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Satiet's a Wench (In D-Minor)


Date:  December 23, 2004
Places:  High Reaches Weyr's Hatching Galleries and Western Bowl
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  Normally, it would surely be M'rek's revelation about
the fate of Kasedy--certainly the most important thing in the scene--
that would give this log its title.  Just think how bad Satiet had to
be ICly to win out. ;)  Visiting V'lano again, Kassi meets a Candidate
with all-too-obvious ulterior motives and learns a disturbing thing or
two from M'rek besides; she also meets R'sel, returns to the topic of
the giant chicken, chats with Jairen and Josilina, and then finally 
crosses paths with Satiet once more out in the Bowl with Vel.  And 
just as the evil of Satiet was sufficient to give this log its name, 
the aww-factor of Vel and Kassi was sufficient to make me post it 
despite the presence of another version online that's missing the 
last few poses. :)

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The Log:

You wander through the tunnel, emerging in an enormous cavern. You walk up
a short flight of steps into the galleries.

Satiet strolls up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.

It might be a slightly odd thing, that someone would come to the Hatching
Grounds--to a foreign Hatching Grounds, no less--and seem to be paying so
little attention to the eggs. Kassima isn't regarding the clutch at all, at
least not at this moment. In the seat she's chosen a few tiers up from the
sands, she's writing something on scraped hide, which along with a
leather-bound book is propped against her legs.

Evening chores have most likely begun, given the lack of people in the
galleries, and the few there are scattered throughout, leaving large chunks
of space open. And it's into this scene that a slightly built candidate
makes her way up the short flight of stairs, pausing at the top to study
those gathered before looking to find an empty spot to lean against in the
front of the visiting rider. Satiet's elbows rest against the railing, the
bulk of her frame leaned forward, but the cool words she speaks aren't
directed to the eggs, and instead behind. "Strange place to come study,
don't you think? Especially if you're not from here?" Her chin touches her
shoulder lightly as she looks back towards the Telgari greenrider, gaze
flicking briefly to the knot. "Reaches and Tillek's duties."

"Oh, I'm nay studying," Kassima answers without immediately looking up,
shifting her position slightly; her boot heels rest on the tier in front of
her to provide her with a better writing surface. "I'm sitting in dire
ambush, lurking and awaiting m'chance t'strike out against m'prey. Only
m'prey isn't here yet, so in the meanwhile, I'm writing a letter." She does
raise her head after delivering this helpful explanation, looking towards
the direction from which that voice came. "Duties to the 'Reaches and her
queens. To Tillek and her Lady, too, if'n those be due. You're a Candidate?"

"Studying, writing letters. People seem to pick the oddest spots to do such
sport here." Idle remarks from lazy lips. After giving the greenrider one
last look over, the slender figure returns to focus on the eggs. "Lurking?
Or meeting? If you're lurking, are the galleries that great of a place to
lurk? You miss what goes on out in the bowl, or the comings and goings of
residents, riders, and visitors." Satiet's finger lifts, a visible count
starting, before it's interrupted by the last question. Her alto is tinged
with dry amusement, "And here I thought the white twine they gave us was
self-evident of that fact. Satiet." The last is said with clear politeness,
a simple turn of her waist allowing her to introduce herself properly.
"Here for the ride. And you?"

Kassima's brows twitch upwards. "I'm nigh afraid t'ask what other spots
you've seen used," she quips. "If'n you've found people writing letters in
the necessaries, please don't tell me about it. You'd have the right of it
if'n 'tweren't lurking for the person that I am--" She points her charcoal
stick towards the Sands; not the eggs, though, but rather the bronze sire
guarding them. "Volath's a Telgar dragon, and his rider a friend of mine.
'Tis him I'm here t'see. So I figure m'odds of ambushing him are at least
fair t'middling here, and I'm out of the way of most people doing their
business." No mention of the white twine, although amusement of a droller
sort lurks in her green eyes. "Kassima," she introduces in turn, indicating
herself. "Green Lysseth's rider, here t'see a person or three. A pleasure
t'be making your acquaintance, I'm sure."

"V'lano. You're looking for V'lano." The statement is simple and the look
of dry amusement deepens, curving Satiet's lips into an almost heartfelt
smile. "He's not bad looking, but for so many people to be looking for
him... there must be some secret to his charms I've missed?" A self-assured
touch graces her grin, blue eyes narrowing on the greenrider with more
interest. "I confess, the mechanics of how dragons communicate and for what
purpose are still out of my grasp, but isn't it easier to have your dragon,
Lysseth was it? To have her ask him out there," a chin jerk to indicate the
bronze, "For where his rider is? Convoluted. Perhaps it's better to just
sit and wait in the end." The girl shrugs, a pivot of her feet realigning
legs with torso, which allows her to hop over the first set of seats and
settle into the second tier beneath Kassima. "I've found, when people need
things done, they'll do it just about anywhere, but no more on the latrines
or what goes on there. You're from Telgar, then? I've never left this area.
Nay, I've never left the Tillek area until now. And, ma'am, the pleasure is
entirely mine." Silken words, from an angelic looking face.

M'rek strides up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.

"Aye; or waiting for him, more than actively seeking. Have many others been
searching for him? From Telgar, or...?" Kassima seems not particularly
concerned by this news, but rather curious. Black brows jump upwards just
that much more. "Many and myriad are his charms. I'll resist any urge to
expound further until he's present, so that I might see him blush t'hear.
As to that--you're essentially correct, always assuming I could be talking
Her Magnificence out of exchanging sweet naughts with Volath long enough
t'communicate aught of *substance*." The faint and muffled sound of a
dragon's indignant snort might be audible from outside. "I did have her
ask, and so I know he's preoccupied for the moment. But he might nay be
preoccupied forever." She moves her boots off the tier when Satiet seats
herself, tucking the charcoal stick away into her pocket and folding the
hide for good measure. "Nay originally. Greystones and Benden are more
m'original homes. I've seen Tillek, a'course--but please, Kassima or Kassi
is fine. Never ma'am. The word gives me hives."

The galleries are sparsely populated, the beginning of evening chores
giving some explanation for the lack of gawkers. Near the center of the
stands, Satiet is seated in the second tier, shifted enough to allow her to
look up at the higher placed Kassima. "Perhaps he's preoccupied with
attending to the weyrwoman, though I've heard he's only allowed the
hospitality of the guest weyr. Poor boy." Pale blue eyes slant to the side
to gaze towards the dark tunnel leading back to the bowl and a smirk
lingers on her lips. "Magnificence, she requires you to call her that?
How.. droll. And of course, Kassima, it wouldn't do to give you hives,
would it?" The inflection of her speech is a healthy mix of sarcasm and
teasing that it's hard to place whether or not she's truly just joking.

M'rek staggers just a little bit as he makes the entrance to the galleries
and he pauses, leaning into the stone of the wall to settle up with his
usual sense of balance and pay the check that whatever he's been drinking
has made due. There's a slight flush to his face and his eyes are bright
but he does seem able to get himself under better control and so he makes
the stroll down the steps in an easy fashion and his intoxicated state is
only further revealed by that soft undertone of chuckle that travels with
him. If he's sneaking up on the Telgari rider and/or candidate, he's doing
a poor job. If he wants them to know he's approaching, well that..he's
doing very well. "Good evening to you, ladies." He pauses a few steps above
Kassima and gives a flourishing bow that ends with him upright once more
and smirking to beat the devil. "Looks to be a pleasant one." If he caught
any of the preceding conversation, he doesn't indicate it.

This commentary only amuses Kassima further, if anything. The greenrider
smiles quite brightly indeed, and assures, "He's making do quite well with
that guest weyr. Although 'twill have t'be admitting that *'tis* a bit on
the small side. From what I've heard, R'sel's more likely t'be attending
t'Josilina--" Her train of thought and indeed her conversation is
interrupted by the arrival of M'rek. Perhaps Lysseth warned her. More
likely, the chuckle did. Swivelling about on the bench, she observes,
"*You* look... well-pickled; do tell me you brought some of the culprit
t'share? G'deve right back t'you. But I'm nay going t'try and do such a bow
as that in return; I'd never manage. What, oh what have you gotten into
now?" Only with these pressing questions asked does she turn back to Satiet
to inform, "She *likes* me t'call her that. I indulge or nay depending on
how much I currently feel inclined t'poke her in the eye. I'd certainly say
'twouldn't; but then, who'd say else, unless they had some sort of fetish
for watching people scratch?" Her delivery is on the deadpan side.

As Satiet's facing the greenrider, keen eyes are first to spy the
bronzerider, rather than being drawn to his arrival by the noises of his
less than sneaky entrance. With interest, she watches his progress, the
smirk shifting to a look of bemusement. "When he's in his cups, he's in his
cups," is muttered, though due regard is given towards Kassima's continued
talk. "So I've heard. They've no attachment towards each other, a fact,
I've gathered, is typical of flight pairings in most riders? Riding, the
Weyrs, seem to be, in varied degrees, all about indulgence. Indulging
riders, the dragons, people. Here there. Scratch?" To M'rek, the pale blue
eyes go to rest, eyebrows arced gracefully, "It'll only be pleasant if you
share. It's never gentlemanly to show off the effects of what you have, and
not give us a nip." She pauses, her grin twisting wickedly, "Though,
attributing gentleman-like qualities to you would be rather stupid of me."

M'rek takes another step down, pauses a moment for another of those telling
chuckles and then he takes a farther step down and moves in to plop down
upon a bench one level above the Telgari. He reaches into his jacket and
pulls out a flask from an inner pocket and he offers it towards the
greenrider with a nod then towards the candidate, for M'rek has no limits
towards neither corrupting nor corruption, or at least it would seem, "The
ignoble batch 21 from still number 4, brewed up only two days before and
allowed to age as such until this afternoon and then she was given her
coming out party. L'vor, a'course, could only drink two and that leaves me
to finish her off right. I think you'll find that she's rough at first
taste but surprisingly smooth on the downtake. Just something to drown all
thoughts of..nobility." He props his boots then up on the lower tier and
laughs, "Aye, lass. Satiet that is. Don't be attributing any such qualities
to me these days unless you intend to meet me at daybreak with a length of
blade to finish me off."

"And amusing cups they are, too," Kassi murmurs in exchange, with some
fondness for the subject. "Typical, although nay always true. A flight can
occasionally lead somewhere or just speed things along. But most times,
'tis only a necessity of dragonriding--I don't think I'd quite agree with
that statement." Dryly said. "We indulge and serve the dragons, 'twill
grant that. Howso people? Scratch, scratching: a natural result of having
hives." Glancing between M'rek and Satiet, she adds to the latter, "You
might be surprised. I've seen him act with all the polish and grace one
could wish from a gentleman... albeit only on one occasion. M'rek, M'rek, I
thought 'twas ahead of her in the line t'be killing you?" Not that such
potential disappointments can distract her from drinking the flask. Wise
woman: she hears him out before opening it, and so has some idea of what to
expect from the long pull she takes; she thus only coughs twice, careful to
swallow first and waste nothing. "Mmm." A second swallow, as trial. "Should
do the trick. Why are we drowning thoughts of nobility today?" She holds
the flask out in offering to Satiet as she asks this.

"That, sir, can be arranged. I'm handy with a knife, though more so to fish
scales than the skin of man. But with you, it's hardly a difference I
suspect." Satiet responds tartly, a look of indulgence spared for the tipsy
rider. Her hand reaches for the offered flask, and narrowed eyes inspect
the contents through the tiny circle of vision allowed by the top. "Your
brew? Rotgut then?" Cynicism pulls up one corner of her lips as she sniffs
the rim before taking a short pull, followed by one choked cough and soft
breath against the back of her hand. Quick to regain her bearings, and
after taking up another, longer pull from the flask, she smiles at the
greenrider, "Tis the Interval, the Weyrs are indulged in favor of a day
when Thread will fall again. That's how with people. Dragon indulgence,
rider indulgence."

M'rek watches Kassima drink with those alcohol bright eyes of his and then
he laughs and leans back to rest his elbows on the seat behind him so that
he's fairly reclined now, "Flights, huh?" all he seems to have to say on
that and then he laughs again, "Aye, I can play that part, I suppose. Not
as much fun though, unless of course there are feet as nice as there were
that night under the Bitran table." A wink from the bronzerider that's
followed by, "Aye, Kassi-love, you're well ahead of many in line to put
Pern from the misery of my bungling hide." His voice gets drier then and
Kassi knows him well enough to see the rawness he must be drinking to dull
these days, "And maybe it should be done sooner rather than later before I
meddle again over my head." He watches the candidate drink and there's
amusement in his eyes now as he reaches for the flask, "Aye. Rotgut. I have
a friend at Ista and together we make it as a bit of a hobby. Another
indulgence." A sharp bark of laughter then, "Indulgence. The weyrs aren't
the only ones indulged. Not these days."

Kassima's eyebrows seem to get a lot of exercise around Satiet. The left
one rises first this time, with the right soon to follow. "Such interesting
rules the 'Reaches must have for Candidate behavior," she murmurs; not
quite amused any longer, but closer to wry than censurious. "Interval 'tis,
but 'indulgence' would seem t'imply we return naught in exchange for what
we're given. Nay quite accurate. Threadfall is the core of what we do, but
nay the whole." These words could easily sound pedantic, but Kassi says
them amiably, conversationally, and without offense, then shifts her
attention to M'rek once again. "She'd suggested V'lano might be attending
Josilina," comes the amused explanation for flights. "M'rek-m'dear, you
know full well there are always feet available for you. Just as you know
'twill make your death quick, should need be." It starts out a jest, but
she trails it off with a quieter thoughtfulness and lifts green eyes to
give him a more thorough scrutiny. "Only I happen t'think the world's
better for having you alive. As would others I could name. Whatever you
seem t'think you're t'blame for--and you're right. We aren't. Holds, too,
I'm guessing you mean."

"Rules, greenrider, are there as.. guidelines. I'm not breaking any of them
currently." Satiet's fingers curl around the flask possessively, daring to
take another sip before her arm reaches out in slow reluctance to pass it
over to its owner. Only the soft flush along her neck indicates the drink's
effects, a side effect easily passed off with any number of explanations.
"I said he was attending to the weyrwoman's needs. I didn't specify as a
mate. She had thoughts of painting the eggs. He seemed.. helpless," is her
uncertain assessment of the sire's rider. But subjects move forward, as
does the girl's own line of thinking, and she shrugs, gesturing towards the
flask, "It's good enough, serves its purpose if it's purpose is to get
rip-roaring drunk in as little time as possible." What she perceives as
flirtation is given her own set of raised eyebrows, gaze skittering from
bronze to greenrider curiously, a thoughtful turn to her lips. "The larger
Holds require indulgence. Would it be wrong to say that Pern is, at its
core, a very indulgent society? Working on those beneath the structure of
titles."

M'rek has almost rested his chin to his chest when Kassi's words make him
snort and he lifts his head once more, "Josilina loves R'sel, and for her.
Well. Love and attendance are not mutually exclusive. I wouldn't be looking
for V'lano, good lad that he is, on Josilina's ledge in any sort of a
permanent sense. Duties of flight, and so forth, but I doubt anything more.
We aren't all without restraint, after all, and Jos is of the hold bred
sort. Though, aye. She might enlist him to help liven up the hues of the
eggs." Then, "Aye, Kassi-darling, she can drink, just not too the point
that I would and will." A wolfish grin covers his mouth now and he laughs,
"Oh. I'm well to blame this time, was all my idea. Such a clever idea." He
shrugs his shoulders then, "Big stakes mean big losses." spoken as if he's
quoting someone and then he looks to the candidate and reaches forward only
to take up the flask and get a pull that makes him shudder for all that
it's his creation. He sets the flask on the bench so that the others can
get to it again if they so desire. M'rek breathes, and therefore he flirts.
"You're too kind to me, Kassima. You should be giving me Oblivion." There's
laughter at what must be a joke of some kind then he carries on, "Aye. And
some of the larger holds crave more indulgence than others, and get it too.
Burning away all that stand in their way. Mayhaps it won't be too long
before it won't be seen so much as indulgence in keeping the weyrs, even
without thread, if other things are allowed to sear away the greenery and
flesh of pern with such impunity." M'rek raises his eyebrows then and
laughs, "I sound like a raving lunatic. I should either finish off the
flask or make my way to a pub for the duration of the night."

"On this 'twill take your word, or M'rek's; I know Telgar's rules only. Nay
those of High Reaches." Kassi watches the passing of the flask with almost
wistful eyes. "Ah, well, that I can believe. Far from helpless is Vel, but
he's nay so long out of the Weyrling Barracks himself--I do nay believe
he's been confronted with the need t'protect eggs from paint a'fore." Quite
as if this is an ordinary riding hazard. "Indulgent, I don't know. I'd say
self-interested. As any society comprised of people surely must be. Holds
indulge the Weyrs in the interest of having lands left t'Hold when the Pass
comes around again, as well as transport and aid in other things; Weyrs
indulge Holds and Crafts t'receive the benefit of the tithe; Crafts indulge
both in order t'have custom. Though things like gratitude and artistry and
wanting t'do the right thing come into it too." M'rek's words receive a
satisfied nod: that's what she thought. "Vel isn't with her," she agrees
simply. "We've spoken of it." As well they might have done, given that the
greenrider's spent more than one evening at the 'Reaches since Volath
became Sands-bound. "Oh, I meant more in how she was talking t'you. But it
doesn't seem you mind. Are you of a mind t'speak of your clever idea?"
Casual curiosity; he might, sloshed as he is, miss the current of concern
beneath it, or not. As for herself, whether she flirts or simply teases her
friend might be in the eye of the beholder. "I haven't Oblivion with me,
but I could conjure it, so long as you had Rebirth with which t'be
following it. Assuming 'tweren't too unconscious after." Whatever amusement
remained vanishes into seriousness entire. "You think Weyr attention might
be needed soon?" Quietly asked. Then, "If'n you decide the latter and would
like an ear t'rave in, I'm sure I can ambush Vel another evening. But
you're welcome t'stay too for all of me. You don't sound half as lunatic as
I might wish, with some of that."

"The Lords are allowed those rights. Holding is autonomous of the Weyrs."
The words of a small time hold girl is at odds with the shadowed look
offered her companions - inquisitive and intent on discerning. As most of
the conversation begins to skirt over her head, Satiet makes eyes at the
flask, the greenrider's wistful expression matched by her own, but instead
her alto lifts to reply to Kassima's words. "I don't disrespect the rider.
But I'd say my brand of respect for him is a notch higher than the
simpering of most other candidates. For him," she pauses to peer towards
M'rek, "At least. It wouldn't do to be so respectful of .. other riders
such as Semirath's." Her sun-dark face pales underneath, an uptilt of her
head pulling the dark locks out of her eyes, studious silence ensuing on
her part.

M'rek moves his legs so that the heel of one boot rests over the toe of the
other and he leans back to his elbows once more, "Oh. That." In regards to
the way Satiet speaks to him, he shrugs, "I'd rather have scorn or
amusement then some false accord. I'm not looking to be coddled these days.
Such as Semirath's, huh?" He regards the candidate in question through eyes
half slanted closed and then laughs in such a hollow tone that it might be
unsettling to those who really do know him before he shifts that look over
to Kassima, "I meddled in His affairs." He shakes his head now, "Meddled
and another paid the final price for it. As well as losing, well..." He
pauses and says with what could be frustrating vagueness, "An important
link in the chain was lost." He shrugs as if this summary will at least
indicate something and then he smiles, "I'll not keep you from V'lano. I
can find Oblivion and even Rebirth any other night, this bender seems to be
unending after all." Maybe because he hasn't gone seeking help to end it.
"Aye. We'll all be needed soon enough. Unless of course folk decide they
want to see half the northern continent all under one bloodied crest. Ah.
Enough politics for me, makes me melancholy when I've been drink so much
for so long. Sharding Lord holders."

Kassima's agreement comes distant, preoccupied with thought. "To a large
degree. Assuming there's nay shorting of tithe... or other breaking of
covenants. 'Tis the Conclave which handles Holds thus, you're right." Drawn
slightly out of whatever reverie caught her, she flicks Satiet a half-grin.
"Ah, well. That sort of respect. 'Tis an oddity, how often I hear such
things of Semirath's." And that's outright bland, as if to hide some
emotion--amusement? Possibly. If so, none of it remains in the look she
flicks to the bronzerider. "M'rek...." She's a loss, though, for what else
to say to express her worry, or what exactly to ask. "Final price." She
repeats this softly. After a moment, cautious, "I've been recently
t'Beastcraft. Matters there seem well." Well, that made sense. "Vel,
believe me, sees me plenty. Even if'n Volath's told him we're
visiting--Faranth only knows about that--he'd understand wanting t'hear out
a friend, I should think; but that's your call, and the offer's open
whenever. I wonder whether the Holds would cry autonomy should that occur."
Muttered. Then, "We could speak of something else?"

A charming smile is allowed the riders at their varied reactions to her
statement of respect, made flat by the blankness of her eyes. The smile,
however, serves to alleviate the girl's sharp features, and with a quiet
murmur of indiscernible words, she turns to direct her attention to the
sands. For all she's silent and seemingly distracted, Satiet's head tilts
just so to afford her the vantage of hearing the conversation between the
riders, and allows her to mull over the words of M'rek's loose tongue
without the study of others. So when the comment of bloodied crests arises,
followed by Kassima's answer, the startled paleness that penetrates beneath
her tan is most likely invisible to those behind her. In all likeliness,
she'll sit till she's heard the end, but the greenrider's request of a
change in subject is met with a lightly intoned remark, "If Oblivion and
Rebirth are drinks, I'd like to add them to my request. Sir. With the
knowledge that the chore you require may be expanded upon."

M'rek does have a loose tongue. Or. At least he had one once upon a time,
in such a convenient sort of spreading of information fashion, and maybe
it's a bit of the old Merek that reaches again for the flask and drinks
deeply before he looks so very thoughtful, as if he really is considering
spilling that one particular slice of the ongoing drama that has him a
sodden drunk so many nights in a row. "Aye. Oblivion and Rebirth are
drinks. Only really Kassi can make the first. Though. I can give it a solid
try if we have all the ingredients. But. It's a one drink trip to drunk,
and so it might be more than what you really want, Satiet. Hard to do
chores, or anything really, when you can't move your limbs or open your
eyes. Still. Maybe at some time. Arrangements could be made." Really, does
M'rek have no regards at all for rules these days? He drinks once more and
the passes the flask to Kassima, "Better have another one. I've not even
told the Harper what's happened yet." Oddly enough, it would even seem that
M'rek's been avoiding the Harperhall of late and all who reside there. "Did
you ever meet one of Vorlin's potential brides, one of The Flock, by the
name of Kasedy?" He seems to be asking Kassima but he's not excluding
Satiet from the conversation either, which may bode well or ill for the
candidate, depending upon her temperament and what she might do with any
knowledge gained.

Kassima takes a turn at being somewhat out of the loop, slanting an
inquisitive glance between Candidate and bronzerider at this latest comment
by the former. "I could possibly be convinced t'mix Oblivion, for a good
cause." Pause. "Getting drunk off one's mind is a good cause. But--aye,
that, 'tisn't a drink for having unless or until you *can* get drunk. So
'twould only make it once rules nay longer bound." There is a brief flicker
of exasperation in the glance she gives M'rek, but the wry grin that curves
her mouth is real. It broadens for the flask, which she gladly accepts.
"Rodric hasn't mentioned being particularly concerned about you of late,"
she agrees, mild again, "so I could guess he hasn't seen you--always
assuming a'course that he would speak of such t'me. Thankee." She helps
herself to a swallow of the rotgut, and a swipe of the back of her wrist at
one watering eye after. "Kasedy--oh, aye. The one with an accent nigh as
thick as mine. Daughter of the Bitran and Keroon lines, aye?" She likewise
addresses this to both, so that perhaps it's more clarification for Satiet
than true inquiry. Under her breath to M'rek, "Are you going t'be inviting
death again by talking about this?"

"I'm as good a cause as any. And rules, rules," Satiet manages to venture a
lopsided smirk. "Rules only matter if you get caught, as someone was so
nice to point out to me." As to who this is, the downward cast of feigned
demureness gives no indication. Her expression stills in that mix of demure
and smirk, the melt it takes of fading into a more neutral look slow and a
bit displaced. "Vorlin is...?" the question trails off, brows peaked
upwards in inquiry. Not one to confess ignorance unless pressed, the girl
looks back again, glancing from Telgari to High Reaches rider.

M'rek snorts a little bit as Kassima mentions the Harper by name, "Aye. I
doubt as much. He's busy with other interests while.." He halts then just
as a rather surprising amount of anger seems to creep into his voice and
M'rek actually seems to bite at his tongue before he runs one hand over his
shaved head and gets his, albeit intoxicated self, in more check. "The
Master of Harper's is not like to be worried about me these days. There are
too many other things going on, I'm sure. And after all, I can take care of
myself." Ha. So it would seem. He's taking perfectly good care of his
liver. He looks to Satiet and raises one eyebrow before he supplies the
answer, "Lord Vorlin. Him. Lord of Bitra." That guy that some circles
frequently talk about without ever actually saying His name. "Keroon Hold
recently changed hands. Almost was Kasedy's. Fake accent and all. Anyway.
She's dead now." Now M'rek is deadpan in delivery. "So close. So sharding
close."

"True in a sense, but 'twould advise caution in whom you discuss the
breaking of rules around," suggests Kassi with dry humor. "Nay that I'm of
a mind t'tattle, so long as we're--as far as I know--speaking
hypothetically. Telgar this isn't. And Vorlin is the current Lord Bitra."
M'rek's anger gets the biggest jump of eyebrows tonight--surprise bordering
on startlement, followed by... what? Her expression becomes difficult to
read, beyond being a bit still. "Given givens, I feel a sudden compulsion
t'be apologizing," she finally says, neutral-voiced. "Yet if'n you haven't
spoken with him recently, how can you be sure? I can swear t'you that he
worries for you. He speaks of you often. I believe he counts you of great
import." She lets it lie there, at least for now, with a last skeptical
glance before that path is forgotten in the wake of a new startlement and
cause for still posture, widened eyes. "She's dead." It doesn't manage to
be a question. "Since when?"

<Bitra> M'rek hopes he's not making a mistake and frying this candidate's
brain. ;)

<Bitra> Cailin snickers :) I'd help if I could ;)

<Bitra> Kassima is just terribly amused by how this convo is probably
making Kassi look to said Candidate. First Vel comes up, then she thinks
she's flirting with M'rek, and now she's apologizing for distracting
Rodric. ;)

<Bitra> M'rek laughs, that Kassi does get around!

<Bitra> Kassima says, "Poor Kassi. She's not really a ho, she just looks
like one on Bitra TV. ;)"

<Bitra> M'rek snickers.

<Bitra> M'rek actually falls over laughing.

<Bitra> Cailin cackles!

M'rek's reaction is observed, as per norm, Satiet's lips twisting into a
set that's neither thoughtful or amused. What seems to be the final straw
for her, at least after the trace, tightened smile cast towards Kassima for
her words of advice, is the bronzerider's continuation of, to her,
ill-advised remarks. The news of Kasedy's death is met with widened eyes
that quickly narrow down into calculating slits. "I'll have to come find
you for your wares later, sir. Ma'am." Her rise from the bench is languid,
the tilt of her chin that of leisure as if they'd been speaking of the
weather, the eggs, or the state of klah at the Reaches. The final title is
punctuated by a small, knowing smile for Kassima, and the last comment is
tossed towards M'rek, "You ride with crowds far above a poor holder's head.
And here I thought you a simple drunk and brawler. I'll seek you out next
time, sir. Good evening." Without awaiting a reply, hands shove into her
pockets and a whistle, if a trifle forced, precedes her out the exit.

Satiet walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the
entrance to the bowl.

M'rek sits a row above Kassima and watches Satiet leave with eyes that are
unreadable in such a fashion that he could actually be up to something. Or
not. Never can tell with this wreck of a bronzerider. "I am a simple drunk
and brawler. Sometimes." His attention goes back to Kassi and he looks
still blank of feature a moment before he says dryly, "That's like the ale
apologizing for my general state of being." The words roll right off his
tongue even though he's likely too drunk to walk smoothely from the gallery
at the moment. "Aye. She's dead. Since a couple of months ago."
Coincidentally when M'rek started to spend every free moment with the scent
of alcohol on his breath. "Just haven't told anyone before now."

R'sel stands aside as the candidate moves past him on his way in. His mug
held high enough the girl can pass under it before he continues up the
steps with a bemused comment to her back of, "Was it something I said?" He
shakes his head as he moves farther into the galleries and starts to lift a
hand in greeting, the one not already occupied, "Good eve, M'rek, m'lady.
Reaches Duties."

Kassima comments in Satiet's wake, "I told her nay t'call me that." By the
ruefulness, however, it's not as if she's really expecting the woman to
care. "Is that one really a Candidate? I'd swear she's up to or after
something from the look of her. But she didn't know who Vorlin was?
Bizarre." Her dark green eyes are thoughtful as she casts them back up to
the bronzerider, and narrow in yet more thought at that expression. "Nay
often enough for your peace of mind," she mutters. "I suppose so; but if'n
ale could think, it might choose nay t'slosh you, mightn't it, if'n it
meant causing damage elsewhere. Nay that I'm certain I'm sorry since I
still think you may be wronging him. That long and it hasn't gotten out?"
Surprise again, unsurprisingly. "Because of Keroon, or...?" She's pulled
away from this conversation--held, on her end, just barely above a murmur,
in a last attempt at discretion--by R'sel's greeting, and turns about to
offer a wave. "More like something we said, I shouldn't wonder," she calls.
"Duties to the 'Reaches and her queens; I don't know what lady you might be
addressing, though. 'Tis nay, I fear, a word that can really be used
t'describe me, whatever Vel says."

"Maybe she's one of His. Wouldn't be the first time He's managed to put one
here." Obviously. M'rek shrugs and then says, "I like her." For whatever
that's worth. "Aye. Not nearly enough, though I'm making up for lost time
lately. Only missing a really good brawl to finish me off, I think. Maybe.
Well. Someone will turn up for that. I'm thinking I'm going to make
arrangements with a certain someone in particular and we can sell tickets.
Maybe I'll even train a little for it." He certainly wouldn't seem up to
fighting Gerome in this condition, that's for sure, certainly after the way
they nearly did kill each other last time. "Aye." He nods, "Likely I am
wronging him. But I'm just saying. Well. I know which poison has me by the
groin and I don't let it keep me from..well." He settles back, "I do what I
do regardless. Shards. Listen to me. Like it matters." Even he seems unsure
for the root of his anger there. A nod comes for the brownrider, "R'sel."
and then, "No body for it to get out." Oh M'rek. Such a busy lad. "Aye.
Because of Keroon. It was..well. I meddled." As R'sel arrives, M'rek falls
broodingly quiet.

R'sel takes his time to look out over the sands a minute or two, then
flashes a grin at the visiting rider, "R'sel, brown Svraoth's. And trust
me, its an old habit m'lady, that many have tried to break me of." A glance
back the way he came and then he chuckles, "Just my timing then." As he
catches a word or two of the other and makes his guess, he waves a hand,
"Don't worry M'rek. A little fish told me to stay out of that pond. And you
know how it goes when they have their say. I can't break my word, until she
breaks hers, or some such." Doesn't keep him from looking at least mildly
curious though, despite his words.

Kassima snorts with abrupt, dark-edged humor. "Don't be silly," she says.
"She wasn't wearing ridiculous boots. I might admittedly have liked her
better if'n she hadn't seemed out t'make me think V'lano and Josilina had a
thing going a'fore you got here. She doesn't even know me; why would she do
that?" She sounds less bewildered, however, than slightly tired. "Mayhaps a
group brawling trip would be more the thing?" she tentatively suggests.
"Work off the steam *without* getting killed? I'm nay of a mind t'let you
get killed. Just so you know. Whatever you think you've done. You didn't do
it t'her yourself." Complete certainty in her voice there; it would ring,
but quiet voices don't really allow for ringing. Her eyebrows do their
jumping routine again. She doesn't seem to know whether to laugh or be
vaguely affronted. "Poison. Faranth. She'd probably love t'hear you call
her *that*. You should talk t'him--see what he says, and tell him besides;
he'll surely have t'know. I shouldn't ask what happened to the body, should
I. Talk about questions I never foresaw m'self asking. Did you try and put
her up for it?" She summons a grin for R'sel, wry but genuine, and says,
"There are worse habits t'be having, come to that. Kassima, green
Lysseth's, and Kassima or Kassi are just fine." Puzzlement replaces her wan
humor though: "Fish? Pond?"

"Boots." M'rek stills a moment, brow furrowed as he seems to be considering
something he hasn't let him think about yet. "No idea why she'd want you to
think that, or even what good or ill it would do. Still. Sometimes there's
just no telling." M'rek's all driving addiction to politics just can't let
that topic slide by without just a little speculation and then he nods,
"Aye. Perhaps. Or. Perhaps I should be considering that which I previously
would not have allowed myself to consider." Vague enough for ya? He rubs a
hand over his head and then listens before saying, "Aye, and I appreciate
the sentiment, Kassima. Well. I didn't actually do the killing this time,
but I might as well have. All or nothing. Everything seems to be so all or
nothing when that 'pond' is concerned." He nods to R'sel, "Jos knows what
she's talking about. Best to stay out of Bitran matters all together." As
if M'rek would or will keep out himself. "Aye. You could say that. I
arranged a path to circumvent an alliance with Him that would result
in..well. It's a long story all together. And. Well, this is just how it
ended. Her dead. And me knowing it was her instead of me." Lord Vorlin does
seem to enjoy keeping M'rek alive even when he seems quick enough to finish
others off. "You two don't know each other? You should. And now I suppose
you do."

Both shaggy brows lift towards R'sel's brow line and he looks again to the
bowl, "She thought Jos what?" Then a sly grin, "Shards. What a rumor to
start. It'd take more than catching her dragon and a clutch on the sands to
open that door with Jos. I should know. Took me turns to get her to take
notice of what was there all along." He shakes his head, "Might be amusing
to see her try and suggest that one in front of Josilina." He only listens
to the next part, at least to a point, then glances to M'rek, "Just tell me
not your charge, or I can think of a pair of sisters that should be
forewarned and standing by for her sister." He pauses to nods again
Kassima's way, "There are worse, but this one's been enough to earn me a
slap or two along the way. Not that it's so easy to give up." Especially if
you don't try? "I'll stay out if she doesn't give me reason to go dragging
her out. She's of a mind that she doesn't have to heed her own advice and
promise me exactly the same in return." The brownrider dips a shoulder,
then shakes his head. "Never formally met before. Just had m'lady pointed
out in passing on one of my...trips to Telgar."

"The unkind part of me," Kassima remarks, sardonically amused now, "has
plenty of theories and each snarkier than the last, but--nay harm done,
since I know better, and methinks in the long term I could come t'like her
too. Depending. Still think she's up t'something. Tell me, M'rek: did I
kill m'Wingriders, when I led 'em into Fall and Thread took them? If'n so,
you'd better pass all your alcohol on over. I may just have more deaths on
m'head than you. I worry what it may be that you haven't previously
permitted yourself t'consider, that you'd consider now." Her concern is
certainly real, but doesn't stop her from giving him another narrow,
thoughtful look, nor speculating, "Some sort of power alliance between
Bitra and Keroon? Or... but why would it be you, then? Unless you're
Keroon's secret heir. I've heard his name, a'course," she adds, turning
back to R'sel with a smile that for some reason is on the wry side. "But
I'd never formally had the pleasure. And pleasure 'tis, I'm sure. Isn't it
absurd? I won't deny I thought of it too, at first, and asked, but if'n
she's been here then she should know--" She flashes another grin, this one
warmer with humor. "If'n she does, I'd be appreciative if'n someone could
pass on the tale of the reaction t'me. It sounds entertaining. The lady at
the Beastcraft," even though the question of sorts wasn't directed to her,
"was well when I saw her last, nay long ago. Well, I promise nay t'slap
you, how's that? I'd rather be a lady than a ma'am for all that I'm nay
truly either."

M'rek is quick to shake his head, "Nay, not my charge. At least I've still
never lost one of those. Young lord Cain will be a turn old tomorrow." As
if this were of interest at this point. "All seems well enough along those
lines, and Cailin's not had a hair on her head hurt. Was one of the Flock."
M'rek clears off the tip of that iceburg and then looks to Kassima with
interest, "Perhaps. But. It wasn't your hand that put them to impression or
into your wing. You don't pluck them from the safe life of crafter and make
them into something. Well." He pauses and then says, "In some ways I guess
you can say I've become as bad as Him. Meddling in lives and making plans."
Or attempting to break plans, it would seem, "Aye, an alliance between
Bitran and Keroon. Nay, I'm not a secret heir." At least not on today's
episode anyway. He listens to the talk about Jos and V'lano then and yet,
he doesn't look as if he's really listening. It seems more like he's
thinking dangerous thoughts and that's what brings him to his feet, steady
enough for all the rotgut that's been poured into him tonight. "I have to
go see someone. Kassi. See you around soon, maybe even for a full story.
Say hello to that Harper for me when next you run into him. R'sel. Always
good to see you."

R'sel just grins a bit wider as he agrees, "Ah, well. If I see it. I'll be
glad to pass along the tale. I'm sure it will rank right up there with
telling her she's wearing orange or grey." He gives a little bow for that,
"And a pleasure to meet you too m'lady, properly that is. And if I might be
so bold. I've always thought lady the more polite term to use if one has
the option to choose." There's a nod as he adds the impute, "Not everything
can be your fault, M'rek." But he refrains from more as a look of relief
crosses his features, "Ahh good. Not something I was wanting to tell Jos. I
think she's still half for kidnapping the pair of them." Anything more
keeps as he nods, "Always good to see you as well, M'rek."

Kassima gives M'rek a keen look. "You speak true, but wouldn't it be the
blood that makes any of the Flock what they are? That's born, that's nay
made. And you're too young t'have done her siring. Recall too that if'n nay
anyone meddled for good now and then, 'twould leave the field clear for
those with ill intent t'do whatever they willed." She reaches up to attempt
to catch one of his hands and squeeze it, if she can, a gesture of
friendship and worry; should she catch, she lets go readily enough when he
stands. "Aye. Give a yell if'n you ever feel like talking; 'twill bring the
liquor. I'll do that. You take care of yourself, all right?" She nods to
R'sel then, with a halfhearted chuckle. "Oh, the fireworks that'd happen
if'n you did *that*. I've only really run into the lady a time or two, and
I can be imagining. I'm nay going t'disagree with you on terms. Ma'am makes
me feel old. Or worse yet, respectable."

<Bitra> Kassima spins the speculation wheels. "Actually, as part of M'rek's
cunning plan, he went back in time to knock up Kasedy's mother with a
Bitra-Keroon cross, since he is after all the secret Keroon heir! And he is
drunk and despondant not only because his daughter got bumped off, but
because she did it without furthering his bloodline and allowing the
M'rek-genes to infiltrate the K Kollective!"

<Bitra> Cailin -dies- :)

M'rek has his hand caught by Kassima's as he gets to his feet and he looks
surprised and perhaps even more before he nods to her and then to R'sel as
well for some of his words, "Aye. I suppose I can't claim responsability
for all of it. Still. It's a dire setback, and I'm not liking the
ramifications I see." He moves his head then, stretching his neck as if
he's reading for a fight, and yet, all he says is, "Aye. I'll take care.
I'll be around." Clearly he's ready to get this particular burden off his
chest." He squeezes the greenrider's hand back and then nods before he
scoops up his flask and makes his way out, careful of the steps in his
condition.

<Bitra> M'rek laughs.

M'rek walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance
to the bowl.

Jairen walks up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.

Jairen wanders in, carrying a small basket and a skin of drink, humming
quietly and happily to herself. She pauses as she finds that there are
people already there in the stands, and offers them a bright smile. "Sir,
ma'am, good day."

R'sel shakes his head as he watches M'rek head on his way, "Jos is right
about keeping out of that pond. Just wish it could be that everyone could."
He blinks then and looks back to the greenrider, "Ahh, well. I never would
do it myself, you understand. But that wouldn't keep me from missing the
event if I might get to be there." He gives a more charming grin then, "Far
be it from me to make anyone feel old, or respectable." The greeting has
him looking back up again, "Good eve, m'lady." See? Everyone gets the
treatment.

Kassima murmurs in M'rek's wake, after watching him go, "He does need
t'speak t'Rodric. For several reasons, by the sound. There's certes more
t'this than I know--" Evidently. She shakes off the thoughts, for a moment
at least, to look towards the entering Candidate and offer a smile; at
first distracted, it warms to a friendly enough expression when she manages
to focus. "G'day and duties," she greets back. "But I'm nay a ma'am, if'n
you please--Kassima, green Lysseth's rider, and the name or Kassi for short
will do fine. What's in the basket?" Curious sort, isn't she? R'sel gets a
wry nod for his first couple of comments, and an outright laugh for the
second: "Nay, nor I. Many are the events I'd love t'see but would never
quite dare touch off. Have you heard the orange chicken theory?"

Josilina walks up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.

Jairen smiles to Kassima, "Just some dinner, I thought I would get some
quiet, after all day in the kitchens. I wasn't expecting anyone to be here.
I'm Jairen, from Igen, a Candidate, of course." She moves towards the pair.
"Certainly not a m'lady! I'm not even fourteen turns yet!"

"He needs to talk to someone, at the least." R'sel agrees, his own
expression bordering on troubled, before he shakes that off to grin again.
"I only invite so much trouble in my days. And try to avoid it, when I can,
with Jos." A shaggy brow lifting again, "Orange chicken theory? No, that I
haven't heard, do tell." Jairen gains a wink for her reply, "As you say,
m'lady."

Josilina comes up the stairs from the bowl, a glass of some reddish liquid
- juice, presumably - in one hand, and a sketchbook tucked under her other
arm. She waves the juice-holding hand as she spots the small group,
catching part of R'sel's words, though luckily, perhaps, not her name.
"Orange chickens? Not in here, I hope. Hi everyone." She greets as she
approaches.

"'Twould listen t'him if'n he wanted t'tell, but I don't know that I'd be
the right ear. Little enough I can do, if'n y'ken." Kassima rolls her
shoulders in an uncomfortable shrug, then laughs and grins back. "A little
trouble in the days is a spice; a lot just leaves you burned and trying
t'drink the Lake. One of the eggs is going t'Hatch an enormous giant
chicken." She turns to share this theory with Jairen as well, because she's
generous like that. "Or so some say. Some also say that Volath will eat it,
but I maintain that that's just sick. 'Tis a pleasure, Jairen of Igen, and
congratulations on your Candidacy. Hope you don't mind too much that we're
lurking in your haven? Oh, g'deve, Josilina," she calls, lifting her hand
to wave to the incoming weyrwoman.

Jairen smiles to Josilina, "Ma'am, good evening." She settles in and opens
the basket, taking out a small, neatly prepared sandwich. "I am not, I
hope, intturrupting anything. I can leave if you so desire... Thank you
very much, m.. Kassima. Not my haven, really, just somewhere quiet. I'm not
as egg-bound as some of my peers..."

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, V'lano meanders over from the western
side of the bowl.

"At least he told you some..." R'sel gets no farther before he's turning to
smile warmly, "Jos!" Someone broke him of his habit, "We were just talking
about you. No, none in here, have you met Kassima? Ahh, you have?
Or...Jairen, is it?" He glances at the candidate with a smile, but for the
greenrider he then remarks, "I make my own trouble, regularly. Keeps me
from getting to lazy with my slacking." What ever that's suppose to mean,
"Hatch an orange chicken. Well that would be something alright. Don't worry
Jos, if one does, we can always paint it."

"Oh. The /chicken/ thing." Josilina nods, gesturing with her glass to one
of the paler eggs. "That one, wasn't it? Anyway. No one said it was going
to be an -orange- chicken though. I'll have no orange chickens on these
sands." Chickens, sure. But never orange. "Anyway. With that coloring? It'd
give him an upset stomach if he tried to eat it. - Josilina." She's quick
in correcting Jairen, smiling. "Jairen, right?" R'sel's words prompt a warm
grin and she teases, "Too lazy - slacking too much, or not slacking enough,
you mean?" And with a crinkle of her nose, "Is it even /possible/ to paint
a chicken? And what were you saying about me? Spreading rumors?"

Kassima shakes her head in leisurely fashion. "Don't think you're
interrupting, nay. I'm setting up a lethal and dire ambush for V'lano, and
R'sel... here t'see eggs? Or same for Josilina?" she asks the brownrider in
question, with a grin. Back to Jairen: "Is it that you're familiar with
dragon eggs, then? Or they just don't interest?" And then back to R'sel.
Her neck muscles are getting plenty of exercise, turning her head this way
and that. "It helps t'plague him for stories every time you see him, I
find. What sorts of trouble d'you make? Wingleaders tearing out their hair
trouble? Wingmates chasing you through the Bowl with a soldering iron
trouble?" And now it's Josilina's turn; she confirms, "The ice-looking egg,
aye. The orange is a new theory. The presence of the grey eggs will mutate
the chicken until it becomes orange, or... something like that; t'be
honest, I'm unclear on the specifics."

Jairen smiles a bit, almost blushing. "It still seems wrong to call a
goldrider so casually. Mom would not approve." A bite is taken as she nods
to Kassima, "I grew up at Southern, and more recently at Igen, so they are
nothing new to me, though these /are/ specially beautiful... I could just
be biased, though!"

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, The accepted gait of a bronzerider is a
blend of machismo and business: always going somewhere, something pressing
to do. It suggests a certain endowment of personality and of ego as well as
a strong-minded focus on the immediate. It is a gait V'lano has yet to
master. He wanders an aimless path in the moonlight, moving quite slowly
along the fence that encloses the feeding grounds with a hand sliding along
the topmost rail. The soil of the bowl makes gritty sounds beneath his
boots as his restless excursion continues past the training rooms and on
toward the mouth of the candidacy quarters, where the presence of a
moon-admirer catches him by surprise and causes him to draw up short and
stare, doubletaking to be certain she's not an unlikely carving he's never
before noticed shaped in the stone.

"Of course it would. Everyone knows that about orange chickens. We could
paint it red?" Trust R'sel to encourage her? He holds out a hand to Jos,
and grins, "Never slacking enough. Or if I was, you'd never be rid of me.
And I only say nice things, about you. Or the truth, about how you'd feel
about an orange chicken." He nods to Kassi as he agrees, "No interruption,
I was in fact going to ambush as well, but she caught me it seems. As for
trouble, I'm the type that makes G'non wonder what he ever saw in me, when
I turn in late reports in rhyme or skip drills." He gives Jairen another
smile, "Humor her. She even made me stop calling her m'lady." The tragedy.

Josilina grins at Jairen, "Save the serious ma'am'ing for dignified people
who deserve it. Just my name suits me much better." Kassima's explaination
earns a rapid series of blinks and a brief, horrified look. "Can... they do
that?" She breathes the question, taking R'sel's hand and sitting rather
abruptly. She casts a suspicious look out towards one of the grayer eggs.
"That'd be like... a conspiracy." - "But it would still be orange. And it
took you ages to." Is her rather disjointed reply to R'sel as she still
eyes a gray, sodden looking egg.

"Oh, Weyrbred. That does explain it." Kassima gives Jairen a smile. "Truth
be told, eggs don't inspire quite the same compulsion in me t'stare at 'em
in wonder as they did with the first clutch I saw, either. But they *are*
beautiful eggs, which 'twill say only in low tones lest their parents get
swelled heads. Can I vote for a green chicken, m'self?" she wonders, almost
hopefully. "Late reports. In *rhyme*. Like, what, limericks? Iambic
pentameter? This I've got t'hear sometime. Skip drills, well, in that
regard he has m'sympathies." She says this in good humor, however. "I don't
really know what grey eggs can do," she then admits to Josilina with a
perfectly straight face. "I didn't realize until now that 'twere a doom,
y'see, so I haven't made a study. Mayhaps they'd only make a grey chicken?"
Right. That'll reassure.

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, She could be that, the moonlit profile
unfaltering in its still study of the sky. But an exhalation of breath
later brings that mystery to a close, and reveals that Satiet, is not a
carving, or a new implementation to the bowl's structure. It's nominally
empty, the bowl that is, only a few midnight strollers located here, and
many of them on their way back in from the lake shore. Hand clasp, turning
inside out and stretch forward, a yawn following the movement, and as she's
about to get up, the watcher is noticed, and given a bland smile, though
recognition is dim given the shadows that play along the ground. "My mother
says staring without an invitation to stare is rude. I suppose I don't
agree, especially if you think there's something worth staring at here."

Jairen nods, grinning. "I used to stare at thenm a lot when I was about
five, but now... I've seen too many. I thought, anyway, till I was
Searched..." She grnis at Josilina, "Josilina then, I will try to remember..."

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, Dim light might - should - protect the
rider's ear-tips from displaying too hotly their common blush. "Sorry." He
backs off a couple of steps, as if planting space between himself and the
subject of staring makes the staring less severe. "There - I - ah." He gets
control over his mouth long enough to look more carefully, at a woman now
and not at artwork - after all, he's been invited to pass judgement, or so
he could interpret. His posture relaxes visibly with the taking in of the
hue of her hair, the knit of her sweater, the knot on her shoulder. "I'll
stare on, then, if you prefer," he appropriately offers with a crooked
smile that's sparingly inappropriate, one brow crooking. "Restless?"

R'sel gives Jos's hand a squeeze, once it's claimed, then says quietly,
"We'll just have to conspire against them first. And it took you longer to
notice why." Touche, "Green would be fine. And yes. Exactly so. You see,
the man is too hide bound. Needs to get out and laugh more, that sort of
thing." The brownrider gives a wink for that. "A grey chicken? Well, that's
be easier to paint."

Josilina is well into shocks-ville at that last possibility. "Do chickens
even come in gray?" She asks a little anxiously. Because, you know, they do
come in orange. "A green one would be nice." She's in full agreement there.
"But... gray?" She recovers enough to nod, "That's true. It would be easier
to paint. If you can paint chickens." And this idea seems to help further,
as well as getting ahead in conspiring, and she straightens a little.
"Thanks Jairen. And how've you been?"

Kassima chuckles low in her throat. "Don't know if'n I'd ever say I've seen
too many--unless mayhaps 'twere directly after one of Telgar's clutches. By
then I do feel I've gotten m'fill of eggs for awhile as a rule. But they're
always beautiful. Has submitting rhyming reports helped with the hidebound
thing?" she simply must know. This idea seems to intrigue her far too much,
to the point where wheels are visibly turning in her mind. "Mayhaps it
could be a grey-green as compromise with the eggs. That mightn't be so bad.
A'course, I'm required t'like grey green, or Lysseth would bite m'head off."

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, Pleased, Satiet smiles vaguely at the
implied compliment and pats the spot of ground next to her, all attempts at
getting up coming to a halt. Instead she, rearranges herself back into her
former position, knees up and arms dangling and breathes in deeply.
"Mountain air has a different flavor to it than the sea's. Which is just
another way of saying, sit, chat, I'm bored. And the natter of girls is
enough to drive anyone mad in there." And when boredom sinks in, it never
bodes well for this dark-haired girl. "Bored enough to suffer your company,
unless that stutter isn't your charming reaction to me, and the norm for
your speech?" is offered in pleasant speech, if a touch guarded. Her upper
torso leans to the side to make out the shape again, gaze intent on
discerning who. Archly, the question is posed in return, "And you? Restless?"

Jairen glances between the riders, looking rather puzzled. "I'm good, quite
good... If a bit confused what chickens have to do with anything..."

"Well, we could dye them instead? Might be easier." R'sel, does so like
encouraging her. "I'd think grey the more common of the two hues." He
considers the question posed him in all seriousness, "Not really. Though
I've heard it's increased his descriptive vocabulary when speaking of me."
And that must be something to be proud of, judging from his expression. For
Jairen a sly wink, "One of the eggs is likely to hatch one, it seems."

Jairen blinks. "Well. I see. That would explain why I was Searched, then,
to Impress it!" She grins. "I'd make a good chicken-rider..."

"Gray-green is okay." Josilina says with a nod. "Though I think the more
green the better - no offense meant to your Lysseth, I'm sure she's lovely.
Dyeing would work." She agrees quickly. Then with a grin she chips in, on
the vocabulary thing, " 'Bane' is one I believe I've heard used. Or heard
of being used." Then a laugh, "A chicken rider? Oh see that's a good
question: will the chicken Impress if it hatches? Or just be ...you know, a
chicken?"

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, V'lano's smile is quick to answer
Satiet's remarks upon boredom and madness, and his chin dips as if he could
hide the pleasure of his grin with a dropped head and lowered lashes. "It's
just my mouth working faster than my mind," he replies, sticking to the
outskirts at best of the girl's question. He half-turns from her and tilts
back his face to mock a glance at the sky, going on with, "Much of the
time, yes." He sidles toward the spot patted and slinks downward into a
crouch there, not quite yet claiming it, but with easy posture and a gaze
out into the bowl that proposes chummy sitting side-by-side as an option.
Closer, no longer silhouetted against the moons, he ought to be a little
clearer there - and the fact that he wasn't before seems lost on him, as he
chatters on without thought at introductions. "I thought I recognized a
like malcontentment. Couldn't decide what to eat, can't decide whether to
just turn in," he confesses.

"Now there is a phrase," Kassima feels obliged to note with a laugh, in
response to Jairen, "that you don't hear every day. Oh, oh, does he ever
write you verse back? Something like, 'There was a brownrider poetic,
possessed of energy frenetic; to fly his sweeps bored him, his spirit
implored him, t'find activities more kinetic'? I would." Well, of course.
"Although I'm nay really sure about that last line. A little sketchy in the
meter. Nay offense taken; the lady will believe she's lovely whatever
anyone says of her, I do believe." A fond look is cast Bowlwards. "Nay that
she's self-confident at all. Goodness, nay."

On the sands, Volath, sprawled on the sand a safe but paternally protective
distance from the eggs, and even safer but properly available distance from
their dam, yawns hugely, but remains to all appearances asleep.

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, "Some drink I had earlier is unsettled
in my stomach. Twas my fault for taking that last sip. There's that line
you know when you cross. And -that- doesn't bode well for your verbal
skills. I do enjoy a good conversation. I suppose I've had my fill of them
today," Satiet pauses introspectively, and with a slight shake of her head
continues, "That it must be balanced at some point by pretending to agree
that it is of utmost importance that Tresmin's hair was looking absolutely
fabulous today." As the rider approaches, her face shifts to glance back up
before looking down, surprise self-evident in the blue of her eyes. "You're
giving everyone the run around today, apparently, sir." If she's chagrinned
by her earlier cheek, it doesn't show noticeably, and her chin lifts with a
little touch of arrogance. "And how fares the egg painting and your
dragon's mate?" In innocence, her pale eyes round nicely, and she adds
slyly, "And your mate, perhaps?"

R'sel sketches a bow to Jos, with out letting go of her hand, "One of my
favorites that. You know, I'm quite shocked his weyrmate hasn't lynched me
yet, for toying with the poor man. Course, maybe I amuse her too much."
Then he echos, "Chicken rider? Now there'd be something you didn't see
everyday." But an orange or grey chicken would be? "Not a once. But he
gives me extra filing, extra drills, added duties of this or that variety.
But would you then write it back to me? I might have to request a transfer
then. Yours, of course, as I'm not sure Telgar would have me."

Jairen giggles in amusement. "Well, it would be unique, to sy the least..."
She lapses sielnt to take a few moments to actually eat some of the dinner
she brought with her.

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, "My mind," points out V'lano in a
somberly dry tone, "Was otherwise occupied when I came upon you." He's
quiet through the rest, though, hooking an elbow over one knee and lowering
the other to the dirt, not quite settling into a sit but caving ever
incrementally more to the pull of gravity. If Satiet's chin-up and sudden
attachment of a single syllable's worth of respect is noted, he pays it no
mind. Behaving as though they'd known one another all along, he just
continues conversation, first with, "Run around? How so?" and secondly
with, "My mate?" A heartbeat's pause. "I have a mate?" No coy watching of
the sky's slow wheeling 'round Pern now, nor mindless enjoyment of the
nothing-happening of the bowl - his dark eyes find their corners and spy on
Satiet from them, narrowed.

Josilina looks mildly impressed at the Telgari's impromtu composition.
"Hey, that's pretty good! I can't rhyme on the spot like that. I can't even
use kinetic in a sentence without sounding really weird." R'sel's words
prompt a chuckle, "Ami is amazingly forgiving like that. And I bet she
thinks it's funny sometimes. She likes seeing other people suffer, I mean
in a good way." - "To say the least."

Kassima shakes her head woefully. "See, that just never works. What I did
when a rider skipped out on sweeps for me was compose a song in his honor
and circulate it through the sweep area. D'you know, it worked wonders?
Never had a problem with him again. Afraid there's nary a chance of
m'relocating to the 'Reaches, though--Telgar probably would have you, but,"
and there's that wryness again, as when she said she'd heard his name
before, "I can imagine why 'twouldn't be your optimal option." She catches
the distant dragon yawn, and grins automatically. "Poor Volath. Guarding
the eggs and resisting the impulse t'count his chickens before they Hatch
must be tiring work. Oh, thankee!" She beams to Josilina. "I'm a bit too
fond of limericks, I fear. As the Lava Lounge walls can be attesting.
Amilin's a sadist? Wow. I've never heard that about her a'fore."

"Quite unique." R'sel agrees. "I might have to make a chicken stuffy to
commemorate the occasion." He gives Jos a wink, "Well I still maintain she
convinced S'din to graduate me." Never mind he purposely stayed out of
trouble until given over to Blizzard's care and custody, "She is rather
forgiving, and perhaps sadistic too. You should see that whip she carries."
The next has him rethinking. "Hmm... Let's not tell G'non about that, and
you can stay at Telgar before I'm in over my head." He shakes his head,
"Last I heard. I have K'ran gunning for me. I suspect it'd not be my best
option, if I were to even consider it."

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, "Your mate. Your dragon?" The deliberate
mis-implication draws out a smirk on Satiet's lips, and as if no other
explanation is needed, the girl is quick to shrug it off. "I think a fellow
Telgari of yours was looking for you earlier. Strange disposition, though
nice enough, I suppose." She looks, for a moment, to say more, her lips
parting and one syllable said before her mouth shuts, pressing into a thin
line. She's adept enough to keep her gaze on the sky throughout, "So tell
me, V'lano, sir, what your mind was so preoccupied with? I seem to hear
choice tidbits frequently here, and the gossip is just ever so much more
amusing than back at home." Dryly, she adds, "High times, high hopes, and
much drama fairs well at the Weyrs." A beat. "And the Holds. Or one Hold."

Jairen opens her juice skin, taking a drink from it as she looks out at the
eggs. Half to herself, she pensively asks, "I wonder how long until we get
to go out to them... That is one thing I was never allowed to do as a kid."

"Not a sadist, not really." Josilina objects, "She just likes giving people
she likes a hard time. ...Well, yes. There is the whip." She admits,
grimacing at R'sel's words. "A chicken stuffy?" She mutters in echo, brows
slightly upraised, before she snorts softly and shakes her head. "Go out to
what?" She asks, hearing Jairen. "The eggs you mean?"

Jairen nods absently. "Yes. Well, I mean, I know at Southern the Candidates
get to go touch them, I just assumed... Do they not do that here?"

"Amilin carries a whip." One can almost see Kassima's vague mental image of
the greenrider undergoing some drastic changes. "You'd just never know it
t'look at her... the things you find out about people. Wait a moment, wait
a moment--" She's bewildered now, as her eyes clearly show. "*K'ran* is
aiming for you? Why? Surely nay for that. Is he? Stuffed chickens?"
Presumably this last question is not about K'ran.

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, "Lifemate, some say," V'lano corrects in
a gently amiable tone, his posture shifting again: he plants his shoulders
against the wall and lets gravity take over, sliding down the stone to a
half-tailor's sit with one knee up. Folding his fingers around that knee
causes a few wrinkles to form in the fabric of his trousers. "He's
impossible, which is no change, and Lhiannonth's - well, she's ever so much
better at this than he is." That last's provided in almost a slyly
secretive tone, sharing something perhaps Volath's not meant to overhear.
"Strange disposition but nice," he muses, his focal point ranging back into
the sky. "Honestly? With being a layabout. Thinking about what I'm not
doing here, what I should be doing at Telgar, what it might be like when I
get back there." The corners of his mouth slink wider, barely curled. "And
what was on your mind when I so rudely intruded?"

"Alright. Just mildly one. But aren't all Weyrlingmastery types some form
or another of that?" R'sel asks, then leans in towards Jos, "I could make
you the first one, and not in orange and grey?" He nods though, "She does.
Mostly when proddy I expect. One of those sure signs to keep Svar out of
the weyr and all. But no, you wouldn't think it of her, would you?" He
hesitates before answering the other, "Because of Ys. Or so I gather from
her." And as an after thought, "I make stuffies, as a hobby, you see."

Josilina nods, glancing out towards the eggs before looking back at Jairen.
"Oh, sure you do! I was just confused. No, you'll get to touch them, but
not until they've hardened some more. Are you looking forward to it?" R'sel
gets a sidelong grin, "How about you make it for whoever actually Impresses
the chicken? If it does Impress?" She suggests, adding, "And not in orange
and gray then either." For the whip, she pipes up, "Didn't S'din give it to
her? And something like to Sria? Because he's an awful influence on his
assistants?" And yes, she -does- do a hasty check to make sure the
Weyrlingmaster isn't hovering nearby.

Jairen nods enthusiastically. "Oh, very much so. It's the most exciting
prospect for me, outside the Hatching itself of course. How long have you
all been riders?" Apparently, she's back to ignoring the chicken talk.

Kassima's mouth thins in answer to this, and it takes her a moment or two
before she feels able to say in a fairly neutral voice, "That seems
uncalled for of him, then. Particularly given his history with her,
mayhaps--but, well, 'tisn't m'place t'offer comment on it, here of all
places." Perhaps it's because of this that she rises to her feet, with a
vaguely apologetic smile; she says, "If'n 'twill excuse, though, methinks
I'm going t'see what food I can mooch from your Caverns before I go. Been a
pleasure t'see or meet you all, though, and t'learn of Amilin's whip, of
which I'm sure 'twill now live in fear."

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, "An abbreviation should work just as
well. My tongue is sometimes too lazy to include the prefix." Satiet
offers, unapologetic. "And I thought my intentions were clear, unless.."
her blue gaze flicks over V'lano's frame, settling onto his shoulders, "You
have a mate that no one knows of? Keep her, or him, I suppose, hidden
somewhere in that guest weyr of yours here?" Her feet slide closer to her
frame, knees pressed against her chest and arms wrapped around. "If you
feel like being a layabout is such a chore, please, feel free to pick up
the slack in our chores. It'll at least get your body moving, and while I
can't promise mental stimulation in chopping vegetables, at least you'll be
doing -something-? It's my favor to you." And such a favor it is. His final
question, is noted, her shoulders tensing, but unanswered otherwise.

Lysseth> In the bowl, to the east, "Your tongue does not strike me as
lazy." If V'lano's got a perceptive cell in his brain, it's responsible for
popping that thought out, and afterward his fount of wit seems spent. He
breathes easily, grinning at the moons, then lowering his head to follow
their glow onto the shapes of the soil and stones of the bowl, the various
glowing entrances leading off of it, and the dark mouths leading to
adjoining caverns and niches. "I've been told I could probably acquire some
work from a wingleader, but to say fair I'm leery of trodding on toes.
Candidate chores honestly sound more game. - Say, chopping vegetables?" One
brow lowers, the other crooks up. "You'd be able to make me welcome in the
kitchens, you think? Do they take a shine to you?"

R'sel replies simply to the first, "As you wish, Jos." A nod to follow,
"From S'din, yeah. And your sister brought that crop of hers with when she
dropped by once, you know. Though I half expect she was thinking to use it
on Alex because he's been acting so off." It doesn't take long for him to
give the reply to Jairen's question, "Eight turns , and nearly nine months.
Svar's from Lhiannonth's first clutch." Murky eyes look back to Kassima and
he gives a little shrug, "I can still see my daughter. And if the pair of
them have issues over me, well, they can think what ever they like, so long
as I still get my Roselle time." He smiles as he adds, "And it was a
pleasure to meet you as well, m'lady."

Jairen smiles to Kassima, "Clear skies, ma'am. I hope you will come see our
Hatching.. It should prove entertaining!" To R'sel, "Eight turns? A
respectable amount of time... You fought Thread, then...?"

Josilina's been paying at least some attention to that other line of
conversation between Kassima and R'sel, and when the greenrider speaks and
gets to her feet her 'brows raise just a little. But she merely offers the
Telgari a smile, "Best to live in fear of whips, when they're around. Good
to see you again Kassima, take care." - "How long?" The question prompts a
moment of silent calculation, "Fourteen turns now, and a handful of
months." R'sel's remarks on the crop prompts a blink, "She -did-? Shards.
...And he has?"

"I've been a rider more Turns than I'm about t'be admitting to," Kassima
belatedly answers, with a quick grin. "And didn't I say nay t'call me that?
Gah. Gah. Candidates. Gah." It's a good-natured gah-ing, at least. The nod
she gives R'sel is of a more sober kind. "That's the important thing, I do
imagine. And she's a bonny lass. I've seen her about from time t'time.
Likewise a pleasure, Josilina, and you too--" A last grin and wave for
everyone, and she scoops up her hide and leather book to exit, stage right.

You walk down a short flight of steps and head out through the entrance to
the bowl.

You meander towards the eastern side of the bowl.

"If you wish," success filters in her words. "They like me well enough. I'm
handy with a knife, at least in regards with food. I've been placed on
kitchen duty twice in the last sevenday so I'm assuming they don't loathe
my presence yet." Satiet picks tendrils of lint off the knees of her pants,
and tilts her head towards the bronzerider, dark hair spilling over her
shoulders. Her gaze intent, blue traces over the sun-touched curves of
V'lano's faces. "You'd be willing to have a go at it then?" Mildly, as an
afterthought the coy flirtation only apparent near the end, she tacks on,
"And no, my tongue isn't oft lazy. You'd be surprised." Settled against the
wall nearest the candidate barracks are two figures, the rest of the bowl
being relatively empty of human presence, though a few dragons still
linger. Moonlight shines from the southeast, casting a soft glow and
creating spire-like shadows against the ground.

"Do you think you can get me a morning shift?" He doesn't make much effort
to restrain the bargain-seeking tone; the deal's not struck yet, but
V'lano's on the hook. He unlaces his fingers from round the front of his
shin and creaks them against one another, then refolds them, head canting
to afford him a better view of the candidate's profile. "Candidate's work
wasn't any strain by comparison to training," he explains airily enough. "I
might be interested in a shift here and there, particularly if you can get
the kitchen to give me a go."

Hands tucked in pockets, book tucked under arm, Kassima's amble has a
vaguely Lakeward aim and isn't particularly hurried. She whistles
something--snatches of tune, perhaps even a medley, with no more than a few
notes recognizable before it shifts into something completely different.
Voices catch her ears, alter her path, and she saunters on over in the
direction of the others. Quietly enough, just, to possibly pick up a few
words of the exchange. "So I really should've set the ambush in the Bowl,"
she observes with a definite amusement once she comes to a stop. "G'deve,
Vel. Candidate Satiet."

Thoughtful silence ensues, and Satiet begins to nod slowly, "Exchange fair,
and I'll see what I can do. You, don't match any of the Teaching song
descriptions of bronzeriders of the past." It's not entirely a compliment.
"Mucking stables is yet another great pasttime of candidacy. I'd be more
than willing to allow you my shift of those, though, I highly doubt Rylla
would be pleased. She's.. irritable most of the time." Diplomatic only in
voice, the girl's lips twist oddly, disgust perhaps being most noticeable.
Easily, no signs of her looking startled at the intrusion - perhaps the
whistled tune gave the greenrider away, she replies a touch smug, "I told
you." Her lashes sweep upward to bring Kassima into her line of vision,
"Did you and M'rek have a good talk?"

"I don't? Did they get my hair wrong?" V'lano unlaces a hand again to flick
at his impatiently growing curls, nudging a wayward lock back from his
temple. "I'm not sure what you'd consider a fair exchange. My labor for
your free time? Seems to me you ought to be putting something up for
trade." But he's only half-minding the conversation, already distracted by
the approach and identity of another rider. The hand leaves his temple to
wave her nearer, the curve to his mouth broadening with predictable
affection. "So there you are! Looking for me somewhere unlikely?" His brows
peak. "Join us - unless you mind, Satiet." Again the head canted toward the
candidate. If there's bait on the line, the bronzer must have missed its set.

Kassima tips her head to one side. "We didn't talk long, actually--all
politics, as you can imagine, the same as 'twere discussing when you left.
So I don't know that 'good' is the word. But R'sel and Josilina came in
later, and Jairen, t'brighten up m'lurk of ambush. I meant t'ambush you,"
she explains to V'lano, helpful-like. "In the galleries. Only I didn't,
a'course, so I thought I'd check the Lake in case a'fore heading back--and
here you are. Fortuitous for me." The amusement that characterizes so much
of her exchanges is there, but paired with matching warmth, and one hand
steals out from its pocket to attempt to tug a curl of the maligned hair.
"I'm sure she won't mind," is added with a sidelong, bright, bright slice
of smile for the Candidate in question. "In fact, I owe her a listing of
your charms, mayhaps, now that you're present t'blush."

"Ah, but it's my favor, to allow you to some semblance of a productive
life, no? It's a hardship on my part to give up my chores." Sarcasm dwells
nicely in the space between her brows, the furrowed lines aging Satiet's
appearance a turn or two. "Your hair, sir," lips curve sweetly here, "Is
lovely as is. But you, bronzerider, do not act with the pompous arrogance
that the Teaching songs attempt to hide, but can't seem to. Anyone with
songs written for them in such grandoise detail must have had a rather fat
head." Her hand waves to the invitation, neither assent or dissent from
allowing Kassima to join the pair, and indeed the look she levels the
greenrider is interested, bordering on overly-intense scrutiny. "A listing
of his charms is hardly needed, though not minded." After a heartbeat
pause, she continues idly, "And politics are naught for the weak-willed or
dispirited. I suppose," her expression hovers on sardonic, "It bodes well
that M'rek is so interested, as yourself, for you seem a lady of wit and
charm." Such pleasantry, such neatly veiled contempt that it's untraceable.

"I go there when I'm called," V'lano tells Kassima by way of explaining his
absense. He bends his neck slightly, putting his head forward to facilitate
the greenrider's toying with the curl. "And when I fear she might have been
kept there so long that she'll die of thirst. Only fair that I tote a skin
once in a while in return for my long vacation." The young rider lifts his
hand to try to capture Kassima's fingers in his, but he does color a little
at both the suggestion of a charms-listing and at the dismissal of its
value. After a soft clearing of throat he murmurs, not too warmly, "I'm not
that well up on politics, but I assure you Kassima's every note the lady."
Because that warning was meant only for Satiet, to the greenrider he makes
levity of it, turning his gaze up to her with brightness in his dark eyes:
"Aren't you, O Lady?"

Kassima slants Satiet a look that still contains mirth, though it may be of
a sharper sort, and the new smile to curve her mouth is slow and
thoughtful. "Ah, now," she demures. "While I appreciate the compliments,
m'interest in political matters is primarily that of an observer. I leave
that t'M'rek, who has more call than I... usually... t'use wit and charm in
spotting and wooing the tunnelsnakes in our midst." She inclines her head
to Satiet in graceful fashion before settling easily on the ground to
V'lano's other side, quite as if the Candidate had after all given assent.
"Seems fair enough t'me. If'n you truly want t'do penance, a'course, you
could ask her whether Lhiannonth would mind *your* oiling her once in
awhile; but that sounds more penance than you owe, really." Her long
fingers lace through his readily, and in fact she attempts to tug his hand
close enough to press a brief kiss to its back. "Thankee, Vel," she murmurs
against the skin before straightening. That her eyes are likewise bright is
little wonder, deep green under the moons: "I deny it and deny it, but you
do seem determined t'make a lady of me yet; and one of these days, 'twill
simply have t'concede."

"There are people who can't keep out of trouble, and those who lie under
that fine line between interest and pro-activity." Satiet comments, the
non-sequitor spoken in a musing fashion. The repartee and motions that are
traded between the two riders is looked upon with amusement, her pale eyes
fixated on the greenrider's lips that attempt to meet the golden-hued hand.
Perhaps conceding this verbal sparring, the dark-haired candidate inclines
her head, hands coming to press against the ground near her hips. "Ladies
are not made, but born. Perhaps the lady in you has existed throughout the
turns, and it takes but a deft hand, charming words, and V'lano's boyish
looks to draw it out. Speak, though, of his numerous charms so I may equip
my poor holdgirl heart against them."

V'lano's hand is willingly enough captured and kissed, and he turns it over
to draw fingertips along the greenrider's jaw, pausing lightly at her chin
before retreating to his knee; the other hand sets free at that moment and
settles at his side somewhere between himself and Kassima, perhaps for her
fingers to twine with. "She's large," he points out, presumably of
Lhiannonth, but he gives the Telgari woman a quick grin for her inevitably
approaching concession before tennis-courting his gaze to Satiet on his
other side. Time to change the subject, somewhat forcefully and without
efforts at subterfuge. "Now about these duties. I take some work off of
your back and you let me pretend at being useful here. What, exactly, is
unfair about this arrangement?"

Kassima lets her eyes close and leans gently into that touch; when they
open again, the expression in them is one rather softer, and certainly
warmer, than it was when she looked on Satiet. "That's the point," she
feels obliged to note, her hand gliding down to clasp his. "'Twould keep
you busy, if'n that's what you're after." Now, Satiet again: although she
doesn't address the Candidate with the affection shown the bronzerider, her
tone and eyes alike have shifted back to amiability. "Proactivity sometimes
becomes hard t'avoid, when one has an interest. But I'd nay wish t'throw
m'self into that boiling pot so deeply as some have; let's say that. 'Tis
entirely possible that there may be something to this theory of yours...
for all that I might argue 'boyish.' As t'charms--" It seems she might list
indeed, but she breaks off, laughing. "I'm nay sure that he wants me to. I
can probably tell you without making him redden too far that he's very
handy with a knife, though, and a whetstone. As well as honing leather.
Which, given the number of knives I need sharpened, I find very useful."
She says this without batting a lash, but with an extra squeeze for
V'lano's hand.

Satisfaction glints in the moonlight reflected in her pale eyes at the
hasty change of subject, a blithe shrug her initial answer to his query. "I
enjoy working." When it suits her. "There is nothing unfair, but perhaps,
one day, you'll be able to do something for me to make me feel useful in a
similar fashion? An open-ended agreement? I don't require much in terms of
favors, sir, and it'll be comparably small." Satiet falls silent during
Kassima's speech, merely smiling in indulgence for the greenrider's train
of thought, awaiting the opportune time to speak again. "Men are a mark in
the vast sea of things, it's how you utilize the knife that makes all the
difference. Useful men should be stayed somehow." Interest peaks up one
dark brow, before hands at her hips are used to be useful as well, pushing
herself up to a standing position in one graceful movement. "I'll take your
leave now then, sir, ma'am." Her memory can't be that short, given the
bright-eyed look of ill-veiled mischief in her eyes upon Kassima. "For it
seems," eyes drop to dwell on the hand holding that is now visible from her
height, "You've much to catch up on."

V'lano does blush, though; perhaps the flattery upon his butcher-bred skill
touches on his soft spots. His tongue parts his lips a moment, spoiling a
grin that's forming there. "Don't make me swear an unknown obligation," he
requests of the candidate. "But I'll owe you a favor, if that makes the
deal." He sneaks a glance back at Kassima, but Satiet's discussing knives
now and it's just not safe for him to look back that way, so this round of
pong sticks with the girl, rounded dark eyes drinking in with a blend of
amusement and horror her summary of how men should be handled. "So soon? I
suppose I can't ask to keep you up," the bronzerider murmurs, following her
impending escape upward and darting a glance toward the entrance to the
barracks. "Catch me up soon; I'll look forward to knowing if you can offer
a morning kitchen shift, especially."

"Wise nay t'swear," Kassi murmurs, amused again; for his blush, almost
certainly, at least in part. "An interesting way," she says then, to the
Candidate, "t'view men. I generally don't feel quite so... predatory--the
only stay I'd want on a man is his own wish t'stay. But it takes a variety
of views t'make the world go 'round." No further reminder ensues for the
ma'aming; only a brief flicker of grin. "So we might. G'deve t'you,
Candidate. Thankee for the interesting company this evening." Green eyes
slew back towards V'lano, and her smile becomes one of pleasure as she
teases: "Have you changed your mind on the definition of 'after'?"

Satiet wanders into the candidate barracks.

"So!" That's the opening of a subject change from someone who's handicapped
in a conversation about how one should handle men - but he needn't have
tried, since the definition of 'after' has come back into play. V'lano
turns from the barracks, shifting his whole body this time; the upraised
knee lowers, boot scuffing out a shallow scrape in the gritty soil as the
leg straightens over the other one, which remains tailor-bent. "I have
not," he informs the greenrider with merry haughtiness. "But if I can do
the deed here - well, I'll consider it a debt paid, and enjoy the
opportunity. And you'll be off my back," he adds with triumphant glee,
nudging his shoulder against the greenrider's if she'll have any of that.

Eyes dancing with unshadowed merriment now, Kassima permits herself a
borderline-mischievous chortle--handicapped, no doubt!--but lets that
subject fall to the wayside, not inclined to dwell. "I suppose I should've
expected that," she sighs, all mock-woebegone. "Given the length of time
you argued it. You'll just never, never, never see the light. Never. Ever."
She bumps shoulders willingly with him, holding onto his hand through this
shifting and adjusting her own position so that she's still beside him. The
leather book she set down some time ago gets nudged to the side. "You sound
far too happy about that! Have I been such a plague and a pest t'you as
that?" Asked with a go at wide eyes and trembling, outthrust lower lip in
all their pathetic glory, but that upward twitch at the corner of her mouth
is bound to give her away.

"Oh, stop it!" He shifts a little more, but this time to bring his shoulder
against hers again, trapping their clasped hands between them. He tilts his
head toward her, all lovey-dovey like, but it's only minimally ironic in
its intentional nature; the posture comes easily enough, creating comfort
for two in the moonlight against the bowl's wall. "You know better. You're
just too glad to get a subject you can hold over me and do so, again and
again and over and again - " His rhythm echoes her 'never ever' misery with
just as much heartfelt sorrow, which is to say, not much. "But stop it with
the eyes," he tells her, lifting his outer hand to put a fingertip to that
trembling lip. "Just stop it." To cheer her, he winks. "Tell me what ambush
you had in mind."

Kassima laughs softly for it, abandoning the pose altogether willing in
favor of tipping her head in turn so that it rests gently against his,
moonlight scattered impartially through two sets of dark hair. "I'd certes
hoped better. And was pretty sure, since you've always been welcoming t'me.
Don't you know it, and once the breakfast is made 'twill surely have t'find
some new thing t'fix on just t'keep things interesting--" But that too is
tease, as her low chuckle will make clear even if the three soft kisses she
bestows upon his finger should he not pull it away do not. "Initially," she
says, with a grin for him, "I thought 'twould be fiendishly clever and set
up a blind like some hunters use, bringing branches and greenery and the
like into the Galleries and setting up a stunning replica of a harmless
piece of brush. I'd hide behind it, then spring out, and tackle you, and
carry you off t'wherever you fancied, or at the very least hold you long
enough t'talk with me awhile. But then I realized that brush might be a bit
*conspicuous* in Galleries, really. So I abandoned that whole part of the
scheme."

Right, pulling away from kisses. Not. He turns the hand over after them and
strokes the backs of his fingers up over her cheek, over her ear should she
allow it to follow the sleek lines of the braided-back hair. Low chuckles
make up his primary reply regarding shrubbery-making; he shakes his head a
little bit and closes his eyes a moment as if to imagine the scene. "You're
right," he decides after a moment, and when those long lashes rise his eyes
are brilliant from the humor of it. "Maybe the more telling question would
be -why- you'd ambush me? Am I so hard to find? Especially given that great
shining lump baking his - brains out there, I'd expect you could locate me
within a few seconds of breaking chill over Reaches." Half-serious, though
the pause before the declaration of what part of Volath's anatomy's
roasting on the Reachian sands suggests a moment's consideration.

Kassima seems not particularly disinclined to allow it. Quite the opposite,
really. Imagine such a thing. She does shiver automatically at the touch to
her ear, but not in a fashion that would lead her to turn away, and in
exchange she dips her head to attempt to brush her lips against the place
where jaw meets neck. "Might've at least made a show for the dragons,
though," she supposes, merry in voice and eyes alike. "Perhaps nay so hard
as that--although getting Lysseth t'stop telling Volath how beautiful she
finds his wings long enough t'actually ask where you are can be a trick.
Particularly when he's asleep. But I hesitate t'hunt you down, risk
interrupting you if'n you're busy--" That's softer and almost apologetic,
free of the definite humor that marked her commentary on her own dragon;
however, her chortle for the pause indicates she can imagine other
alternatives.

V'lano luxuriates in the attention, but a shivering in his throat is equal
parts giggle and pleasure at Kassima's closeness. "I can just see Volath
staring you down. 'I know you're in there,' he'd say." V'lano's effort at
his bronze's tone comes out in a strained effort at sepulchural depth,
pressing to the bottom of his range and creaking along the way. He pulls
back his hand from the greenrider's hair and, for a moment, seems fixated
on the bauble dangling from her nearer ear. His tone's only slightly
distracted when he comes up with reply, focus shifting from the emerald
flicker to equally green eyes. "I'm not busy much here. I don't see many
visitors, and - well. Not Gay and D'mon." His brows flicker upward in a
half-waggle at that summary explanation of the circumstance of his
residency at Reaches. "I'm always glad to see you."

"He'd probably win in a staring contest," Kassima's forced to admit, made
delighted enough and mischievous enough by that giggle to try and whisper a
few more light kisses down the column of his neck before pulling back.
"That whole nay having eyelids thing helps. And Lyss could be handicapped
in distracting him, from the ledges, though I'm sure she'd try--" It's at
this point that she notices where he's looking, although her attempts to
follow his gaze come sadly to naught. Hard, after all, to view one's own
ear. "Something the matter?" Automatically, her free hand rises to check
her ear, make sure it's still attached. "Clearly 'twill have t'try and drag
some of your clutchmates into visiting with me or the like, although I do
tend t'get selfish about your company at some point in the evening... 'tis
happy enough I am about that." She grins for the waggle, and nudges his
shoulder with hers once more. "And happy t'see you. Always. So mayhaps next
time I shan't bother with ambush, hmm?"

"Eh? Nothing!" His free hand flaps a dismissal. Him? Distracted by shiny
bauble? No no, of course not. He returns the nudging with one of his own,
then draws up his feet, straightening the bent leg in doing so, tugging a
bit at the hand he's got clasped between the riders. "No need to ambush,"
he agrees. "Go looking. Really, if I -am- hard to find, that's probably all
the likelihood I have of needing not to be found. And no one's pressed such
duty on me so far." There's mirth in his voice, from skirting what he's not
saying, and he treads forward into new subject matter while preparing the
early stages of getting up from the floor of the bowl. "I didn't take
dinner. Couldn't decide on wanting anything, I was so distracted by my own
idleness. That's what sends me begging chores from candidates," he notes
with a rueful flick of a glance toward the nearby barracks entrance. "Shall
we get something?"

Kassima gives another of those low chuckles that might hint at her lack of
belief in this denial. Nevertheless, she gathers her book to tuck under her
arm again, keeping the other hand firmly in his; she rises alongside him,
and offers a new grin. "Well, that spares the 'Reaches my stalking through
every hall and cranny looking for you, mayhaps," she teases. She notes that
flick, and her expression in fact softens at it. "Aye," she agrees. "I'm
for that. Though, first--" And she raises her hand to his hair a moment
before seeking a kiss from him, warm and sweet and lingering, daring in all
face of potential blush-combustion. "For what you said t'her, about me
being a lady," she murmurs after, in explanation. "Thankee. I appreciated
that." A smile, a hug of his fingers with hers, and she tugs him towards
the Cavern, where late dinner awaits them both.