RP-Dropping In & Calzones
It's Korday, Daeshen 01 13:26:00 1018. The full moon is up. The tide is low and ebbing. Fair weather clouds drift through the blue sky from the west. The wind is gusty.
H01: Kultari Road
A khazad in hunter's garb makes her way in from the north. She bears a sack across her back, and in one hand the lead to a slow-moving mule. The mule looks like it's seen a few generations pass placidly by, and if only the khazad would let go of the lead, it might wander off, into the pasture and observe a few more.
High above, a griffon in shiny barding is flying around, seeming more to be playing with the gusty winds than trying to bear his rider to any particular destination. On one especially tricky aerial maneuver, the rider is thrown free of the frolicking beast and starts to fall, albeit noticeably more slowly than seems natural.
The walker slows, with a squint towards the sound. Seeing what it is, the khazad jerks back. She grips the rope in hand and draws it closer. Of course, the mule seems not to notice. Mule don't care.
The Sildanyar's long, rust-colored hair catches the wind as he falls. He then makes an audible thump on a controlled impact as he lands on his feet, just off the side of the road, narrowly missing a tall tree. After touching down, he calls out a loud "Whoop!" toward the sky.
The khazad lowers her hand, and after a few moments--takes to the road again. "Watch the beak now, Kibbs," she says. The mule plods, as mules are wont to do. One broad hoof after another.
Having dropped his rider, the griffon now glides downward to a more graceful landing on an empty part of the road. As the khazad manages her mule, The Sildanyar waves and calls over, "Pardon me for dropping in unannounced. Fine day, is it not?" He approaches the griffon.
"...is it...? Eh, I suppose it is," the khazad returns with a smile. She looks off into the trees for a while, before looking back. Her posture is careful, mindful. "Came in from Alexandria?" she asks.
The Sildanyar pats the griffon's neck and walks beside it toward the Khazad and her animal. He says, "The City? No. I was there some few days ago, but of late I come from the Grove. No short distance, I grant thee, but not so very far when flying. I believe that we have met ere now, thou and I. 'Twas in the Vadran Village, if I rightly recall. Thou tookest me to a tanner when I had slain a cougar nearby. Is it not so, friend?"
"It...is," she says, staring at him. Then, "I must be drunk. I--swore to uncle I was only going to have one of those things. ...did you talk like this when we last met?" she asks, leveling a stout finger his way.
Ga'Elian raises an eyebrow at the question, but then answers, "I remember not, although this is how I normally speak, at least in the Trade tongue. Frankly, methinks that we spoke fairly little on that day. Thou wast eating, and we spent hardly any time in idle chatter. If my manner causeth thee difficulty, I apologize, but in my youth I first learned Tradespeak from the elders of my tribe who learned it several centuries ago. Thou art not the first to remark upon it. By the way, neither recall I whether we actually gave our names on that occasion. I am Ga'Elian." He makes a slight bow.
She stares, squints even. Then laughs, warm and loud and sudden. "Well, joke's on me, then. Well then, sildanyari of the thee's and thou's, and too-long words. I remember you, now. But bless me if it hasn't been a couple of days. My uncle's had me scrubbin pots from sun up to sun down." Her hand goes to the crown of hair on her head, gingerly. Carefully woven, the thick mass is also loose in places. She lowers it.
Knogh opens her mouth a moment, then, "Bit of both, if I'm honest. He has me out to get spices and flour. ...from over eh," she says. Eh, being not a word she cares for. The kounty khazad eyes the city, with its gleaming spires and flickering lights. "You've had the calzones?" she asks, changing topics.
Ga'Elian shakes his head. "I've not yet had the pleasure there, but did once in Dun Mordren about 60 years ago. A hearty dish, to be sure, and mightily flavorful. Next time I visit the Hunter's shrine there, mayhap I shall eat at thine uncle's pub."
"Some of the best bakers are from Dun Morden," Knogh says, though it sounds like something she's heard somewhere else. "I suppose it'd be silly to ask if you remembered what clan's it was? Each of them has a bread we're noted for."
Ga'Elian says, "Alas, no. 'Twas a mite mealy, though, and encrusted with seeds. As I speak not the tongue of the Khazad, though, I fear the name hath fled from me, if ever I did properly know it. Hast thou partaken of any Sylvanori wines? My tribe, the Faravanilas of the Perianath, make a raspberry wine that is much sought after by the caravans that travel to Dun Mordren from the forests of my folk."
"Ah...don't believe I do," she says. "There weren't many of yours, out where I'm from. There may have been mul wines available, but I suspect you'd know how we felt about that," Knogh says, expression hardening.
Then, she shifts the bag to the other shoulder. "I need to get on my way, though. Elsewise I'll be scrubbing pots past midnight. Traveler's way, Ga'Elian."
Ga'Elian nods. "Then farewell. The Hunter guide thee."