Horni's Emporium of Magical Treasures

Day 14 of Month 7 of Turn 2714

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 clientele. 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. Sharding. Cold. It's not — it's not icy, but it might be snowing a little. Or that could be ashes. Faranth know what's gotten blown up recently. Not Citayla and R'hyn! No, they're fine, all decked out in rarely-used winter gear. Cita has almost no skin visible beneath her massively warm outfit; two coats, one thin under her riding jacket, heavy pants, and the world's most incredibly long scarf. It's wrapped clear up to the polka-dot beanie keeping her ears warmed, only her eyes visible. Nonetheless, the goldweyrling seems to be in a cheerful mood, already swinging a bag from one arm as they turn a corner. "Eythap's Dragon Wash?" Cita laughs, pointing at a sign further down; a dragon in vividly bright red, splashed with blue. "Faranth. Did the dragon roll in a blood lake?" They probably have somewhere to be, but she's kind of too. Encumbered. To be making any swift progress, here. Oh well.

Snow. R'hyn might be no fan of the cold, snow is a different matter altogether. He's still bundled up, a pale knit sweater beneath the dark double breast of his jacket, soft scarf wrapped from here to aye, but riding gloves have been shed to let his palms spread, turn, lift close to his eyes to puzzle over the tiny miracles that are snowflakes before they melt into tiny droplets on his knuckles. "Hm?" Distracted, he peeks up for Cita's words, blue-grey eyes finding hers before following her point in the direction of the sign. Snort. "I mean, have you seen some of the junior weyrlings hunt? It's not entirely inaccurate," he drawls, and because it's a game now, he scans for others that are equally offensive. Bingo. "Cita." A hand goes out to catch her forearm, squeezing. "Cita, that place is called Horni's Emporium. We have to go in there." I mean they don't. She can probably distract him with any number of other shops with actual useful things, but if not he's gonna drag her right on in.

Snow or no snow, Citayla isn't feeling it, but the fond look the bundle of striped gold-green that may or may not be her face levels in Ryn's direction is probably a good sign. "That's…right." The still-weyrling reminisces with a vague sound of distress, glancing automatically towards where she last saw the massive clumsy beastie attached to her. Nothing burning, yet. No blood either. Probably a good sign. She's distracted enough that R'hyn's Bingo Moment comes as a surprise, and when he catches her arm, the healer glances back around with raised eyebrows. "Ryn." She repeats, a gently mocking murmur, then — laughs. Loud, startled, she barks like a canine just briefly. Come on. It's called Horni's Emporium. "It sounds like somewhere my classmates ought to have gone visiting. Oh. Do you think they have earplugs?" She ventures, a little archly, and uses her captured arm to tug them along. Might as well get it over with, right? Bless her, she knows not what she gets herself into.

R'hyn hums a noncommittal little hum - he totally wasn't poking fun at the calamity that is/was Ilyscaeth, but shh - though he does follow her glance backwards with a wry quirk of his lips. "We haven't heard them screaming yet - and we would, Faranth knows - so I'm sure they're fine." Because even if Ily didn't make trouble known, we sure as shit know Xermiltoth would. "Besides. Horni's Emporium." There are better things to worry about than their dragons, though he does allow her sarcasm to crack through his focus for just a moment, steps catching on a stumble as he laughs. It feels good to react to the weyrling class with mirth, rather than careful diplomacy, and so the humor is slow to fade; he's still hiccuping little chuckles as he pushes into the store, coughing his way through a hello in response to the shopowner's greeting even as he beelines to tuck in behind a shelf. It's easy to hide - how the owner keeps from being robbed Ryn will never know - because the space is huge and cluttered with remnants of an age, some things new, some things questionable, but mostly antique and borderline outlandish. "I uh, I don't think you'll find earplugs," R'hyn murmurs, still half-giggling, "but I bet if you're clever you can find something here that'll do. What about these?" Tiny little porcelain figures that are so blobulous it's hard to tell what they are. "Faranth. Those are either whers or very ugly cats."

Maybe possibly a little worried after nearly a turn of almost constant contact with her lifemate, Cita just hums, pressing her lips together in an attempt to avoid laughter. "We'll be able to hear them coming, certainly." She allows, dry as old chalk, not at all looking like she might burst back into laughter again. That all fails pretty quick, though, when the rider sets to laughing; they're both giggling like idiots in front of the shopkeeper, who gets a jaunty wave from Citayla. "Hi!" She calls, muffled by the sheer amount of scarves she's not even going to bother to unwind from her face. She hasn't settled past mildly hysterical giggles by the time they're hidden, free hand going up to attempt to hide what very little is visible of her face. "I can't look." The goldweyrling groans, having subsided into little snorts of laughter. "You don't? Well, shells, what kind of…" Oh, she definitely had the wrong idea about the place but this — this is even better. Eeking open an eye enough to peek at what horror R'hyn has dragged up, Cita gasps, reaching out and grabbing the teeny figures gleefully. "Oh, they're precious, ummm…" Squint. "Are you sure that's an animal?" She ventures, but nonetheless keeps them clasped in a hand, spinning off with an excited kind of bounce to rifle through a shelf full of feathers. Feather dusters? Is — oh, it is. It is a robe, lined with brightly colored feathers, thrust wordlessly towards the bronzerider because some things just don't need words.

R'hyn's still chortling, though whether that's leftover hysterics or renewed amusement for this mistaken affliction against Cita's sensibilities, it's… hard to tell. It also might be for her enthusiastic appraisal of the ugly-as-fuck statuettes, whose dubious animal nature he only questions when she does. "I— Oh. Oh. Oh Cita no-" But she's already taken them, and swanned off, and the bronzerider snorts under his breath, watching her go before wheeling eyes up and around the upper shelves, choking back quiet laughs for a heinously-painted kite. And then feathers, and Ryn is nothing if not a good sport. Teeth bare in a grin as, equally wordlessly, he unbuttons his riding jacket and lets it fall before donning what has to be the world's ugliest robe. "Faranth." That's all he can manage at first, but he spins for flavor and strikes the worst pose before adding, "How do I look?"

Citayla's sensibilities are on the delicate side, but this, well. This is too good to pass up. Still grasping the possibly-obscene figurines in a hand, the healer waits solemnly while Ryn dons the robe, appraising him with a long, thoughtful kind of look. Finally, she hums, somehow managing to keep the wobble out of her voice as she answers. "The world's handsomest grandmother." She intones, somber and weighty, like the answer is the most important thing in the whole world. She even keeps her peace for several beats before giggling again, high and muffled ridiculously behind her scarves. "Keep that on. Ila has got to see it." The weyrling directs, spinning off again. There's more to discover here — like a tapestry, rolled loosely in a bin full of rugs and other wall-art. It's a big'un, and it doesn't go down easy, but Cita is determined. She'll wrassle it into submission eventually, calling over her shoulder: "We need more like that! Too many empty shelves." It's a lie. Or is it.

He's late, but Ila'den has a tendency of being late because he has no concept of time. Or just really bad manners. Or really bad manners that are exacerbated by a lacking concept of time. Whatever the case may be, Ila'den is late. He is late, but he is here now, and he's just as bundled up as his weyrmate and his weyrmate-by-proxy are (were) when he somehow manages to track them through the winter-scape of Ierne Weyr in his usual leathers because he's boring. What's not boring is the name of the shop that stands out like a sore thumb and can be the only place obnoxiously named enough to encourage the two inside, and so Ila'den waits outside for a moment, staring at a sign that makes him question his life choices before ducking inside. It was a mistake. It was an honest-to-Faranth, ugly feather coated mistake that has Ila'den ignoring the shopkeep when he ducks behind a shelf and, "Nope." It's the only word Ila'den manages as he turns around. "I have no idea who they are. Neither of them." Ila'den makes sure to tell the shopkeeper (who probably doesn't care, but really needs to know because there's some really questionable choices being made and Ila'den needs to disassociate himself with them quickly). "Wrong shop. Wrong weyrmate. Wrong weyrmate by proxy." And yes, he does stop, to turn and look at Ryn again, squinting grey eyes as if trying to see some striking resemblance to his non-ugly-feather-coat-wearing 'mate before stepping back outside. Nope. Nope. Nopenopenopenopenope.

"Move over, Kadesh, I'm comin' for ya," R'hyn drawls with a sassy waggling of shoulders, arms lifting to groove somewhere around the middle of his chest and this is why Ila'den can't have nice things. It's no wonder the bronzerider nopes right on back out - while Cita is over there unveiling what is probably a tapestry depicting Faranth's first flight in grotesque detail, the former bartender is busy making 'sexy eyes' at his weyrmate, the quotations mostly due to the fact that he lowers his chin, and waggles his eyebrows, and widens his eyes a little bit, and the effect is decidedly not sexy but then again, that's not really the point. Hands grab feathers, and he wiggles the robe off his shoulders slowly while mouthing the lyrics to some horrible song or another. Think 'I'm Too Sexy for My Shirt,' but Pernese. "You love me," he shouts, mostly in accusation, after Ila's fleeing form, cackling obnoxiously as he finishes taking the hideous thing off normally and folding it up into his arms. "This is coming home with me." Patpat. And then he SEES IT. "Cita. Cita don't look now but I'm pretty sure that's the fucking ugliest damn feline I've ever seen." It doesn't look terribly impressed with R'hyn either, to be fair, mouth agape, eyes bugged in a permanent expression of 'WTF.' "WHY."

Citayla knows Ila'den is there. She's got a radar. She's just really super extremely busy trying to wrassle this tapestry into submission. Ryn's got the acknowledging covered, anyways, doing his little dance and maybe traumatizing the shopkeeper if they're unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse. "You could get over here and make yourself useful!" The goldweyrling does shout at the retreating back of her other bronzer, scoffing loudly and managing to Pernese Twister herself into position with one foot on one corner of the tapestry. It's looking depressingly like the Faranth's First Flight guess is right (you KNOW Cita is buying it), too, as she leaaaaans longwise and stretches it out. "I think this would look great over your bed!" He's probably too far away to hear that, but honestly, he brought it on himself by fleeing. That'll only make it worse. OR BETTER. Depending on how you look at the thing. "Hmm?" Craning her head around, unwilling to immediately abandon her project, Cita tries to follow Ryn's line of sight to the offending feline. "Ugliest? How can it possibly be —" She blinks.

Freezes.

"It's mine."

And it's like loosing a bull in a china shop, except the bull is R'hyn, and the china is actually a bunch of freakish looking dolls that are probably better off being scattered to the four winds anyways. He leaps over them, gazelle-like (shut up, he can so be a gazelle and a bull. BUZELLE.), hop-skipping around the edges of Cita's tapestry-turned-Twister-mat with a whipcrack of laughter. "Faranth, but it looks like it's offended by your mere existence," he says, awed, lifting the shabby stuffed creature down and jostling it carefully to let Citayla see the whole thing. "It's accusing your ancestors of heresy." There's not even a question in his mind: "It's yours." Words he will come to regret, no doubt, but for now he sets it and the parrot-robe on what is now Their Pile(tm), before whirlwinding off again. It takes a second, maybe two, and then: "It's JIM." POOK. Out from behind a shelf pops Heryn's hand, a be-tentacled puppet perched on it, beaky maw yawning open and shut as the bronzer moves his fingers. "Hey kids! Jim the Squid here to remind you to not play with explosives or you could die." Snortcacklelaugh. "This place is great."

Cita hasn't managed to see all of the tapestry, but she's seen enough. Enough to know that it will work just fine, and there she goes, standing with not nearly as much grace as the buzzelle-like R'hyn. The goldrider doesn't knock anything over, though, so at least there is that. "I'd be offended if somebody put my mortal body like…that, too." She cranes her head to get a good look at the ugly beastie, crooning under her breath like some sort of deranged mother avian. Taking the time to roll the tapestry and toss it on top of the Designated Pile, Cita hums, patting the poor departed feline's head in a proprietary fashion and turning; and freezing, again. This time not as much in a transport of delight. Or, it takes a moment to filter through the horror. "You'll traumatize them." The healer breathes, amazed and horrified in the same moment, and she starts forward — thwarted almost immediately by a tangle of stand-lamp cords. "Actually," Picking her way out of the mess, she twists, and nearly pulls a horrendously ugly bird-lamp over with her, somehow managing to right the situation enough to stare at the puppet. "You think Sany would like it? I bet so." She grins, wide and a little shifty; bad influence? Maybe just this once. It's not that bad. Cackling to herself, the goldweyrling bounces off again, digging through the toys from whence Dead Jim The Nightmare Puppet appeared with a content little hum. "Look! I had one of these when I was little." For your consideration: Pern's most terrifying Let's Play Healer! kit. Is that a real needlethorn??

R'hyn laughs the kind of laughter that says he agrees with her assessment. "Worse, I'd be coming for them from beyond the void." And thus the ugly thing forever becomes Voidcat in his mind. Snortcackle. "It'd traumatize them less if they hadn't been snooping at it on the beach when it exploded," the bronzer says as he edges out from behind the shelf, dropping the plush puppet onto the pile before wandering to another nearby display. There's a sharp snort aimed for her trippery, and a sort of seizing inhale for that bird lamp with the bulb out the butt, but, "Nah. I'm'a chase the weyrlings who were on the beach with it. A goodbye present for them to remember me fondly by." That's some horrible cackling you've got there, R'hyn. "Awh. This guy's almost cute," gets cooed, lifting and displaying a multicolored stuffed dragon at the same time as Cita's toy healer kit, the latter earning a mismatched shift of brows, a flat expression, and eyes that flick up to meet hers, deadpan. "This explains so much about you." Particularly the real needlethorn. "I'm keeping you," said of the plushie, which he perches on his shoulder to ride along as he set about rummaging through a stack of books with increasingly horrible titles. "The Highland Renegade," he reads one off, making a soft scoff noise in his throat… but tossing it to the pile nevertheless because fuck you and your "The Rider Who Ab'd Me" series, Kilarden.

Pointing a finger in Ryn's direction in a 'points for you' kind of fashion, Cita hums, then rolls her eyes, making a deeply disgusted face as she goes back to rummaging. Pantyhose tunnelsnake, no. Bubbly pincushion, noo. "Ily saved me." She sighs happily, for at least the fiftieth time; her dragon's troublesome ability to be injured having saved them both from a grisly day. No, bead-crafted canine, that won't do. "They deserve it, probably." Serenely, without much pity, the weyrling tucks a one-eyed feline plush under her arm with the healer kit, then turns to eye the multicolored dragon. She might coo a little, too, but it's shortened by a massive eyeroll. There they go. "I actually used the needlethorn to help dismantle one of my da's clocks. He was mad." She laughs, shrugging inelegantly and shuffling back over to their pile, gathering the items up. "Speaking of clocks," Not just because of the trashy novel, but the look shot in his direction suggests Judging in a way somebody cooing over the world's UGLIEST taxidermy animal should try. "I'm starving. We can come back to Horni's later." The healer grins beatifically, not an ounce of guile in there anywhere. "Help me carry it up front. Look, I bet we can get a discount for taking that book off their hands…" She murmurs, probably unnecessarily elaborate. How much can a pile of utter (priceless??) garbage cost?

"To hear Ila tell it?" They deserve that and more. But R'hyn wasn't there either - "Saved us both, really." - so all he has is hearsay to go on and isn't that enough to condemn weyrlings to being chased with a creepily anatomically correct stuffed puppet? Sure is. "… Of course you did," R'hyn laughs for the needlethorn anecdote, eyes rolling ceilingwards. "Starting to wonder if I was the only good kid who ever existed." And if you believe that, he has a bird-butt-lamp he could sell you! Or at least he will soon, because he picks it up too FOR FLAVOR and piles the rest onto their tapestry, the best to hobble it all up to the counter in one go because trips are for the weak. "Don't judge me, Old Cat Lady. I need something to combat those stupid fucking novels he thinks are written after me." They are. They're totally written about him and aren't even a little subtle about it. But he's deep, deep in denial. Do they have pyramids on Pern? He could find them, if there were. But that's besides the point. To the counter they mosey, haggling lazily for goods they're going to buy no matter how much they cost, and then they're off, in more ways than one. To make Ila carry their bags? Definitely. Definitely to make Ila carry their bags.


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