Log: Supah Spies
Who: B'kaiv, Rodric
When: day 11, month 8, turn 21 of the 10th interval
Where: Roadside Waystation, Peyton Area
What: 'Kai' and 'Ric' are both over Peyton way doing some business (spying). Figuring out who Kai is, Rodric has an offer for him. Then they get into a brawl. Ahh, just like old times.
Roadside Waystation, Peyton Area(#1080RJ)
It's a little rough and tumble around the edges this waystation, but it's not exactly the roadhouse from hell either. The floors are kept clean, the tables too and the food and drink are both excellent. A good-sized beasthold provides shelter for the runners and drays that most travelers use and the common room is often busy of an evening, drawing in both locals from the surrounding hillside cotholds as well as those traveling between Fort and Peyton.
Ric
Tall and well-built without being overly muscular, Rodric smiles at the world from an olive-skinned face topped with curling muddy brown hair. Appearing to be in his sixties, clear blue eyes spark with humor framed by telltale laugh lines above an unremarkable nose and generous mouth.
Dressed for a traveling life, the man sports a simple white linen shirt, sturdy blue wherhide vest and loose-weave, well-tailored brown trousers over a pair of scuffed brown boots. The belt holding up his trousers holds a sheathed knife and a pair of belt-pouches of non-descript leather.
Evening is prime drinking time in establishments such as this and right now, the waystations are doing a brisk custom along the Peyton-Fort roads given that the Peyton summer gather is winding down to a close and some folk are hitting the road already to go home or move trade goods along. Among those drinking tonight is a non-descript man, looks to be on the far side of fifty, maybe, hair a muddied brown partly hidden beneath a slouching leather cap. One would have to know Rodric well to pick him out in this crowd, looking travel-worn and common in dusty clothing and drinking the cheaper beer. He's just finished up trading stories with a fellow, laughter merry and lifts his mug as his erstwhile companion departs. "Safe road," he says, voice lightly accented with upper country vowels.
Not quite as dusty or road-weary, a younger man waits just long enough for the seat to clear before dropping into it, not willing to let someone else claim this chance to get off their feet. He offers over a, "Hey," as greeting, his own accent not quite Peyton, but from somewhere around here. "Beer any good?" Not that it stops him from twisting around in his chair, seeking out the harried waitress to try and flag her down. He's twenty, maybe, with broad shoulders and thick hands, though the latter are free of any rough skin. Still, he's got a bruiser's knuckles, and a bruiser's nose.
"Evenin'," Rodric greets back, mug halfway to his mouth. "Not half bad," he says of the contents of his mug, gives it a little waggle before letting it complete the trip to his mouth and takes a goodly swallow. "Prob'ly better if you can spring for the good stuff," a jerk of his chin towards one of the barrels behind the actual bar. "From around these here parts or passin' through?" queried in a casually conversational tone.
B'kaiv snorts amusement about the very idea of 'good stuff'. "Ain't that th' truth. That what you got? Th' good stuff?" He drops a distracted nod at the older man's mug, most of his attention still looking for the help. "Been t' th' Gather. You?"
"Shells no," Rodric says with a low chuckle. "Just the regular house brew," he admits with a little wry twist of his lips. "Mm. Made out pretty well, but not much I'll be springin' on the good cask." He sits back, watches for a moment, then lifts his chin towards the actual barkeep at the bar, makes a serving motion which earns a nod in return and a whistle from the tender to draw the serving girl's attention along with a jerk of /his/ chin towards the men's table. "Seem a little thin to you this turn? The Gather."
B'kaiv huhs absently, settles into his seat, arms loosely folded on the table. He watches the byplay of stranger and keep, nods his thanks and frees one hand to offer it across the way. "Thanks. Kai. An' I dunno. Ain't been t' this one in a while. Heard stories, though, from them as say it weren't no good. Not just th' uncles neither, jawing about how things was better when they was young."
A brief grin is offered, friendly but not too much so and then Rodric's hand, firm of grip with calluses in possibly odd places for a ... trader? Holder? "Sure. Ric." A nod or two follows. "Mm. So I've heard. Folks seemed a bit scared about comin' down for it. A lot leaving early," he gestures around at the full common room. "Good thing I don't have too far to go neither. What do you think about this whole mess?"
"Like leaving early's gonna help none," snorts Kai derisively, though he changes his tune when the harried server finally pushes her way over. Order placed and marks exchanged, he watches her leave but keeps his hands to himself, only turning back to Ric when his view is blocked. An uncaring shrug and a grunt preface, "Ain't none of my lookout. The wagons is th' ones in trouble, not th' ones like us going in ones an' twos. Or shells, fours an' fives, even. Thought about trying t' hire on as a guard, but weren't nobody interested. They don't know me."
Shoulders roll a little and Ric shoots a 'what can you do' look towards the brawny young man. "Nice ass," he remarks about the serving woman, marking the direction of Kai's gaze. "Mm, true, sweeter pots to score in a wagon," the older man says with another little shrug. "And sure, trust is thin on the ground these days too. Did hear a couple of folks sayin' as they'd feel better with some good strong swords around though." Blue eyes squint into the crowd, like he's looking for the faces in question.
"Old enough t' be my mother," Kai answers, smirking a little at the older man. "Sides, I ain't got th' marks for her, neither. No harm in looking, though." A roar of laughter from one corner snags his attention, more so when man about his age stomps away from the table, swearing. Only once that entertainment's faded does he look back at Ric, with a brief detour to check on his beer. "Yeah, well, don't think no holders is gonna be giving out their guards t' babysit no traders. Who's got th' marks for a sharding /sword/?"
"Age ain't everything," Ric counters with sudden mirth sparking in his eyes. "Don't know that /she/ charges, though there's the other one that helps out sometimes," he muses a little bit vaguely, eyes scanning the room again before they return to Kai by way of the stomping man. "Knife or a good fist'd probably do for some," he answers with a little shrug. "Could always say it's part of the bargain too: gettin' armed." He nods towards a seamy-faced man in the crowd though. "Him, that was one of the ones that was talkin' about it." Pause. "Done much guard-work before?"
B'kaiv eyes Ric with the same disbelief the young always give their elders, for didn't the younger generation invent the entire world? "The traders ain't got no marks for swords neither. --Thanks," with a a quick smile of thanks for the beer slid in front of him. It sloshes, and foam drools down the side, but Kai's on it like a dragon on a wherry anyhow, tongue swiping his upper lip clear. "Some," he admits, like it's no big thing. "Mostly I do fights - you know, th' ones as where I fight all comers. You?"
"Depends on the traders," Ric points out with a little waggle of one finger and tips up his mug again, nods up at the server briefly. "And take a cut of the bets?" is asked next and his head shakes. "Will bet on a fight, but I'd not bet on me to win one. Mostly don't have much in the way to draw notice from anyone lookin' to lift anything." He lets his shoulders slump a bit more, adopts a tired, pathetic look, winks across at Kai, before straightening up again. "Got a good track record for the fights?"
"An' them's th' ones as ain't gonna take you if they don't know you," Kai points out with an edge of weary knowledge. And again: "Some," wariness now, not weariness, mug re-lifted to provide temporary barrier between them. "I'm good enough. Didn't do too good at Peyton, though. You..." he studies the older man, ignoring the pathetic slump to study shoulders with a practiced eye. "Probably wouldn't'a done too bad when you was younger, maybe. Th' old ones either don't know they lost it, or they really /ain't/ lost it, but they got slow."
"Could put in a good word for you with the ones I know," Ric notes casually, his mug joining in the barrier-making. "Mmph. Darned raiders takin' the blush off the Gather," he says feelingly, makes a face and props his elbows on the table. "Takes trainin' don't it? Bein' any good." The implication being that he's had none, though he doesn't say that outright.
B'kaiv doesn't say, "/You/?" but lifted eyebrows convey the message all the same. He gives Ric another once-over before retreating into his ale, using it to give himself time. When he finally surfaces again, it's with a careful nod, though he also points out, "You don't know me from Faranth's first clutch. How come you'd do that?"
"Do business with some," Ric points out and empties out his mug, sets it down. His elbows re-settle and his fingers lace together. When he speaks next, it's in a very low undertone. "Because neither of us is a holder ... rider," is offered steadily and those very intensely blue eyes seek to catch Kai's, the harper's expression betraying little-to-nothing.
Kai acknowledges this point as the minutia it is, glances around the room again while Ric finishes off his beer. He's not nearly as suave at this undercover thing as is his tablemate: when the harper drops his bombshell hazel eyes snap back to meet blue ones, flaring wide before narrowing again. One beat, two, then three pass before Kai's too-delayed protest of, "I ain't no rider," arrives, which is followed swiftly by, "I dunno what you mean."
"Palms're too soft," Ric notes idly, like they're talking about the weather. Undercover is definitely his thing. Effortless almost. His gaze remains on Kai, roving over his features down to his hands, back up again. "And if two and two add up, I might have some business for you, for traders." His put on accent hasn't slipped a jot either. Over in the corner some more noise erupts: an argument that's getting increasingly heated over marks just lost at dice.
B'kaiv says, "Shit," and scrubs one palm against the seam of his trous, like that will magically coax calluses into being. Still warily watching the harper, other hand curled about his mug, he has to think about the offer for a little bit before nodding. "A'right." He glances over at the yelling, but only just: no talk about the weather's ever been quite this enthralling. "How d'you think you got four?"
Voice low: "If Kai is short for Balkaiv, then we have four," Rodric answers with a quirky little grin and that expression might or might not strike the greenrider as oddly familiar, given that father and son share that smile and certain expressions. The yelling is getting louder and there's the squawk of chair legs protesting as seats are shoved back from table and a grab is made to a vest across it. "Job would be protection," the harper continues mildly, "for a sweet bit of raider bait." His gaze flickers over to the possible fight in the making though, eyes narrowing slightly at the corners. "They're about to really get into it," he notes in the same casual tone as earlier.
The younger man winces, but manages to hide it under a generalized 'ow, skin troubles' by scratching furiously at the back of his neck, his attention turned inward. At least he's not staring at the older man anymore, but more and more people are looking at the impending fight, and he's not one of them either. As he returns to the here-and-now he gets out a, "Guess," before his attention /is/ caught, and he looks quickly between the dicing gone bad and Ric. "Take this outside?" he suggests, jerking his head toward the back door.
"That was my thought," Rodric says with quiet patience as Kai catches on to that bit. Solemnly, little marks are put on the table and then the harper is pushing his chair back, aims to slide out around the impending doom and destruction that's brewing, all without breaking out of the persona he's adopted for the evening. Once outside, he keeps on walking, with only a brief check over his shoulder to check for Kai. He comes to a halt by a ratty bit of fencing that creates something like a driveway off of the main roadway towards the waystation. From inside, there's the sound of scuffling feet and then crash, that'd be someone hitting a table. Fight's on.
B'kaiv tosses back a last slug of his beer as he stands before abandoning it to the tender mercies of time and chance, gives the soon-to-be fight a regretful look but follows Ric out through the crowd. They are very nearly the only ones fleeing, but none of the others follow the two men into the darkness. Once at the fence Kai puts one foot up on the lowest rail, folds his arms across the uppermost and scowls out across the pasture. "How come you know my name?" he demands, cutting right to the chase.
Still smooth as sisal, Rodric holds his hand out this time. "Rodric," he re-introduces himself. "Harper," he adds on with a little grin. "I don't know you personally, but I've heard a thing or two about your ... exploits," the harper continues, tone mild again, Peyton falling out of his voice and the more cultured tones of Fort's Harper Hall taking over. "If you need proof, I do actually have my knot in my pocket. Or of course, you could check in with the Weyr if you haven't already."
"Kai," the greenrider repeats, taking Rodric's hand, though half a second later he relents to, "B'kaiv." 'Exploits' cause him to snort and reclaim his hand, eyes seeking out the stationary form of a dozing runner. "Nah. I asked. Finally got her t' calm down an' tell me. You're th' - you're T'rev's Da, she says." He glances sideways at that, to see if the absent 'she' is right.
"Well met," Rodric says conversationally, the corners of his eyes crinkling up with his smile. "Indeed, I am," he replies promptly with a further touch of unexplained mirth to his expression. "On business for the masterharper," Rodric adds and leans back against the fence, head tilted up towards the night sky. "And if you know who I am, then you know my family, my people are traders and having spoken with my brother yesterday, they're willing to set up a part of the train as bait," he says quietly, head tilting towards the rider a fraction so that their conversation very definitely remains between them in spite of the lack of anyone else around. More crashes and the sound of breaking glass and furniture sound from inside the waystation. The keeper is /not/ going to be happy as the standalone fight turns into an out and out brawl, a release of too many tensions closely held.
It's hard to judge just where the greenrider's attention lays, though his head stays turned attentively toward the harper as he speaks. "Huh. An' then what? Fight 'em off an' try an' track where they go? Or shells, just put on a show an' follow 'em after. Lotta people gonna end up with sore heads either way. T'rev know what you're thinking?" He looks back at particularly solid thud that rattles the shutters, mouth twisting in regret. "--You need a ride somewhere? Back t' Fort, maybe?"
"No, turn traitor and help the raiders so they take you along with," Rodric says quietly, head cocking to the side. "He does. We're both ... worried about his daughter." That regret is caught and it draws out a faintly amused smile on the harper's face. "Need, no, but I don't think I'll be picking up much in the way of further information tonight," he remarks, eyeing the waystation speculatively. "Unless you'd rather wade back into fray with some backup." He flashes the rider a rather feral-edged grin.
B'kaiv says, "Huh," yet again, like he's chewing it over. "Maybe. Gotta get th' okay before I go doing something like that, though." It's not a flat 'no', though. He catches the grin and his own blossoms slowly to match it; after a second he turns about to put his back to the fence as well. "Thought you might got t' tell your plan t' T'rev, but if you ain't..." He squints up at a patch of cloud, makes up his mind with a nod. "Sure. See if they got room for a couple more in there before things get broke up."
"Of course," Rodric answers with a nod of understanding. "It's a way in though, possibly. And if not, then the Terrivs gain another pair of strong arms to help for a little bit." His laughter rings out at that acceptance as he pushes away from the fence. "C'mon then whippersnapper," Ric says jovially, voice and posture re-adopting the timbre and line of a simple Peyton holder. "Let the old man show you a thing or two."
B'kaiv says, "Yeah. An' if it ain't me, it'll still work for somebody." Perhaps he's thinking ahead, and worrying about possible head-breaking from tonight's little escapade? But the challenge brings an amused snort and glance over. "Yeah, 'cause all you holders is so good at fighting. Bet you a beer you go down before I do."
"It will," Rodric agrees as they head back into the waystation and he eyes the fray with a circumspect eye. "Bet you two that I don't," he blithely raises the stakes. "Though I'd also wager three that my girlfriend will probably give me a worse drubbing than any of these fellows will just for doing this," he adds with a wink. But then, it's all about actually diving in and proving what he said about age. Because he does not, in point of fact, go down at all and ends the night perched on the bar sharing beers and tales with the battle's survivors.
When: day 11, month 8, turn 21 of the 10th interval
Where: Roadside Waystation, Peyton Area
What: 'Kai' and 'Ric' are both over Peyton way doing some business (spying). Figuring out who Kai is, Rodric has an offer for him. Then they get into a brawl. Ahh, just like old times.
Roadside Waystation, Peyton Area(#1080RJ)
It's a little rough and tumble around the edges this waystation, but it's not exactly the roadhouse from hell either. The floors are kept clean, the tables too and the food and drink are both excellent. A good-sized beasthold provides shelter for the runners and drays that most travelers use and the common room is often busy of an evening, drawing in both locals from the surrounding hillside cotholds as well as those traveling between Fort and Peyton.
Ric
Tall and well-built without being overly muscular, Rodric smiles at the world from an olive-skinned face topped with curling muddy brown hair. Appearing to be in his sixties, clear blue eyes spark with humor framed by telltale laugh lines above an unremarkable nose and generous mouth.
Dressed for a traveling life, the man sports a simple white linen shirt, sturdy blue wherhide vest and loose-weave, well-tailored brown trousers over a pair of scuffed brown boots. The belt holding up his trousers holds a sheathed knife and a pair of belt-pouches of non-descript leather.
Evening is prime drinking time in establishments such as this and right now, the waystations are doing a brisk custom along the Peyton-Fort roads given that the Peyton summer gather is winding down to a close and some folk are hitting the road already to go home or move trade goods along. Among those drinking tonight is a non-descript man, looks to be on the far side of fifty, maybe, hair a muddied brown partly hidden beneath a slouching leather cap. One would have to know Rodric well to pick him out in this crowd, looking travel-worn and common in dusty clothing and drinking the cheaper beer. He's just finished up trading stories with a fellow, laughter merry and lifts his mug as his erstwhile companion departs. "Safe road," he says, voice lightly accented with upper country vowels.
Not quite as dusty or road-weary, a younger man waits just long enough for the seat to clear before dropping into it, not willing to let someone else claim this chance to get off their feet. He offers over a, "Hey," as greeting, his own accent not quite Peyton, but from somewhere around here. "Beer any good?" Not that it stops him from twisting around in his chair, seeking out the harried waitress to try and flag her down. He's twenty, maybe, with broad shoulders and thick hands, though the latter are free of any rough skin. Still, he's got a bruiser's knuckles, and a bruiser's nose.
"Evenin'," Rodric greets back, mug halfway to his mouth. "Not half bad," he says of the contents of his mug, gives it a little waggle before letting it complete the trip to his mouth and takes a goodly swallow. "Prob'ly better if you can spring for the good stuff," a jerk of his chin towards one of the barrels behind the actual bar. "From around these here parts or passin' through?" queried in a casually conversational tone.
B'kaiv snorts amusement about the very idea of 'good stuff'. "Ain't that th' truth. That what you got? Th' good stuff?" He drops a distracted nod at the older man's mug, most of his attention still looking for the help. "Been t' th' Gather. You?"
"Shells no," Rodric says with a low chuckle. "Just the regular house brew," he admits with a little wry twist of his lips. "Mm. Made out pretty well, but not much I'll be springin' on the good cask." He sits back, watches for a moment, then lifts his chin towards the actual barkeep at the bar, makes a serving motion which earns a nod in return and a whistle from the tender to draw the serving girl's attention along with a jerk of /his/ chin towards the men's table. "Seem a little thin to you this turn? The Gather."
B'kaiv huhs absently, settles into his seat, arms loosely folded on the table. He watches the byplay of stranger and keep, nods his thanks and frees one hand to offer it across the way. "Thanks. Kai. An' I dunno. Ain't been t' this one in a while. Heard stories, though, from them as say it weren't no good. Not just th' uncles neither, jawing about how things was better when they was young."
A brief grin is offered, friendly but not too much so and then Rodric's hand, firm of grip with calluses in possibly odd places for a ... trader? Holder? "Sure. Ric." A nod or two follows. "Mm. So I've heard. Folks seemed a bit scared about comin' down for it. A lot leaving early," he gestures around at the full common room. "Good thing I don't have too far to go neither. What do you think about this whole mess?"
"Like leaving early's gonna help none," snorts Kai derisively, though he changes his tune when the harried server finally pushes her way over. Order placed and marks exchanged, he watches her leave but keeps his hands to himself, only turning back to Ric when his view is blocked. An uncaring shrug and a grunt preface, "Ain't none of my lookout. The wagons is th' ones in trouble, not th' ones like us going in ones an' twos. Or shells, fours an' fives, even. Thought about trying t' hire on as a guard, but weren't nobody interested. They don't know me."
Shoulders roll a little and Ric shoots a 'what can you do' look towards the brawny young man. "Nice ass," he remarks about the serving woman, marking the direction of Kai's gaze. "Mm, true, sweeter pots to score in a wagon," the older man says with another little shrug. "And sure, trust is thin on the ground these days too. Did hear a couple of folks sayin' as they'd feel better with some good strong swords around though." Blue eyes squint into the crowd, like he's looking for the faces in question.
"Old enough t' be my mother," Kai answers, smirking a little at the older man. "Sides, I ain't got th' marks for her, neither. No harm in looking, though." A roar of laughter from one corner snags his attention, more so when man about his age stomps away from the table, swearing. Only once that entertainment's faded does he look back at Ric, with a brief detour to check on his beer. "Yeah, well, don't think no holders is gonna be giving out their guards t' babysit no traders. Who's got th' marks for a sharding /sword/?"
"Age ain't everything," Ric counters with sudden mirth sparking in his eyes. "Don't know that /she/ charges, though there's the other one that helps out sometimes," he muses a little bit vaguely, eyes scanning the room again before they return to Kai by way of the stomping man. "Knife or a good fist'd probably do for some," he answers with a little shrug. "Could always say it's part of the bargain too: gettin' armed." He nods towards a seamy-faced man in the crowd though. "Him, that was one of the ones that was talkin' about it." Pause. "Done much guard-work before?"
B'kaiv eyes Ric with the same disbelief the young always give their elders, for didn't the younger generation invent the entire world? "The traders ain't got no marks for swords neither. --Thanks," with a a quick smile of thanks for the beer slid in front of him. It sloshes, and foam drools down the side, but Kai's on it like a dragon on a wherry anyhow, tongue swiping his upper lip clear. "Some," he admits, like it's no big thing. "Mostly I do fights - you know, th' ones as where I fight all comers. You?"
"Depends on the traders," Ric points out with a little waggle of one finger and tips up his mug again, nods up at the server briefly. "And take a cut of the bets?" is asked next and his head shakes. "Will bet on a fight, but I'd not bet on me to win one. Mostly don't have much in the way to draw notice from anyone lookin' to lift anything." He lets his shoulders slump a bit more, adopts a tired, pathetic look, winks across at Kai, before straightening up again. "Got a good track record for the fights?"
"An' them's th' ones as ain't gonna take you if they don't know you," Kai points out with an edge of weary knowledge. And again: "Some," wariness now, not weariness, mug re-lifted to provide temporary barrier between them. "I'm good enough. Didn't do too good at Peyton, though. You..." he studies the older man, ignoring the pathetic slump to study shoulders with a practiced eye. "Probably wouldn't'a done too bad when you was younger, maybe. Th' old ones either don't know they lost it, or they really /ain't/ lost it, but they got slow."
"Could put in a good word for you with the ones I know," Ric notes casually, his mug joining in the barrier-making. "Mmph. Darned raiders takin' the blush off the Gather," he says feelingly, makes a face and props his elbows on the table. "Takes trainin' don't it? Bein' any good." The implication being that he's had none, though he doesn't say that outright.
B'kaiv doesn't say, "/You/?" but lifted eyebrows convey the message all the same. He gives Ric another once-over before retreating into his ale, using it to give himself time. When he finally surfaces again, it's with a careful nod, though he also points out, "You don't know me from Faranth's first clutch. How come you'd do that?"
"Do business with some," Ric points out and empties out his mug, sets it down. His elbows re-settle and his fingers lace together. When he speaks next, it's in a very low undertone. "Because neither of us is a holder ... rider," is offered steadily and those very intensely blue eyes seek to catch Kai's, the harper's expression betraying little-to-nothing.
Kai acknowledges this point as the minutia it is, glances around the room again while Ric finishes off his beer. He's not nearly as suave at this undercover thing as is his tablemate: when the harper drops his bombshell hazel eyes snap back to meet blue ones, flaring wide before narrowing again. One beat, two, then three pass before Kai's too-delayed protest of, "I ain't no rider," arrives, which is followed swiftly by, "I dunno what you mean."
"Palms're too soft," Ric notes idly, like they're talking about the weather. Undercover is definitely his thing. Effortless almost. His gaze remains on Kai, roving over his features down to his hands, back up again. "And if two and two add up, I might have some business for you, for traders." His put on accent hasn't slipped a jot either. Over in the corner some more noise erupts: an argument that's getting increasingly heated over marks just lost at dice.
B'kaiv says, "Shit," and scrubs one palm against the seam of his trous, like that will magically coax calluses into being. Still warily watching the harper, other hand curled about his mug, he has to think about the offer for a little bit before nodding. "A'right." He glances over at the yelling, but only just: no talk about the weather's ever been quite this enthralling. "How d'you think you got four?"
Voice low: "If Kai is short for Balkaiv, then we have four," Rodric answers with a quirky little grin and that expression might or might not strike the greenrider as oddly familiar, given that father and son share that smile and certain expressions. The yelling is getting louder and there's the squawk of chair legs protesting as seats are shoved back from table and a grab is made to a vest across it. "Job would be protection," the harper continues mildly, "for a sweet bit of raider bait." His gaze flickers over to the possible fight in the making though, eyes narrowing slightly at the corners. "They're about to really get into it," he notes in the same casual tone as earlier.
The younger man winces, but manages to hide it under a generalized 'ow, skin troubles' by scratching furiously at the back of his neck, his attention turned inward. At least he's not staring at the older man anymore, but more and more people are looking at the impending fight, and he's not one of them either. As he returns to the here-and-now he gets out a, "Guess," before his attention /is/ caught, and he looks quickly between the dicing gone bad and Ric. "Take this outside?" he suggests, jerking his head toward the back door.
"That was my thought," Rodric says with quiet patience as Kai catches on to that bit. Solemnly, little marks are put on the table and then the harper is pushing his chair back, aims to slide out around the impending doom and destruction that's brewing, all without breaking out of the persona he's adopted for the evening. Once outside, he keeps on walking, with only a brief check over his shoulder to check for Kai. He comes to a halt by a ratty bit of fencing that creates something like a driveway off of the main roadway towards the waystation. From inside, there's the sound of scuffling feet and then crash, that'd be someone hitting a table. Fight's on.
B'kaiv tosses back a last slug of his beer as he stands before abandoning it to the tender mercies of time and chance, gives the soon-to-be fight a regretful look but follows Ric out through the crowd. They are very nearly the only ones fleeing, but none of the others follow the two men into the darkness. Once at the fence Kai puts one foot up on the lowest rail, folds his arms across the uppermost and scowls out across the pasture. "How come you know my name?" he demands, cutting right to the chase.
Still smooth as sisal, Rodric holds his hand out this time. "Rodric," he re-introduces himself. "Harper," he adds on with a little grin. "I don't know you personally, but I've heard a thing or two about your ... exploits," the harper continues, tone mild again, Peyton falling out of his voice and the more cultured tones of Fort's Harper Hall taking over. "If you need proof, I do actually have my knot in my pocket. Or of course, you could check in with the Weyr if you haven't already."
"Kai," the greenrider repeats, taking Rodric's hand, though half a second later he relents to, "B'kaiv." 'Exploits' cause him to snort and reclaim his hand, eyes seeking out the stationary form of a dozing runner. "Nah. I asked. Finally got her t' calm down an' tell me. You're th' - you're T'rev's Da, she says." He glances sideways at that, to see if the absent 'she' is right.
"Well met," Rodric says conversationally, the corners of his eyes crinkling up with his smile. "Indeed, I am," he replies promptly with a further touch of unexplained mirth to his expression. "On business for the masterharper," Rodric adds and leans back against the fence, head tilted up towards the night sky. "And if you know who I am, then you know my family, my people are traders and having spoken with my brother yesterday, they're willing to set up a part of the train as bait," he says quietly, head tilting towards the rider a fraction so that their conversation very definitely remains between them in spite of the lack of anyone else around. More crashes and the sound of breaking glass and furniture sound from inside the waystation. The keeper is /not/ going to be happy as the standalone fight turns into an out and out brawl, a release of too many tensions closely held.
It's hard to judge just where the greenrider's attention lays, though his head stays turned attentively toward the harper as he speaks. "Huh. An' then what? Fight 'em off an' try an' track where they go? Or shells, just put on a show an' follow 'em after. Lotta people gonna end up with sore heads either way. T'rev know what you're thinking?" He looks back at particularly solid thud that rattles the shutters, mouth twisting in regret. "--You need a ride somewhere? Back t' Fort, maybe?"
"No, turn traitor and help the raiders so they take you along with," Rodric says quietly, head cocking to the side. "He does. We're both ... worried about his daughter." That regret is caught and it draws out a faintly amused smile on the harper's face. "Need, no, but I don't think I'll be picking up much in the way of further information tonight," he remarks, eyeing the waystation speculatively. "Unless you'd rather wade back into fray with some backup." He flashes the rider a rather feral-edged grin.
B'kaiv says, "Huh," yet again, like he's chewing it over. "Maybe. Gotta get th' okay before I go doing something like that, though." It's not a flat 'no', though. He catches the grin and his own blossoms slowly to match it; after a second he turns about to put his back to the fence as well. "Thought you might got t' tell your plan t' T'rev, but if you ain't..." He squints up at a patch of cloud, makes up his mind with a nod. "Sure. See if they got room for a couple more in there before things get broke up."
"Of course," Rodric answers with a nod of understanding. "It's a way in though, possibly. And if not, then the Terrivs gain another pair of strong arms to help for a little bit." His laughter rings out at that acceptance as he pushes away from the fence. "C'mon then whippersnapper," Ric says jovially, voice and posture re-adopting the timbre and line of a simple Peyton holder. "Let the old man show you a thing or two."
B'kaiv says, "Yeah. An' if it ain't me, it'll still work for somebody." Perhaps he's thinking ahead, and worrying about possible head-breaking from tonight's little escapade? But the challenge brings an amused snort and glance over. "Yeah, 'cause all you holders is so good at fighting. Bet you a beer you go down before I do."
"It will," Rodric agrees as they head back into the waystation and he eyes the fray with a circumspect eye. "Bet you two that I don't," he blithely raises the stakes. "Though I'd also wager three that my girlfriend will probably give me a worse drubbing than any of these fellows will just for doing this," he adds with a wink. But then, it's all about actually diving in and proving what he said about age. Because he does not, in point of fact, go down at all and ends the night perched on the bar sharing beers and tales with the battle's survivors.