd be so pleased if you asked him for us. All of us. » So. Pleased. (To local dragons from Teisyth) "I hope not. You can always visit Igen if you want to try more. It's only a dragon ride away," Farideh says, watching the baker eat, with a small smile on her face. She doesn't notice the other Igenite until he's set down a drink in front of her, and then it's to stare at him with wide eyes, taking in his lack of shirt and interesting apparel. Her cheeks flush with color, her fingers reaching for the glass, which she lifts, with a tremulous smile at the stoic candidate. "Thank you," she manages to get out, after an awkward silence; now she's got a drink and dessert! "Fuck," repeats Ishadel, delighted with this new word. It gets repeated a few more times for emphasis... as you do. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. K'del looks about ready to yell at K'zin, but if the younger bronzerider is about to take his leave... yes, that's probably for the best. Still, the Weyrleader is plainly Not Impressed as he grabs for Iska's hand and tugs her after him. They're leaving. Diminutive as she is, it's easy to miss drab Ulyana in the sea of bright colors and even brighter music. Her expression is a dull one, her demeanor odd and mechanical. Stiff, perhaps, but purposeful. No sooner than she arrives at the fringes of the gathering than Qhyluth stirs from his strange posture to slink along behind her for as long as he can. Since she's not about to dive into the fray of commerce and consumables, he'll be there for a fairly long time. Watching. Listening. She says nothing - and it's hard to tell whether she's mirroring his movements or he's mirroring hers. There's a slight ducking of Zadkiel's chin, along with a ghost of a smile. "Enjoy." The word is positively purred to Farideh - and extended, somewhat, to Schuyler - and then he's on the move again, off to deliver the other drinks to a bevy of dancers loitering near the stage and awaiting their turn at taking the spotlight. More conversation is had and then he's off again, this time to speak in low tones with the elderly woman who seems to be in charge of the music. Busy, busy fellow, this one. Yeah...uh...okay. Ilicaeth can feel the last of Qhyluth's disconnect from him, that 'She' thing creeping him out just a little. Oh...his rider, maybe? 'Cause it'd better NOT be *his* Alida. MINE...the rather possessive feeling is offered to the other blue like first hints of a sandstorm on the wind. What the..? « Why don' *you* Search 'im? » Because it's not G'laer' opinion that counts in such, but *Teisyth's*. « Go get 'er, toots! » He's behind her all the way. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) Schuyler's wave is found amidst the crowd, and he gets a brisk one back before the bluerider has to abort it after nearly losing her remaining cinnamon roll. Soon enough, afterward... "*Damn* it, Ilicaeth..." Alida mutters partially to herself as she starts moving away from the dancers so she can try and visually locate her 'partner' more easily through the crowd. More mutterings ensue, one of them perhaps, "Are you serious?" and another "I'm *busy*!" and it's on that one that the blonde might just bump into Edyis if things go awry. Blinkie-stare. "Ed..." Huh? Oh. "Igen itself ain't bad." The Weyr though? Hmm. To local dragons, Teisyth's agitation grows. She can't get to him; that's the whole problem! It's the worst. And she doesn't speak to strangers (this was a firmly ingrained lesson). « Can Alida at least send him over here? Away from the stalls and people? » The stalls and people she very much does not want to crush by accident. In case anyone wasn't sure, she's not the most graceful green there is. She probably doesn't even rate in the top however many there are besides her. Sadly. Except when she's flying backwards. But that's different. Once he's procured himself a drink, H'vier begins to wander his way in a circuit past the rest of the stalls. He pauses to look at this and that without seeming overly interested in anything in particular. Except food. But he'll get to that soon enough. Schuyler waves as Zadkiel moves along and grins at the returned wave from Alida, though it appears she is lost in the crowd quickly after. "You can't tell me Igen is always like this though? I think I'd explode if things were this crazy every day." it's said with a grin and good humor, another bite of food. "Woah! Spicy!" he grins though. Oh! He hadn't thought of that. So many little humans...little squishy humans. Yeah. Good idea. Running roughshod over his partner at this point, the burly blue briskly sends a gritty swirl of a nod to Teisyth, then concentrates on making his rider accomplish this important task. It'll take a bit, so be patient. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) The young woman murmurs something just under her breath, which sets the darkling blue behind her to uttering a sound of dismay. Ulyana tips her head back just enough to look up at Qhyluth and fixes him with a long stare that's matched well enough with one of his. In the end, the blue backs down in a figurative sense, even if, in the physical, he remains precisely where he is. Silence lingers between the odd pairing until, at long last, the human-half ventures toward the lamp stall - with her blue shadow in tow. Edyis rolls her shoulders at that. "Won't know that until I see the place, If I see the place." She may or may not be eying Alida's sweet rolls. "Where did you get that?" She sing songs, as she takes note of her surroundings. " "It," Farideh says, after taking a sip of her new, fruity drink, "depends on where you go. I think most areas like to celebrate, and by celebrate, I mean dance and sing and play instruments, a little more--" Her forehead crinkles and she shrugs. "The Holds might be more conservative, but if you go farmer out, to the cotholders, and other settlements, I think this is normal. I'm not sure about the Weyr. It might be more like here, with a little extra." She gives Schuyler a pleasant smile, but takes up her glass again, to sip from, whilst surveying the crowd over its rim. K'zin steps out of the stall with the 'yucky' dress over his arm. The one stained certainly with pink and green that will hopefully come out in the wash and that hopefully Telavi will like in spite of everything. Now, where does a pinkened (literally) faced man with a nice swath of green on his nice riding jacket get a damn drink? That's where he's going next, yessir. More and more lights and lanterns are lit, the utmost care being taken since - well, it's a lot of fire and a lot of people milling about. The music takes a decidedly more tribal turn, with drums thumping into the fore while the whistles and pipes fade into the background. Voices lift, wordless but not without shape, to create an aural serpent of sorts; the sound slithers and undulates, tempting and teasing before fading into the background. On the stage, a lone woman in dark clothes - a match for Zadkiel's for the observant - has begun to sway, her arms sliding up and down in serpentine motions that terminate in a flutter of fingers. Near the kite booth, one of the miscreant's has been caught a collared, literally being held in the air by the collar of his shirt. He starts flails his legs and arms, which disperses more colorful powder in the air. His cries call forth his allies, and they start assaulting the catcher - a Reachian bluerider - with powder, until there's a great cloud of rainbow color in the air over his head. Unlucky are the people nearby the man, who bear the brunt of the uncoordinated powder-throwers. Red, yellow, blue, green, purple, and pink, everywhere. Teisyth's agitation is growing. Now she's rocking back and forth between one side and the other, and then lifting paws in alternating patterns. She rocks. She rocks. She sits. She stands. She sits. And again. Rocking, side to side. But at least she seems unlikely to trample anyone or anything in the meantime. K'del's crankiness is plainly reflected in his children; Ishadel has started to cry, Iska has started to whine. It's no wonder, then, that they troop themselves off-- bedtime. To local dragons, Teisyth is trying to be patient. Trying. Alida notes low to Edyis, "I'm talkin' about the desert...the populace." Not the Weyr or Hold; just in general. "Cinnamon bun vendor...over..." And just as she lifts an arm to point Ed in the proper direction, Ilicaeth's up in her mental face again, causing the bluie's eyes to gaze partially inwards, and her relaxed face to tense up a little. This time, the dialogue's all internal, and - from the look of it - perhaps not so pleasant...and this finally becomes even more obvious when the bluerider shoves the last bite of her 'roll into her mouth, then mumbles around it to Edyis, "Fuckin' *duty calls*..." Growl. Off she storms through the throng on her way to somewhere, the paper leftovers of her food hurled into a nearby trash bin along her way. Uh-oh. Ah, the drinks stall. It seems to be making some rather brisk trade, at least. Juice isn't the only thing flowing, although it seems that even they are mindful to check knots lest Candidates get their hands on the more intoxicating offerings on display. All the same, it would appear that the sample-serving maiden - replaced with a curvaceous creature in a midriff baring costume of red and purple - has traded her juice tray for one laden with the riskier fare. Liquor: it's what's for drinking. One of many lured by the heavy drumming beat and flickering lanterns in the bowl, Laine arrives with a group of three crafters, tanners each judging by their knots, and begins the slow circuit around that loose semi-circle of stalls. The candidate, lingering long at each booth, lags even further behind her colleagues once she's drawn up to the array of incenses; the short-haired woman spends several long minutes holding each up and inspecting each in turn, and giving each a wrinkle-nosed sniff. The conversation between rider and dragon is one-sided; Ulyana speaking aloud and Qhyluth making no sound at all. She peruses the contents of the lamp stall, fingers ghosting over this item or that until they alight upon something that seems to pique their collective interest. A beast's skull - converted into a lamp. A thick, throaty gurgle escapes Qhyluth at the sight of it and, with only a moment's hesitation, the girl pays for it and stows the item into her everpresent satchel. Though she looks to the remaining crowds of people, she doesn't seem intent on wading into the mix. Watching from afar seems to be the only thing of interest now, even if the blue is urgently pressing his nose at her bag. Edyis nods but then Alida's off and the atmosphere changes. "Wow." maybe it's lucky she isn't wearing her knot since she seems to be making her way over to the server. Schuyler turns his attention to the stage. "Dancers common too?" he asks, then, "Maybe you can teach me some time... and help me with some recipes like this in the kitchens? I'd love to stir this up!" he grubs. Ilicaeth sounds gruffly pleased, purposely innuring himself to his rider's current bout of high irritation. « She's workin' on'nit. Hold on... » his dry and scouring baritone replies genially enough to Teisyth. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) "Rukbat's Spit," the drink-server declares. "Liquid Firestone! Test your tongue against them both!" Because that's not irresponsible. Ever. On the stage, the dancer is moving sinuously - if sedately - with serene motions carrying her swaying self from one side of the stage to the other. Her undulations are dangerous, her contortions casual. The play of feet and hands is as perfectly calculated as every breath taken and released, to ensure the ripple of her stomach muscles is both properly timed and compelling. The drink Farideh's been sipping is halted in its return to her lips, her eyes, brows lifted overtop, flicking to Schuyler in surprise. "I don't dance-- like that." She shifts her shoulders in an awkward motion, and stands a little more rigidly. "I'm sure many do, but not-- me. I also don't cook." What kind of a woman is she anyway? What use is she!? H'vier makes his round and eventually he's going to be making his way back to where the drinks are. Because alcohol. It's that important. His attention wanders over people now that whatever curiosity he had for the non-food-related stalls has been sated. « Hot diggity! » Teisyth's one excited green. Her hooked tail lashes against the ground, stirring up some powdery color. She'll look great in yellow and blue~ (To local dragons from Teisyth) How can any one resist with names like that? "One of each please then," the ever curious former scribe chimes, providing appropriate payment for both. "What the fuck *am* I; a fucking messenger?!" Alida grinds off mostly to herself (since Ilicaeth's conveniently shut her inner tirade off from his mind, at the moment) as she darts and plunges through the festive crowd. She was *trying* to enjoy the dancers! *Now* she wants a drink...like that liquor firestone. Her destination soon becomes apparent - and maybe to the woe of those she's bearing down upon - when the irritated-looking bluie steps up to the little group of Farideh and Schuyler and grouses, "If y'll come with me, please..." as her green eyes flick like whips into the baker. Her alto sounds like it should be obeyed, and the woman's already pivoting about, as if he'll hup-to-it. Having eventually gratified her need to smell each stick of incense, oil, and perfumed pellet (twice, in some cases) Laine angles her path to cut across the span of stalls and, surprise surprise, she ends up at Edyis' elbow, tacking on: "Two, actually, of each." Then: she sneezes three times in rapid succession, and scrubs at her nose with her palm. "Eugh. Hey." As the day wears on and more people show up to get a taste of the Igen life, there's bound to be some upstarts amongst the crowd. Some of the Weyr-bred candidates, a few bruisers who think they're a little tougher than they really are, start heckling one of the stall vendors, antagonizing them with snide remarks about tunnelsnake lovers and other childish insults. They keep it up until one of the older brownrider gives them a push and shoos them off, to "get some air and some marbles, you fucking terds." K'zin has two drinks, because pink. So when he meets H'vier just heading into the line for the alcohol he stops. There's a moment that a few curious eyes might watch with baited breath to see if a punch will be thrown. Instead the younger man offers over one of the drink he holds. "Beer?" Weyrwoman Azaylia has been enjoying the Igen wares, perhaps even moreso than most. It's no secret that she has a particular love of their perfumes and bath oils, though it's clear she's given them some respite by stopping by the henna booth. Even as she mingles among the crowd, the goldrider's forearms and palms are decorated with a lacy reddish-brown pattern that she's all too pleased to show off. "Enjoy!" The serving wench manages a deep bow despite the tray on her hand, and the two sample glasses are handed to Edyis. Two more are quickly procured for Laine as well, followed by another bow and another enthusiastic, "Enjoy!" One spells potent and peppery; the other is perilously cinnamon-y. Both are strong enough to curl nose hair. The lone dancer on stage isn't due to remain alone for much longer. The music shifts and another voice joins the mix, a deeper voice that carries a steady note. Zadkiel slinks his way on stage, his serpentine movements a fitting match for the young woman's; her motions are mirrored by him, though he keeps his distance. The ripple of stomach muscle; the slow twisting of limbs. The occasional shimmy. There's a story to be told through this dance - but only the most observant might catch it. Schuyler looks up from his food. "Uh, hi Alida, what's wrong? This is nice right?" her command clicks. "What? Why? Is something wrong?" he stands, though, gathering his things as she turns away. He shoots a confused look to Farideh. Farideh looks both surprised and confused when Alida comes over, drawing Schuyler away. She returns his look with a frown, but takes the opportunity to dispense of her melted, flavored ice and walk the crowds while sipping on her fruity drink. "Nothin' wrong..." Alida grumbles out in continued irritation to Schuyler, one of her hands reaching out as she pivots to try and pluck briskly at whatever bit of fabric adorns him to convince the baker to get a move-on with her. Thanks, Farideh. Maybe he's being tugged in two directions, now. "Yer wanted..." the bluie mutters more directly to Sky. Now. H'vier's attention focuses on K'zin before he says anything, brows furrowed. Is he upset? No. The older bronzerider starts laughing. But he does so as he reaches for the offered beer because he wouldn't want K'zin to take it back or anything. "It suits you, bronzerider. Perhaps even better than a bloody nose." Edyis grins as Laine arrives, dark eyes shifting between her and the dancers on stage. "Is ... that Zadkiel?" She asks Laine knocking back the peppery drink first. Schuyler doesn't question, even if he has an entirely too perplexed look on his face. He gives Farideh a wave, or a lift off a glass rather, as he trots to keep up with the grumpy blue rider. "Who wants me?" Ooh, something else to smell. Laine investigates both glasses with narrow-eyed intent, although when she moves to sniff the fiery, pepper-hot liquor, she recoils and blinks rapidly. So she doesn't smell: she just drinks. The first goes down, though not without a cough; the second, Laine doesn't get to, because--yes, that's Zadkiel. The tanner, open-mouth, just says a flat, shocked: "What." And she gawks. « They're comin'... » Ilicaeth notes in smikily-pleased fashion to Teisyth. Shouldn't be another minute. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) Teisyth strains. She's leaning back onto her hind legs to get higher vantage over the tops of the booths and the people. She crooooooons pleadingly. Something. Someone? Please. Please? "Farideh," comes the quiet baritone of a familiar (to some) tall, blonde man wearing Igenite riding leathers as he slips through a small knot of people that almost certainly should've shifted more to let the bronzerider through. On the stage, the young woman in black sways - just in time to avoid the sudden, snakelike movement of Zadkiel's arm. His attempt to capture her has failed and the pursuit begins, with the maiden twisting and twirling just out of reach, while his gestures - slow and snakelike before becoming dangerous and sharp - attempt to ensnare and trap. She bends at the waist here, while his arms close on empty air; there, she drops into a split, while his clawing hand snatches nothing. Give and take; chase and hunt. And so it goes, with the music taking an increasingly more discordant quality as it goes on. To local dragons, Teisyth is over the moon! Wait. Is that a thing? Can she actually go over the moon? Should she try? Maybe the new candidate will come with her! It would be the best, wouldn't it? Alida doesn't bother answering Schuyler, since she's hurrying along through the crowd, and rather consumed with another quick, 'inner' conversation with Ilicaeth at the same time. Within under a minute, the 'who' becomes pretty damned obvious as the bluie storms nearly right up to a barrelly-looking green with rusty highlights upon her hide, and announces brusquely, "All yers, Teisyth. Have at 'im..." to Teisyth, then abandoning both Baker and green to their own devices as she tries to retreat back into the crowd. Apparently the woman's dusting her hands of the rest. Eventually, bluerider and dragon fade into the background. Or so it seems. Ulyana and Qhyluth take their leave, their precious cargo in tow. Though the blue does cant a glance back at the music and those playing it, the compulsion to depart is stronger than he can possibly fight. The couple's spat that Farideh had been eavesdropping on, chin drawn in, ends abruptly when the woman whirls and stomps off, leaving the man to shake his fists after her. "Should have apologized anyway," Farideh mutters, not that the man can hear her. That familiar voice by her ear makes her start in surprise, her drink spilling over the sides of her glass, as she whirls to stare, wide-eyed, at the blonde-haired, green-eyed Igenite. "J'taryn!" Finally, her lips curve into a smile. "I should have known you'd come. Isn't it lovely? Isn't it--home?" Minus the sand, obviously. Her eyes flick from the pulsing crowd, to the bronzerider, her expression turning a shade curious. "You did come for the bazaar, didn't you?" Oh *no* she doesn't. There's important stuff, other than the bare minimum. Ilicaeth cracks the whip on his rider, informing her briskly, « Gonna abandon the guy who made ya special food? Who was actually nice to ya? » Guilt: it does a mind good! (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) K'zin's lips press together in a restrained expression. He takes a breath and then clears his throat. "I suppose I deserve that. Someone did tell me recently that red is my color. Not so sure about this pink. But the day can't get much worse than teaching K'del's kids to swear. So. Do your worst." He probably doesn't mean that as an invitation to hit him. Edyis stares, she stares at the stage watching the dance, who knows if the red ringing her ears is drink or dance. Laine gets side eyed. Distress! Help help! She cheers Ilicaeth on with his whip-cracking. She can't tell Sky, certainly. And G'laer... well, she's probably not going to tell him either! (To local dragons from Teisyth) Teisyth's abruptly crouching, her eyes whirling dizzyingly fast in her excitement. Her big boxy (arguably ugly) head drops down to get more on a level (if not too near) the baker, only to rumble abrupt distress as Alida walks away. "C'mon, I want a better look." Laine sets her empty glass down on the stall and plucks at Edyis' sleeve. Whether the former scribe follows or not, Laine defends her second drink with a cupped hand over the brim and darts away, weaving through the crowd (past the bizarre tableau that is Sky and the excitable green) to secure a closer position near to the stage. She does pause, however, some distance away, and her path circles around to draw up next to Farideh and her mysterious friend. "Farideh. Your hair looks amazing." That mysterious friend recieves an up-and-down assessment. Schuyler looks between the dragon and Alida. "Wait what? I can't talk to her... what does she... why would a dragon want me?" he looks around for the rider, poor dense baker is so confused. Trying to flee*bodily* is a little easier than doing it mentally. Alida cannot avoid her dragon guilt-tripping her, and in a few seconds, her rush becomes a merely fast lurch...which suddenly connects her in a rough way with 'fading' Ulyana. Blueriders meet and greet this time as their bodies forceably contact one anothers', Alida staggering backward with a flailing of arms and a quick cry of, "Damn it!" Ach! "Sorry!" Grouse. Caught. Guilty as charged. Damn it! "S'cuse me..." and she turns around - that look of combined guilt and irritation still in place upon her face - to return to Teisyth...and Schuyler. She's not in time to hear Sky's confused inquiry once she returns, but Alida can mutter quickly, "She wants ya ta Stand. Say yes 'r no." Period. The hunt continues - and the prey grows weak. Tired. The young woman's movements grow erratic, her attempts to flee the hunter rendered ineffectual. Once-fluid movements become stiff and jerky, flighty and full of shimmies. And then there's Zadkiel, looming and sinuous, his stomach undulating with what must surely be a monstrous hunger - or worse. His shoulders shimmy forward and the maiden, helpless, finds her shoulders drawn in kind. The compulsion begins and, as his arms draw wide, she's drawn forward with staggered, hip-dropping steps. His arms close about her shoulders. They cross. Her head turns - and then his arms tighten, terribly, as if to snap her neck. It's all a show - all of it - but her body goes convincingly limp. The music takes on a sorrowful noted, though there's still that one voice, low and steady and deep. Holding. Hopeful. "It's just... lightish red," H'vier assures K'zin, still looking amused but at least not laughing anymore. Out loud. "I'd really like to enjoy myself here," and avoid further punishment, "so lets consider that my worst, hmm?" He lifts the beer he took from K'zin - cheers - then takes a drink. "I don't think the dress will suit you, admittedly." The collision is a jarring one, most especially for the diminutive girl. Ulyana won't hit the ground, though; Qhyluth is too quick, too watchful, to allow it. She ends up against an abruptly placed foreleg and the darkling blue is quick to coil his tail and drop a wing to further shield his momentarily staggered rider from view. His eyes whirl a disturbing hue of red-ochre as he regards the other bluerider, though he makes no sound. Indeed, it might seem the beast won't relinquish his hold on the girl until the other one is long gone - but pale fingers peek around the leading edge of that dark wing and Ulyana appears to try to shove that wing away. "I am not hurt," is her declaration, deadpan and dull. "The skull is not injured either." Her attention slides to the swearing one as she departs, but there is nothing further to say. There is no agitation there; no frustration. Just a lingering look as pieces are fit together. Curious pieces, all of them. J'taryn's look back to Farideh is distinctly uneasy. "It's... yeah. Nice." He's distracted, for sure, "Farideh, listen," it's important, so important he'll reach to try to touch her elbow to encourage them to walk through the crowd together. "If. Um. If I asked you to do me a big favor and just come with me for a little trip, would you come? Without... asking questions?" Wouldn't that be nice? Edyis follows as she is tugged, the heat of liquor settling in. "Igenites know how to drink," She rasps knocking back the second under the mistaken impression that it will cool the heat. She stays close to Laine, dark eyes watching, fascinated and disturbed all at once. Schuyler baffles at the statement. "Seriously?" of course she's serious with that grump of a statement. "Uh, yeah, yeah sure." he answers then, "Yes. Of course." he looks around for the order candidates, "They are so gonna laugh at this." he chuckles then grins. "You sure?" he asks the dragon. The smile on Farideh's face freezes, turning brittle, and when her eyes flick to the hand touch her elbow, it dies altogether. "What? No. I'm here, I'm having fun here. What's wrong with you, J'taryn? I can't just leave. I'm a candidate." She's looking at J'taryn like he might be a thief, and then Laine is standing next to her and she spares the other candidate a confused glance. "It's-- I'm still getting used to it. It doesn't make me look like a boy?" while she combs fingers through the chin-length curls, separating the strands bit by bit. Guilty eyes lift to the bronzerider, "Laine, this is J'taryn, J'taryn, this is Laine." The *look* Alida awards Schuyler should say it all in response to his inquiry. If the woman wasn't serious, she wouldn't even effing *be* here. Grrr. Well then; excellent! She's almost done with him; the bluie awaiting Teisyth's own answer while rocking back and forth on her sandal-clad feet...and glancing over her shoulder at wing-shrouded Ulyana and her protective Qhyluth. Blink. There's that inward look again, for a moment, then returned to the other blue pair, and finally to Teisyth and Co. Teisyth is ecstatic! Yes! She warbles her delight and wiggles it too, though carefully since Sky and Alida are so relatively close. Will her enthusiasm and hooked-tail slamming against the ground, making pebbles dance, be enough of a confirmation for the baker? "I'd call that a pretty clear 'Yes...' Alida notes briskly, dryly to Sky of Teisyth's reaction. Beat. "Ilicaeth agrees." Once extricated, Ulyana fixes Alida with a long, unblinking stare for the span of time that the other rider's regard can be caught. Then, she blinks and, with a stiff movement, she pivots and takes her leave fully this time. Qhyluth's eyes remain red-tinged as he follows - this time more closely and with something especially predatory-possessive to his stride. The young woman is laid out on the stage with reverent care and Zadkiel bends over her to press a kiss to her forehead. His work is done. His departure is made in a puff of dark, glittering dust - and all that remains is the maiden on the stage to be mourned by the disembodied voices. The music fades. The voices drift. And the dance is done. After a few moments of silence, she's carried off the stage by a flurry of attendants, leaving the stage clear for a much livelier dance full of color and bells and light. Schuyler laughs. "Well, yeah, I guess so!" he grins. "Thanks. Uh... where's her rider? Why did you...?" probably the wrong question to ask. "Uh... Can I go back to the party now or... is there something I need to do?" shouldn't someone raised in the weyr know how this works? K'zin tips his glass in answer to H'vier's toast, apparently equally willing to let bygones be bygones. "So, what do you reckon? Queerest thing you've ever seen at 'Reaches to date?" The bazaar, he must mean. His brows are lifted at the older bronzerider, inviting stories if he's got any. "No, no." Laine shakes her head and lifts a hand as if to flick it through Farideh's hair, but it fall short, back to Laine's side, and she sips from her cup of cinnamon-spicy liquor. The candidate repeats the bronzerider's name carefully, as though committing it to memory. Her eyes narrows as she turns a grey-eyed look between the two. "Am I interrupting?" She even takes a step back, back toward where Edyis is watching the stage. J'taryn is arguably always a little awkward with his 6'4" frame and gentle demeanor, but more so in this moment as Farideh refuses him and then introduces him to her friend. "Uh, hi." Blue eyes look toward his feet only briefly but then he lifts his eyes toward the one of them he already knows and blurts. "Mishal wants to see you. I'm to bring you. I promise, I'll bring you back." The hair and the rest? Ignored, but apologetically. H'vier's gaze settles briefly on a passing dancer. It's one of the fewer males. His eyes don't linger, in part because something with breasts catches his attention instead. "Something like that. Maybe not the queerest. You're standing right here, after all." It could be insulting, but somehow it doesn't seem to be intended that way. H'vier is in a good mood. Her rider. Oh. Oh! Oh. Um. « Ilicaeth, » as close to shyly as Teisyth ever gets. « C'n you maybe see about havin' Alida not tell him about G'laer? Or maybe just tellin' him that talkin' to G'laer isn't the best idea? I want to surprise him when he Impresses! » If she remembers he was her pick to begin with without G'laer's help. (To local dragons from Teisyth) More hair-stroking, more self-conscious, guilty stares. "What? No. You're not interrupting." Farideh holds her hand out, plaintively, to Laine, to encourage her to come back, and then to J'taryn, her expression turns instantly cool, closed off. "How lovely. Send him my regards: fuck off. I'm not going anywhere with you and I'm certainly not going anywhere he is. If he wants me, he can come and get me--" It's challenging, but not quite threatening enough, given she's only an inch shy of five and a half feet, and her backup is even shorter. Alida's not surprised by Schuyler being caught off guard by this odd Search, the pale-blonde noting crisply to the new-minted Candidate, "First; rules." And then the 'former' guard spills off to the Baker a quick list of the do's and don'ts of Candidacy, along with a clipped, "Inform the Headwoman, get yer knot, move to the candidate's quarters. And just keep reportin' to yer own job. Yer a Baker fer the Weyr; we need those." None of those generalized and typical chores for him... thank Faranth! Alida will still get her noms. Priorities! "Yeah; finish the party first." And if he's drunk by the end of it? Smirk. He'll have to answer to Teisyth! "Congratulations; enjoy!" And, like the independent, fiery spirit she is, the bluie leaves poor Sky on his lonesome so *she* can get back to yer own enjoyment. Edyis's attention shifts, Then, looking to Laine, Farideh and the rider. Her cheeks faintly flushed, though she stares instead of saying anything else. Teisyth looks abruptly concerned, the color of her eyes changing as rapidly as an Igenite desert gets a surprise sandstorm. She looks down at Alida. But then, she hears no mention of whatever worries her and so a large sigh of relief ripples across her flank and she begins to shift away, to get enough room to depart herself. The excitement's over! Party? What party. She got her candidate! *Not* tell G'laer? How long will either of them remember that? « Uh... I'll try. » Why not? The blue is a little dubious, but he'll accept Teisyth's wish, and pass the request on to Alida. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) Schuyler, baffled a bit heads back to the table he left Farideh at. Note complete with a few more riders and candidates. "Uh, hey." he greets, a bit stunned. There is only a temporary mystery as to Zadkiel's location. The hunter-turned-Candidate emerges from behind the stage to join the rest of humanity, though his hood remains in place. The curious collection of Candidates over yonder, however, draws his gaze. Though the pinching of his brows is impossible to see, the grim set of his mouth is plainly visible. Edyis is closer to him, however, and it's to her that he goes, ghost-quiet as he tends to be. A hand is lifted and aimed to rest on her shoulder as he intones in low tones, "What is going on? Is she in trouble?" And there is trouble, but of a different sort. The kids that were scattered earlier seem to have returned. There's a bit of a commotion near the lamp stand; a bit more near some of the others. And then: smoke. Faint at first. Easily dismissed as someone having knocked over a small lantern or something. Until there's more - and it's incense-scented. Teisyth launches up towards the lower sky. As if to console herself for being interrupted in such an untimely fashion, Alida moves towards that purveyor of liquor, and soon nabs herself a nice shot of that powerful cinnamon alcohol, the woman downing it in one heavy draught...and then wheezing and trying not to cough up a lung as her eyes water. WHEW! Laine steps forward, then, in response to that extended hand--she even takes it, for a brief moment, with a squeeze. Releasing Farideh, the tanner gazes passively at J'taryn over the brim of her cup as she drinks: she'll provide whatever back up Farideh needs. "Ha, ha, hilarious," K'zin tells the wingleader with a roll of his eyes. A deep drink of his beer later, and he's sighing. "At least they have booze," is a casual sentiment that only lasts until he smells-- and sees-- "Smoke," his eyes bug and he squints where it's coming from. Edyis tenses at the hand on her shoulder and frowns sharply swaying lightly on her feet. Once she recognizes Zadkiel, she answers in a voice intended only for the taller Igenite, "She might be, He has an Igen knot." why that is important Edyis does not elaborate. J'taryn is awful at being challenged. His shoulders hunch and his head hangs. He's not, apparently, going to make much of grand conquering if the girls have to do the job. It's so meek that he murmurs, "Your sister misses you, Farideh," which is something that makes him so pitiably sad. The faint smoke turns darker, roiling; it's the smoke of something burning, something being eaten by flames. It takes the fire time to lick its way up the timbers of the lantern stall, but once it does, it spreads, and fast, until the whole thing is quickly consumed and it's climbing from a flower garland attaching it to the stall next to it. Those dry beams used to make the stalls are perfect food for the flames. Now, when the smoke and flames are quite visible, people start to scream, "Fire! Fire!" and like all crowds do, they panic, people pressing against each other and running in a maddened dash to get as far away as possible, regardless of the obstacles. Farideh is quite unaware of the audience she's gathering, but she seems to appreciate the reassuring hand-squeeze from Laine. "I'm sure that she does. One day, she will understand, when Esmeride is grown and--" People are screaming. People are running. Someone bumps into Farideh in their haste to get away, and she pitches forward, towards J'taryn. It's not the most ideal person to fall onto, but--"What--" Wild, hazel eyes glance back, trying to find the source, and alight on the fire. "It's on fire," she says, a hysterical note in her voice, even as her mouth gapes. "Sweet Faranth's impossible BALLS! What the fuck *is* it with this place?!" Alida groans aloud to herself, those nearby, and Ilicaeth as the light from the growing conflagration and the cries of 'Fire!' reach her senses. WHY can't she ever seem to have uninterrupted fun?! Damn you, High Reaches! She can't help but respond to her training, though, and the bluie lurches towards the scent, sigh of said fire while barking out aloud to Ilicaeth, "Get water from th' lake!" Obligingly, the stony blue launches himself from his ledge, giving a quick roar of alert. « Fire in the Gather! » "The only reason to come to a party--" H'vier would probably add something about women, but K'zin's reaction, and, you know, screaming people, draw his attention to the smoke. "That's unfortunate," says the bronzerider with no hint of panic of his own. The taller Igenite's tongue clicks and Zadkiel's fingers tighten just a little on Edyis's shoulder. When he releases, it's only to take a step closer - then two, before the scent of smoke hits. His upper lip curls with indecision. The tide of humanity shifts, with those nearest the blaze running - and those furthest still not sure about just what's going on. "Get to safety," is positively growled at Edyis. "Get them, too," is paired with a jerk of his head toward Farideh and Laine and the others. As for him? He fears no fire, apparently. Nor the crush of humanity, for that matter. In he goes, barking orders at people as he tries to part the living tide. Schuyler is just approaching the cluster of candidates when the fire breaks out. "Shards!" He's right by Edyis and Laine. Edyis hisses as she catches scent of the smoke and cries of fire send dark eyes impossibly wide. She freezes watching those flames grow, paler than her coppery complexion usually allows for. Well, shit. K'zin's an assistant weyrlingmaster now. He's supposed to set an example. The beer is tossed aside along with the yucky dress and he aims a light punch at H'vier's shoulder. "C'mon, wingleader. We're changed men. Mature, example-setting men. So let's set the example," and when H'vier follows him or not, K'zin's heading toward the flames to try to assist. Maybe he'll get ungrounded for heroic action! That cup in Laine's hand shatters on the ground when she's jostling by a woman shoving past, and she candidate flings a hand out to capture Farideh--but the other girl is stumbling forward into J'taryn, so Laine hesitates. There's a shaken look cast over one shoulder at Edyis, but seeing her with Schuyler seems to affirm Laine's decision, and she darts ahead to catch Farideh's elbow. "C'mon." The sound of wood groaning and breaking is disturbingly loud; stalls are starting to fall over and people run the risk of getting trapped. Screams rise and grow shrill; injured screams. Panicked screams. Something explodes in the mess - and more stalls catch fire, sending the flames racing along fabric and wood. It's a ravenous thing with a mind of its own now and all the merchants can do is flee to save themselves and leave their wares to be consumed. It's growing - and growing almost too rapidly to be quickly contained. The flames are starting to lick out at the fleeing populace - and Faranth forbid anyone's clothing catches fire. It's the foreign smoke that chokes Hraedhyth, her contralto hoarse with fury at heat that licks at her mind-- a fire that is not her own. « MINE! » The warrior gold charges the bazaar, intent on freeing her rider. She scrambles to a stop, just short of trampling those trying to escape as calming floral perfume turns burnt and bitter. Even now, Azaylia has a firm hold on that savage golden temper. (To High Reaches dragons) On the sands, Niahvth sees nothing. She hears much in the dragon chatter and the somnolent queen rouses just a little, just a little of her sleepiness shed at first K'del's warning and then more sharply alert at Hraedhyth's. Stuck. Stuck on the sands. (To High Reaches dragons from Niahvth) To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth's approval for Ilicaeth's idea is obvious in the rattling of his chains-- and his immediate attempt to replicate the action: water, yes. But Hraedhyth-- his mate-- and that's-- « HRAEDHYTH. » If only Szadath's icy blast was as strong physically as it is mentally. « SAVE HER. » Echoes upon echoes roll into demands of Cadejoth, of anyone. He is far, then between, then close. (To High Reaches dragons from Szadath) Smoke? His smoke is far less pungent, far less choking, than that imagery roiling around in the minds of many High Reaches' dragons. « Hraedhyth, » sounds concerned, sharp, and alert, his rough baritone peppered with chokes and murmurs. (To Zmeyth from Zmeyth) His dam. *His* queen, in a way that even Iesaryth could not be. Hraedhyth cements his world into a cohesivness that the blue practically adores. She makes all things 'right.' And her rider makes his own feel better, more 'right.' Bellowed inwardly, outwardly, « Hraedhyth! Save hers! » He's angry to have to return to the lake, but there's more water there, and he can't do anything else but resupply and return to spit more water upon the place where the Weyrwoman is hopefully located. Or not. « I try to save her! » Roar! (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) Drums. Drums. Hraedhyth has no words. (To High Reaches dragons) J'taryn is not the first man to pick Farideh up like a sack of tubers and toss her over his shoulders, and he almost certainly won't be the last (given the alarming frequency of these occurrences in her life so far). At least this time, he doesn't mean to carry her off to Igen. He only means to carry her to safety. If Laine, Edyis, or anyone else wants to beat him along the way, well... he probably wouldn't fight back even if he weren't carrying Farideh. He's a delicate Igen rose, this one. Barefoot, his shirt untucked, K'del reappears in the bowl at a run: it rather looks like he was halfway through something, and hopefully it doesn't mean he's left his kids unattended somewhere. "Fuck, fuck, he says, coming to an abrupt halt as he stares, open-mouthed at the flames. Edyis trembles where she stands, unable to peel her eyes away. "No, no, no, no, not again, not here." Her voice small and breaking. She doesn't have the presence of mind to run, on the edge of hysterics. As abruptly as K'del appears, so too does Hraedhyth, the brawny queen charging into the fray and towards the fire... until she stops, visibly shaking with agitation. Ilicaeth lands quickly beside the lake, the blue's talong raking furrows in the mud, his wings remaining unfurled as he quickly drops his head into the water and efficiently sucks up a dragon-sized, full mouth of water. And then *up* he hurls himself, seeking to gain about 50 feet of altitude with beat of massive wings. Alida, meanwhile, is darting and jogging towards the fire, the lurid flames making things appear to dance all about. And, just as Hraedhyth communicates with her pack, Alida gives voice to a suddenly surprised, "Azaylia!" Her motions become more urgent, panic held at bay by Turns of discipline and training, while her alto barks out to those who foolishly linger nearby, "OUT OF THE WAY!" Above, Ilicaeth finds the center of the fire, and uses his mouth and tongue to spit a stream of lake water down forceably onto it. But it's spreading so fast...his efforts likely only put out a fraction of the growing blaze. H'vier stares after K'zin for a moment. Then another. But then he starts moving, breaking into a job to offer his own assistance where it might be of use. Maybe today was a bad day to wear loose, airy clothes. "Away from the stalls!" he yells at everyone and no one in particular at the same time. Farideh hasn't taken her eyes off the flames since she first saw them, with her mouth open and her horror writ clearly across her pale face. Her gaze only pulls away when Laine catches her elbow, and she bobs her head in affirmative-- that is, until J'taryn summarily throws her over his shoulder. "Laine," she calls, reaching out a hand to the other girl, and there's a second for Edyis, but she's being toted away, so she's helpless to change the tides. Consider it a sixth sense - or, maybe, Zadkiel just can't get any further into the crush of people fleeing the disaster. The rolling smoke does well enough to get people to move - and he's forced back, if only for now. And in that, he catches sight of Edyis. His mouth pulls hard to one side and, after a final look angled to the flames that so hastily devour all that was so carefully constructed, he moves toward Edyis - and, if she's not inclined to fight him - he'll try to get her up and into his arms. The goal: get her away. The secondary goal: get back into the fray when Edyis is safe. Even before she can reach out to the laundress, Farideh's gone, hoisted away by that foreign rider, so Laine curves back around and shoves her way back to where she last saw Edyis standing. The stalls nearest to them are catching aflame, that lick of orange running along trim and beam, and when Laine returns to where Edyis was standing, with Zadkiel approaching, she shouts, "Edyis, come on!" "The Weyrwoman! It's the Weyrwoman," someone shrieks, pointing at one of the tent on fire. It's slowly crumpling beneath the fire's onslaught, and it's impossible that anyone inside could survive. People attempt to fight the heat, the flames, to save the goldrider, their leader, but every time the impossible heat brings them back. All anyone can do is stare helplessly, while other stalls, too, start to cave under the brunt of the fire. Schuyler reaches for Edyis. "C'mon! Move or I'm carrying you." he catches Laine running in the wrong direction. "Laine! This way!" he shouts after her. Is there a right way and a wrong way? Only away from the blazing stalls. Seeing Edyis safely with Sky and Zadkiel, Laine turns, and using her slight build and small stature, begins to zig and zag her way through the panicked crowd to safety. Edyis doesn't so much allow the Igenite to carry her, as much as she doesn't protest. Quivering, and hysterically repeating the word no, over and over. Among the chaos in the air over the bazaar bursts Szadath from between, nearly colliding mid-air with a panicked blue. Taikrin is barely visible, hanging over the side of his back, as the brown whirls helplessly about in search of a landing spot to disgorge his rider. Again, Ilicaeth returns to the Lake for more water, wasting precious time to land and to take off again before spitting it upon the inferno below. Damn those who potentially get doused! More mental roars are given to his brothers and sisters: « Do as I do! Quickly! » Below, all Alida can do is seize a long wooden pole holding up a booth's canopy, and rush inward towards that specific tent, attempt to beat out the fire, even as her pale skin grows redder from the heat. As soon as Farideh is to safety, J'taryn's quick to set her down (if not worried about it being on her feet anymore than he is about just getting her rear planted). He's up from his knee in a flash and instructing (because everyone knows Farideh loves being told what to do so much), "Stay safe." At least it's reasonable, before he's darting back toward the fire to try to lend hands in assistance. It's not his Weyr, but shouldn't all riders come together when there's danger to one of their own? A boy can dream. With no protest given, Sky scoops races in the direction of the lake. Worst case they can dive in, best they can start a bucket line. More dragons join Ilicaeth, it would seem; more water is being poured from the skies, but it does little to put a dent in the ravenous hunger of the flames. The fire laps greedily at the air and takes great bites out of the banners. Ash and smoke build and billow, making the air heavy and acrid. The scent of incense is now a horrid thing; overwhelming and sickening. Several enterprising souls have started to get buckets of water going, if only to kill off the weaker tendrils that have been reaching out to grasp at anything else that can be burned. But the water from above is not enough. The buckets brought by would-be-rescuers is not enough. The tent - that tent - finally collapses onto itself, as if to spite the rescuers. To save any within would surely be death - the same fate that the Weyrwoman must surely be suffering. Shock. It ripples around Rasavyth. He's frozen. There's nothing he can do. There's nothing he can do. Then a flare of fire that is not his, not Hraedhyth's either. He can. He will. He must try! The bronze springs from his perch on his ledge, heedless of the way the now long healed tears in his wingsails pull in that way that never feels wholly right. Heedless of the distractions his inner mind can offer. Down, down, down. To act. (To High Reaches dragons from Rasavyth) Even the alien blue raises his mental voice to join the others in his own, strange sense. A surge of water; a shuddering of squamous limbs. Distress. Agitation. Then Qhyluth's on the wing to join the others. Water for the fire. Water to save. Water for life. Everything within him is suddenly, violently shifting to match the tides of the others. The emotions are too much - and he will not fight that tide. (To High Reaches dragons from Qhyluth) Hraedhyth's thoughts burn too hot with an inferno that she has no control over. Her scream echoes in the minds of her tribe, in the ears of those weyrfolk: « AZAYLIA! » Has that deep contralto ever cracked before? It does now, climbing to a high keen as the gold's drums begin to sputter, the beats erratic with a failing heart. The warrior gold throws herself into the air from the ground, a clumsy launch that has wing muscles sprained by the time she is able to hurtle herself between. (To High Reaches dragons) For the first time in 8 turns, Hraedhyth's drums fall silent. (To High Reaches dragons) It was coming. Cadejoth knew it-- but didn't know it. It still hits like a thunderclap; that absense. That... that everything. He lifts his voice, beginning the keen: High Reaches' senior queen is no more. (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth) Alert and penned to the sands, she can't leave her eggs after all, Niahvth's keen rises shrill and high. (To High Reaches dragons from Niahvth) To High Reaches dragons, Reisoth is not willing to leave the sands. The eggs would be most vulnerable in the midst of this chaos. But there are demands of his wing to assist in the emergency. Silence follows the moment when Hraedhyth disappears, however. Only silence from the dark bronze for several moments before, « There can be mourning when everyone is accounted for. » The tides continue to rise - and then it all sucks in and back, as the wash of emotion is too much for even Qhyluth's ocean to withstand. His physical voice lifts in a proper keen, shrill and high and somehow broken. Not his dam. Not his blood. And yet - to be mourned as if she were. Doubling his efforts to drown the fire, that is the only way to end this. Surely. (To High Reaches dragons from Qhyluth) To High Reaches dragons, Szadath is the howling wind across the tundra, keening his desolation for his one-time mate and one-time wingfellow. But there is ice-hardness in him, too, that blends with shock into a low-pitched command. « Glacier to me. » The wing mourns its own. Groaning and writhing in his fury and loss, Ilicaeth only peripherally hears the call of his sire, and first denies it. His queen! Gone! His frenzied emotions infect his rider, as well. However, it also is his own bone-deep sense of duty that has the burly blue heaving himself out of the waters, and weakly gasping to Szadath, « I come. » Because, damn it, he is *Glacier*. Hraedhyth throws herself into the air from the ground, a clumsy launch that has wing muscles sprained by the time she is able to hurtle herself between. Suddenly Szadath veers off, bugling demands. He snatches at one of the few non-flaming tents and tears the cloth away. The brown makes it halfway to the lake with his awkward bundle (complete with trailing ropes and pegs and shards of wood), and then-- and then-- he shrieks, frustration and mourning and loss. "NO," says K'del, falling back from his attempts to assist those firefighting; falling back to drop towards the ground, his expression a mask of horror. With Edyis in Zadkiel's care Sky races towards the kitchen, then back or a moment later with a giant pot. "If you're not trapped grab a bucket bowl or pot and start a line!" He shouts. Thus is Edyis carried to safety - though Zadkiel doesn't seem intent on lingering. Still, he stands just within the safety zone, the young woman awkwardly caught up in his arms. "I need to put you down," he intones. "There are others there. If not-" the gravity of the situation hits when the mourning keens of the dragons rise. He swallows. Hard. "There are others there," he finally murmurs, his voice strained, and he works to gently put the young woman down. Rasavyth's doing something. Not quite exactly the same as those that fill their mouths, but rather he swoops low to an abandoned section of the bazaar and snatches up a wide drape from a stall, flying toward the lake to dip his make-shift carrier into water. And then back to help douse flames, dripping as he comes. There cloth is dropped. The effort? Pointless. Useless. Useless Rasavyth. Useless Rasavyth keens with all the anguish he has in him. Mother. When Laine bursts from the mass of pushing, shoving, rushing, massing bodies, she turns: in time to see that upward rush of sparks and ash, and, higher still, that gold streak vanishing between. Laine brings a horrified hand to her open, slack mouth, but no sound comes out. Going back for his third mouthful of water...Ilicaeth suddenly roars, then screams, then plummets into the lake, his body shuddering, tail lashing like a frenzied whip, his eyes red, then stone white...finally fading to grey as he FEELS his queen disappear for the last time. « HREADYTH! » Noooo! The mental negative is immediately followed by his piercing keen. Mother! K'zin is no more able to continue his efforts than K'del. He staggers, he falls, he weeps, openly. He just can't. Being told what to do is so Farideh's favorite thing, and to show how much she loves it, she stands off to the side, her arms-crossed stance part sullen. Her face, however, is a show of emotions: sadness, horror, confusion, and lately, fear. Besides the fire, with its heavy black smoke reaches for the sky, there are dragons making awful sounds, and everyone is screaming, and here is one candidate, who looks completely unaware of what to do other than stand still. She watches the faces that race by - perhaps looking for familiar ones. K'del's moment, at least, really is just a moment... or two. Three at max. That's the point at which he draws himself back up to his feet, and, eyes wide and cheeks pale, and calls: "Keep working." He can't... but he must. "Keep fucking working'," he repeats, before he turns to go, at a jog: there is other work to be done. Schuyler stops short, pot in hand, as the gold disappears and the keening starts. "Fuck." is his eloquent response. But then he's back in action. "We have to get the fire out!" he grabs the two closest people and starts to pull together a bucket brigade. Half of the bazaar is now engulfed in flames, which are swiftly working on the other half, hopping from structure to structure with an ease that seems almost unnatural; despite the efforts of those bringing in water by air or bucketful. Charred fabric and debris litters the ground, as wooden beams continue to groan and crack. Another cry is taken up at one of the stalls still standing, though its rough-shod ceiling has fallen and evidentially cracked the head of some hapless, drunken fellow, who is pulled from the burning booth to safety. It's all punctuated by the mourning keen of dragons as the senior queen takes to the skies and goes between. Alida bellows as does her dragon, the woman howling "ZAY!", and then epithets to the sky and continuing to beat at that all-consuming fire like a frenzied berserker. Grief and rage and adrenaline have the bluerider working like a stuck clock chiming the midnight hour over and over and over, non-stop, her arms using the pole to try and beat down the flames until she can tolerate the heat no longer, and is forced to back off...her exposed skin a bright pink-red. There's a stumble in H'vier's step when it happens, perhaps a betrayal of some affect on his lifemate, but nothing more. The wingleader naturally directs those that are closest to him, several of his wingriders who converge on him for just that, to continue the task of making sure no one else is lost. "Stay," Zadkiel murmurs to Edyis. He peels off the hooded shrug he wears and hands it down to her in a wordless promise that he'll be back for it. And, after a quick attempt to press a palm to her forehead, he's off again - and, this time, there's enough of a break in the fleeing people for him to get moving. Perhaps it's best that he's a foreigner. Perhaps it's best that this was not his Weyrwoman, per se. He's still able to move. Still able to focus. Later will be time to mourn; for now, there are injured souls out there. People to be pulled from the wreckage. And he is clearly intent on doing that much at least. Whether he can or not, that remains to be seen - but he has to try. Schuyler continues lining people up. Any non rider is grabbed and placed in line. Most are all to happy to help. "Ed, Farideh, Laine, join up!" he calls as he passes them, taking a stance at the end closest to the fires. "Alida! You're going to get burned!" he aims his current bucket at the fire she is fighting. There's a rote grimness to Szadath's wingbeats. He's made it to the lake now and has let all but a corner of his tent cover dangle. A green -- notably Glacier -- sweeps in to snatch at a rope trailing from the loose fabric. It's the sort of dangerously close maneuver Taikrin loves to force her wing to drill, done now with deadly earnest instead of daredevil glee. First one swoops, then the other, trying to fill the canvas with water. IT's a tricky maneuver that they manage to pull off for about twenty feet. The payload spills, uselessly, on a load of survivors by the lake. Between the concentrated efforts of the dragons and the makeshift groundcrew, the fire finally starts to stall. It's not yet receding, but it's not advancing, either. As sections of the burnt bazaar are finally put out, more injured people can be found. An Igenite there; a 'Reachian here. The lamp stall seems to have stopped burning and, in the wreckage, a barely breathing Candidate can be found. One of the troublemakers? Innocent bystander? In either case, the young lad is severely burned and struggling. A merchant is trapped under the smoldering weight of a fallen beam, though the fires have died down enough to make rescue possible. Laine brushes at a glowing strip of ash as it flutters past, her half-lidded eyes still fixed on that cloud of ash. It's only when she's jostled by the shoulder that that gaze breaks. She ignores Schuyler's call, instead casting around nearby for--Farideh, apparently. There: she goes, drawing up beside the other girl, and this time it's Laine who's reaching out a seeking hand to Farideh, silently. She will get burned? She is already, most of it first degree, and a few places along the backs of her hands moving into second-degree, blisters forming at Alida's knuckles. The adrenaline allows her to ignore all of them, the blonde with soot and charred wood specks in her once-pristine, braided hair automatically grabbing the nearest bucket and automatically doing what she must...either moving to refill or heaving to try and douse flames. Tick-tock-tick-tock. There's smoke and ash in the air, and Farideh can't help but to stare hopelessly upwards, watching the fire limned against the sky. She looks surprised when Laine's here to grab her hand, though her fingers are quick to link with the other girl's and to sidle up close, where their shoulders can touch, where comfort can easily be given. "What's-what's going to happen?" she whispers, hoarsely, loudly (people are still screaming, kay). Schuyler spots a few people amid the rubble and hands off his bucket. "Keep going!" he takes off in the direction of one of them. He hefts at a beam, trying to lift it off. "Go!" he grunts, once it's off. But as the man slips away Sky losses his grip on the beam and it rakes down the front of his leg, leaving a huge gash. He shouts and falls backwards. Water isn't 'fast' enough for the 'in-overdrive' Alida, and she (perhaps wrongly) breaks ranks with the bucket line when she hears, sees Schuyler's fumble of that beam leave him gashed. Tick-tock. Like clockwork, the blonde again is all action, and lurches forward to take his place, move the beam mechanically, her oft-hidden, ropy muscles bulging with the effort she requires of them. Everything in her world, right now, is automatic: work, pull, heave, tug...much as it is with Ilicaeth, who follows Szadath's orders like a well-oiled cog. As his riders, and whoever else got caught up in his orders, get into their groove and need less guidance to do what needs to be done, H'vier spies K'zin's pink-stained face. There's a hesitation, like he might just leave him there, but something makes the wingleader move instead. "K'zin, you can't stay here, come on," he says in a firm but not angry voice when he appears by the younger bronzerider to try pulling him up to his feet so he can be led somewhere safer. Don't make him throw you over his shoulder like a woman, K'zin! Eventually, the Igenite returns. Zadkiel returns with a limping survivor in tow. The young man's leg is a charred and bloody wreck; Zak is not unscathed, either. The slight singe of his braid is minor; he has burns racing up both of his arms, heavier on his right than on the left. He turns the 'Reachian lad over to the Healers that have begun to gather to tend to the wounded - and his attention turns not to seeing to his own injuries but, rather, to ensure that his fellow Candidates are safe. Pain? It just doesn't register yet. At last, there's some progress. All of the efforts to stamp out the fire are starting to work, as it recedes on one end, and the groundcrew can safely approach at a shorter distance. With most of the casualties rescued, everyone can work ceaselessly, without worrying about stumbling over a body, or getting to someone before their need intensifies. Smoke continues to curl towards the sky, but the unbearable heat is getting less, more manageable. Keep up the work! From the sky! From the ground! From every quarter! There is relief in sight. Again Szadath and the green try, and again they make it no further than soaking the poor survivors at the lake shore. Bellowing his frustration, the brown drops his corner of the tent so that a smaller, more maneuverable green can pick it up and attempt again. That pair is more capable: they carry a decent load of water as far as the non-burning outer tent ring. That frees Szadath to swoop low enough that Taikrin can slide down a strap into a rolling dismount on the ground. She comes up quickly and bulls her way towards H'vier, shouting, "WHERE IS K'DEL?" Laine leans into Farideh, shoulder-to-shoulder. The tanner sniffs, and knuckles at her eyes with a tight fist--the air is heavy with embers and that eye-watering, acrid burnt-incense stench. She doesn't answer. From here, where they're standing, the crush of bystanders is thick and save for the occasional spiralling shout raising from behind the gawking group, it's almost impossible to tell what's actually going on. Laine exhales, heavy and slow. "They'll put it out. And we'll help clean up. And--" Laine's voice weakens. She falls silent. Ilicaeth continues helping to direct and fill those tarps that the greens fly aloft, his bulky frame a little too big to maneuver the things, as well, his eyes still grey, like his now-even more greyed out hide. His rider barely hears the call of Taikrin's voice, Alida not pausing in her grunt work, though her blank eyes flick over to take note of the brownrider for a scant moment. Blink. It's all K'zin can do, even in the face of disaster and need, to be pulled from where he's fallen sobbing, coughing, the pink powder that was so funny not long ago marred by dirt, ash and grief. Rasavyth has only managed to land, his slender form in paralyzed shock on the ground. He still keens, but quieter, and perhaps doesn't know how to stop just yet. "Ras," the rider manages to croak to his rescuer, stumbling. Perhaps he's not even aware it's H'vier. H'vier doesn't have to turn his attention from K'zin to answer Taikrin, though his voice is rather more sharp, "How the fuck should I know, woman? Probably sniveling in his weyr. Cadejoth isn't anxious about him." Does Reisoth-- er, does H'vier need to be the brains about everything? The larger bronzerider holds K'zin up, finally shooting Taikrin an impatient look before he's leading the younger man to wherever his sharding dragon is. The mood of the crowd is obvious: people are distraught, from numb expressions to body-shaking sobs. Their leader is gone, with all of her spunk and charm, and they're bereft in her wake. Farideh tries to look brave, but the overall mood and Laine's back of her usual talkativeness leaves a edge to her own demeanor. That lower lip wobbles, her other hand coming to secure around Laine's hand on the other side, clasping her one in them both. "But she's dead," another rough, coarse stage whisper, her eyes so big and watery, even as they lift to the wreckage. "Farideh. Laine. Edyis." Zadkiel names each in turn as he draws closer, concern creasing his features in a rare display of genuine emotion. "Are you well? Are you safe?" It's hard to tell, especially now with the smoke dominating where the roar of fire once did. His arms hang, helpless, at his sides while he looks to them - then to the lingering masses of people that have finally settled down. With the fire dying off, the panic is likewise dying; now comes the time to prepare for the harder work of cleaning up. Schuyler's skin is getting pink this close to the flames. He's covered in ash and blood and he's stunned. Gibbosity coming to his senses he reaches for Alida. "I need a medic, so do you... and I need help." he tries to ask awkwardly, not used to bring the one in need of help. K'zin's sharding dragon, as it happens, didn't get far from the wreckage. He shudders as he sits. When they near enough for K'zin to see him, he staggers away from H'vier, to be with his lifemate while he sobs. "Because he needs to be fucking leading-- ugh!" Taikrin actually throws up her hands at H'vier's back. Her eyes are wet and red-rimmed (from the smoke and flying, obviously) as she turns away from the moping bronzeriders. "Get every dragon not helping on the ground or in a weyr," she bellows in a command echoed mentally by the swooping Szadath. Not one to sit still, she starts bulling through the shellshocked riders. "If you ain't helping, get the fuck out of here! Go tend your fla-- your sharding dragons!" Finally, finally, finally, the last of the flames are quashed and the fire is reduced to a smoldering disaster instead of an outright blaze. The bazaar, one splendid and glorious, is now a ruin of water, charred wood, ash - and pure misery in the form of that fallen tent. The wounded are escorted off to the Healers - along with not one but two Candidates - and all that remains is for the wreckage to be cleared. There are still the shambling survivors, the horrified witnesses, and so many others that know not what to do. But, the worst appears to be over - though Faranth only knows what will fall in the wake of the disaster. "Yeah. She's dead." She doesn't say it callously, but with a curious lack of sentiment. Laine tightens her fingers around Farideh's, but her free hand comes up to her mouth, teeth setting into her thumbnail, chewing quietly. She turns her grey eyes on Zadkiel as he approaches, and Farideh gets another squeeze. "Yeah," to both. There's a flicker, there, eyebrows drawing down over her eyes, and: "Zadkiel. Your arms." Edyis watches the ash and wreckage that, now for the second time has destroyed some part of Home. Zadkiel's voice, triggers a barely perceptible nod. It's Laine's voice that registers something and has the scribe looking up and around. "You need a healer." To Zadkiel, her voice starting slowly to sound more normal, as wobbly she stands. Once H'vier has handed off responsibility of K'zin to Rasavyth, who he'll just pretend isn't as useless as his rider, he turns to go back to barking orders at his wingriders and whoever else gets into ear shot. The burning ruins will need to be checked for any other unfortunate persons; survivors at best, bodies at worst. At least they know there weren't any other dragonriders! "Ugh." Tela's eyes are white-rimmed before they are red-rimmed, the greenrider ducking past a would-be helpful bluerider and around the edge of some wreckage, rubbing flecks of ash off-- into?-- her bare arms. "We try to have a good time and... and!" "Dead," is more of a real whisper, her chin dropping towards her chest, her breath catching with the enormity of those words. It's in silence that she stands, watching the people running all around, and then Zadkiel's there and her eyes lift to him. Soundlessly, Farideh nods her affirmation, but her eyes follow Laine's focus, to his arms, her brow furrowing; there, she squeezes the other girl's hand. Reassurance, fear, uncertainly. Some remote part of Alida appreciates Taikrin's rough handling and taking charge, inwardly nodding its agreement even while much else of the bluie's brain focuses on her work of clearing, recovery. She remains this way - as does Ilicaeth - for hours, until both are trembling from near-exhaustion and are near to collapse. Only *then* are the Healers allowed to help the blonde off to their lair - because the woman snarled and shrieked at them like a madwoman, when they tried to help, before - soon to be settled beside Ilicaeth in the dragonhealing part of the complex, some of the blue's muscles strained from his all-out efforts. "Healers are busy," is Zadkiel's grunted reply to Laine and Edyis, with flicked looks to each. One blistered appendage is lifted, only to be dropped when he realizes just how ineffectual that would be. He sucks his teeth and looks off in the direction of the bazaar before his attention properly centers on the others again. "Not as bad as it looks," is also meant to be a reassurance, though the honesty of that statement is likely to be called into question. At the very least, his fingers work just fine; it's just the skin that looks less-than-stellar. Still. The collective distress of all three of them - Laine, Farideh, Edyis - seems to hit a strange note with the hunter. "Come. Away from here. There is nothing more we can do." Shoulders rise and fall. Helpless. Rasavyth and his moper don't linger forever. As soon as he's regained enough control over himself to launch, he does. The dragon retreats, circling to land on one of the ledges high above the hatching cavern, where he was shelled by Hraedhyth. K'zin, still crying, but silently so, slips away in the same general direction. (He's probably going to mope some more. After all, it's what bronzeriders do.) The word had spread as fast as the fire. Keysi appears from the direction of the infirmary amongst some of the other healers attempting to cart people off. Not at her normal brisk pace, perhaps. But bent on helping, even with the yelling that followed her out into the bowl- Barely could that be heard over the shouting amongst the outdoor chaos, nor did it last long, considering priorities. Straight faced, narrowed eyes, critical observation is cast over those she passes as she moves through the crowd. Until she hears the particular words from Zadkiel's mouth. "Not all of us." Is said starkly, moving to place herself in the path of the familiar group of candidates. Schuyler is stuck in the midst of the rubble as he tries to get to his feet and towards the healers, unfortunately the pain in his leg has him stumbling, falling, back onto the debris, this time slicing his hand. Laine spits a crescent of bitten nail onto the ground. "You go. Get that tended to. Infection isn't pretty." The tanner shakes herself, a full body shudder, then, with another quick and comforting squeeze around Farideh's hand, she releases the other girl. "Can help clean up. They'll need bodies." Catching herself, hearing herself say that, the candidate rocks back on her heels, as though physically struck by her own words, then corrects herself with a whisper: "Manpower. They'll need manpower." The skies are slowly clearing of bereft dragons as the wingleaders do their work. There's little left to do for an airborne pair; only riders who are clearly and obviously helping are spared Taikrin's manhandling as she shoves through the dwindling mob. She spins about in a sudden clearing, then grabs the arm of someone with a filthy knot that might be an administrator in the caverns. "Has someone done a headcount on the candidates?" she demands. Edyis is sharper perhaps than intended and there is an authoritative tone to her words as she echoes Lane recovering herself. "Left untended those will fester and get infected." Spoken like one who has seen it first hand. "I'm going see if they need help in the infirmary, come on." Help? Go out there, into the rubble? Farideh, once her hand is released, takes a horrified step backwards, away from the ash and debris. She doesn't have to say no, it's written all over her pale oval of a face. For whatever reasons, she's too scared - or selfish? - to offer her assistance, though she does (gasp) stand silently next to a trembling Yesia, who is carrying on with Paz. There's a dry, throaty chuckle for that - probably a first. Zadkiel jerks his chin toward where others are gathering to get things moved and dealt with. "Then go. Clean. Herd the people. Move things. Do something. But to stand here - that does no one any good." That last is fixed most heavily on Farideh. Of course, he probably should deal with his arms. He really should. They're burnt and starting to finally feel that way. But he's just stubborn enough that he won't until his fellow Candidates are sorted. Excluding Keysi, if only for obvious reasons; she seems to have her purpose already sorted. And, as it turns out, he need not worry about Edyis, either. Not that he'll follow her just yet. There are still Healers out here, after all. H'vier stays to supervise and keep anyone who needs it on task until there's a girl to carry to the infirmary who would benefit from sooner rather than later. Iceberg, however, will remain to some extent without their wingleader until there's nothing left for them to do. "Hey!" Now Telavi's rubbing her arm for a different reason, thanks to Taikrin's firm grip. "I didn't do anything!" Which may be the point, but the real problem is her sticking around when the still-stunned storeskeeper shakes his head in truly bovine fashion... and then recognizes her even without her knot. He has no idea, the storekeeper tells Taikrin... but she's Quinlys', he says of Tela. She knows maybe. Telavi squeaks and starts to slip off. Laine sniffs at Zadkiel's words, but, with a final smile (weak and unsure) for Edyis and Farideh--and a narrow-eyed scowl at Yesia for good measure--the tanner goes to offer what assistance she can. Schuyler lets out a string of expletives when a taller healer finally spots him and comes to help. Limping, he is led towards the infirmary. His leg is a black mess, the ash clinging to it from the still oozing blood. He clenches his hand, which drips on his helpful healer friend. Taikrin looks back at Telavi, only now with recognition for a person and not a thing-to-be-moved. "Go round them up, then!" she exhorts. "If Quinlys ain't doing it already. I reckon I saw some looking shell-cracked just over there." She gestures wildly at a clump of people. "Git!" Taikrin has riders to bully. Notably, never once does she stop moving nor does her gaze linger long in any one place. Move. Move move move. "I meant, there are not too few healers that one can't deal with you." Keysi's level voice carries over the bustling, though thinning, noise around them. "They can do as they will. You need to go," The candidate dips her head towards Edyis' supportive statement, while she studies Zad. "Aye, don't you want to save that skin of yours?" "This skin has seen worse." And gauging from the scars on the rest of Zadkiel's bared torso, he might not be exaggerating. "And new scars over the old - not a terrible fate." Grim, that. All the same, the Igenite eventually just grunts and starts, belatedly, after Edyis - if only to get his hood back. And, maybe, endure a Healer for a time. Telavi starts to protest, but Taikrin's Taikrin, and she bites her lip and gits... in that direction, anyway; actually rounding up may be another story. She even scampers. Off towards the little, rapidly dissipating group. Farideh stays huddled over there, with Yesia and Paz, unwilling to move from their spot in the crowd, unwilling to assist even when there's things that need assisting. If they get rounded up, they're not going to protest, and might actually seem overeager to get rounded up and hopeful that they'll be shepherded towards the candidate quarters. Eager, even overeager is good; Telavi's adept at herding, though she doesn't literally nip at anyone's heels in getting those few towards their quarters. And there may be occasional episodes of ugh.

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Faryn (02:18, 8 April 2015 (EDT)) said...

I'm so upset.

Jolie (08:54, 8 April 2015 (EDT)) said...

MAN. Wow. The feels~

Sky (14:35, 9 April 2015 (EDT)) said...

Thanks for getting the dragon chatter from the search up!

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