Logs:Useful

Useful
"Could still hit you."
RL Date: 15 September, 2015
Who: Jo, Z'kiel
Involves: High Reaches Area
Type: Log
What: Jo invites Z'kiel out for drinks and gets to know him a little more.
Where: Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area
When: Day 27, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10)

Mentions: Irianke/Mentions, Jothan/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, Alida/Mentions




Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area A little ramshackle and moss-grown around the edges, most riders would probably have a fit about the green condition this place is in. Perched on the side of the road between High Reaches Weyr and Crom Hold, this is your typical small waystation comprising a four-walled building with a main room filled with dilapidated tables and chairs, a splintery bar and copious quantities of bad beer. There's a kitchen at the back and a single large room where cots can be set up for sleeping. A small beasthold provideds shelter for up to a half-dozen runners. It was probably longer than expected, but the call from Tacuseth finally comes on the wings of wispy shadows and gentle desert winds. Sending the visual of a shady tavern in the near area, « Mine will get yers something decent, » is all of the invitation (or enticement) he's sending forth. The bronze would find the blue settled much further from the tavern, with his black leathered rider presumably already inside. « I am certain that anything yours selects will be more than merely decent, Tacuseth, » or so Ahtzudaeth seems to think, his thoughts as effervescent and tingly as ever. Pipe smoke and glinting mirrors suggest a good-natured wink and it's scarcely a few minutes later that will find the bronze winging to a neat landing some distance off. Z'kiel's new leathers might be dark, but they're not quite black; good lighting will prove they're nearer to brown with metallic accents. Lacking that, he might as well be as black-clad as Jo is. The Igenite enters the tavern readily enough, his brow furrowed as he assesses the situation within. There's the taste of amusement in the air from Tacuseth, the shadows thickening in response to that wink. « Some think her tastes are questionable, » is given, musing - and there seems to be more to those words than just the surface. Inside the tavern, Jo has chosen one of the tables towards the back but near the entrance, facing that way as she watches all that enter and leave. She nurses a mug of something dark while there's another mug set in place at the table that's reddish in hue within. When Z'kiel enters, her gaze zeroes in on him as she drinks. There's a few other patrons in the room, all engaged in their own conversations and business. At least he's only getting the cursory glance when he enters. The bronze chortles, physically and mentally, and settles into a comfortable posture a bit closer - a conversational distance away, were they human. Ahtzudaeth lapses into silence, though it's a comfortable sort of silence; he's there if the blue should seek to speak but, for now, he'll merely listen. And if there's more to Tacuseth's musings? Well. He'll just let that percolate for a time. Within, Z'kiel sucks his teeth and finishes his study of the place - quick though it might be - with a leveling of his gaze on Jo and her table. He approaches with a slow, measured stride, and eventually rests the curled knuckles of a hand on the table she's chosen. The grunt that follows can be considered amiable - an inarticulate greeting, but a greeting nonetheless. Tacuseth settles to his usual stance once the bronze is there - watching the skies for any and all dragons that should venture close. He seems very comfortable in doing so, as if this is something the bluepair has been coordinating for several turns together. He continues his amusement in silence, also listening, the silence as companionable and easy. Inside, Jo lifts her chin in greeting once their gazes meet, and at the grunt, "Ya came," as if there was to be a question of them coming, the woman leaning back in a lounging sort of way in her seat. She gestures towards the untouched mug before saying, "It's not booze, darlin'. I remember. It's a sort of spiced redfruit concoction. Not very sweet, but, somethin' tells me ya wouldn' mind that. Ya should sit. Ya should tell me 'bout yerself." It's quick, the words that come from her mouth as she slowly looks him over. There's almost a sort of hunger in her dark gaze - curious, observant. "You called." It's as easy as that, it would seem. A shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug. The chair is hooked and pulled out with a boot; Z'kiel sits and moves the mug closer to himself, but doesn't immediately draw from it. He does study it, but in that strange, reptilian way of his before he fixes his cool, green gaze on Jo. He listens - every bit as keenly as his dragon does, in fact - and while Jo seems to lean back, he leans a touch forward. His mouth pulls a little to one side and, after a moment, he grates out, "Sure it's fine." Of the drink, that is. The other - that seems to take some audible form of thought. Hnnnh. "Ask. I'll answer." But to just tell? No. He'll make her hunt a little first to satisfy her hunger. "The 'why' would interest me," Jo states to him coming, that lopsided grin she's known for touching her face. "But shit, glad'ja came. Needed to get outta the Weyr. Needed to be more among my folks for a bit." Once he's seated, her gaze never wavers on him as she watches him with his mug with veiled interest. When he approves of the drink without tasting, "Ya have such high stalk, trustin' someone like me," she muses in observation of his answer. "It could be right shit." Pause. "Did'ja only want to be a hunter?" she asks now, her tone taking on casualness. "A 'rider? I admit I find ya curious," as brows lift and fall as she takes a drink. "I've met men like ya in the mines. Dangerous sort. Used to scare the shit outta me. Ya don' seem like ya've spent a single day there in Crom." Eyes cut towards his. Grunt. "Not that interesting. You called. I answered. Got no reason not to." Z'kiel chances a glance at the mug again, then lifts it for a shallow pull. He washes it back and forth in his mouth quickly, then swallows with a grunt. "S'fine," is the reassurance, coupled with a bland, "But, even if it was shit, it smells like the best shit I've dealt with." Another of those one-shouldered shrugs ensue. "Figure I can trust you with the first drink, anyway." Then the questions come and his forehead furrows, eyebrows knitting together. "Born to hunt. Same with my father, father's father- way back. Didn't leave Igen except to hunt - even then, stayed in the desert." He takes another swig of the drink, rolls it around a bit before swallowing and continuing, "But. I Stood every time there was a clutch there. Dragons called; I answered. Wasn't my time then." Or there. "K'zin Searched me for 'Reaches. Caused some shit." When her angles toward him, he meets it easily. Unblinkingly. But there's nothing to say that isn't stating the obvious; nothing at all. Laughter. Jo laughs heartily at Z'kiel for his assessment on the drink. "Ya can," she allows on trusting her with the first drink, and she appears a little more casual than before. "Someone like you, I wouldn' want trouble with. Got 'nough of my own for that." She nods on his answer, stating, "I get that. I come from a family of Keogh guards. Best guards in Pern come from Keogh, or so they say. I would've made a damn good one myself if not for the fact that I was missin' a dick." Sip. "Yer close with yer family, then? Still are? Why did ya gettin' searched cause some shit?" That gets her interest openly. "Wouldn't give you trouble unless you asked for it," is a matter-of-fact admission, grimly uttered. Z'kiel Seems unaffected by the laughter; there is no shift in his mien, nothing to betray even a trace of amusement. Another drink follows, longer than the first, while she speaks again. "Stupid criteria," he notes with a snort. "Met plenty of guards with cocks that couldn't find their own, let alone guard it." Or anything else. He sucks his teeth and his expression sours a little at her next questions. "Blood's dried up in Igen." He turns his head, but doesn't spit - even if he seems to want to. "Keep in touch with some people I know, but not that. Not them." Search, though, that's worth even less, in a sense: "Heard Irianke or her dragon didn't approve. Not sure why. There was a fight at the clutching feast; heard it was over that. Didn't stick around to see what came of it." "I usually do ask for all kinds of trouble," is Jo's counter to that initial statement, a touch hollow but wry. "Usually involves no clothin'. Darker things. It is a stupid criteria," she agrees on female guards. "There are female guards in Keogh. Just not for my family. My father's one of the trainers'n he wouldn' suffer his only daughter to out-show his sons." Pause. "Blood's dried up," she echoes that statement with a dark glint in her gaze as she takes Z'kiel in. "No family. Fuck family. We have that in common. Do ya kill?" Really, the questions mix in randomly and quick, the convict rider studying him. There's even a brief flicker of something at hearing the Senior Weyrwoman's name before she says, "Didn' approve? Did'ja know her in Igen? Know her as a trader?" Apparently she knows something about her. To which there's a grunt - and an eventual nod, but only for her description of her father, the mention of his sons. Z'kiel lets the rest of that tumble to the wayside, his attention sharpening just a little at her echo. "Fuck the blood," is his not-so-subtle correction. "Got some I consider family. Sweat and tears family." Different, but there's that question of killing and he snorts again. Heavy. Not quite a warning - but close, with the way his gaze seeks hers again to pin for a few seconds. "I hunt. S'what I do when I'm not doing my duties as a rider." And that is as far as that will go. He relaxes a little at the next - but not by much. "Stood for Niahvth's clutches. Didn't know her much. The traders I knew weren't her folk. Could be she didn't want anyone from Igen. Could be she remembered me, somehow. Not sure." Though he's leaning more toward the former, gauging by tone. "Same here," Jo allows on family - on different family. "Done more for me than the ones I was born with. Trust'n loyalty are hard to come by. I manage to find it in the most unlikeliest of places." There's a message there, somewhere. What seems to draw her interest in her gaze more if that taste of a warning, the woman appearing almost to give Z'kiel a smile for it. Warnings don' intimidate her it seems, lips quirking just a bit as she merely says, "Ya hunt animals." There's just the barest inflection there, noting the tension in his frame. "I spill no secrets," she suddenly notes, meeting that gaze head-on. "I give no tales." She lingers on the drink in her mug before she continues on with, "Ya make it sound like our newly-minted Weyrwoman has somethin' to hide." She lights on the former. "What did'ja observe 'bout her? There's somethin'....different, 'bout her," she chooses those words with slightly furrowed brows. "Like us." "Trust isn't meant to be easily found," is Z'kiel's counter. "Loyalty's harder." Another drink. Slow and contemplative. "Guess whatever's unlikely to you is just natural to them." The trust and loyalty, that is, though he'll let that rest a while where it is. His jaw is grimly set a beat later, harder than usual - if barely perceptibly so. "Yes," is all but hissed, low and somewhat throaty - and clearly designed to wrap up everything, if not with a neat little bow. There is, after all, the vexing matter of a nosy bronze, after all - even if he's not tangibly intruding, the presence is clearly difficult to deny. So, it's better, then, that talk turns back onto the Weyrwoman and her nature, which elicits only a dry snort. "Don't know her, like I said. Hear plenty about her - same as everyone else." A shoulder rolls and, at long last, he settles back a bit - but the tension, predatory and ready, remains. He sucks his teeth for a good, long moment, eyes narrowed with some thought or another. Silent - perhaps for a few moments too long. Until: "Figure there's something to it. To her having that knot. Can't put a finger on it," but, he'll lift a finger from his mug, but only to tap it lightly - just once - against the half-full container. "She's Igenite. Gonna be different. Can't say if she's like you or me," so remains a distinction, "can't say she isn't." Yet. There's a nod on the first, Jo seeming to concede to that point with open acquiesce. It even transfers towards the next when Z'kiel hisses what he does, that while no further words are spoken on the matter from her, there's an enigmatic look coming from her instead as she lifts that mug to her lips. There's something to say, but, she doesn't say it. Instead, after the moment passes, "I don' put stock in rumors," she says on Irianke, "but I would be interested in hearin' 'bout her time in Igen, sometime. Consider it satisfyin' a curiosity." Nodding, "Ya don' trust me," she notes as an observation, and there's no offense in her tone. "That's wise. Ya keep a lot to yer chest. Betray nothin'. That's useful to me. Maybe more than, if I could gain yer trust one day. All this time at this table'n ya haven' hit on me like most folks would've," and there's barest glimmer of a smile. "That's useful, too. Ya mentioned yer lookin' for revenge for somethin'," she sets her almost-empty mug down. "If ya need help with any of that, ya have only but to ask. No charge. I think the value would be more in yer friendship." "Not much to tell you," Z'kiel replies - it's honest, that. "Didn't follow much of what the riders were doing back when I was at Igen. Politics-" this time, he does spit to a side, though it's dry; can't be bothered to work up a real lather about it. "I'll leave that to Ahtuzdaeth. I'm no good for it." And it's no good for him, either. The rest of his drink is polished off, the mug pushed just a little toward the center of the table. "Could find out from others," is offered - and it might as well be a promise for the weight of it. It's as far as he seems willing to extend himself on that front and the rest garners an oddly musical hum-grunt of assent. "Could still hit you." It's mostly musing, though. Academic. "But the drink wasn't shit." Saved. Maybe. And then there's revenge and he sucks in a short, sharp breath before releasing it as a near-soundless hiss through his teeth. "Reckon I won't need it. But." He raps knuckles at his chest, just over his heart. "I'll keep it. If I spend it, I'll pay it back. No questions." Nodding with an easy smile, "I'm not a patron of politics myself," Jo relates. "I keep mostly from it at the Weyr. Even back at Keogh. Yer bronze is interested in such things?" That seems to garner curious interest from her, but it's what Z'kiel says next about the drink that draws sharp laughter from her again. "Ya spar some? I bet I could take ya," and she gives him a sizing up from her seat. "Less than five minutes, tops. I've been lookin' for sparrin' partners that could take a hit." Her smile is cheeky at best, and his response to her proposition earns a shake of her head and a wry, "I drive a high rate. My paybacks are usually very steep for those that only walk nothin' short of a fine line." There's something in that message, too, but the convict rider drains her mug before adding, "Reckon we'll meet again, though. Tacuseth deems ya'll alright," including his bronze. "He seems to be a good judge of character." "He's-" apparently difficult to describe, so Z'kiel settles on a throaty sound and a shake of his head. "He has his plans." The laughter is worthy of a slight furrow of his brow and a much more grunt-like sound. "Probably," says plenty on its own. But: "Asked Alida to train me when she had time. I can fight some. Not as well as I want to." A beat. "If you want to spar, call." And if that means he, dangerous hunter of beasts that he is, gets his ass handed to him in less than five minutes? So be it. It's something to improve on. He pushes slowly to his feet after that, with a dip of his chin. "Wouldn't expect it to be cheap," is his even reply, followed up by another, firmer nod for her latter assertion. "Reckon so. Ahtzudaeth's keen on yours - and you. Can't say he's ever lead me wrong." Yet. "Don' they all," Jo says of dragons, looking towards the entrance as if she could see them. "The winged bastards. I still won' get an answer from'em on why they choose on the sands the way they do. If they remember." Pause. "Alida's good folks," she says upon hearing her wingmate's name. "No better person to learn from. Yer welcome to practice on me. I think we could set up in the workroom sometime." When he stands, she remains seated, two fingers lifting in the air to get the barkeep's attention behind him. "Good," she says on him knowing the stakes, the grin firm. It also seems to be in response to Ahtzudaeth as well since it comes after both responses. "We'll meet again, Z'kiel." There's a nod of thanks, her tone amiable and neutral. "Even if you got an answer," Z'kiel figures, "there'd be no way to prove it. Just your word and theirs." And what's a dragon's word really worth? There's a faint contortion of his mouth at the further mention of Alida - a smile that isn't quite there; the ghost is telling enough. "Figured as much. Figured you'd know your way around a punch, too. Workroom's good. Look forward to it." A half step back is taken, enough to allow him to tip a salute to Jo - as much habit as it is a gesture of respect. "Until then." And that's all the farewell that's offered as he makes his way out. Ahtzudaeth finally stirs and offers an aromatic and smoky, « Ah. I thank you, Tacuseth - and yours - for inviting us. It was lovely. Clear skies, until we meet again. » "The brats do manage to twist words worse than a Lord Holder," Jo states with a snort, shaking her head. "But, good. We'll spar. I'll kick yer ass. It'll be the start of beautiful friendship." The smile suggests she's teasing, and the salute is taken in stride as Z'kiel heads out and the barkeep lands by her table in his wake with another refill of her drink. "Later, darlin'." Tacuseth stirs when Ahtzudaeth does, but only to shift himself into a new position. « The pleasure's been ours, Ahtzudaeth, » the blue can be polite even though his rider isn't. « This was good. We will meet again. » His shadows warm and then dissipate, leaving nothing but wisps until even those are carried away by the wind.

Comments

Squishy (10:18, 16 September 2015 (PDT)) said...

The beginning of a beautiful bromance.

Faryn (13:40, 16 September 2015 (PDT)) said...

suspicious squinting

Jo (14:53, 16 September 2015 (PDT)) said...

( bops Faryn ) It's just a friendly chat between an ex-convict and a hunter. What can be wrong with that? >.>

Alida (16:18, 16 September 2015 (PDT)) said...

(lightly bops Faryn, as well) We're good people. We good people hang together. Because...good! *ahem*