Peter Piper Picked a ... (Mi'rah)

[Requiem]

He'd decided to call himself Peter Piper if anyone asked. Why? Just because. A man had to have his amusement every once in awhile, after all. If he was going to infiltrate Hyphen incognito - like a mountain of a man could ever truly be incognito - he was going to do it all the way. And since he was going about as a peddler of pots and pans, the alliteration might as well be complete. He'd even made up a sign. "Peter Piper, pots and pans peddler." Elysia couldn't say he wasn't trying after seeing this, now could she? (Not that half of it wasn't her idea in the first place.) Growing a beard and letting his hair grow out a little expressly for this purpose hadn't been too hard. Neither was the old, faded clothing. He'd had to 'borrow' a couple things to complete the holder look, of course...dragonriding leathers were a little obvious. But all in all it was about as good as he was likely to manage.

If no random Wastelander stuck a knife in his back by the end of the day he'd call it a success.

'Peter Piper' rolled his cart along the edge of the press in the bustle of early morning set-up, metallic crashes adding music to his gait with every step. Miguel was perched on the edge of the cart. The child was playing rather simple pipe music, on a crudely made reed pipe. The tune was simple, but he played it well for no training. The result of many idle candlemarks. As much as Miguel liked Mae, he'd barely left S'rei's side for more than a few moments at a time here lately. Leaving his nephew at Burimyu was decidedly out of the question.

Their tiny little makeshift stall (of stolen tithes, ironically enough, but the kitchens hadn't needed so much so S'rei might as well make some marks with the excess and bring back things they actually did need) was set up in short order. Then the bronzerider settled beside it on a low stool, looking for any faces of interest in the crowd. There were several people he'd like a chance to talk to...some for business reasons but a surprising number simply because he missed them...if they happened to wander by.

Speaking of which. Wingleader knots and everything. "Pots, pots and pans!" he called, loud enough to definitely startle the Mi'rah wandering past him so closely. Miguel put on his brightest grin and waved enthusiastically at Mi'rah. No disguise for him. No one would recognize him but Selenitas riders and weyrfolk, after all.

[Lotty]

They say that not all who wander are lost, but in Mi'rah's case one could make a solid argument that he was. Whoever did he have to shop for afterall? It made little sense why he would be so interested in the wares of all of these stalls, much less at the gather - those celebrations he failed so miserably at - until you knew that he wasn't checking out the products at all. He was just scoping for people... based on rumors of course, and since he could put little faith into what was said to him as he was drunk and pinned between two women, he didn't exactly know what he was looking for. The former Weyrleader could come in any shape or form really, and having mostly given up, the bronzerider began trudging his way back to the wine garden where he could perch and watch everyone walk by.

He hadn't expected of course, that he would have been picked out first, so when the shouts and hollers cut across his senses he nearly gave it no mind except to turn on the words with narrowed eyes. It was mocking him really, that chant, so swiftly spoken by the salesman, when half the world seemed to know that such alliteration would tie his own tongue into a knot, but his sour expression was short lived as he saw the jaunty little wave from the youngster. Ah! It was, wasn't it? Mi'rah froze in his place before looking both ways suspiciously and wandering in closer.

"Miguel," he greeted S'rei's nephew, stalling if only to dig up the name from his memory before carefully carrying on. He'd call it his quiet tone if he wasn't well aware of how subdued his voice typically was to begin with, but as it was it had a marked sort of... gravity to it, "is this w-who I...think it is?" Please say it was... it had to be... he squinted his eyes and tried to picture the man without his beard, but weary of connecting gazes with the other despite the knowledge that should give S'rei away. Mi'rah was incredibly awkward about prolonged eye contact, as was to be expected by one who grew up in the stifling hold of Lemos where social graces were held above all others. It's a shame he didn't stay longer, he never got to the lesson on what to do next, and stood there blankly with some sort of faux seriousness that the whole situation had shoved onto him.

[Requiem]

Mi'rah seemed very much to be locked within his own mental world. (But then, when wasn't that the truth?) S'rei watched him with a good deal of inner amusement. He didn't leave off his calls, however, and the short beard did well to obscure that phantom of a smile that couldn't be banished from lips. A glance was given to Miguel, but he could see at once that the boy recognized Mi'rah. Good.

Miguel's blues fixed on the stuttering bronzerider with something between mild confusion and patience. Waiting for the man to make his intentions clear. His eyes moved to his uncle's, then fixed on the wingleader's once more. "I don't know," he answered honestly. How was he to know what other men thought? The child smiled then. "But friends should meet and speak again, right?"

S'rei laughed and waved Mi'rah closer. "You have need of a few pans, do you?" His voice lowered to a decibel meant solely for the other man's ears. "You look far healthier than hope could devise. I must admit...I rather thought that rumors of your living were merely that: rumors. For once I am glad for gossip proving true." When he smiled, it reached his dark grey eyes...eyes that even his children didn't replicate exactly.

"How goes things back home?" It was a burning question, as was the one regarding his little son. The smile wilted when thought of his youngest naturally turned his mind toward the boy's siblings, but S'rei shook it off with some effort. He had family still. Shei. Shoal. And, apparently, an eighteen-turn-old son he'd never met. When that wasn't enough, there was Miguel, whose need was more pressing than the others'.

[Lotty]

Ok, yeah it was. Miguel had pretty much confirmed it then, nice enough to deal with his bouts of absentmindedness and constant stammer that would just about drive anyone short of a saint up a wall. Thanks was extended in the form of a smile and agreement before his attentions could trail off back to the man in disguise who was beckoning him ever closer. Mi'rah couldn't help but oblige, chirping in with, "No p-pans... p....pots maybe..." and then sneaking in a few extra steps for a safe distance. One that would insure that the only people to hear them would be someone as bold as to try and join the conversation themselves.

"It's good t-to see you as well," he admitted, though there had been times past when he cursed the names of all the friends who had left him. Left him stuck there presumably to die with the Wastelanders all around him. He had never thought it fair before, that he got to be the one stuck in the belly of the beast, but then fairness was something he so rarely experienced anyway. There was no purpose in putting faith into it, "I-I hear my share of rumors as well. Until recently there was reason to believe you dead... I'm glad I can confirm that you are alive and well." Maybe he was dead though, Mi'rah had heard that after passing a man's hair and nails could continue to grow. A ridiculous notion meant only for fun, but one that would at least explain that beard S'rei had going on.

As for things back at Selenitas, "Home? W-where do I even begin?" Maybe it would be good to know what other rumors the man had heard, it could help narrow down how much he had to divulge. Ever the little strategist he was just dying to tell S'rei all the little details of the weyr's wing break downs, but he had the feeling that what his cohort was really looking for was something more about the conditions at large, "Morale is very low... I worry..." understatement, Mi'rah had been an absolute wreck for the weeks immediately after the takeover, "it's not getting better, and everyone wants someone to look to.... t-there was a hatching that turned out a big mess. Killed all the mutants like we used to..." maybe 'we' was the wrong term, but the bronzerider was not alone in the awful kinds of things they'd do in old Benden.

He'd answer anything as questions came. It was the least that he could do, but inquiries of his own popped into his mind, and a few of which he could just not let go, "I don't suppose you can tell me anything about where you are can you?" He assumed it too secret, but he did so love clues. It would at least entertain him for a few days to rack his brain and try and figure it out.

[Requiem]

A brow rose, a turn of lips. "Mm. I can't say which rumor suits me better. Perhaps I'll just ask you to keep it properly ambiguous. You've always had sense enough to need no guidance in what and who to tell." He glanced aside to be sure no one was paying them more attention than anyone else. "For what it's worth, I would not wish this on you. When Sel'n came to warn me not to return at Lighttower...I was sorely tempted to ignore him."

S'rei's eyes narrowed slightly at Mi'rah's information. It wasn't altogether surprising, granted, though he'd thought that the men who had so easily taken over the weyr of his birth would prove more worthy of their conquest. Not that he was complaining. If they bungled things, it would be that much easier when the time came. If the time came. Because even if every one of the native Selenitas population supported an attack from the exiles right now and fought alongside them...they'd still have the disadvantage.

"Then my suggestion to you is to find someone they can look to. Preferably someone who can win some of the invaders to their cause as well. As it stands...we have no plans to free you. We are too weak." His hand fell on Mi'rah's shoulder. Squeezed briefly. "I'm afraid not, my friend. I would not ask you to keep such a secret. It's likely they'll search more determinedly for us in the future. Suffice it to say that we've made our home in a place the new Selenitas is unlikely to find without help."

He removed his hand from the man's shoulder, gesturing to a line of pots while keeping his voice low. "Another task for your quick mind. We must find a way to remain in communication with one another that puts people at the smallest risk. As it stands right now, we can do nothing to help, but with information..." He smiled wryly. "Those trapped at the Weyr would be heartened to know they have allies outside doing something other than hiding."

[Lotty]

Find someone? That they could all look to? His lips wavered in that cartoony way of his, crimped into obvious frustration with the task. How was he to do such a thing? He certainly knew that he himself couldn't ever be someone that was so universally liked, and the only person he knew that ever came close to that description was S'rei, and that was obviously an inadequate solution. Of course, his anxiety was only compounded by hearing the truth he had suspected, but denied, all along. His insides twisted accordingly; they were not coming to save them, not any time soon, and the fear that he was going to die there, always haunted by the unending war flared up within him. It was quelled only minutely with the touch from the other man, but it was hard to soothe the burdened soul with gestures alone. If it wasn't obvious enough, this was not the news that he had wanted to hear.

Catching a lost breath, he tried to pull himself back into a more decent composure. After all, one shouldn't look so depressed when picking out pots and pans right? His eyes naturally drifted up, but lingered on the hanging racks of cast iron skillets, instead of right through up to the heavens where he had always sought his answers. He mused on them for a second, absently pointing his finger at one of them in false interest as he mentioned briefly, "I-I believe our kitchens are short some of those... I... don't think the t-t-train ever...quite made it..." he explain before dropping his hand and focusing back on the actual topic at hand. Diversions you see, he could play right along with them too.

"If you can't tell me..." he began, "where you are... then you can't trust human messengers, the animals though... they all have their markers..." he shook his arm, presumably just another one of his nervous ticks, but meant to shake something loose in his sleeve before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a...mandyr. A little brown mandyr as opposed to the expected coin purse. Doppelganger had been so, so, quietly and obediently clinging to his biceps there under his gather jacket, and made little more that a croon as he rolled out there onto Mi'rah's palms, frilling excitingly at the other man, showing off his Wasteland red band to match the color on his owner's knots, "The mandyrs not so much... but the 'lizards... all are banded, and the ones without are to be k-killed on sight..."

How one would be fast enough to, Mi'rah still didn't know, but regardless, "If you guys had a band on yours, they wouldn't notice..." He shrugged before Doppel scurried back up into the safety of the bronzerider's jacket. It wasn't the best idea that he had ever come up with, but it was what he had in the way of short notice, "Might want to make a code for any...uhm message w-writing though. Aside from this... I uh, know when sweeps are. It's hard to meet in person, c-c-certain incidents w-with the tithes have them... on high alert," there was a certain privilege to remaining a Wingleader. It was hard to keep him exclusively out of the know.

[Requiem]

S'rei suppressed an internal sigh at Mi'rah's expression. Had the other bronzerider truly not realized that the small ragtag group of escapees was hardly enough to liberate them? Even with some truly creative strategizing, it just wasn't feasible. No one knew that better than S'rei. He'd spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to come up with the impossible while confined by his arm injury. No. Mi'rah knew that. Sometimes knowledge and hope just didn't line up.

S'rei glanced down at the small brown salamandyr, taking in the red band. Hm. "Well, naturally. 'Mandyrs don't between." He reached out to trace a finger down the creature's spine, using it as an excuse to touch the band so he could identify the material. "The band. A message on the inside would never be noticed." The bands weren't huge, of course, but the beauty of Between was that it could take place quickly enough for there to be an exchange. They didn't need a ton of space.

The older of the men raised a brow at Mi'rah. "Then we'll have to make sure to send you a firelizard so you can keep us up to speed on that. I take it T'san would be privy to similar information?" That much, at least, S'rei had been able to learn on his own. Some of the wingleaders at Selenitas he knew. Some he didn't. Though he was a bit surprised that they'd made any Selenitas riders wingleaders at all.

Must be short on their own.

"If you can tell us little things like when and where the sweeps will be...we might be able to do some things, after all. Not a full attack, mind you. But possibly harry them enough to whittle down numbers and eventually turn things to our advantage." Even S'rei knew that was a longshot. Not to mention how long it would take to implement. But he didn't like leaving it so hopeless. There had to be a way to get Selenitas back. If only for the few friends he still had there. And the dead family he had yet to avenge.