Betta Late Than Never

[rassafraggin]

There is a certain quality of light that speaks to afternoon. At this time of year, it is a gold that softens toward caramel. Sunlight is splashed casually across the store-fronts and horse tethering bars along the main street of Carcil City. Nearer the train station, a relieved hush has settled in. It is just the sort of lack of hurry that hints at the passing of one of the rumbling contraptions. As the cloud of dust settles, Betta stands next to a small suitcase. One hand lifts to take her glasses from the bridge of her nose. A brilliantly white square of fabric is retrieved from a pocket in the small woman's very correct skirt. The glass within the frames is polished before the glasses are returned to her face and the fabric to her pocket. Bending, the woman picks up her case and turns with a brisk certainty toward the Inn just down the way.

The fledgling town's inn, hoping for the name Broadstreet Hotel to soon be spoken of illustriously as far as the capital, appears to be undergoing some renovations. The dining room is closed up and covered over with a thick layer of polymer sheeting, and even then the whiff of something determinedly fumey leaks out into the lobby. A Pardon Our Mess sign hangs over the parting in the drapes used by the workmen. The lack of dainty eats has not dissuaded the establishment from billing its accommodations, and the concierge is parked behind the counter, watching studiously as a traveler signs his life away through a stack of invoices. He must be on the hook for a passel of rooms by the looks of things. An eclectic collection of overnight baggage is clustered to one side of the gent, whose tall and broad frame is cloaked in distinctive dark green with a tiger-striped pattern fading in down the skirt. A cowboy hat obscures most of the brightness of wheat blond hair.

Entering, Betta's stride slows to a pace that is focused in seeming but allows her room to take in her surroundings. The scent from the dining room sends a wrjnkle of vague distaste across her nose. This causes her glasses to shift. Lifting her gloved hand, she pushes them back up. Pausing behind the gentleman with all of the luggage and the hat, she studies him surreptitiously for a moment before easing to one side to try and catch the attention of the clerk in an 'I'm next' sort of way.

After a moment, she steps to the right, possibly into the man's peripheral vision. Curiosity rises in her gaze but it turns to shock when she looks at his partially masked profile. A gasp sounds as she lifts her hand to her mouth, "Oh. Goodness."

Mr. Ketch Moutarde, the concierge, looks up to catch Betta's eye, and nods genially and succinctly to let her know this will take but a moment. Truly, those invoices and security deposit refund waivers are just being dashed off by the soon-to-be ex-guest's swift hand. As he builds the outgoing stack, the signature line reads: S Fflere.

The brief wandering of the clerk's attention draws his own glance to the side, but just to note the shape of a proper Begman lady. Though it appears she garnered a better glimpse of him! He's already gathering up the few documents he has left, and taking a sidestep to the far edge of the counter to give her enough room to step up, when she gasps. Well, he /is/ a bit rough and tumble at the moment. Perhaps more suited to The Smoggers Crossing in the older part of town? "Ma'am," he turns and tugs up the brim of his hat to her politely... now gazing full upon her features. And lingering there in dream-like realization. Hat still held off-kilter from his forehead. "Elizabetta," he muses, slowly blinking. "Well..... uh. Howdy?"

Betta almost backs away when her almost-guess pans out. He could have dissembled, claimed that she had made a mistake. After all, it has been years. He has changed some. Her eyes widen as she gives him a fairly intent look. He did not, however and it is too late. Just before her staring becomes impolite, her hands lower and her color slowly improves. "Well. Hello." She very nearly gives him name and title when several factors register. The disguise, for what else could it be? The name on the signature line, noticed peripherally... Her complexion fades on e more as a name is pulled from her memory. "S.Sorensen? It is... Isn't it?"

As it hadn't yet occurred to him to be worried that she'd blow his semi-legitimate identity, Merrisol takes a moment to consider her anew, then presently recovers from the shock and rapidfire mental queries peppering his senses. He nods in appreciation, lifting his hat fully from his head now, to rest against his front. "..Quite so. Sorensen Fflere. How long... Almost three years it's been, I'll wager." He smiles presently, bemusement transforming to warmth and interest. "You're well, I hope?" His gaze flickers to her valise, recalling all his baggage then, both literal and figurative. The least of which, perhaps, is the staring clerk.

It takes her a bit longer to recover though when she does it is with a faintly owlish blink or three. The discomfort of his name lingers longest, a sense of conspiratorial glee braided together with electric touches of trepidation and a protective urge that is very nearly shocking. So she smiles with a growing warmth that illuminates her eyes. "Yes. Just so. It is wonderful to see you. But what brings you to the dear old homeland?" Her gaze flickers to the clerk, then back again.

Released from its unnatural containment, his hair strays into confused locks to either side of his brow. He is far too distracted to pay them mind, gesturing off to some point beyond the physical walls and even the fences of Carcil. Yonder. "Looking up some comrades, being a bit short on crew. Although that will have to wait as something has come up, once more, abroad. But..." he hesitates after his admission, then decides, "..I'll hear more of your own visit, before anything. It really has been far too long, Betta." Half-turning, he barely looks to his remaining papers as he jots his half-name on them. "A short stroll," he suggests, glancing back inquiringly. "Have you time for one?"

While he might not take notice of the wheat-gold waves, Betta does. The distraction is momentary, for other concerns threaten her attention, marked by another faintly owlish blink and a brief blush. Her attention darts to the clerk, then the concierge. It is only a moment before she nods decisively, "I do indeed. A stroll is just the thing. Thank you." Lifting her case, she looks a bit dubiously at his collection of baggage; though not the metaphysical cases. "Do you require assistance?"

Merri looks down, following her line of sight, and sees the gaggle of small luggages clamoring for his attention. Oh, right. "Ah, some of my companions hurried away and left items in their rooms.. here." He spots a trolley tucked behind a decoratively carved column, and bends to scoop up the bags. "We'll just leave these a few moments longer under this fine professional's care, shall we?" he appeals to the concierge with a pointed look and a firm smile, one that intimates that he has settled on this course, and it is far too late to start making a fuss about it now.

The clerk pauses... then gives a stiff, permissive nod. This being Carcil City, one is only as properly bureaucratic as one can manage without inviting the wrath of the lawless. The dining room is already out of service due to this fellow, after all!

Ah, good and wise man. For in truth, Merrisol is feeling a bit wild. There is much to do. He stacks the bags on one half of the trolley, inviting Betta to deposit her own case for the nonce, before they betake themselves to the dusty plank walkway outside.

Betta watches the exchange with the concierge with a bright-eyed curiosity that masks amusement to some degree. Stepping slowly forward, she speaks to the clerk, "I am Lady Elizabetta Mordecai of House Karm. I shall return shortly to check in. I will find that all of the cases left in the care of this establishment will be in perfect order." She keeps her tone cordial, though what fire might reside in her gaze is for that worthy gentleman alone. By the time she turns back to settle her case on the trolley with Merrisol's accumulated bits and bobs, her eyes are as gentle and intelligent as ever.

Adjusting her hat and gloves, she does retrieve a miniature, personal sunshade from where it was hooked onto her bag. With it, she heads outside to join the erstwhile Lord outside. The parasol is snapped up and open, then angled to cast its benevolent shadow over her face as the traveling hat she wears does an inadequate job of it. It is almost as though the tiny, veiled pillbox was designed to show off a lady's features. Never!

On attaining the walkway, she turns in a random direction that just happens to head up toward The Smoggers Crossing. After a short few steps, though all of hers are shorter than his, she glances back toward the Inn then back up at her companion, "If it isn't prying, Sorensen," for that name is the one he is using and he did call her 'Betta', so... informality it is. "What have you been doing with yourself? Only a few rumors are carried as far as the Hasp, so I am frightfully out of touch with you and yours." Which might be a good thing. Depending on which 'yours' she refers to. "Were you looking for those friends of yours in the city? They did not strike me as the 'crew' types."

Bluebutt is surely up to no good somewhere, but is out of sight.

It might be thought frightfully thoughtless not to begin with a lady's title and family name, instead of her given name, spoken in such a presumptuously informal tone. What's done is done, and for him to now switch from the friendly familiar to a genteel civility would be the more disingenuous. Though perhaps Kerf should brush up on his etiquette guide.

Walking into the gold-tinted dust of the afternoon street, he adopts the pacing that suits her own stridelength and eventually runs his hair back with a hand in order to drop the hat back in place over it. He shakes his head to encourage her queries, smiling slightly while he thinks on the past few years. "Well.. not them, no. With a few exceptions, those I journey across the shadow seas with on a mission of far-reaching significance, are sea captains in their own right, in the Minosian sense for most of those. The crew I seek are our fellow Begmans, whom you met once aboard the vessel. My ship that sinks yet does not sink," he smiles sidelong at Betta at the wry recalling of the origins of their complicated history. "I lost them once, due to a circumstance which damaged our professional relationship, but I mean to have them all back. The remaining two have been located on a homestead outside Carcil, and are reluctant yet."

They continue across the town square, steps guided past the commercial lane where the co-op smithy would be found. Smoggers Crossing lies further ahead, however, but Merrisol slows a little to see which way Betta would prefer to turn. "Other than all that.. I have been in service to Lord, now Prince, Martin in Rebma as her Warden, working on those issues which affect the undersea realm. Now... your turn, Betta. How does the Hasp fare? Have the crops not fared well, bringing you here for newer strains?"

It is in her nature to be cautious, especially these days, so her steps are purposeful even when their direction is uncertain. She glances a smile of thanks up to him as he slows his longer stride to match hers. It is far too easy for one of her height to feel left in the dust of taller people. But, her memory provides, he has ever dealt with her with such grace and courtesy. It is all together disarming and the faint tugs of caution fade away, replaced by the more recently acquired warmth and fellow feeling. Just because this is Begma does not mean that the shadows of that early association need return. This is good for her.

As they cross the square, she listens to his explanation of the last few years, nodding beneath her hat and shade from time to time. At one point, however, she almost pauses to look up at him sharply, curiosity and alarm vying for prominence. That lasts for a moment before a light kindles and she nods once, sharply. It is a 'got it' sort of nod. Letting it pass, she mentally catches up, "Well. You have been very busy at any rate. I hope that it has been rewarding."

When they slow at that crossroads, she stops long enough to look down one road, then turn to the other. "Mmm," the hum is only vaguely musical but carries neither sense nor indication of preference. A shrug lifts her shoulders as she looks back, "Oh, the Hasp is doing well, still. We will be able to deliver our usual amount of food to Amber. But the crops should be rotated next growing season and... I will be honest with you, Sorensen..." There is the faintest hesitation before she speaks his name, noticeable; perhaps, only to him. Her voice lowers to a faintly conspiratorial tone, "I am only vaguely familiar with such things. I don't really know what to look for in a grain. There is soil to consider, naturally, as well as fertilizer and climate. But... I do not know what the Hasp wheat has taken from the soil. So, I am not sure what to get to replenish the soil." In a more normal tone, she adds, "Since we supply Amber with a fair amount of her winter food, I can't afford to make a costly mistake. So. More succinctly, yes. I am looking for newer strains of grain. And... Well, I would love to find a master gardener. Someone who understands plants. Though that is not the only position that I need to fill, come to think of it."

The smithy is not idle. There's the usual work going on there, always and eternally, and a spare visiting smith. Clearly Shiona's work has gained her a pass into working during daylight hours, and the woman is adding to the banging and clanging and woosh and heat of the forge area. Her sleeves are rolled up, and her leather apron are the only concessions to practical working wear, otherwise a trim wool suit works just as fine at the tea table as it does at the anvil. She is waiting for whatever she's working on to heat, the walls opened wide to the street to let some of the heat escape and she lifts her hand in greeting, should he look that way, towards Mister Merrisol, by some other name. He still smells about the same.

Merrisol is quite willing to take Betta's neutrality and direct their steps along the way to the end of the main street, bringing them closer to the industrious clang and roar of the broadset workshop. Within, the glow of embers from the coal furnace and white-hot metals coursing along troughs into crucibles casts the various workstations in flickering shapes, and gleams off the sweaty soot-blackened skin of the regular smiths. The incongruouly tidy figure of Shiona is fairly easy to pick out, especially when she starts waving. Merri tips his brim to her and offers a small wave as well. He says thoughtfully to Betta, "I would lend my thoughts on agriculture if they were even close to the expertise House Feldane could offer. My studies in botany do include hybridization but my specialties are more for the utility variety than food producing. How do Karm and Feldane get along, well enough to propose a work-exchange?" As they come abreast of the smithy, he offers, "Elizabetta, there are a few acquaintances I need to inform of my departure.. Lady Shiona is one." He peers in from this new angle, and points out the lady smith again with an open hand. "Would you mind if we stopped in for a few moments?"

Betta lowers her head slightly to take steps that are really unnecessarily cautious. While this is a More-Than-One-Horse town, there are no lingering horse pellets waiting to grime the unwary. She must be thinking, and listening. Disappointment touches her tone, "That is a shame. I confess that on spotting you, I hoped to avail myself of your knowledge. But I will ask Gil to give me an introduction to House Feldane. Those I once knew of that House have moved on to different things." The clanging of the smithy drowns out more gentle tones, but she raises her voice and her gaze as they come abreast of the structure. "Interesting." Her eyes scan the smiths, coming to rest on the Lady in question. "Oh, no, I do not mind in the slightest. I will take a moment to talk to the Master of the Forge. I was planning on heading up to Begma City to speak to the Forge Master there, but perhaps I can avoid that leg of the trip. The Hasp's forge has been cold since Salin went into Shadow." She looks both a bit on the sad side and vaguely irritated. More sad than annoyed, really. Inhaling, she smiles again, turning to seek the person in charge, "I want to find someone to take it on."

A passing off of the bellows crank to an apprentice, and with words about precisely what he is to look for in heating up the metal she's got in the forge, Shiona reaches for a cloth to wipe her hands. She really does manage to stay surprisingly clean, even in the face of a coal forge, and it doesn't take long for her hands to be clean enough to be suitable for conversation. She emerges out onto the sidewalk, nodding her head politely to the pair of them. The heat's not so bad there, although the noise is eternal. "Good evening, Mister Merrisol." There's a glance up to the sun, to confirm her guess and then she turns back. "Er. Good afternoon, perhaps." The clash of metal and .. well.. metal, renders Shiona's use of a different name largely not breaking of his cover at least, save to Betta.

Seeing Shiona preparing to leave her work in other hands and come out, Merrisol pauses on the stone walk - exposed wood not being used in abundance directly by the smithy - and turns his attention back to the Lady of the Manse, though his thoughts on her erstwhile Lord are conversely more annoyed and less sad. He manages diplomacy of sorts, muttering, "Baron Morfilod is an Amnesiac who may not have fully come to his senses as yet. I hope he finds what he seeks in shadow. Betta..." he studies the woman as she meanders in search of the supervisor's office. He catches up to her side as Shiona appears on the walkway. "I do want to make myself useful to you, if you imagined I could be.. we could.." He trails off and turns as he is hailed, and nods with a quick tug of his hat, removing it again after another moment. Hair be free!

"Afternoon, Lady Shiona. Beg pardon for taking you from your pursuits, yet it is urgent I speak with you. First, however.." he makes sure Betta is paying attention before continuing, "I'd like for you to meet Lady Elizabetta Mordecai, of House Karm. Lady Elizabetta, this is Lady Shiona, daughter of Random."

Betta pauses as Merrisol's words are heard. She turns to him with a complex series of emotions playing over her delicate features. The impression of a fledgling owl, too old to be nest-bound but too young to shoulder the responsibilities that are the reality of existence is fleeting look y strong. Her free hand lifts to nearly touch his arm as two nearly conflicting thoughts hover within spitting distance of utterance. Neither makes it past her lips as both collide and are stifled by the need to be social. He does win a grateful nod and an almost silent, "We must talk. Later, please. But not too much later."

Betta straightens as the remarkably clean woman nears. As the Captain's name is given, she stills; all bit her eyes which turn to glance sidelong at her companion before returning to the woman. Smiling a socially correct smile, she eases forward to offer a gloved hand. "Lady Shiona. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"My apologies for interrupting." Shiona takes a step back, a touch uncertain at that expression upon Betta's face, more emotion than one might expect on a first meeting. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Mordecai." She blinks a touch, at the inclusion of her lineage in her own name, but doesn't protest more than that. She glances to reconfirm that her hands are as clean as they might manage around here before shaking that offered gloved hand. "Er. Is everything alright?" She asks of Merrisol at his mention of urgency in speaking with her.

Merrisol gazes down at Betta, and despite the clamour of the nearby forgeworks, he seems to get the gist of her soft reply. As her hand thinks better of its touchy gesture, he only nods reassuringly and back-burners his interest for the time being. That Shiona addressed him by his Captain's name doesn't appear to concern him overly at this point. The reason for which being stated now: "Something's gone amiss with Captain Incarnate's flotilla. You'll recall I had put together a theory from water samples? Well, it's meant she and almost all of her company has left Begma with all haste. Lady Maggie and I remain yet, but I mean to check whether you are settling here in Carcil for the time being, for your..." he glances vaguely into the smithy, realizing he is not really certain what she's been spending so much of her visit hammering. "...Your work. Or would you rather accept transit back to Amber today? Sir Rhys may be in a similar bind, as he came through on my trump, and I wouldn't like to see him stranded either."

Betta's handshake is firm enough, slightly brusk without pretense or ostentation. The stated urgency gives her cause to fade back a bit to let them talk, though curiosuty jeeps her close. Hearing trouble in what is said as well as in what could be left out she frowns. "It sounds as though you have your hands full. Both of you?" The query is aimed at Merrisol more than Shiona. "If you would care to speak privately, I can finish my business. Perhaps we can meet again before you leave Carcil City?" Her inclusion of Shiona in the invitation includes a frank smile of interest. After a moment she adds, "Excuse the question, but you are a smith, if I am not mistaken. Is that so?" She really will vanish, if they wish her to.

"Oh." Shiona frowns at Merrisol's words, a furrow creasing her brow. "That is most unfortunate. I hope they are successful." She gives a little shake of her head to Betta's considerate offer. If Mister Merrisol is fine with her being there, she certainly is. "I.." Shiona pauses a moment in the consideration of returning to Amber immediately, or carrying on in the city. Betta's question is far easier to work with at the moment. "I am a smith, yes. Engineer as well, but I prefer to work as a smith."

Merrisol's "Not at all," is said in a murmur to Betta so as not to disrupt the topic of Shiona's smithingness. The beginnings of what might be a beneficial acquaintance are not lost on him, and he glances from one woman to the other and rests silent for now, barring the need for a confirming nod, or a 'please, continue' gesture.

Betta's interest visibly grows when she hears of the other woman's skills and preferences. A bird-quick smile is lifted to Merrisol, amusement twinkling in her eyes. A low murmur of, "And so it begins. Thank you, Captain," might be cryptic unless his earlier wish to be helpful is remembered. With permission given, she claps her hands softly twice, delight overthrowing caution and social requirements, "Why, Lady Shiona... That is wonderful to hear. Tell me, pray, are you situated in your own forge? I confess that I hope that the answer is no." A blush accompanies her confession, but her smile softens the potential sting.

A whole new blink, and while one really should expect a moment of wary at such a response, there's none evident in Shiona's expression. Puzzlement is present in spades, a touch of confusion even, but answers too. "Um." She glances towards Mister Merrisol a moment before her attention settles back upon the delighted Betta. "No?" A question offered, even as she continues. "I had hoped I might continue my enquiries in the Amber area, although they have not been terribly fruitful to this point." She erms softly and then admits. "I am not very good at making enquiries." She admits, a touch more softly.

Merrisol also blinks and stands a mite more self-consciously when Betta flashes her pert smile of meaning. This fortuitous happenstance could hardly be credited to him, and whether there is some luck involved at all, he is not the one with the Blood of Paulette in his veins! Merri inspects the crown of his cowboy hat, re-sculpting the crease unnecessarily, and just quickly flicking his gaze from Betta to Shiona or Shiona to Betta. Perhaps everyone is getting a bit pink in the cheeks here, which means they have been standing next to the hot workshop a touch too long now? He eyes them both again, as though concerned by the clash of quirky and bashful personalities potentially building into unseemly adorableness. "Perhaps... another short stroll," he suggests offhandedly, pushing his hat back on.

Betta says, "Oh, that is wonderful." Her initial reaction escapes before she can modulate it to something more socially acceptable. When she realizes what she has said, Betta clears her throat and tries again, "Well. Not wonderful, but..." Catching Merrisol's gesture with his hat and then his suggestion, she nods, "Good idea. Yes, let's." The sunshade is reclaimed from the crook of her elbow and flicked up and open. The whoosh of displaced air ruffles her auburn hair but leaves her eyes in shadow. This seems to calm her a bit and she steps to Merrisol's side, "I know that must have sounded odd, Lady Shiona, but I've been in search of the right smith for some time. I have a forge at the Hasp that has been cold for several years. now. Are... you familiar with the Hasp, by any chance?""

Perhaps just a wee bit of pink in her cheeks. The forge, it's clearly the forge. "But you don't know me!" Shiona can't help but protest before she gathers what wits she might about her. "I.. er.. just a moment." She moves back into the forge, to explain to the apprentice what needs doing while she steps away for a brief moment, and then removes her leather apron to hang it up neatly before coming to follow Betta and Merrisol. She's left her sleeves rolled up, just to her forearm, scandalous but not dramatically so. "I am sorry, I'm not, no. I.." She considers all of the accurate things she could add there and then just shakes her head a little, walking with them. "Why has the forge been cold?"

A walk, even a slow one, creates a sense of forward motion to go along with the progression of the current conversation. Listening to them, catching on to a bit of subtext, Merrisol smiles as Shiona tries to make sense of Betta's sudden proposal. Having put himself on the side closest to the gutter, he minds their steps while they work it through.

Walking. One foot in front of the other. Conversations. Step by step. Unless one jumps the queue as Betta did. Leaping right from 'Hello' to 'come work for me'. Step by step shielded from mishap by Merrisol physically but not, alas, vocally. Betta shrugs at one of the considerations. "You are an engineer who is a smith. For me, that is optimal. Iam an engineer as well. But I find myself having to job out things like... gears in specialized sizes or... Other pieces needed for my inventions." Shiona is given a glance, though Betta looks ahead dmostly. "If you are any good at all, you will be able to take my blueprints, my designs, and make what is required. If you are really good, we could talk shop. You might even be able to suggest improvements." Her tone sidles toward Merrisol as though checking their direction with him. But is that a verbal barometer or an ambulitory one? She does not say.

Steps then, one by one by one. "I would value that, you know. The conversation and the critique. I'm not... convinced that my ideas are the best out there." Though they are really good. Unless they aren't. Silence falls as steps are taken and milestones considered. The last question is left to answer last. It takes her a moment or two but when she does address it, it is to say, "The forge. Well, that is a long story. Probably for another time. An abbreviated version then." Her hand twists the sunshade a bit, sending the shadow spinning about her. "The man who built it went into Shadow about three years ago. I do not... anticipate his return any time soon." Or ever? Perhaps.

"Oh." Shiona listens to those words and then there's a soft 'hunh'. "Well certainly I can make parts from plans." There's a quiet confidence there, even without seeing the parts, or the plans. She might be Begman somewhere in there after all. "I don' t know if my critiques are of any value, that would be up to you." She frowns a little. "Shadow has a habit of making a person lose track of time."

Merrisol for his part looks unaware of his mitigating role in these nascent negotiations. Whether to buffer Betta's brisk thought processes from Shiona's flight instinct, or team up with Betta to wear through the lady smith's defenses, he seems to believe they'll reach the right conclusion without his interference. For now, it is interesting to observe, and might just affect his own schedule of resolving the outstanding complications of this leg of the journey. That is what he is thinking, anyway, when a familiar young man suddenly bobs up from the passerby and dashes across the lane to where the trio is strolling.

"Mr. Fflere, sir?" pants Grahm Paprika. He pauses to catch his breath and also to boggle somewhat obviously at Betta and Shiona, before casting a strangely awed gaze up at Merri. "I was afraid you'd up and left without that batch of bags, sir! Only there's a lady in the lobby, asking for you! Mr. Moutarde said you'd gone, but when I pointed out the luggage rack, the Missus made a big fuss, and so I was sent to find you, sir!" Again he studies the others and then Merrisol askance. He turns and falls into step at the man's other side, ready to bring him back to the Broadstreet. His next remark is pitched low yet not enough to be truly covert, "Boy, you sure do know an awful lot of pretty gals, don't you, sir?"

Betta slows a bit as someone new joins Merrisol. She tries to remain focused on her own conversation but ends up sliding a look over that way when the compliment is almost lost. She blushes, the color highlighting her pale complexion. Instead of confessing otherwise to inadvertent eavesdropping, she considers Shiona's statements. "Any critique is of use, actually. Creating in a vacuum, from that standpoint at any rate, is counterproductive." A slight smile and a shrug follows, the comment faintly disjointed, "I suppose Shadow can cause that in some. I am not well versed in its properties." Kind of a wet noodle reply, but she seems to mean well by it.

Turning briefly, she smiles with a hint of shyness toward the young man sent to retrieve Merrisol, then looks up at the Captain. If she takes time to study his features, it is done quickly. Propriety! And all that 'Dear Old Homeworld' rot. Gathering her senses, she stifles a grin, sobers and asks, "Shall we return, Mr. Fflere? Or is this where we part ways? Temporarily?" She pauses, considering, then offers, "Or, is this something that I can assist with?"

Merri, attending Grahm's report with a puzzled frown, starts to look to his current companions, when the boy tosses in that innocent remark. "What..?" The glance freezes on Betta and Shiona, eyes widening, then he pivots it back on Young Paprika. "Well, yes, seems I do. What of it? What are you..." Fflere is momentarily fflustered. "..No, nevermind. Let's just get back," he decides, rummaging a pocket for a coin to grant the teen. He looks at Betta again, distracted by having to mentally piece together her recent comments to Shiona, while he nods to her current line of questioning. "I don't know, Betta. I am uncertain what has happened, that could not be communicated more quickly by trump." Unless.. with all the racket from the forge, he missed a call! "We're going in the right direction. And you still need to check yourself into the hotel, in any case. You have met my spouse already, haven't you?" His concern mounts and he tries to make out the inn's entrance as they round the corner onto the main street, broad and dusty with wagon and horse traffic.

The fancy recessed entrance throws light reflections as the doors swing open and a female in a heather-blue riding outfit pushes out onto the wooden steps, having apparently watched for their approach from a lace-hung window. Her swirly chocolate do is leaking unpinned tendrils and her maidenly blue eyes are nervous and worried.

"Laurenna," Merri says his systems engineer's name, at an utter loss.

"Captain!" she calls out, fretting on the corner until they get closer. "Please.. you must come back to Cristholm's ranch. I know Sara sent you away, but... we need help."

The quiet compliment from a teen brings up colour upon Shiona's cheeks as well, and too far from the forge to blame it. It's the late afternoon sun, that's it. And her without a parasol, or something. Clearly. She has been a quiet companion back to the hotel, she's her own things to check on there, if Merrisol et al are leaving as well, and she blinks at the declaration from the systems engineer. "What is the matter?"

His wife? Ah, yes, the devilishly handsome Morfilod is married. She flashes him a smile with hints of embarrassment showing, "Alas, I have not had the pleasure. I hope that she realizes how lucky she is." Leaving off the man's name, she walks with a straighter back and more urgency in her step. Clearly, something is amiss. She slows slightly as she hears Laurenna call for Merrisol. "Goodness. Things are in a tumble aren't they?" She fixes Merrisol, then the systems engineer with a glance before speaking to the Captain. "Do you wish my assistance? Or would I be in the way?" A moment's hesitation can mean the difference between success and failure, but hairing off without the proper tools can have a dilitorious effect far greater than a pause.

Merrisol gets across the street with everyone intact and not trampled, though it's more thanks to Grahm Paprika, who darts ahead to convince a rumbling six-horse stage to adjust its course around them. The sub commander is still reconciling his mistake in assuming it had been his Maggie looking for him, as well as trying to keep his former crew member from dragging him by the arm over to the hitching posts straight away. "Yes.. of course, Mrs. Kirkman.. hold on a sec.." Stepping past her a moment to take a quick look through the lobby window for signs of his mate, he does presently turn back with a frown, letting Shiona's and Betta's questions serve to drive discussion forward.

Laurenna releases his sleeve and turns quickly to face the others when she realizes there are more potential allies towards whom to appeal. She doesn't know Shiona from anywhere, it seems, however her eyes search Betta's features for an extra moment while she decides from where it is she knows the Lady Karm. Not now, it's too much to process! She swipes loose tresses from her red-blotched and perspiring face and explains, "It's Markham, her brother. He's been in dispute with the Pringles over some cattle that strayed through a broken fence and got mixed up with his and.. well you know how the process of law can be.." Laurenna catches herself getting off track and waves her hands around to reset. "At any rate, he fell, early this morning while inspecting the fences for... Sara said he suspects there's been scheming and tampering... the Cristholm fence was engineered by Cristholms, to be steady as a church.." Hands wave! Reset! "At any rate, he fell! from the saddle! and struck his head, said the hand. That was very odd as well! We carried him off to Doctor Stillwell's and when Sara and I got back to the ranch... what do you think, those Pringles, they were on the ranch, rustling off with more than they lost in the mix-up, Sara's certain of it!" Glancing uncertainly at Betta and Shiona as this element of rough and beastly behavior is revealed, she adds, "Even with the two cattle hands, we're outnumbered!" She's been whirling almost a full half-circle to speak to them all at once, but finally settles on Merrisol again. "Captain, please say you'll come!"

"That does sound wholly and entirely disconcerting." Shiona agrees with a little frown. She didn't leave her sword unattended at the hotel, certainly not, nor at the forge, but strapped to her back. Clearly not enough to make young lads shy away from calling her pretty, apparently, or possibly it was helping. "There are people there stealing things?" She looks aghast at the notion. "From an injured party? That's hardly reasonable."

Betta smiles a bit shyly at Ms. Kirkman, one hand lifting to push her glasses back up on her own nose. The gesture is habitual and my be part of a subconscious ritual intended to sooth nerves and allow for clarity of thought. She does not address the woman for the fullness of the situation is both shocking and sparks her Begman outrage. "Why, that is awful. Unconscionable. We can't let that stand." Turning to Merrisol, she studies him for a moment, then nods decisively. "Let me go in and register. I will take your luggage up to my room, Captain. Then, if you will tell me where to be, I will come in to help. There are ways to tell which cattle belong to whom..." Aren't there? Turning to the gesticulating Laurenna, she offers, "Do you know if the Cristholms have a registered brand? Or the Pringles?" Another, briefer nod, and she adds, "I can find out what they are, likely. As I have to register my own so that I can trade here. I was going to do that anyway. So it isn't an imposition." That is stated flatly and with one of those 'no nonsense' looks up to Merrisol. It is just as though she believes that he might demure from an over-developed desire not to be a bother. Such a gentleman!

"I already said I would, Laurenna," Merrisol points out in response to Mrs. Kirkman, putting aside the captainly sternness for now. He looks around for Paprika, finding the kid standing by in the gutter, watching and listening starry-eyed. "We'll need fast, fresh horses."

"I'll get them," Grahm declares immediately, and tears off before anyone can specify how many mounts are needed. It isn't really as though these kinds of nefarious ranch doings don't often occur -- they do. Only this might be the first one that won't go swimmingly for the Pringles, or any of those outfits who subscribe to the Mo' Gear, No Fear policy of frontier business.

Merrisol glances over at Shiona, then Betta, getting the distinct sense that they mean to get in on the unpleasantness as well. The latter lady's steely look gets a solemn stare back, but he nods willingly. "Do what you can in that regard, Lady Elizabetta. You remember Mrs. Kirkman, yes? From when you were on board to help us investigate that damaged old Seal." Was Ms. back then, not that Betta would be expected to recall that detail. "And this is Lady Shiona of Amber," Merri continues the introductions efficiently, then adds his own question. "Does Mrs. Cristholm still hold the cattle, or are we to intercept the herd in transit?" His right hand drops to his hip where beneath the coat his peculiar pistol is holstered, and he looks pensive.

Laurenna nods fervently in confirmation of Shiona's rhetorical remarks, still red-faced. Perhaps because of her forwardness in what should be awkward company: two fine ladies she doesn't or barely knows, and her former boss who took a shrapnel spray in the face trying to reacquire her. Why Nigel's Knickers.. she can still make out the faded scars. "Oh yes, most of the cattle families use a system called The Bovine Beacon, I think. Coded metal implants, just point and click with the Bovine Beacon Brand Identification Module." She looks unhappy as she continues and answers Merrisol's question at the same time. "That's how they were able to ride off with so many before we realized it was too many. Sara took the two ranch hands to head them off.. she is so brave! I rode to town for help.. but it took me a while.. more than an hour," she blinks, embarrassed. "I'm a city mouse.. riding is not my strength!"

"Shiona Pryce, if it helps at all." Shiona does have a proper Begman name, with a Miss and everything attached to it, although she hardly protests being called Lady Shiona. Accurate. She nods to Merrisol, as if confirming that she does indeed plan to be part of this unpleasantness and then she considers. "Where are they likely to take their purloined cattle? Surely they can't take them all that far from the farm, even in an hour."

Betta nods twice. Once when Mrs. Kirkman is reintroduced and the other, more slowly, at the news of the Bovine Beacon. "Of course I remember Mrs. Kirkman." She uses the proper title or honorific this time. A faint frown hovers as though she is trying to fix that in her mind before it flits off. People are particular about those things. Blinking, she recovers and the frown fades. Catching Merrisol's look, she almost smiles. Nodding, she takes a step back, "I will join you when I have a BB Gun that will read the brands and a rendition of those we will need to sort the cattle..." After a moment's pause, she amends, "Or... Perhaps a listing of all of the brands used here abouts. It pays to be thorough, you know." There is a hint of speculation behind her mild gaze and oh-so-Begman words. Turning to Shiona, she shrugs, "Cattle are funny animals. When herded, they can move at a fair clip. And we do not know if the brigands had any livestock wagons with oxen to draw them. Though perhaps that would be slower... Anyway. I will join you later." She pauses then, looking abashed, "Er. But where? That is an excellent question." Laurenna's comment about being a city mouse wins her an extra smile.