To Davy Jones

Xanadu Weyr - Docks
The main dock of Xanadu Weyr has a T shape, the central pier extending out and then splitting into two branches. That central dock extends slightly past the branching, making a square often used as a staging area for supplies or simply as a spot to sit and relax.
Pointed away from the main beach, there's the dock where ships moor. The fishing vessels who make their home here are joined by trading ships and the occasional personal craft, bobbing on the waves.
In the other direction, there's an area used by the dolphineers. There's a shack with supplies, extra fins and breathing gear hung against the outside, and a large raft moored to the dock near a ladder. It floats low in the water, easy to clamber on or off, and on it is a Dolphin Bell, the rope dangling into the water to let the dolphins summon their crafters.

Autumn has arrived at Xanadu, lending a pleasant chillness to the air that even Sylvarin doesn't /completely/ hate. It's that precious period where the temperature is tolerable and the bugs are mostly dead so…almost the best time of the year! Still, it's rare that he'd venture anywhere, even the beach, without reason on his own. Today's reason? He had gone to borrow a bucket from some people on the docks. Why? It's rather unclear, but it may have something to do with his and Nessalyn's plan to murder the large pet-rock strapped to his back right now. As the baker candidate makes his way along the beach there's a brief grimace for the sand getting in his shoes, but he…does seem to appreciate the water. A little bit. From /afar/.

The candidates being marooned in space was the first time Kaellian had been seen with a knot on his shoulder. Thus, it was only when they were retrieved and returned to Pernese soil that he could move in to the barracks in the next seveday, giving some vague copy-and-paste reason of needing to settle some affairs. Though, when he returned to take up space in the barracks, it was with little on him. Whatever 'pet' he found gifted in the completely logical Leirith fashion, it isn't on him. Nor is that white cord on his shoulder, apparently. Kaellian is walking down the beach from the rocky coastal shore opposite the docks, a long black coat swaying about his legs in the oscillations almost of the ocean he might as well have been born of. While he is alone, there is the figure of a person who had paused between a couple of large rocks, then turned around to vanish back towards the south. He's distanced, distracted, this man dressed in black walking unhurried in the swagger that becomes him. Eventually, though, his gaze turns upwards once closer to the docks, following, tracking Sylvarin for too-long before he's close enough to bother with words, and of course not needing to shout. "Sending that thing for a final swim, mate?" It's a rock. At least you don't need to tie a rope and rocks to it. It's already half way there.

Sylvarin's gaze lifts from the bucket he's been cursing at quietly under his breathe upon the words directed towards. First those eyes go to the man's coat before moving upwards to finally alight Kaellian's face. The man looks /vaguely/ familiar, he must have seen him around the barracks. A coat like that though? That's something Sylvarin certainly won's forget, which is unsurprising given that he enjoys nice clothes and such. "No, though that would also be a great excuse…Accidentally drowned the pet rock, sorry about that folks." There's a short chuckle from the man before he lifts the bucket a smidge higher, "This will carry the remnants of it though, and maybe those /do/ need to be spread into the ocean." To get rid of evidence. Unless someone adopts them like in Nessa's plan.

The positive note (for some) is that he didn't die from the 'treats' served by this man while in space. Perhaps he'd been warned. Perhaps he just overheard discussions involving Sylvarin's…creativity. That would have been disappointing, to say the least, with so many plans left to unfold. The semi-recognizing look is shared, kohl-rimmed gaze claiming a too-light blue in contrast to the darks that make up the rest of him, flicking over the other from feet to face, then studying there with an intensity that doesn't seem befitting of talking about a rock. The hardness of the man is not unfriendly per se. Though whatever warmth might be found in the crooked smirk that draws at only the left side of his lips bares the friendliness of a serpent coiled patiently in the grass. "Remnants?" Dark curiosity shifts his attention to study the bucket, his arrival paused a few feet from the baker. "Of the rock, or?" Of the people who are threatening the rock? This is an important question. Though, he isn't judging of either. "I could provide, ah, assistance for the latter, if you wish it." What a kind offer, especially following that need for clarification.

The thing about runners is that they need to be exercised. And when there isn't any specific use to put the runner to, it falls to the weyr's animal handlers to do this chore. Alas, woe is them, etc. So here comes a Teinon, down the beach, astride a runner and seated as comfortably as though he were born there. The reins are held loosely in hand, just lazily making his way up the beach at a walking pace. He spots Kaellian and Sylvarin talking, and his expression grows marginally more solemn. He watches for a few paces, then gives a click of his tongue to urge the runner to a faster pace, trotting over to meet the group. LOOK OUT SYL, NATURE INCOMING.

Sylvarin's brow lifts at the scrutiny from the man before him, but the baker doesn't seem to flinch under the gaze. Well…not until he remembers there's a rock in a baby carrier thing strapped to his back. That earns a momentary scowl from his face but he's kind of getting used to the thing. "Of the rock." The baker is quick to supply his answer, though at the offer of assistance a quiet chuckle quickly escapes his lips. "Though I may take you up on that offer for other reasons." The look on Sylvarin's face can only be considered devilish. There's an unbridled chaotic glee in his eyes that only lasts for a brief flash before disappearing behind a more neutral expression. He's certainly holding a grudge against /someone/. It takes a moment but manners seem to kick in and the baker provides a brief introduction, "Sylvarin." /Very/ brief. It's about then that a sound comes to his ears and the baker's gaze shifts to the incoming Teinon and runner and….the baker is already taking two steps back. NO THANK YOU SIR. He's eyeing the runner, and it's hooves, and it's coat - wary of how much nature is probably on the beast itself. But hey, the dude isn't going to run or anything. He'll lift a hand to sign a greeting as best he can to the herder.

The soft breath of a noise through his nose must be the short-comings of a laugh not let to become anything more. If it's disappointment in that answer, there's no further comment on it. Kaellian shifts slightly, his thumb hooked in the large buckle of his belt. His left hand, wrapped in a black cloth, rests at his side where thumb brushes over the backs of the bands of rings found there. Considering. "You let me know." Too-helpful. The edge of that smirk flickers, "I'll be sure to give you the honors, as far out as you'd like to go." Yes, Sylv. Out there, o'er deep water and leagues deep unseen abyss. The introduction is granted a slight tip of his head that could-be a bow, but never really becomes one. The black hair of his head, forever and intentionally dissheveled, is a bit too long, falling over his eyes slightly in the motion. "Kaellian." There's amusement in everything he says, something mischievious, perhaps sinister in the undercurrents that continually drift beneath. But his name, too, falls by the wayside at the sound of a runner. He doesn't move, though he does look up, his brow furrowed faintly. "Ahoy, lad." The man who owns his space, might as well own this beach, offers that greeting in the way a captain would question the reason for an interruption. Given the humor hasn't left him, it isn't a discouraging thing.

The runner dances sideways a few steps as Teinon brings it to a halt, far enough away from the pair to be polite. He notes Sylvarin's reaction, and almost looks mischievous for a second… but then he shoots a glance toward Kaellian and pushes away whatever thought that was. Cue climbing out of the saddle. He pats the runner on the shoulder, but keeps the reins in hand for now. Is it coincidence or planning that puts the runner just /almost/ between Tein and Kae? Probably coincidence.

"That I will," Sylvarin's lips turn upwards in a slight smirk. There's a glance over towards the waters and though his distaste for the sea is nowhere near his distaste for plant life, the thought of those depths certainly sends a shiver down the baker's spine. "Well met, Kaellian." The baker lets his head dip just the slightest before attention slides over to Teinon. There's a warm smile for the herder, though another wary look is shot towards the runner. But runners aren't like dogs…it /shouldn't/ have any reason to come and lick him or anything else terrible like that, right? It takes him a moment but Syl soon glances between the other too. Tension? Or perhaps something else. He can't quite pin it down and because of this doesn't comment on it…yet. "I'll catch up with you two later perhaps…first I have to go drop this thing off." The bucket. And perhaps do some of his actual craft work. In any case he's heading off, though he'll quite purposefully let his shoulder tap against Teinon's on the way.

There's no return of the formality, despite how the rogue stands with a formalness about him, one of poise and squared-shouldered authority that boasts an ego not even he should be able to hold up without a slouch. There's no further comment made on the offer he'd granted. That sort of offer he grants everyone to various degrees, to an end only he knows. But that's just it- there is an end game. There is a point. There is something he's searching for when he reaches out with Deals, even those that seem like a gift with no return to him. Oh, there's always something. Always. When the runner comes closer to him, Kaellian takes a step back. He may be coated and dripping in his arrogance, but he's too adhered to self-preservation to get kicked by a runner for it. "I'm certain there are herders around to help you with your beast if you can't control it." The dry sarcasm holds a bitter note to it, kohl-rimmed seablue eyes finding Tein a bit better at this new angle, and watching him with aloof, chilly expectation. A brow is raised, in that impatient patience he exudes over the facade he wears.

Teinon runs a hand down the runner's neck, as though to keep the creature calm. Kaellian receives a skeptical expression in response to that little crack. He looks the man down… back up. Taking it all in. Finding it more amusing than impressive, apparently. Tein takes the reins more firmly in hand and steps away from the runner, leading it toward the the rogue. He holds out the reigns, eyebrows raised in faux innocence with his silent offer. Perhaps Kaellian would like to have a go at controlling the beast? The runner, meanwhile, seems mostly disinterested in all of this. She's pretty calm, really, content to stand until led, and then clop along lazily behind Tein.

Nonchalance paints him almost as thickly as the potential for terms of rapscallion, soundrel, miscreant. But, as far as can be told in the moment, he is nothing but the picture of innocence wrapped in black and glint in silver. For the longest time, Kaellian seems to do little more than wait. Wait for Teinon to say something, probably. Not used to being ignored, being left unanswered. It's unlikely he recognizes the lad more than the fact that he is faintly familiar from the time trapped in space, where Kaellian managed to be almost unfindable. Mysteriously missing in action, despite the contained environment for which they were subjected to. "Feline got your tongue?" One brow rises as the other lifts those reins to him, that smirk that had faded in the stretch of silence, returns with a muted chuckle left deep in his chest, "What, a gift for me? We only just met." There are many jokes to be made here, particularly of looking a gift runner in the mouth. However, the man of the sea doesn't reach for that offer just yet. He's not afraid or put off like their friend from just moments ago, and it wouldn't be the first time he helped himself to a runner that didn't belong to him, but he isn't quick to the take here.

Teinon gives a burst of laughter that is near silent, indicated mainly by wheezing breaths combined with body language, head thrown back with a broad grin. He shakes his head, and then gesticulates in a very deliberate way that almost seems like it should have meaning, but at the same time remains strangely obscure. He pulls the reins back to himself as the laughing fit passes, then offers something a little easier to understand. He claps a hand over his mouth, then taps his throat, and gives an expressive shrug, smiling and looking up and to the left.

Now he remembers. Those peculiar hand motions he'd noticed from the brief period of studying the young man during the space party. That one who was dressed up like a renegade when everyone else, even he, were clothed in fanciful attire and mysterious mask. Kaellian files away names and faces for importance to be determined later on, or discarded if nothing is to come of it. This had been curious enough to keep, though he'd learned nothing then. Too-light eyes follow those hand motions with no comprehension. Then, the miming brings about clarity, only denoted by a raise of his black-wrapped left hand to his earring'd ear to scratch beneath it idly. His tick. His biding of a second for thought. "I see." He offers, his thick accent drawled, "Convenient." There's a private joke to this that goes unshared, "Have you a writing parchment, or do you go about acting just to tell a story of your day?" There's nothing gentle about this man and his approach, though this question doesn't quite feel benign. Can he write? How easy potential things could be if one couldn't speak or write.

Teinon rolls his eyes at the man's response and follow-up question. He seems for a moment like that will be his only response, but after giving the horse another pat on the shoulder, he slings the reins over her saddle so he can free up his hands to go to his belt. He produces a small, much-written-and-erased piece of folded paper, and flattens it out carefully. It's a production to write out the note with the stubby pencil, but when it's done, he hands it over. "The important people know signs." There's a hint of dry mischief in his expression, even as he's reaching for the reins again.

The patience he has is foreboding, like the deep grey of a malevolant storm growing steadily on the horizon o'er black ocean broken by the teeth of white-cut waves. There's no rush, no intent. Just waiting that may or may not have an end to it. That unknown of if the storm will receed or claw its way over the sea, turning those distraught waves into mountains. Kaellian's good hand reaches to meet him half-way, taking the paper to turn it over and read it, anding it back over with another chuckle that not so subtly interlaces his words, "Or, those important people have others who know it for them." It's not so helpful to him here where he can't have 'those people' to bridge that gap in those rare instances it's needed. There's been little business he's needed to Deal in where it's been necessary, so that lesson had been cast by the wayside. "Have you nothing better? Surely it wouldn't be difficult to acquire a slate, or a journal." Is that an offer?

Teinon snorts a little at the question, but theres something uncomfortable in the look he gives Kaellian. He disguises it by looking pointedly at the runner, untangling a bit of her mane. After a moment of that, he returns to the paper to write again. This time: "I'm a herder. Dirt, animals… Pointless." He hands it back, and watches Kae more out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to preen over the runner, keeping his hands busy.

The note is received again, read in the swiftness of a sweep of his gaze that returns to Teinon just as before- Reading his expression as much as the words on paper. There's a longer gap between the message and the reply this time, Kaellian taking a breath, exhaling slowly in a sigh. His bad hand slips beneath the coat of long lapel and tunic of tall collar beneath, "Pointless if you wish not to converse, I suppose, until the other learns your-" The wrapped hand rises a bit to gesture vaguely at him, meaning the sign language. His other hand withdraws, holding an amber glass flask, wrapped in leather with an impression of a monogram that's hard to read, mostly covered by his hand. "That little piece of scrap will only get you so far, last so long. A small tablet wouldn't wear so much. A journal, you keep keep out of your piles of a manure and doodle stories of your day at the end of it. Surely that's less effort than all that dancing." Because that's what signing is, obviously. "But if you enjoy the difficult way, by all means." That's when he gives the paper back, "And what is it you do, exactly?" Breeding? Care? Medicine? This is important to know, for the future possibility of what is useful to him.

Teinon tucks the scrap of paper back into his belt. The suggestion that 'dancing' is more effort than writing is met with another wheeze-laugh. He gestures through a few signs, knowing Kaellian won't understand them, and then shrugs. He considers the question while carefully erasing the scrap to make more room. Then he writes again, "Sign is easier. I'm not important. Feeding. Mucking. Etc. What do _you_ do besides creeping out Candidates?" It's almost as though he /sensed/ Kaellian trying to figure out what he could be useful for. Go figure.

A long stretch of looming silence drifts on in the wake of Teinon's laugh, though there's little to no change in the roguish man's expression. The bored amusement that crafts his devilish features hasn't left, and he doesn't bother to interrupt or rush the moments the young man needs to erase, think, write, in whatever order they fall. Both brows rise slightly, for just a second, in the words shared. A disagreeing breath is given through his nose, that sort that might be humor but never achieves more than just-that. "Often those who claim that, do more than what they say. Unless you're but a stablehand or a outcast who has no interest in the knot, I have a hard time taking that as truth. You make a habit of lying on this thing?" That note is raised to indicate it, just as it's returned once more. It's almost as if he isn't going to reply to the last bit, that part that makes his eyes narrow just as a touch. That gaze that says just-enough that weakens the rest of his fractured mask. Sea-blue frozen around the edges, as if those eyes were taken from the deepest, coldest part of the ocean herself. They harden a little more than they are naturally, study him, "I run a tradeship, lad. I figure that would be obvious." Sure, sure. That's what's obvious. "I've only moved in this past seven to the barracks. Haven't had the time to do anything of the sort."

Teinon snorts at the accusation, but just shakes his head. Apparently it's not worth the effort to try printing a correction on his bit of paper. Like so many things, he lets it roll off his back, letting Kae believe what he will about the veracity of that statement. The answer to the last statement, coming after such a gloriously foreboding scowl, draws another crooked grin to the young herder's lips. He shakes his head in disagreement, then holds up a finger as if to indicate, 'Wait'. The reins are tucked back onto the saddle again. The runner, knowing better than to take off, seems content to stand steadily and wait. Teinon turns back to Kae, makes a little 'ahem' noise, and then launches into a pretty accurate impression of Kaellian's broody, dark, glaring body language. Then he heightens the effect further by miming a sweep of a cloak around and over his face. He looks over his arm, suspiciously glancing to the left and right. Then, he drops the act, points at Kae, and grins broadly.

The man waits with expectation at the command of that finger, though when Teinon starts to mimic what could only be an exaggeration of him, one brow raises in that expressive way he has. There, amidst his shadows and scruff, intentionally unkempt drifts of ebon strands, and kohl, that smirk fades just a little. Light eyes roll, and he finally glances away from the other who he had been watching so intensely, so curiously as if there were words writ across the whole of him rather than just that overused scrap. It comes with an exhale, and a lift of that flask to his lips, a long drink taken of it. "You would make an excellent harper, mate. I believe you missed your calling." That's neither an agreement nor disagreement to his act, to that glance at him through the eyes of another. He doesn't seem angry about it, nor does Kaellian seem to mind at all. But to punctuate his statement, he steps away towards the runner's far flank, and slaps the beast there with the flat of palm and the chill of metal rings. To frighten it, to startle it. It's been so calm, he wouldn't doubt if it does neither, but either way, it's the start of his exit. "You want a bit of time on the water, you let me know. Then we can… talk more about this." There, that unsettling chuckle returns. This time, with a malicious underscore, a troubling darkness that fits him better than what could almost be considered a companionable, tame conversation. Then he’s gone, back down the beach without another word.

Add a New Comment
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 License