Fukmi's Fine Cuisine

Ierne Weyrhold - Marketplace
Bright banners and colorful flora line the wide square full of shops, stores, and sidewalk vendors. The proud proprietors are mostly traders who specialize in certain items or crafters who wanted a place in which to market their wares and they decorate their establishments in bold, eye-catching ways to attract cliental. A single massive banyan tree sits in the center of the square, surrounded by clusters of stone benches. Children and firelizards play among the nooks and crannies created by its aerial roots. A broad avenue to the ferry port leads to the south, while a smaller roadway heads southwest to the weyrhold proper.

It's not snowing, this time? Not yet, anyways. Autumn at Ierne is a chilly thing, though. Mid-morning is dry and cold, not a cloud in sight — except, perhaps, the metaphysical ones gathering over the docks, where Ilyscaeth is all but entering into fisticuffs with the local bronzes. Citayla doesn't seem to notice this, or care, perhaps. Actually, the goldrider looks a little bit…wild-eyed? Yeah, there's definitely a gleam in her eyes as she nigh on sprints from one shop the other other, alone. She looks like she's looking for someone, which is rich, since she absolutely took off like a shot on her own, and is therefore the cause of her own misery. And everybody else's, too, apparently, since: "HERYN, I FOUND IT!" she's definitely shouting, brandishing a box half as big as she is. "Highchair!" VICTORY. What happened to their former highchair? You probably don't want to know. "WHERE ARE YOU. R'HYN. FARANTH, MAN." Cita's. Standing in the middle of the square shouting? Yes. That she is. Don't worry about it. At least she hasn’t spotted Horni's, yet. Citayla, go to the best shop in Ierne all by herself? Yes.

Is Heryn even present yet to bear witness to this spectacle? One might well question, given the lack of golden glitter beating down against Citayla's brain, its utter lack perhaps unusual given its everpresence at home. It's almost as if, forced to scale back in public, Xermiltoth shines down upon them at all other times, hot and fond even in the minds of their eldest children, bringing with him all the dazzling brilliance of a pile of diamonds on a sunny day. And yet, here, he's either absent or quiet, perhaps too otherwise occupied to engage in Ilyscaeth's- « AND IN THE LEFT CORNER, WEIGHING IN AT AN ANONYMOUS NUMBER OF POUNDS, IMPORTED FROM BREEZY XANADU WEYR— » Ah. Nevermind. There he is. And where he is, there must surely be… "Cita?" A very large pile of boxes stops mid-square, rotating in place before trotting another few steps and trying again. "Cita? Is that you? I can't… fardling… SEE." Heryn. Jumping to be taller doesn't work when you are carrying the boxes. Hopeless. Truly. But maybe the bouncing pile will be clear enough. "This is ridiculous. Hey, kid, pay you a mark to kick someone in the shins and scream for help if anyone tries to take my stuff, yeah? Good lad." The bronzerider totters to set things down without breaking them, just in time to espy that victorious pose. "CITA! Did you actually do it? You actually got the limited edition with the caprine pattern?! Get over here so I can kiss you!" Arms extend wide, ignoring his young recruit 'bleching' loudly at the thought. "You know what this means, right?!" He… isn't going to elucidate on that just yet so. Your guess is as good as ours, Cita?

« BIGGER THAN YOU. » Ilyscaeth's an inferno, a nebula; furnace of new stars, a roaring expanse of terrifying bass din and glitter. She doesn't spare Xermi, seems to absorb the dazzle and reflect it back, bright, bright, bright. The others, though — useless, no-good layabouts, staring at her for nearly crushing a ship, like that wasn't her intent in the first place — well. Them, she's looming over, glowering ferociously, wings half-flared, only vaguely listening to Cita's litany of 'think of the paperwork think of the paperwork the papwerwork ily'. « CERTAINLY, THEM. LOOK AT THEM. GET BACK HERE, IDIOT, FACE ME. » For her part, Cita freezes briefly, glancing docks-wards with wide eyes. "ILY!" She yells, apropos of nothing at all, but you know. At least no crashing from thataways commences. "WHY can't you SEE." The goldrider hears Ryn, but she's very occupied just now. The highchair? Look, it's extremely bulky, and she's got to figure out how hands work, and how to coordinate them, and it's just extremely difficult. "I got it! They couldn't say no!" To the extremely proddy goldrider? Uh, yeah, I don't imagine they could. "Look, the iddle bitty caprines. Their little feet!" Said rider croons, gleeful, swinging the box like a bat at Ryn's head. HOW ELSE IS HE SUPPOSED TO SEE IT. Duck!! Duck the big fat kiss, too, if you can move fast enough — the ol' one-two punch, y'know. Box, kiss, wham! That's how babies are made, right? "…the KIDS are gonna eat with KIDS?" Cita ventures, after a beat, falling into disproportionately loud, braying laughter after a minute. Ily even gives a nice cymbal crash for that one, her own laughter joining in. « ONLY, THE CAPRINES TASTE BETTER. BRING ME CAPRINES. »

It matters not if Ilyscaeth is pointing all that brain or all that body at him - Xermiltoth has found the highest perch that he might (that isn't, thankfully, a building) and has perched there, merrily guffawing as humans and dragons alike try to reason with his fellow weyr-denizen. « THEY FEAR YOUR MIGHT. PANSIES. » Yes. Judge the poor dragons who are smart enough to high-tail it away. That's the good stuff, Xermi. R'hyn, meanwhile, takes not one of those hits, but both, because that's the kind of man he is!! Never one to shy from a fresh concussion and renewed drain bamage, our Heryn! "Ack! Mmf!" It's a damned weird kiss, anyways - she's managed to brain him into being short enough to manage it, but he's laughing through the pain, weird huffy whuffles issued from his nose before he sets the giant box aside and scoops Citayla up to spin her around. Because she isn't having enough trouble coordinating her body already, and if he's got to be dizzy and staggering, so has she? Probably. "I was going to say that we're going to make Trissa green with envy," because she's a greenrider? Maybe. Xermiltoth offers his own, much tinier and more sarcastic badum-tss to the background as R'hyn laughs and drops her back to her feet. "You are literally the worst. Well. Second-worst. Ila will always and forever be the worst. But you can be his right-hand man. Woman? Whatever. Listen." Hands come up to her face, turning it so he can peer into BOTH HER EYES with 'focus on me for two seconds I know it's hard buuut' quality. "Word on the street is that the owner of Horni's bought the restaurant next door. Did. You. Know." Cheeeekpatpatpat. "The son who is running it." Patpatpat. "Is named Fukmi." PATPATPAT. "It is called Fukmi's Fine Cuisine." DEEP BREATH. RELEASE. "So what is left on our list, because I need it Cita."

« THEY SHOULD. » Ilyscaeth bellows on an explosion of wild shapes half-formed — don't look too closely, maybe, and who can think straight anyways, with all that din? In addition to the cacophonous sound of the actual waves that Ily is generating, sloshing out further into the harbor. BYE, SCRUBS. It's not like the water could possibly be a good place to be, before noon on a cold autumn morning, but look. At least it's not raining and cold? Cita's not nearly so judgy, and would definitely be care bear staring love around the place if not for the fact that she's busy. Being spun around! And laughing, a wild cackle, maybe a little bit on the 'crazy swamp witch' side, but who's counting here. "Ugh, that was worse. I'm telling Trissa." You know. When she shows off that shiny-ass highchair, obviously. "Green with envy, he says." The healer yells, over his condemnation, not quite sticking her fingers in her ears (not that she actually could, she has no HANDS with which to) and la-la-la'ing, but CLOSE. "Thought you were his right-hand man." Quick, Xermi! She needs a badumtss. Proddy Cita definitely pours entirely more innuendo than is strictly necessary into that, for a woman whose face is being squished, abruptly, but she shuts up in a relatively obedient kind of way. And stares, eyes growing gradually wide and wider for every patpatpat, shoulders tensing for an immediate springing-to-action as son as she's released. "Shut up," A whisper, reverent, like this is the most awe-inspiring news Cita's ever heard. "Ryn, why didn't you tell me? Where's Ila. Go get him. Go get Ila." Serious as can be, Cita's directing, eyeing the boxes wide-eyed, now all but bouncing in place, boinga boinga boinga. "Rill can come fetch these. I'll pay her double to get them out of my sight. Fukmi."

Xermiltoth booms laughter, diamond-fireworks coalescing in a rude gesture towards the scrubs in question, definitely creating at least one diplomatic strain somewhere, but when in Ierne, amirite? At least he doesn't make to follow her like an equally bizarre Nessie, instead content to watch over from afar. It's almost like, underneath the ridiculousness, he's responsible or something. Shock. R'hyn has, seemingly, abandoned such notions, joining Citayla in laughter that hits somewhere between 'evil king' and 'Jafar,' perhaps gently teasing her or perhaps they've just lived together long enough that this is the norm. Probably the latter, given the savage way he leans into her personal space for that devious double entendre (« badum-tss! »), brows rising and falling in brisk, jerky, salacious movements. "Ah, so you were watching last night. And here Ila tried to blame that noise on the cat." He tweaks her nose in jest before throwing it, caution, all to the wind in favor of delivering news that has him equally breathless as he says, "I know. I came the second I heard. Someone was talking about it in the next isle over and I think I gave them quite a scare when I burrowed through the baby blankets and popped out the other side to ask them if they were sure." A wide-eyed beat. "They were." Or they told him what he wanted to hear because who does that, but. You know. It's fine. Encouraged by her urgency, R'hyn glances around, muttering 'Ila, right, yes, Ila' under his breath before eyes scrooch shut tight, lips twisting off to one side before, GOLDEXPLOSION. « YES IT IS ME. RUINING YOUR PERFECTLY QUIET, COLD AS TITS MOMENT TO INFORM YOU MINE AND MINE'S MINE WOULD LIKE YOURS TO JOIN YOUR'S THEIRS FOR SOME — SAY ARE YOU SURE I SHOULD SAY THAT OUT LOUD? ON YOUR OWN HEAD BE IT. THEY WANT TO FUCK. » Welp. There goes R'hyn, choking on air, or spit, or the last shred of his dignity, doubling over to breathe through it as Xermiltoth broadcasts that to you know. Mostly Ila and Teimyrth, probably, but also half of everyone between them. Nothing to see here.

Responsible? Ily doesn’t know her: or well, wouldn’t cop to it, right now. Right now, she’s extremely busy terrorizing the captain of a little fishing boat not even a third as long as she is. It’s fine. « MINE’S HATCHLINGS HAVE A BOAT JUST LIKE THIS, » The gold bellows, intensely distracted. « PERHAPS THEY’D LIKE THIS ONE, TOO. » Ily no. Is that a thing? It is now. Or had better be, before Ilyscaeth picks that lil sailboat up like a toy and carts it and its little crew on home to the remaining brood. For her part, Cita probably doesn’t actually realize she’s putting a lot of weight behind that shoulder-punch. Proddy-rage lurks like the shark from JAWS, probably. It’s not surfacing, though, as the goldrider’s snorting again, eyes rolling skyward in a plea to who-knows-who. The Yokohama? She doesn’t seem to feel like any further rebuttal is needed, though, instead letting herself be thoroughly distracted by the riveting tale of the Fukmi’s reveal. “Oh, well,” Cita blinks, seems to contemplate whether this was warranted or not on vaguely pursed lips before she shrugs. “They shouldn’t have been talking about it, if they didn’t want you to take all necessary action to get to them before they went away.” LOGIC, YO. Citayla? Totally filled with logic. Right. Which is why she’s nodding encouragingly, glancing around like R’hyn might pull Ila down out of the thin air, except – that’s. Not quite what happens. Ignoring the blinding (deafening) bellow of laughter and light from Ilyscaeth, who apparently decides to abandon her plans for chaos and some light kidnapping, with this fun new diversion, Cita stares off towards Xermi. « THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT THEY SAID, THOUGH. FUCK. ME. IT SEEMED INAPPROPRIATE TO ME, TOO, BUT MINE CAN BE EXCUSED FOR HER LANGUAGE. » Is the gold wading back to shore, maybe trying to get to Cita before she chokes to death on air? Probably. She’s not going to succeed, because Cita, cheeks redder than fire, gasping for breath like a fish in a sandbox, is extremely busy dragging Ryn out of the street. Obviously, if nobody can see them (because they’ve absconded to Fukmi’s, duh), they can’t be mortified, right? That’s the theory, at least, and why the goldrider is so quick about it. Or. Or. Maybe she knows that Ila’ll be there just as quickly as his legs can carry him, and she’d better have Heryn out of public before then.

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