Caravans and Acrobats, Pt. I
Who: Ceriyne, Ch'dais, Diya, Jerion, Sinopa. Theren & Essiel NPCed by Bitra.
Where: Southern Bowl of High Reaches Weyr
What: Traders come to High Reaches, looking to share news and peddle their wares before travel becomes difficult.
It is 20:55 on day 20, month 9, turn 200 of the 6th Interval.
Earlier the watchrider had notified the Weyr: a merchant's train below in the meadow! The count was six wagons and an unknown number of traders. With the turn moving into colder weather, and the threat of Thread looming large in the near future, a ripple of excitement had gone through the Reaches. The prospect of fresh trade goods, luxuries and silly trinkets to keep spirits high into the dark of the winter was a welcome one.
So several riders were dispatched to meet with the train, to take in their measure and determine if they would be allowed into the Weyr or not. It was an anxious wait for many of the residents but fortunately a short one as well; word came back that the train would be allowed entrance into the Bowl and preparations were made to welcome them.
So now the evening grows sweet and chill as the wagons rattle into the bowl, emerging one after another from the tunnel exiting the Weyr. The merchants are all bright toothy smiles and flashy clothing, and the weyrfolk go to meet them with matching smiles, though less flashy clothing. To the north, some thoughtful soul has begun to erect a structure of precious wood, beginning to form the framework for a bonfire.
Ceriyne was one of the few waiting anxiously for that word to come, and with it and the arrival of the merchants. Clutching a heavy and quite dull looking shawl around her shoulders, Ceriyne steps out of the Weyr and into the bowl, her gaze narrowed against the light and even the chill of the air. Not too far away stands Journeyman Litanel who places a hand upon her shoulder and bends close to offer a few quick instructions. Ceriyne nods her understanding and moves off, joining the miling crowd who are slow to approach the wagons.
The excitement of the rumors of a merchant train has swept the caverns set aside for the Caucus, and it's with amusement that the headmaster, Jerion, permits the students to skip out early for such a special occasion. All the instructors are advised to tell their students to make sure they don't miss the work that was assigned. The headmaster himself, not horribly consumed with curiosity, but nonetheless interested in the arrival of the train, puts on a thick wollen cloak around his thin shoulders, preferring to use his staff this time as he makes his way out to the bowl, taking his time to get to his destination.
Ch'dais observes the progress of the wagons from his station at the verge of the caverns. He's a shadow in glow-light, arms crossed, one shoulder fetched against the dark stone. As the weyrfolk begin to gather, as the bonfire gets underway, he pushes off from the wall and steps into the chilly night. One hand bears an earthen cup, and the other holds closed the heavy leather of his riding jacket.
The lead trader, a man whose smile is as large as the belly that precedes him off of the first wagon, sweeps his arms out in a gesture of welcome-- as if he weren't the visitor, and those approaching weren't his guests. "Our duties to High Reaches Weyr!" he booms as the other wagons move into a dusty half-circle around the first. Some have canvas sides, some metal and wood, but they all look trail-weathered. The people who stream from them, men and women and children, look similarly tired but cover it with smiles for the weyrfolk. "It's late for trading," their apparent leader continues, "But we've wines from Tillek and news to tell and perhaps a little entertainment on a cool autumn night... ah, who's in charge here?" His watery blue eyes sweep the gathering crowd.
Ceriyne makes a point of keeping her gaze upon the ground. Slippery footing not the point for such, though most certainly not a deterrent, the young woman does so more out of propriety then anything else. That is until the lead trader speaks. Drawing her gaze upward, Ceriyne watches him with a curious expression bordering upon anxious. A step closer to the circled wagons is hazarded, along with a curious tilt of her head toward the 'wares.
Jerion's left brow rises when the trader greets them jovially. His gaze scans the weyrfolk currently present for someone with a relatively large knot handy... or the headwoman. Not finding any such person (yet), his voice carries over the noise of chattering children running around as if there wasn't any ice or possible snow or anything floating about the place to skid and fall down upon. "While I am not in charge," his voice can be heard from where he stops, even the short journey across the bowl a bit difficult on his lamer leg, leaning on his staff, "I bid you welcome to High Reaches Weyr."
Ch'dais steps up behind the place where Ceriyne lurks, one amongst the gathering crowd of interested locals. He watches the proceedings over the girl's shoulder, eyes half-narrowed against a swirling breeze, a faint smile on his lips. The latter vanishes when he lifts his cup for a warming sip.
Only two of the wagons are opened, their sides swinging up like awnings to be braced and locked out on long poles. The first is full of the promised Tillek wines, small sample 'skins being pulled out by the armful by the children of the train. They run into the crowd, distributing them to anyone who looks of a reasonable age-- and some who don't. The second admits a family troupe of acrobats, dressed in light costumes that flutter and swirl and provide bright color to the bowl but do absolutely nothing against the cold. It seems natural, then, that they begin to skip and spin and tumble in the bonfire's direction. That fire has just been lit, and flames begin to lick towards the peak of the structure.
"Ah, wonderful!" the train leader booms again, that uncertainty in his voice proving to be a momentary thing. "Quite, yes, well, my people will require food and perhaps beds for the night," he continues, his bulk forcing him into an odd sort of waddle to approch the headmaster. The man's declaration of lack of rank appears to have been ignored. He peers over Jerion's shoulder, round face gone hopeful. "I don't suppose the weyrwoman might come?"
Ceriyne is most certainly short enough for Ch'dais to get away with standing behind her and watching over her shoulder, though the smell of Ch'dais' drink quickly becomes apparent to her and earns a semi-startled look over her shoulder toward him. Fortunate for her, she can blame the slight nip of the air for the time it takes her to work a weak smile to her lips, as well as the stiff nod of her head in greeting to the 'rider. Quietly, "They certainly could've picked a warmer night for this, right?" Those skins of wine being passed out are eyed - whether in distaste or desire is not made apparent as Ceriyne tightens the wrap of the shawl 'round her shoulders.
Jerion keeps watch on the acrobats, then his gaze shifts once more to the leader of the train. "I am afraid I am entirely the incorrect person to ask for such things," the headmaster answers politely with an incline of his head, "as I myself am a guest, and I make it a point not to impose on the Weyr any more than is expressly necessary." His gaze continues roving the crowd, picking out familiar faces, pausing briefly when he spots Ceriyne and Ch'dais and the former's double-take.
It takes Ch'dais a moment to realize that he's been addressed. Ceriyne's words float by on the night breeze, diffusing into the general chatter, before the rider's grey-green eyes shift to regard her. There's a polite moment during which his smile broadens, and then the man is peering thoughtfully skyward. "Not for several months yet, I expect," he opines. "You think /this/ is cold..." He gives a faint chuckle. "Don't think we've met."
The trader's face falls into near-comical lines of disappointment. "Right, well..." One of the train's children skips up, pushing the last two 'skins into the man's hands. "Here! Have a drink with me, then. We'll ward off the cold and enjoy some company. It's a bloody long road up here, and with the weather turning early..." He shakes his head ruefully, extending the second of the small wineskins towards Jerion. "I'm Theren, master of the Bannorin Train."
A little girl, the apples of her cheeks a precious shade of pink, shyly approaches the bronzerider and resident. Mitten-clad hands offer the both of them the wineskins she's carrying. "With Theren's compliments," she chirps in rehearsed speech. Behind her, the acrobatic family begin to earn applause as they trace out cartwheeling shapes around the glowing fire, the colors of their costumes fading into a backlit black. The rest of the traders hang back-- unhitching animals, getting out feedbacks, checking wheels for damage and boxes for breakage. Their work's only begun while the revelries begin.
"Too cold." Ceriyne agrees with a small nod of her head and wayward glance back toward the brightly colored people. Ch'dais' last remark gains a small shake of her head and the appearance of one hand that brushes hair behind her ear, "I've just arrived... a few days ago, or there abouts. With Journeyman Litanel, the Healer." A slight pause comes next as she inhales deeply, "I suppose that'd be good enough reason. Though...does this happen often?" Her tone drops off into silence as the small girl appears. The gift is accepted with a grateful smile and a white-knuckled grip, though soon disappears behind the folds of her shawl.
Jerion takes the wineskin he's offered, but doesn't yet partake of it. "Jerion, of the Caucus," he answers, still mindful of anything of use his eyes can catch a glimpse of. His gaze matches that of a girl in the train's party, little more than a faint pause in his sweeps of the train and its personnel. "I trust the journey's been profitable?" he asks of the trainmaster, showing interest in what the other has to say by directing his nearly full attention to the full-bellied man.
Ch'dais takes up the offered skin with what might pass, in this flickering light, for an appreciative smile. He then executes a practiced alcoholic gesture, gracefully cradling his cup in the leathered crook of one arm while unstoppering the skin with his other hand. "Do you have a name, little miss, or should I call you the girl who arrived with Journeyman Litanel?" There's no real malice in the question. "Not so often that it isn't an event. As you can see." He gestures with the wine-skin in the direction of the firelit crowd.
Theren runs his thumbnail around the seal and pops it free before swinging the wineskin in another wide-armed gesture to indicate the bowl. "Profitable enough that this is our last stop for the season, and the snows come. And... more." His watery gaze lifts, skimming the spires of the bowl, searching for signs of danger that's yet to come. "People's purses are puckering tight now though, let me tell you. No offense intended, Jerion of the Caucus. Essiel! Get Herik to go see about food and lodging, then open the third wagon." He gives his glittering smile again before upending the 'skin to squeeze a stream of wine into his mouth. The girl who'd met the headmaster's eyes looks over and then slips off, with a much smaller but much more genuine smile.
As the merchants struggle to open up the third wagon-- and this one proves to be overflowing with the much sought after 'wares, lacy shawls and bone-carved fripperies and beaten-metal servingwear-- the acrobats begin their contortionist act. To the awed murmurs of the Weyr crowd, they bend around each other, using their own bodies as the foundation for buildings of arms, legs and torsos.
"Oh, right.." A semi-shy grin surfaces as Ceriyne turns to properly face Ch'dais, though the noticeable guard of her arms crossing her chest is present. "Ceriyne. Journeyman Litanel's assistant." A proper title not at all praise-worthy, or so Ceriyne's tone seems to imply. "And you are a rider, obviously but... who?" While Ch'dais pours his drink, Ceriyne tightens her hold on her own mini-flask while watching the contortionists in action. Try as she might, she's quite unable to look anything /but/ amazed.
Sinopa has arrived.
The evening is growing dark, and chill, but someone has built a bonfire in the bowl and there's a semi-circle of merchant wagons arranged near the exit tunnel. Many of the Weyr's residents have come out to enjoy the festival air, late as it is in the season. Acrobats are tumbling around the fire, turning themselves into human building blocks, and children from the train are circulating to hand out small samples of Tillek wine. One of the wagons has just been opened to reveal useless pretties and luxury goods.
Ch'dais follows Ceriyne's glance in the direction of the bonfire and its colorful knot of bodies. "If only we could all be that flexible, eh?" he sighs, at once wistful and deliberately provocative. The man's thin smile suggests as much, although his attention flickers from the girl's face back to the business of refreshing his cup from the skin of Tillek. "Ch'dais," he answers, matter-of-factly. "Bronze Arinth's rider." If he's trying to sound impressive, he's doing a shoddy job of it. After a moment's thought, he puts in, "Assistant? Are you in the Craft?"
Jerion waits a few moments as if to perhaps wait and see if the other keels over from the wine, but given the individual portions, it's easy to mess with one and leave the other pristine. "Your troupe seems well-trained," he offers almost vaguely, gesturing with the skin toward the acrobats, his tone properly complimentary, without any hint of guile to him. Either he genuinely means it, or he's that good of an actor. He finally breaks the seal on the wine he was offered and takes the time to smell it first thoughtfully. Then a tiny sip is taken to test the liquid.
Sinopa enters the bowl dressed up in her usual finery, with a plethora of scarves and a rich cream coat suitable for the cooler evening. As she walks along and looks at the wares of the various merchants, and eyes the acrobats and performers, she chatters away at some young male, who by the looks of his knot and dress is one very bored Caucus student.
"Thank you." Theren swells at the praise, though it hardly seems possible that he might grow any larger. "We spend the winter practicing. But there's no telling how much longer we'll be able to get by this way... bad times are coming, Jerion of the Caucus. Bad times." He sighs and drinks deeply from the wineskin again, but seems none the worse for wear. It's a weak vintage. "But!" The man brightens again, looking back at his train. "Time enough to worry about that later. Would you like to see what we've brought? Come now... I'll introduce you to my family," he offers in grandiose tones, turning to lead the other fellow back towards the wagons. "Essiel! Get out the jewelry!"
Ceriyne's features twist just slightly, though she covers quickly enough despite taking a small step away from Ch'dais. "I think," She begins slowly, "That some things are best left to the imagination." Phrased diffrently, though purposefully crytpic. "I'm not in it, technically, though Journeyman Litanel lets me help out with smaller tasks. Nothing that takes too much skill." A wane smile surfaces of its own accord, "I suppose its easier that way. What about you? Before you Impressed?"
Jerion glances toward Theren as the other mentions bad times coming. "I've little need of jewelry," he demurs, but then spots the approaching Sinopa and half-bows to her in a courteous manner. "But bad times approaching?" he prompts the larger man. "Threadfall is nearly upon us, you cannot get much worse than that." However, the delicate phrasing of the statement is almost another kind of prompt.
Sinopa dallies a moment at a particular wagon, which displays exquisite scarfs, something which the junior weyrwoman appears to like. Gently sampling the various materials with her fingers, and looking at the colors, she pauses in her inane babbling at her male accessory, er, companion. Done surveying those merchant's crafts, she begins to walk and chat again, gravitating towards where Jerion and Theren are conversing. "G'evening, Headmaster Jerion," she chirps to the familiar man, coming to another pause in her perusal of the festivities.
Ch'dais notes Ceriyne's subtle step from the corner of his eye, and his smile broadens, just a shade. "I was a sailor," he answers, letting the other matter drop with good-humored circumspection. "Out of High Reaches Hold." Emptied of its contents, the little wineskin goes under one arm, and the big man lifts his cup to his lips once more. "How is it that you fell in with Journeyman Litanel, Ceriyne?" It doesn't seem to occur to him that it might be an awkward question. Not to the extent that he cares, at any rate.
The acrobats finish their routine and go swirling out into the crowd, smiles as eager as the hands that extend for marks of appreciation-- no simple applause for these performers, thank you!
"That's what I mean, indeed sir!" Theren says genially. "Simple traders such as we will find travelling much more difficult once we have to look to our skins, lest they end up... eaten." It seems odd to see such a large man performing such a delicate shudder, but somehow he manages it. Only to ruin the effect a second later when Sinopa comes into view. "Ravishing lady! Essiel!" Chubby fingers snap, summoning the girl with her tray of twisted wire jewelery. He snatches out a brass cuff and waddles hastily over to present it to the weyrwoman. "For you, madam." Behind him, Essiel's snort goes unheard.
Ceriyne boldly enough states, "That would explain it then." A small smile appears, though just as quickly disappears at his question. Such gains a moment of serious study of the ground, "My sister. She had a good deal to do with it. She's an apprentice... back at Telgar. He needed someone to help him settle in at the 'Reaches and... well, I suppose I fit the bill." After a look back toward the bronzerider, Ceriyne says, "We're not 'in' like that. I'm... just helping him. He doesn't like his apprentices knowing his business." Ceriyne, her peace said, falls quickly silent on the subject of her. "How did you fall into your bronze?" Purposefully not naming said bronze, Ceriyne looks innocently back up toward the large man. Conveniently, she misses those extended hands. A small man and outrageously smaller woman beside her don't, and offer forth a small token for the show.
Ch'dais arcs a ruddy brow at Ceriyne's jibe, surveys her for a quiet, pensive moment. There's a ripple in the sea-green of his gaze, and then, with a mild chuckle, he returns his attention to his cup. "It wouldn't do for an apprentice to know the business of his journeyman, to be sure," he observes, amused despite the note of irony. "And I impressed as all men do, through sheer, dumb luck and tremendous good fortune." There's something a little too cheerful about this, something papered over, but he's back in his wine again. Thinking of which... "You don't drink, Ceriyne formerly of Telgar?"
Jerion seems moderately amused to be promptly ditched in lieu of a paying customer, and he completes his sampling of the wine provided, flagging down a member of the family to order a relatively small stock of the wine, certainly enough to make a trader pout at his stinginess. "Good evening, weyrwoman," he greets Sinopa, glancing briefly at her male... accessory... clearly recognizing the lad as one of this students. A brief nod is given to the other. After all, he's the one with the bigger knot. The headmaster keeps most of his attention on Theren for a few moments, sifting both taste of wine and the term 'eaten' at the same time. Finally, he seeks out the girl he'd spotted before, finding a shadowy spot on the far side of the bonfire and wagons. "Report," he instructs in a very low tone.
Rather than look modest at the compliment and the attention, Sinopa swells with pride and offers Theren a coy smile. "What lovely wares you have, Trader," she says, inspecting the offered cuff. Her male accessory is ignored and after shuffling nervously at the presence of the headmaster, he takes his chance to flee and find some fellow classmates that don't talk quite so much about trifle womanly things such as scarves, jewelry, and hair. "I don't suppose you're the one in charge of all this?" she questions, batting her eyes slightly at the older trader man.
Theren, with his pot belly and watery eyes, seems an odd match for the girlish goldrider but he matches her pride for pride, compliment for compliment. "A far cry from what you deserve, if I may be so bold, madam, but it is the least I can offer in return for the hospitality of your Weyr. Please, please keep the bracelet with my compliments," he simpers, bending before her in a bow blocked from completion by his stomach. "I am. Theren's the name, and this is the Bannorin Train. We're hoping to stay a day, maybe two, before departing. Reluctantly, I assure you."
The bonfire reaches its height but the acrobats withdraw, the cold defeating them. They retreat to their wagon and disappear inside. The other traders have likewise made themselves scarce, save for those working the opened goods wagon-- the wine distributed earlier has ensured them several sales they might've otherwise missed.
Diya has arrived.
Ceriyne doesn't miss the inflection within Ch'dais' tone. She purses her lips in brief thought, gaze settled away from him to avoid him realizing such, "He believes those he teaches within his craft ought to see him as an instructor and not an equal. His... taking me on... well, it ensures I'll never don the knot of a Healer." Her retort ends with a look over her shoulder back toward him, quietly skeptical, "Of all the riders I've spoken too, I think you've given the most bland story of Impressing." A delicate pause draws forth, "A disappointment, too...especially for a bronzerider." His query about her willingness (or lack of) to drink gains a simple smile, and little else.
The evening is growing dark, and chill, but someone has built a bonfire in the bowl and there's a semi-circle of merchant wagons arranged near the exit tunnel. Many of the Weyr's residents have come out to enjoy the festival air, late as it is in the season. Acrobats have just finished tumbling around the fire, turning themselves into human building blocks, and children from the train have haded out the last of small samples of Tillek wine. One of the wagons has also been opened to reveal useless pretties and luxury goods.
It's all about cultivating admiration, rather than seeking a bedfellow or another male accessory to supplement the one that snuck away out of boredom. "Why thank you, so much," she says, keeping up the charade. "Your acrobatics are quite amusing to watch, and I've much enjoyed perusing the wares that your fellow traders have brought along." Casting the cuff another glance, a hand drops to one of her scarves and she rubs the soft fabric between her fingers. "Festivals are a lovely change of pace from the typical weyr life."
Ch'dais meets Ceriyne's dubious glance with an indulgent little grin, tucked up within the red-brown stubble of his beard. "Well. I hate to disappoint; let me try again." He watches her for a moment-- his look level, joyless despite his expression-- before lowering his head for a long, thoughtful sip of wine. Then, with a note of high drama, "The sky was clear blue, cloudless, but as I stood on the deck of my father's three-master I could feel that the day was rich with promise. It was almost as if the search dragons were already there in spirit, blowing wind into our sails with their great pinions..." The man trails off, then fixes Ceriyne with a curious look. "Something more like that, you mean?"
Theren may play the jovial sort but he's sharp enough when he cares to be. The motion of Sinopa's hand is noticed, prompting another bellow of, "ESSIEL! Bring the woolies!" followed by his toothy-bright smile. "Your taste is as exquisite as the rest of you, madam." The young woman he'd called for arrives quickly, one of her arms draped with scarves ranging from finely knitted to sheer gauze. The most delicate have fringe dotted with flashing metal beads and bells. "Take your pick, please," he tells Sinopa. The ever present Essiel is pushed forward a step, before Theren retreats as something resembling a headwoman's knot is seen in the distance. "If you'll excuse me... madam! I say, madam! I wish to speak with you about the matter of our lodgings..." His bellowing grows faint as quick, waddling steps carry him off. But the bonfire burns on, and not all of the wine has disappeared yet, nor have the traders closed shop. There's time yet before they get to enjoy their beds.
Where: Southern Bowl of High Reaches Weyr
What: Traders come to High Reaches, looking to share news and peddle their wares before travel becomes difficult.
It is 20:55 on day 20, month 9, turn 200 of the 6th Interval.
Earlier the watchrider had notified the Weyr: a merchant's train below in the meadow! The count was six wagons and an unknown number of traders. With the turn moving into colder weather, and the threat of Thread looming large in the near future, a ripple of excitement had gone through the Reaches. The prospect of fresh trade goods, luxuries and silly trinkets to keep spirits high into the dark of the winter was a welcome one.
So several riders were dispatched to meet with the train, to take in their measure and determine if they would be allowed into the Weyr or not. It was an anxious wait for many of the residents but fortunately a short one as well; word came back that the train would be allowed entrance into the Bowl and preparations were made to welcome them.
So now the evening grows sweet and chill as the wagons rattle into the bowl, emerging one after another from the tunnel exiting the Weyr. The merchants are all bright toothy smiles and flashy clothing, and the weyrfolk go to meet them with matching smiles, though less flashy clothing. To the north, some thoughtful soul has begun to erect a structure of precious wood, beginning to form the framework for a bonfire.
Ceriyne was one of the few waiting anxiously for that word to come, and with it and the arrival of the merchants. Clutching a heavy and quite dull looking shawl around her shoulders, Ceriyne steps out of the Weyr and into the bowl, her gaze narrowed against the light and even the chill of the air. Not too far away stands Journeyman Litanel who places a hand upon her shoulder and bends close to offer a few quick instructions. Ceriyne nods her understanding and moves off, joining the miling crowd who are slow to approach the wagons.
The excitement of the rumors of a merchant train has swept the caverns set aside for the Caucus, and it's with amusement that the headmaster, Jerion, permits the students to skip out early for such a special occasion. All the instructors are advised to tell their students to make sure they don't miss the work that was assigned. The headmaster himself, not horribly consumed with curiosity, but nonetheless interested in the arrival of the train, puts on a thick wollen cloak around his thin shoulders, preferring to use his staff this time as he makes his way out to the bowl, taking his time to get to his destination.
Ch'dais observes the progress of the wagons from his station at the verge of the caverns. He's a shadow in glow-light, arms crossed, one shoulder fetched against the dark stone. As the weyrfolk begin to gather, as the bonfire gets underway, he pushes off from the wall and steps into the chilly night. One hand bears an earthen cup, and the other holds closed the heavy leather of his riding jacket.
The lead trader, a man whose smile is as large as the belly that precedes him off of the first wagon, sweeps his arms out in a gesture of welcome-- as if he weren't the visitor, and those approaching weren't his guests. "Our duties to High Reaches Weyr!" he booms as the other wagons move into a dusty half-circle around the first. Some have canvas sides, some metal and wood, but they all look trail-weathered. The people who stream from them, men and women and children, look similarly tired but cover it with smiles for the weyrfolk. "It's late for trading," their apparent leader continues, "But we've wines from Tillek and news to tell and perhaps a little entertainment on a cool autumn night... ah, who's in charge here?" His watery blue eyes sweep the gathering crowd.
Ceriyne makes a point of keeping her gaze upon the ground. Slippery footing not the point for such, though most certainly not a deterrent, the young woman does so more out of propriety then anything else. That is until the lead trader speaks. Drawing her gaze upward, Ceriyne watches him with a curious expression bordering upon anxious. A step closer to the circled wagons is hazarded, along with a curious tilt of her head toward the 'wares.
Jerion's left brow rises when the trader greets them jovially. His gaze scans the weyrfolk currently present for someone with a relatively large knot handy... or the headwoman. Not finding any such person (yet), his voice carries over the noise of chattering children running around as if there wasn't any ice or possible snow or anything floating about the place to skid and fall down upon. "While I am not in charge," his voice can be heard from where he stops, even the short journey across the bowl a bit difficult on his lamer leg, leaning on his staff, "I bid you welcome to High Reaches Weyr."
Ch'dais steps up behind the place where Ceriyne lurks, one amongst the gathering crowd of interested locals. He watches the proceedings over the girl's shoulder, eyes half-narrowed against a swirling breeze, a faint smile on his lips. The latter vanishes when he lifts his cup for a warming sip.
Only two of the wagons are opened, their sides swinging up like awnings to be braced and locked out on long poles. The first is full of the promised Tillek wines, small sample 'skins being pulled out by the armful by the children of the train. They run into the crowd, distributing them to anyone who looks of a reasonable age-- and some who don't. The second admits a family troupe of acrobats, dressed in light costumes that flutter and swirl and provide bright color to the bowl but do absolutely nothing against the cold. It seems natural, then, that they begin to skip and spin and tumble in the bonfire's direction. That fire has just been lit, and flames begin to lick towards the peak of the structure.
"Ah, wonderful!" the train leader booms again, that uncertainty in his voice proving to be a momentary thing. "Quite, yes, well, my people will require food and perhaps beds for the night," he continues, his bulk forcing him into an odd sort of waddle to approch the headmaster. The man's declaration of lack of rank appears to have been ignored. He peers over Jerion's shoulder, round face gone hopeful. "I don't suppose the weyrwoman might come?"
Ceriyne is most certainly short enough for Ch'dais to get away with standing behind her and watching over her shoulder, though the smell of Ch'dais' drink quickly becomes apparent to her and earns a semi-startled look over her shoulder toward him. Fortunate for her, she can blame the slight nip of the air for the time it takes her to work a weak smile to her lips, as well as the stiff nod of her head in greeting to the 'rider. Quietly, "They certainly could've picked a warmer night for this, right?" Those skins of wine being passed out are eyed - whether in distaste or desire is not made apparent as Ceriyne tightens the wrap of the shawl 'round her shoulders.
Jerion keeps watch on the acrobats, then his gaze shifts once more to the leader of the train. "I am afraid I am entirely the incorrect person to ask for such things," the headmaster answers politely with an incline of his head, "as I myself am a guest, and I make it a point not to impose on the Weyr any more than is expressly necessary." His gaze continues roving the crowd, picking out familiar faces, pausing briefly when he spots Ceriyne and Ch'dais and the former's double-take.
It takes Ch'dais a moment to realize that he's been addressed. Ceriyne's words float by on the night breeze, diffusing into the general chatter, before the rider's grey-green eyes shift to regard her. There's a polite moment during which his smile broadens, and then the man is peering thoughtfully skyward. "Not for several months yet, I expect," he opines. "You think /this/ is cold..." He gives a faint chuckle. "Don't think we've met."
The trader's face falls into near-comical lines of disappointment. "Right, well..." One of the train's children skips up, pushing the last two 'skins into the man's hands. "Here! Have a drink with me, then. We'll ward off the cold and enjoy some company. It's a bloody long road up here, and with the weather turning early..." He shakes his head ruefully, extending the second of the small wineskins towards Jerion. "I'm Theren, master of the Bannorin Train."
A little girl, the apples of her cheeks a precious shade of pink, shyly approaches the bronzerider and resident. Mitten-clad hands offer the both of them the wineskins she's carrying. "With Theren's compliments," she chirps in rehearsed speech. Behind her, the acrobatic family begin to earn applause as they trace out cartwheeling shapes around the glowing fire, the colors of their costumes fading into a backlit black. The rest of the traders hang back-- unhitching animals, getting out feedbacks, checking wheels for damage and boxes for breakage. Their work's only begun while the revelries begin.
"Too cold." Ceriyne agrees with a small nod of her head and wayward glance back toward the brightly colored people. Ch'dais' last remark gains a small shake of her head and the appearance of one hand that brushes hair behind her ear, "I've just arrived... a few days ago, or there abouts. With Journeyman Litanel, the Healer." A slight pause comes next as she inhales deeply, "I suppose that'd be good enough reason. Though...does this happen often?" Her tone drops off into silence as the small girl appears. The gift is accepted with a grateful smile and a white-knuckled grip, though soon disappears behind the folds of her shawl.
Jerion takes the wineskin he's offered, but doesn't yet partake of it. "Jerion, of the Caucus," he answers, still mindful of anything of use his eyes can catch a glimpse of. His gaze matches that of a girl in the train's party, little more than a faint pause in his sweeps of the train and its personnel. "I trust the journey's been profitable?" he asks of the trainmaster, showing interest in what the other has to say by directing his nearly full attention to the full-bellied man.
Ch'dais takes up the offered skin with what might pass, in this flickering light, for an appreciative smile. He then executes a practiced alcoholic gesture, gracefully cradling his cup in the leathered crook of one arm while unstoppering the skin with his other hand. "Do you have a name, little miss, or should I call you the girl who arrived with Journeyman Litanel?" There's no real malice in the question. "Not so often that it isn't an event. As you can see." He gestures with the wine-skin in the direction of the firelit crowd.
Theren runs his thumbnail around the seal and pops it free before swinging the wineskin in another wide-armed gesture to indicate the bowl. "Profitable enough that this is our last stop for the season, and the snows come. And... more." His watery gaze lifts, skimming the spires of the bowl, searching for signs of danger that's yet to come. "People's purses are puckering tight now though, let me tell you. No offense intended, Jerion of the Caucus. Essiel! Get Herik to go see about food and lodging, then open the third wagon." He gives his glittering smile again before upending the 'skin to squeeze a stream of wine into his mouth. The girl who'd met the headmaster's eyes looks over and then slips off, with a much smaller but much more genuine smile.
As the merchants struggle to open up the third wagon-- and this one proves to be overflowing with the much sought after 'wares, lacy shawls and bone-carved fripperies and beaten-metal servingwear-- the acrobats begin their contortionist act. To the awed murmurs of the Weyr crowd, they bend around each other, using their own bodies as the foundation for buildings of arms, legs and torsos.
"Oh, right.." A semi-shy grin surfaces as Ceriyne turns to properly face Ch'dais, though the noticeable guard of her arms crossing her chest is present. "Ceriyne. Journeyman Litanel's assistant." A proper title not at all praise-worthy, or so Ceriyne's tone seems to imply. "And you are a rider, obviously but... who?" While Ch'dais pours his drink, Ceriyne tightens her hold on her own mini-flask while watching the contortionists in action. Try as she might, she's quite unable to look anything /but/ amazed.
Sinopa has arrived.
The evening is growing dark, and chill, but someone has built a bonfire in the bowl and there's a semi-circle of merchant wagons arranged near the exit tunnel. Many of the Weyr's residents have come out to enjoy the festival air, late as it is in the season. Acrobats are tumbling around the fire, turning themselves into human building blocks, and children from the train are circulating to hand out small samples of Tillek wine. One of the wagons has just been opened to reveal useless pretties and luxury goods.
Ch'dais follows Ceriyne's glance in the direction of the bonfire and its colorful knot of bodies. "If only we could all be that flexible, eh?" he sighs, at once wistful and deliberately provocative. The man's thin smile suggests as much, although his attention flickers from the girl's face back to the business of refreshing his cup from the skin of Tillek. "Ch'dais," he answers, matter-of-factly. "Bronze Arinth's rider." If he's trying to sound impressive, he's doing a shoddy job of it. After a moment's thought, he puts in, "Assistant? Are you in the Craft?"
Jerion waits a few moments as if to perhaps wait and see if the other keels over from the wine, but given the individual portions, it's easy to mess with one and leave the other pristine. "Your troupe seems well-trained," he offers almost vaguely, gesturing with the skin toward the acrobats, his tone properly complimentary, without any hint of guile to him. Either he genuinely means it, or he's that good of an actor. He finally breaks the seal on the wine he was offered and takes the time to smell it first thoughtfully. Then a tiny sip is taken to test the liquid.
Sinopa enters the bowl dressed up in her usual finery, with a plethora of scarves and a rich cream coat suitable for the cooler evening. As she walks along and looks at the wares of the various merchants, and eyes the acrobats and performers, she chatters away at some young male, who by the looks of his knot and dress is one very bored Caucus student.
"Thank you." Theren swells at the praise, though it hardly seems possible that he might grow any larger. "We spend the winter practicing. But there's no telling how much longer we'll be able to get by this way... bad times are coming, Jerion of the Caucus. Bad times." He sighs and drinks deeply from the wineskin again, but seems none the worse for wear. It's a weak vintage. "But!" The man brightens again, looking back at his train. "Time enough to worry about that later. Would you like to see what we've brought? Come now... I'll introduce you to my family," he offers in grandiose tones, turning to lead the other fellow back towards the wagons. "Essiel! Get out the jewelry!"
Ceriyne's features twist just slightly, though she covers quickly enough despite taking a small step away from Ch'dais. "I think," She begins slowly, "That some things are best left to the imagination." Phrased diffrently, though purposefully crytpic. "I'm not in it, technically, though Journeyman Litanel lets me help out with smaller tasks. Nothing that takes too much skill." A wane smile surfaces of its own accord, "I suppose its easier that way. What about you? Before you Impressed?"
Jerion glances toward Theren as the other mentions bad times coming. "I've little need of jewelry," he demurs, but then spots the approaching Sinopa and half-bows to her in a courteous manner. "But bad times approaching?" he prompts the larger man. "Threadfall is nearly upon us, you cannot get much worse than that." However, the delicate phrasing of the statement is almost another kind of prompt.
Sinopa dallies a moment at a particular wagon, which displays exquisite scarfs, something which the junior weyrwoman appears to like. Gently sampling the various materials with her fingers, and looking at the colors, she pauses in her inane babbling at her male accessory, er, companion. Done surveying those merchant's crafts, she begins to walk and chat again, gravitating towards where Jerion and Theren are conversing. "G'evening, Headmaster Jerion," she chirps to the familiar man, coming to another pause in her perusal of the festivities.
Ch'dais notes Ceriyne's subtle step from the corner of his eye, and his smile broadens, just a shade. "I was a sailor," he answers, letting the other matter drop with good-humored circumspection. "Out of High Reaches Hold." Emptied of its contents, the little wineskin goes under one arm, and the big man lifts his cup to his lips once more. "How is it that you fell in with Journeyman Litanel, Ceriyne?" It doesn't seem to occur to him that it might be an awkward question. Not to the extent that he cares, at any rate.
The acrobats finish their routine and go swirling out into the crowd, smiles as eager as the hands that extend for marks of appreciation-- no simple applause for these performers, thank you!
"That's what I mean, indeed sir!" Theren says genially. "Simple traders such as we will find travelling much more difficult once we have to look to our skins, lest they end up... eaten." It seems odd to see such a large man performing such a delicate shudder, but somehow he manages it. Only to ruin the effect a second later when Sinopa comes into view. "Ravishing lady! Essiel!" Chubby fingers snap, summoning the girl with her tray of twisted wire jewelery. He snatches out a brass cuff and waddles hastily over to present it to the weyrwoman. "For you, madam." Behind him, Essiel's snort goes unheard.
Ceriyne boldly enough states, "That would explain it then." A small smile appears, though just as quickly disappears at his question. Such gains a moment of serious study of the ground, "My sister. She had a good deal to do with it. She's an apprentice... back at Telgar. He needed someone to help him settle in at the 'Reaches and... well, I suppose I fit the bill." After a look back toward the bronzerider, Ceriyne says, "We're not 'in' like that. I'm... just helping him. He doesn't like his apprentices knowing his business." Ceriyne, her peace said, falls quickly silent on the subject of her. "How did you fall into your bronze?" Purposefully not naming said bronze, Ceriyne looks innocently back up toward the large man. Conveniently, she misses those extended hands. A small man and outrageously smaller woman beside her don't, and offer forth a small token for the show.
Ch'dais arcs a ruddy brow at Ceriyne's jibe, surveys her for a quiet, pensive moment. There's a ripple in the sea-green of his gaze, and then, with a mild chuckle, he returns his attention to his cup. "It wouldn't do for an apprentice to know the business of his journeyman, to be sure," he observes, amused despite the note of irony. "And I impressed as all men do, through sheer, dumb luck and tremendous good fortune." There's something a little too cheerful about this, something papered over, but he's back in his wine again. Thinking of which... "You don't drink, Ceriyne formerly of Telgar?"
Jerion seems moderately amused to be promptly ditched in lieu of a paying customer, and he completes his sampling of the wine provided, flagging down a member of the family to order a relatively small stock of the wine, certainly enough to make a trader pout at his stinginess. "Good evening, weyrwoman," he greets Sinopa, glancing briefly at her male... accessory... clearly recognizing the lad as one of this students. A brief nod is given to the other. After all, he's the one with the bigger knot. The headmaster keeps most of his attention on Theren for a few moments, sifting both taste of wine and the term 'eaten' at the same time. Finally, he seeks out the girl he'd spotted before, finding a shadowy spot on the far side of the bonfire and wagons. "Report," he instructs in a very low tone.
Rather than look modest at the compliment and the attention, Sinopa swells with pride and offers Theren a coy smile. "What lovely wares you have, Trader," she says, inspecting the offered cuff. Her male accessory is ignored and after shuffling nervously at the presence of the headmaster, he takes his chance to flee and find some fellow classmates that don't talk quite so much about trifle womanly things such as scarves, jewelry, and hair. "I don't suppose you're the one in charge of all this?" she questions, batting her eyes slightly at the older trader man.
Theren, with his pot belly and watery eyes, seems an odd match for the girlish goldrider but he matches her pride for pride, compliment for compliment. "A far cry from what you deserve, if I may be so bold, madam, but it is the least I can offer in return for the hospitality of your Weyr. Please, please keep the bracelet with my compliments," he simpers, bending before her in a bow blocked from completion by his stomach. "I am. Theren's the name, and this is the Bannorin Train. We're hoping to stay a day, maybe two, before departing. Reluctantly, I assure you."
The bonfire reaches its height but the acrobats withdraw, the cold defeating them. They retreat to their wagon and disappear inside. The other traders have likewise made themselves scarce, save for those working the opened goods wagon-- the wine distributed earlier has ensured them several sales they might've otherwise missed.
Diya has arrived.
Ceriyne doesn't miss the inflection within Ch'dais' tone. She purses her lips in brief thought, gaze settled away from him to avoid him realizing such, "He believes those he teaches within his craft ought to see him as an instructor and not an equal. His... taking me on... well, it ensures I'll never don the knot of a Healer." Her retort ends with a look over her shoulder back toward him, quietly skeptical, "Of all the riders I've spoken too, I think you've given the most bland story of Impressing." A delicate pause draws forth, "A disappointment, too...especially for a bronzerider." His query about her willingness (or lack of) to drink gains a simple smile, and little else.
The evening is growing dark, and chill, but someone has built a bonfire in the bowl and there's a semi-circle of merchant wagons arranged near the exit tunnel. Many of the Weyr's residents have come out to enjoy the festival air, late as it is in the season. Acrobats have just finished tumbling around the fire, turning themselves into human building blocks, and children from the train have haded out the last of small samples of Tillek wine. One of the wagons has also been opened to reveal useless pretties and luxury goods.
It's all about cultivating admiration, rather than seeking a bedfellow or another male accessory to supplement the one that snuck away out of boredom. "Why thank you, so much," she says, keeping up the charade. "Your acrobatics are quite amusing to watch, and I've much enjoyed perusing the wares that your fellow traders have brought along." Casting the cuff another glance, a hand drops to one of her scarves and she rubs the soft fabric between her fingers. "Festivals are a lovely change of pace from the typical weyr life."
Ch'dais meets Ceriyne's dubious glance with an indulgent little grin, tucked up within the red-brown stubble of his beard. "Well. I hate to disappoint; let me try again." He watches her for a moment-- his look level, joyless despite his expression-- before lowering his head for a long, thoughtful sip of wine. Then, with a note of high drama, "The sky was clear blue, cloudless, but as I stood on the deck of my father's three-master I could feel that the day was rich with promise. It was almost as if the search dragons were already there in spirit, blowing wind into our sails with their great pinions..." The man trails off, then fixes Ceriyne with a curious look. "Something more like that, you mean?"
Theren may play the jovial sort but he's sharp enough when he cares to be. The motion of Sinopa's hand is noticed, prompting another bellow of, "ESSIEL! Bring the woolies!" followed by his toothy-bright smile. "Your taste is as exquisite as the rest of you, madam." The young woman he'd called for arrives quickly, one of her arms draped with scarves ranging from finely knitted to sheer gauze. The most delicate have fringe dotted with flashing metal beads and bells. "Take your pick, please," he tells Sinopa. The ever present Essiel is pushed forward a step, before Theren retreats as something resembling a headwoman's knot is seen in the distance. "If you'll excuse me... madam! I say, madam! I wish to speak with you about the matter of our lodgings..." His bellowing grows faint as quick, waddling steps carry him off. But the bonfire burns on, and not all of the wine has disappeared yet, nor have the traders closed shop. There's time yet before they get to enjoy their beds.