Featuring: Dussadhyan, Lexa, and Roger
Date: February 23, 2005
IC Date: April 30, 3931
Summary: A couple members of the crews of the Amarada and the Makara encounter each other and one of the local Nereus girls on a rainy afternoon at the docks.

Navale - Docks - Parnassus

Surrounded by the sounds, sights, and smells of the estuary and the dockyards, where the Navale meets the water is an area of perpetual activity. Fortified against the wear and tear of the water's constant motion, the cobblestone landing extends out into the estuary with several long piers that allow ships to take berth at Parnassus.

For visitors and cargo alike, the Navale provides the first taste of the unique region that Parnassus inhabits. While Empyreans and their Mongrel slaves and employees abound, those of other races are easily in evidence, moving and working about the district. Sylvan, Atlantean, and even Varati make use of the largest, most accessible landing for ships that come into the Mahpe River's estuary. Though those who work the area tend to be coarser individuals, often someone of the upper classes can be seen tending to their business affairs, or the arrival of esteemed guests.

Carriages and wagons stand ready to take visitors or cargo up the steep hill to the white walled Empyrean city or to the impressive expanse of the bustling enterprise of Pons Pactum. Across the water can be seen the island, Insula Garum, and further across the tiered levels of Irha-Esh. Directly to the southeast is Mongrel Town.

A rainy, damp afternoon on the docks in Parnassus. Anyone in their right mind is indoors. Which clearly goes to prove that Lexa is perhaps a couple of feathers short of a wingful, as she's flirting, somewhat unsuccessfully, with a couple of the sailors who are at work loading the Makara.

The rain doesn't bother Roger, who emerges from betwixt a handful of bewildered crew members. It just rolls off his curved back. He clutches a burlap sack in his thick hand and mutters something incomprehensible. His hair, normally tied back along his back, is flowing freely today, and he brushes it back from his homely face repeatedly, trying to keep his face dry enough to see.

Lexa shrugs. "Your loss, boys. Y'know where th'Nereus is, anyhow." She shakes rain-wet hair off her face, and makes to pull her hood up.

The rain distracts Roger enough that he doesn't necessarily know where each step will lead, and it turns out that the stones are a bit slippery today. He loses his footing just enough to cause him to lurch in Lexa's direction, and very nearly collides with her before righting himself. "Damned feet," he mutters, and he pauses to adjust his ragged boots. His mop-like hair douses his face with a fresh torrent of water.

"Woah..." Lexa takes a step back, manages to get a foot caught in the cloak that's saving her from the worst of the rain, staggers another couple of steps backwards, arms flailing, and lands rather gracelessly on her rear on the dockside.

"Oops." Roger stops and shakes his head off like a dog, embarrassed. He sheepishly ambles to where Lexa is currently "seated" and bends down (as best as he can with a crooked back), extending a meaty hand. "Sorry," he growls, his voice low. "Slipped...."

Most folks who know Lexa would expect a torrent of abuse around about now, and surely some of the watching sailors are. They're in for a shock, though. "Ow," is the sum total of her complaint, though she does quite clearly bite back several much less polite remarks, before accepting the offered hand from Roger.

Roger gives what for him would be a slight tug, and attempts to bring the fallen woman to her feet. However, considering the former's girth and the latter's surprisingly slight frame, it is quite possible that he pulls too hard, especially considering his low center of gravity.

Upon this scene a large Varati appears, eyeing all with the care any student gives to an assignment he wishes to pass. Seeing the commotion before him, he advances, though he exhibits but the reserved curiosity of an older Varati, which is to say, so slight as to be unnoticeable. As Roger seems to be having a slight problem with weight, he steps forward and offers his assistance in the form of one hand, seemingly unaware of the fact that pure bloods should consider mixed bloods of lesser status. Perhaps the well repaired clothes on his back explains some of this, or perhaps not. The gulls flying about seem not to care.

Lexa is, indeed, much lighter than someone of her height might be expected to be, and is hauled up with a slightly startled yelp, to wind up pretty much draped on Roger. Assuming he keeps _his_ balance.

While Roger is certainly clumsy, his footing is at the moment secure. The one good thing about being a hunchback, if there is a good thing, is that it's hard for someone to knock you off balance. Lucky him. Lexa is probably not so lucky. Roger's sunken eyes bulge as he realizes what is about to happen... too late, and he is suddenly pretty much wearing Lexa as his hands flail helplessly. He gives a startled, girlish high-pitched "Ack" and is driven back a step or two.

Dussadhyan steps back and watches the attempted ascension of one angel into heaven, until plummeting back to earth, Roger's weight lending a certain gravity to her position. He steps forward again to see if any assistance may indeed be required, but not near enough to be clubbed to death by falling, flailing, or stumbling women and men. A simple fall might be prevented, but the hunchback seems to have things well in hand. So to speak.

And, no doubt, the sailors on the Makaya are royally amused. Lexa steadies herself, narrowly avoiding winding up flat on her face as an encore, and manages to get herself upright. One of the more amused sailors gets a withering look and an "Ain't you s'posed to be workin'?"

Roger groans, utterly embarrassed, and spins around gracelessly to scurry away before things get really out of hand -- when all of a sudden he finds himself face-to-knees with a Varati. He snarls for a moment, sounding like a trapped animal, and growls, "Let me past. Need to get onions for the ship." As if that would matter to anyone else but him.

Dussadhyan steps aside, grave interest in his single eye. "I mean not to intrude. And is the ship lacking in other things? If I am to be assistant cargomaster, it might behoove me to be aware of such, for surely Mr. Burke cannot attend to everything." He nods to Lexa, unsure of her status...or anyone else's for that matter, having only recently arrived. A pelican lands upon a nearby post, though it remains out of reach of prying hands, and the sailors upon the Makara apparently unmollified by Lexa's snarl...yet.

Lexa hrmphs, and attempts to straighten her cloak. She clearly doesn't trust herself to say anything more without giving Roger an earful, and equally clearly, for some reason, doesn't want to.

The mongrel hunchback is completely nonplussed by the Varati's apparent interest. "You... talkin' to me?" Perhaps he is not used to getting attention from his 'superiors.' He looks up (and up) through his thoroughly damp hair as the rain continues to fall. His tone is not intended to be confrontational, just utterly confused. Roger pauses as the wheels in his ugly head turn, and then he mutters, "Need t' get onions...." When the pelican lands, Roger's head snaps around at the movement. "Mmmmm, lotsa meat on those." He starts over to the bird clumsily.

Dussadhyan allows Roger to meander for a moment, a glint of irony in the one rich honey-colored eye. He looks up at the sailors on the Makara and shrugs slightly, as if to say nothing more amusing is to be found - at least until Roger attempts to capture the wary pelican. The pelican is not unaware and flaps its wings warningly, as if to say, come any closer and I'm gone. He looks down at Lexa and adds in a voice like the drifting of sawdust amplified to an audible range, "I am...Hyan. Attached to the Amarada until I am told otherwise." The sailors turn their interest to the pursuit.

Lexa leans on a bollard, watches the attempt. "Yer headin' off with them out to gods know where, then?"

Roger lumbers a bit closer to the pelican, now fixated on his prey. He bends to pick up the burlap sack that was dropped in the struggle with Lexa, and grunts as he sees that it's now completely soaked through. He opens the sack wide and approaches the bird, then suddenly lunges at the post.

The pelican, with equal suddenness, lunges *away* from the post, apparently having been attacked with great frequency by would-be chefs desiring exotic cuisine. The sailors and the dockworkers laugh raucously, waiting to see if Roger can complete his lunge off the dock entirely...at least until a bellow from behind them catches their attention. "You lazy, landgrubbing, sons of diseased swine! Get back to work!" This accomplishes far more than all of Lexa's menacing looks, although a few send fleeting glances of appreciation at her less than menacing looks. The Varati rasps, "As God sees fit, I am led upon that path, yes. And you?"

A shrug, and a shake of damp hair. "Nah." Lexa fingercombs some of it as dry as she can. "When're y'sailing?"

Roger is clumsy, and not very smart, but he is no fool. He stops short of sending himself off the quay, closes up the bag and shrugs. He then turns back up the planks towards the Makara and disappears momentarily from sight.

Dussadhyan considers the question and replies after some thought. "About five days I believe." He watches Roger retreat onto the ship, the sailors having responded to the cattle prod of some superior's tongue and the dockworkers wandering off in disappointment at Roger's apparent lack of stupidity. The usual controlled chaos of the docks resumes, and the lesser of the two cargomasters resumes his study of the movement of goods, without quite taking his attention away from Lexa, as if awaiting further questions.

She nods, and then frowns. "Where *is* th'ruddy Amarada, anyhow?" Lexa makes a point of scanning the grey horizon. "I ain't seen her or her captain in days."

A path through the chaos is suddenly created as the dockworkers give way to Roger once more. He now has a new, dry burlap sack. The rain eases, and the sun occasionally peeks through the clouds. Unfortunately, this does nothing to improve Roger's appearance. This time, his hair is tied back from his face. His clothing is more or less soaked, and his tattered boots make squishing noises with each step.

Dussadhyan shrugs again. "With Khalid Atar's blessing, they are safe and have done whatever it is they had to do. I was not made privy to that secret, only to the fact that certain supplies must be obtained and ready. I would be speculating otherwise." If he is inclined to do so, it is not apparent at this time. When Roger reappears, he asks in a voice that would earn no prizes in an oratory contest, "Need you aid in your pursuit of onions?" There is a faint look, almost sorrowful, in his eye, though that might be merely the illusion of sunlight in showerfall. Otherwise, he gives no sign of anything but mild interest.

"Ah." Lexa shrugs, idly. "They just puttin' in here t'pick up supplies an' th' likes of you, then?" A wry laugh. "Won't be gettin' much business out of them, I won't."

Roger marches right up to the assistant cargo-master, lifts his head, and comments, "So. Yer the assist'n cargamaster, eh. Name's Roger." He does not offer his hand. "W're gonna need more salt, that's fer sure. An' we need a big pot, a bigger pot, a big 'un yes...." He trails off for a moment, and then he sees Lexa's face for the first time. "Pretty." He grunts to himself, but doesn't stare, and his gaze swiftly moves back to the Varati. "I'll get th' onions m'self. I know how to pick 'em, I do." He starts to turn to go, apparently not expecting much of a response.

Dussadhyan nods. "I will attend to it. I believe I know someone who might be willing to part with a fair size pot for a trade of something I will not be needing. And salt is always a necessity, though the sea we will be sailing is briny enough. May I surmise you are a cook?" He awaits Roger's response before glancing at Lexa and responding, "I would say so, and likely not." Nor does he seem particularly in need of her services himself.

Lexa hrmphs. "Pah. Gettin' so a girl can't earn a decent livin' on her back these days."

Roger pauses before he goes and offers a toothy grin. "I'm th' head cook for th' Makara, I am." His voice rises with a sense of pride, as much pride as the wretched mongrel can muster. "Heh. I ain't none to look at, but I'll make ya good food." He sort of shrugs at Lexa, but doesn't say anything in response.

Dussadhyan smiles slightly. "Of that I have no doubt." He looks critically at Roger a moment..or at least at the upper right leg. "And should that seam in your pants begin to unravel much more, perhaps I could offer my services as a tailor. I may have some time on my hands once the cargo is secure." He tilts his head at Lexa and offers a suggestion, whether wanted or not. "Perhaps you could switch venues? It is a thought. I have done so myself." He waves a hand, as if to indicate the vast difference between tailor and cargomaster.

Lexa eyes Dussadhyan for a moment, with a slight frown, then shakes her head. "Ain't that bad. Just hate it when ships come in an' their crew're too busy fer a little fun." She eyes Roger for a moment, then looks back at the Varati. "'Sides, where'd I go?"

Roger laughs throatily, showing lots of crooked teeth. "What wrong wi' m' pants?" He chuckles a bit more, then winks at Lexa. "Eh, I'm sure y' do well enough. Pretty gel like you, do just fine 'round here." His enormous, rounded shoulders ripple as he gives a heavy shrug and turns to go. Then, to Dussadhyan, "If y' wanna go through th' stores with me later, y' know where t' fine me." He grins again, then starts off down the road on his quest for onions.

Dussadhyan watches him leave before answering Lexa's question. "Where would you go? Anywhere. Anywhere at all." He shrugs at that and takes his leave with a slight bow in the Mongrel's direction, though why a Varati would bow to a Mongrel to any degree is anyone's guess.