Who F'inn, K'zre, Matryk (NPC), Tyrmor (NPC)
What F'inn and K'zre make a stop at Fort Sea Hold to check out the state of things. They are not good.
When Spring - Month 4 of Turn 2720
Where Fort Sea Hold, Fort Territory

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Fort Sea Hold
Built down at the end of the river rushing past Fort Hold, Fort Sea Hold works to provide sustenence from Big Bay to both the weyr and larger hold it looks too. The holders that live here have long been sailors, although there is a history of trade between all three areas, the life of the sea tends to keep those born here, here.


Ahh, spring. That lovely time of Turn when the weather goes crazy and can't decide what it wants to be. Will it snow? Will it rain? Will it be sunny and bright? Windy and grey? Hot? Cold? WHO KNOWS?! Like a dangerous game of Russian Roulette, the weather is unpredictable at best. But sweeps still gotta be flown, Holds visited, work completed. There's no rest for the weary, and there's definitely no rest for the search and rescue riders. While it dawned sunny and clear over Fort Weyr, the weather turned predictably dour and overcast the further they flew toward the coast. By the time Nymionth and Yasminath are landing at Fort Sea Hold, the sun is hidden behind thick grey clouds, and a steady drizzle rains down to make things just miserable. Maybe that's why K'zre is scowling (lies. K'zre is always scowling). It's definitely why he's hunching his shoulders and stuffing his hands into his pockets as he heads straight from his dragon's side to F'inn's. "It smells like fish." That is definitely a complaint. "I feel sea sick already." And he's not even on a boat. Nor will he be getting anywhere near a boat.

F'inn exhales a quiet laugh as he slides down off Nymionth's neck, his hooded slicker drawn off and wrapped around K'zre's shoulders. "We're getting you a slicker as soon as we get back… Well, we'll get me another slicker. You take this one." As the words are uttered, he wraps his arms around the greenrider's shoulders, one hand drifting up to tug the hood over dark hair before he brushes a kiss to scowly lips. "It's not that bad," he notes in regards to the smell. It's pretty ripe, but it really doesn't bother him in the slightest. "We'll check on the stores, make sure everything is alright and be off before you can turn green."

Course, unbeknownst to F'inn their already being watched a heavyset, thickly bearded fellow with his arms folded over his chest casting highly disapproving looks their way. "None of that, now, this isn't the weyr," is bellowed in tones that make it clear he's accustomed to shouting over choppy seas.

"Course it's not," F'inn calls back as he raises his head and keeps one arm drapped around K'zre's shoulders. "Not likely to find fish so fresh anywhere neat Fort at the moment." In the wake of the words, he flashes a lopesided smile that immediately disarms the fisherman and has him grumping while chewing on his pipe. "I reckon not," he mutters before tugging the pipe from craggy teeth and waving the stem toward the pair. "What brings you out to Fort Sea Hold, eh?"

"The finest fish to be had anywhere," F'inn laughs, the expression on his face suggesting it's a ridiculous question. "And to see what, if anything, we can do to make the spring better for you and yours." As they draw closer, he extends one hand, immediately grasping the man's wrist when it's offered to him. "F'inn, rider of Bronze Nymionth and K'zre, rider of Green Yasminath, well met, friend."

There is a momentary glance toward the arm around K'zre's shoulders, the craggy old fellow shrugs it off, though, grunting mildly before noting. "Matryk, Captain of Ice Queen and harbormaster. Well met, eh?"

If anything, K'zre's scowl just deepens. Even after slickers have been given and kisses claimed, there's a look about the greenrider that says he'd like to be just about anywhere but here. And it is not helped by the greeting Matryk bestows. F'inn is definitely the nice one, because Kez would no doubt have had something rude to offer in return (if he could have even spoken at all), rather than attempting to compliment the source of the stench. For a heartbeat or two, F'inn is favored with an incredulous look, and the greenrider appears almost ready to counter that declaration of the 'finest fish'. He gets as far as opening his mouth before thinking better of it, teeth clacked shut in a show of disapproval as he hunches his shoulders and moves along at his weyrmate's side to greet the harbormaster. A flicker of a frown for that 'well met', but it's only a moment before K'zre's manners catch up to him and he offers a polite yet curt, "Fort's duties," in return.

Matryk exhales a barking laugh at K'zre's greeting, his lips parting in a wide smile that shows entirely to much of cracked, yellow teeth and the ample spaces where they once resided. "Better to just tell a man to fuck himself then not, boyo." Course, it's good natured, or as good natured as it is likely to get. "Fort's duties indeed," is added in a low chortle. As that laugh trails off, he looks back at F'inn, his expression turning serious. "Not gonna find much to be had here at the moment." Pausing, he casts a baleful look at the briney, grey seas and stuffs his pipe back in his mouth. "Winters been harsh and we're down to the last dregs of salted fish. If the weather doesn't turn soon…?" Trailing off, he shakes his head, exhaling a low chuff of worry. "More'n a few of the fisherman have headed out for fairer waters." And from his tone, that is not something he thinks very highly of, at all. "Not sure what help y'can be, unless those big beasties of yours can bring the fish."

Taken aback, it is clear that K'zre does not know how to respond to such a thing. Brown eyes narrow as he studies Matryk in silence. As though he is some strange and foreign species that Kez is not certain is safe. Silence comes in the wake of it, the greenrider refraining from voicing his opinion on the matter, even as he shifts that gaze from the harbormaster to the immediate area. "The weather affects the fish?" is what he finally says, somewhat skeptical. "I would have thought…" But he stops right there, perhaps because he has no wish to incite any ill feelings between them. "They could try, but I doubt it would work." Yasminath might throw herself at the prospect of making friends with fish, but the fish might have other ideas.

"Course it won't work, boy," Matryk laughs. "About the most foolish idea you coulda come up with." Never mind that it was him that mentioned it. "Aye, the weather can do a number on fishing, waters cool and the fish seek warmer climes. Like birds," he adds. "Only tastier." And smellier. Chuckling, F'inn shakes his head, slanting a grin at K'zre before turning serious as he looks back at Matryk. "Can't do much about the weather," he admits. "But if your in need of supplies, we can make sure that word gets back to the new Weyrwoman."

"That'd be much appreciated," Matryk admits. "Course, not everyone's willin ta admit such. Been talk that weyr' o' yer's is hording enough food to feed all the holds and then some."

Frowning at the suggestion, F'inn gives a firm shake of his head, pale blue eyes turning serious. "You know that is not true. We'll share what we can, but we're not mind readers, friend."

K'zre scoffs, but rather than argue, his silence turns stony and his scowl deepens. A tug of the hood seeks to cover his face further, so that he can glower at things in peace. But his ears are sharp, and he's definitely listening to the talk between harbormaster and weyrmate, because he just can't help but add a sharp, "Of course we're not!" to the idea that Fort Weyr is hoarding food. And see, this is why Kez does not play diplomat. If left to him, even friendly relationships would turn sour. But he knows it, which is why he's promptly shutting up again and just… tucks himself tighter against F'inn's side, looking sullen and scowly for the very suggestion that the Weyr is hoarding supplies.

K'zre's outburst is met with a mellow laugh from F'inn and a barking laugh from Matryk. "Fiesty innt he," he notes to F'inn with a wink. Winking back at the man, F'inn's smile remains easy and relaxed, his expression the sort that inspires others to smile as well. "You should hear it when he feels really strongly about something," he assures the crag toothed old man. Course, the words are coupled with companionable tightening of the arm around K'zre's shoulder, pale blue eyes crinkling at the corners before he looks back at their host. "We'll pass word on, as I said. But what of the fishermen that've left? Any chance they'll be coming back?"

"A few got family here, still," Matryk admits. "Som've left with everyone they could bring with 'em. Once the weather turns and settles things'll clear up. It's getting there that is going to hurt."

"I am right here," hisses K'zre, in an aside meant for F'inn but clearly audible to Matryk as well. He is not looking any happier for the laughter, and this time there's a touch of color on those cheeks that he attempts to hide with a hunch of his shoulders and a drop of his head to get that hood to cover him better. And really, were it not for the tightening of that arm around him, Kez would have been wiggling free and insisting on taking a walk around to 'check on things'. He still might. There's definitely a look about him (hidden as he is beneath that slicker and the duck of his head) that says staying put is not on his to-do list. But he is definitely listening. And while he might have a thing or two to add, he seems to think better of it and just opts for silence and a frown that holds a touch more concern this time.

Fortunately, F'inn is already in the process of shaking Matryk's hand and assuring him that he will pass word on to the weyr leadership. For his part, Matryk is happy enough to get back to work, chortling to himself the whole time he is walking away. "So, do you want to go up to the hold itself? Or would their healers have already sent word if they need supplies?" he has no idea how that works, really. Course, with Matryk back in his office, F'inn ducks his head, peeking up at K'zre's face under the hood. "They're good people for the most part," he assures. "They're just not used to our ways. Most of them will be like Matryk, a few smart remarks, a bit of grumbling and they are over it." Course, his expression softens in the wake of his words, one hand slipping beneath the hood to brush his fingers over K'zre's cheek. "I love you more then all the fish in Sea Hold."

"There aren't that many fish in Sea Hold," grumps K'zre. "Isn't that what he just said?" But the protest is softened by the touch to his cheek, the words a low murmur without as much bite as they might otherwise have held. But his eyes still skate away from F'inn after a moment or two, settling on something innocuous without really seeing it. It is only after a moment or two of thought that he decides, "I want to go up to the Hold. I want to check in. If the winter has been harsh…" and he knows that it has, even without Matryk's confirmation of it, "… the healer may need assistance. If they have a healer at all…"

F'inn dips his chin in a nod, flashing a crooked smile before straightening and guiding them up the path toward the hold. As they walk, though, he is making a point to observe the few locals that come out to peer at the visitors. "Friendly folk," is murmured in tones that make it clear that that is not the case. Course at one point, his arm slides down from K'zre's shoulders, his hand resting at the small of his back as the bronzerider stares down a group of rowdy young men eyeing them up. Fortunately, he's big enough, and they are sober enough, to rethink approaching. "Very friendly folk," is muttered under his breath as they gain the courtyard of the hold.

Hopefully the friendliest of those folk will have enough sense not to mess with dragonriders, given the dragons are not that far behind. And Yasminath, at least, is keeping close tabs on the situation. She might not be the most intimidating of creatures, but that's only because she has never had cause to be. K'zre, while not oblivious to the looks, is choosing not to engage. But there's a tension in his frame, and his hands are no longer in his pockets but rather hang at his side and at the ready should he need to react. "They're hungry people," he decides, eyeing a few of them with a frown. "And if they believe the rumors of the Weyr hoarding supplies…" Kez can put two and two together and realize that lingering is likely not a good idea. "I will be quick," he promises, twisting his head to cast a brief glance at F'inn. "I just want to see if they need anything vital."

F'inn is not at all pleased about the idea of K'zre going alone, but he is not about to give even a hint of indication that he has anything but the utmost faith in his weyrmate's abilities. "Go ahead, I'll be right here." That being said, he settles his back against the stone wall, his arms folding over his chest as he keeps an eye on the people keeping an eye on them. Course, he makes a point to keep a pleasantly lopsided smile on his face, looking about as relaxed as it is possible to look. Inside the infirmary, it becomes clear in a glimpse, that it is not at all up to snuff. While it is not actually filthy, it is in a state of disorganization that makes it clear that things have not gone exactly as they should. It is the door opening that is met with a wheezy voice calling out, "I'll be out in a moment!" The call is followed with a crash, the sound of papers scattering and a muttered curse before a stick thin young man with wild red hair comes hurrying into the room. "What hap- who are you?"

"I will be quick," is promised a final time before Kez turns and resolutely enters the Hold. He refrains from looking back, but walks with shoulders back and head high, purposeful strides carrying him through the tunnels and into the infirmary. His knot might hang at his shoulder, the patch of Fort Weyr clear to see as well, but he still answers that question with a stern, "K'zre, Journeyman Healer," first, following it with, "green Yasminath's rider," to round it out. "The Weyr's duties to Fort Sea Hold. I came to? see how you faired." And clearly, it is not good. But while that critical gaze might sweep the infirmary, there's little judgement for it. "And to offer support, if it is needed."

The young man, who looks more then a little exhausted, knuckles at his eyes, stifling a yawn before flashing an awkward smile. "Healer's not here," he provides in tones that hold gutteral notes. "Had to go tend to some sick folk at the port." And from the sound of it, the 'sick' are probably in the tavern. "If your looking for supplies, we aint' got none to spare and I couldn't give it to you anyways." It's only belatedly that he tugs on his forelock and adds. "Tyrmor, not really a healer at'l but I pass fair enough as an apprentice." He doesn't. Not really. But it is what it is. "Oho! Ye're a dragonrider!" That gets his attention relatively quick, his neck craning to get a better look at the knot. "You bringin supplies then? I can help you unload."

K'zre is not fool enough to think that all the Holds are as well-equipped and well-maintained as the Weyr might be, and while the disorganization might have him twitching just a bit, there are no rules and regulations thrown in poor Tyrmor's face. Even the assertion that he's an 'apprentice' of sorts (which definitely gets a bit of an eye twitch from the greenrider, even if he tries to prevent it) has Kez "mm,"-ing in a pretty good imitation of his father and moving right along. "I am…" a dragonrider. But the question of supplies has him looking a bit guilty. "I don't have any with me," comes in apologetic tones. "We just came on sweeps," he explains. But it's followed quick enough with, "But if you give me a list of what you need, I can send another rider back with them." Or at least, he'll try.

"Oh." Sniffling, Tyrmor drags the back of his hand across his nose in a very unhygenic fashion, his shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. "We need lots of things," he asserts. "Dunno what 'zactly. I mostly just clean up." Which really? That in and of itself is a disturbing thought. "Alcohol for sure, and that thin white fabric to wrap stuff in.." Scratching at his head, then the back of his neck- which looks like it needs a good wash— he turns in place and shrugs. "Probably pills and tea?" Cause all pills and teas are the same. "I can have the healer make a list when he gets back." Which will most assuredly not be until sometime tomorrow.

"You need to wash your hands." It comes out in a rush, before K'zre can even think to stop it. And even once he says it, there is no apology or even a grimace. "Thoroughly, with lots of soap and warm water, before you touch anything else." And while Tyrmor does that (because there isn't even a question in the greenrider's head that he will be doing that), Kez slips around to poke his nose as casually as he can around the place. "Bandages, pills and tea," he repeats in a quiet murmur, slanting a look to the would-be apprentice. "If you don't mind, I'm going to take a little look around. To see what you might need." And even if he does, Kez is still gonna do it. That 'quick trip' he promised F'inn is turning into a much longer venture, but Yasminath will at least keep Nymionth in the loop. All is fine, Kez is just… being Kez. "How is this organized?" he wonders, though the clear answer seems to be 'it isn't.'

"Wash my hands?" Frowning, Tyrmor looks down at his hands, nails grimy with dirt and more then a few questionable stains. "It's not been a sevenday yet," he protests as he turns to watch K'zre move deeper into the infirmary. "But uh… right. Wash my hands. Soap." Making his way over to the sink, he grimaces and grumbles a lot about it not being bath day, but he does wash his hands. "Y'can look," calls over his shoulder. "But D'nt touch nothin, it's samitized." It is not even a little bit sanitized, but that hardly matters to Tyrmor. "Theres bandages what been washed in the cabinet over there," he adds as he dries his hands on shirt and moves to trail after K'zre. Pulling open the doors to the cabinet he smiles proudly at the pile of tangled bandages, some of which still have dried blood and other questionable substances on them. "And medicine in there," he adds to a cabinet that is empty but for a few boxes of what appears to be the very same tea one would find in the living caverns and a few half full bottles of booze that have been watered down. "Yven don't like nobody going in there, though."

"Is it?" That's totally a legit question, given it's coming from K'zre. But it only takes a glance back to Tyrmor, and then a good look at the stuff around him, for the greenrider to come to the conclusion that 'sanitized' is the wrong term. His lips pressed into a thin line, he stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest as though to resist touching anything (and really, Kez does not WANT to touch anything). "These have been washed?" There is clear disbelief in his tone, and a flash of irritation in his eyes as he considers the man proudly pointing out the disarray. But it is not for Tyrmor that K'zre is upset, and with a rough sigh he refrains from speaking further. "Medicine…" and again, it takes a bite to his cheek to keep the greenrider from going off (and maybe, just maybe, that's Yasminath's influence helping him keep cool). "Yes. I see." Boy, does he. "Tyrmor," he asks, affecting his most polite and innocent tone (which, for Kez, is probably a little… scary), "Can you tell me how many patients you and Yven attended over the past month? Clearly, you have been very busy…"

Tymor puffs up proudly at the question, his chin dipping in a firm nod. "Just today! I cleaned the /whole/ place by myself." Spreading his arms to indicate the disarray, he steps closer, clearly unaware of the fact that it is about as far from satisfactory as it can be. "Washed em just last week, hardly been used enough to clean again," he points out as he glances at the bandages. "To much soap isn't good," is added in tones that are meant to sound sage and wise. Course, K'zre's not yelling at him and he has not clued in to the fact that he's displeased, and of course, all that has him puffing up more and more. "I got a book!" Turning, he dashes across the room, shoving a mass of paperwork on to the floor and comes back to proudly present the book to K'zre. "Patients put their mark in there when they come in and their coin goes in a box Yven keeps with him." Glancing at the book is probably about the most useless and frustrating endeavor one could imagine. While there are columns and lines printed on the page, the 'marks' are haphazard X's and doodles that are better left unlooked at for overly long.

This is not his infirmary. This is not his infirmary. This is not his infirmary. It is this mantra that keeps K'zre sane, though he can't help that he's scowling. Or that his shoulders are tense. Or that the look he turns upon that pile of bandages might just set them aflame. But the pronouncement of a book has him perking up, attention turned away from the unsanitary and dangerous conditions and once more toward the… equally unsanitary but maybe not as dangerous Tyrmor. "Ah, goo— Coin?!" It is the mention of money that has him flabberghast, rather than the marks in the book. Kez hasn't even really look at it yet, briefly hung up on this idea that a Healer would be taking money for treatment. A hard frown, but his voice is at least polite enough when he says, "Thank you Tyrmor. One more question…" and then he's getting himself right out of there. "Yven is a Journeyman? From the Hall?"

Tyrmor is literally glowing in the wake of the thanks, his toothless smile broad and pleased as he dips his chin and a quick eager nod. "Yup! There's lots and lots of coins in that box. Or was, afore he goes out. Folks think Yven's the best and puts their coins in the box e'ery time." It's the last that has him shrugging bony shoulders, hands (that are not clean, despite the washing) turning up in an open gesture. "We gots no hall, just the door and the 'firmary. Do we need a hall?" Course, now he's worried.. Cause really? Where would he put a hall in this building.

Jaw tight, and expression fierce, it's something of a wonder that Kez doesn't growl along with it. He's certainly looking a little rabid, even if he's trying hard (SO hard) not to. There are no words for the declaration of just how fantastic the patients find Yven, but there's a twitch to K'zre's eyebrow that says he does not agree. Even if he's never met the man. The last has him frowning for different reasons, and he tries once again with, "But he is a healer, yes? What knot does he wear? Does he have a patch, like this?" and Kez lifts a hand to tap at the Healer's insignia that decorates his jacket and marks him as a Healer, as well as a Thunderbird wingrider. "Do people call him 'Journeyman'?"

Tyrmor tilts his head, peering at the patch before shaking his head. "He ain't got nothing that fancy. Folks just call him Yven." Course, he's reaching out to attempt to touch the patch with grubby fingers. "T'aint no dragonrider, neither," Tyrmor notes with a rattling laugh. "He's a healer, though, tells folks all the time. Takes care of the worst o' the worst in wounds and ain't none of em e'er come back for more treatments!" Course, that's probably cause they are dead, but Tyrmor has no clue of that. "There's a fancier one up in the village," he points out. "Gots a fancy patch, to. Course, he ain't got no dragon, neither."

"Right." There is nothing about this situation that is 'right', but K'zre is already overstepping and he knows it. Still, there is hesitation before he leaves, a final sweep of his gaze over the area before it lands on Tyrmor once again. "Tyrmor…" but whatever he was going to say, he seems to think better of it, a lengthy pause stretching out before he finishes lamely with, "… I'm going to go now." He will make no promises about supplies, either, but on a whim he adds, "Will you do me a favor? Don't tell Yven that I was here. I don't want to worry him." And whether it is agreed or not, and whether Tyrmor remembers or not, K'zre cannot linger any longer. A final glance around, flash of irritation and a deep breath that does nothing to settle him, and Kez is turning on his heels and heading for the door.

Tyrmor waves as K'zre heads to the door, his head dipping in a quick nod in response to the request. "I can do that." Course, there is no mistaking the pride on the youth's face— clearly he believes that he's passed inspection with flying colors. "Say hello to your dragon for me!" he calls out as K'zre heads out of the room. "If'n you get hurt sweeping, we got a tea for that!" They don't. He thinks they do. But they do not.

Course, having been briefed, at least marginally, courtsey of Nymionth and Yasminath, F'inn is already pushing off the wall as K'zre steps out of the infirmary. "We good to head back?" Course, from the look on his face? It's pretty clear that he damned well KNOWS that all is not well. "You okay?"

K'zre can only shake his head. There is too much for him to comprehend to speak all at once, and it takes a few false starts before he decides, "I… no." He's not okay. It's very obvious he's not okay. But whether he's about to turn around and run back in, or continue to flee away from the chaos, is hard to decipher. He settles for moving resolutely in the direction of the waiting dragons. "I think— I want… I don't know," he decides at least. "Maybe… maybe getting out of here is a good idea…" even if Kez is contemplating marching up to the main Hold and the (theoretically) legitimate Healer that mans it.

"A drink?" The suggestion is made as F'inn steps up to walk beside him, one arm draping across his weyrmate's shoulders. "I wouldn't mind getting a drink when we get back." Here? No. Absolutely not. He has no desire to linger here any longer then they already have. Course, he KNOWS the greenrider's temper and he KNOWS how stubborn K'zre can be. And both of those things have him tugging his weyrmate in closer to his side. "They know what's going on," he murmurs in quiet tones. "It's up to them to fix it, not us." Because right now? He has serious doubts that K'zre could manage anything close to diplomacy. "We'll report it, that's all we can do."

"You didn't see it," hisses the greenrider, righteous fury briefly flashing across his face. It is plain to see — plain for everyone to see — that K'zre is very upset at what he has just witnessed. And it is quite clear that he has utterly forgotten where they are, and who else might be watching. One arm is flung toward the infirmary he just departed, a dramatic gesture to come with his, "that man is NOT a Healer!" At least his voice is kept to a volume unlikely to carry far, even if it is apparent what he is discussing in such vehement tones. "I've never seen… He's preying on people!" Well… maybe. >.> "I can't just… ignore that!"

"Nymionth told me enough," F'inn assures in soothing tones. Of course, with K'zre gesturing and clearly angry, the bronzerider is picking up their pace, hastening them toward the waiting dragons. "You can file a report as soon as we get back," he assures. "Right now, there is nothing we can do that would cause far bigger problems." He is, of course, making a point to keep an eye on the locals, offering wry smiles that say 'What can you do' to any baleful, or menacing looks cast their way. Fortunately, Yasminath and Nymionth are not far off and in no time, he is urging K'zre to mount.

Righteous fury blazing in his brown eyes, K’zre looks about ready to take on the whole of Fort Sea Hold by himself. Thankfully, he’s got more sense than that (and a weyrmate who is ushering him swiftly towards the waiting dragons). A final glower, and he twists out of F’inn’s grasp and angry-stomps the last few paces to Yasminath’s side. At least he’s no longer worried about the rain?


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