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Death By Sandwich


Date:  January 27, 2008
Place:  South Boll's Lava Lounge
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  Kassima and I'sai, as is commonly known, have two 
children.  That they should someday have mutual grandchildren shouldn't
be surprising, no?  But when Kassi finds out her daughter is pregnant,
one of her first priorities is to hunt down I'sai and threaten his 
life over the fertility of his son.  It's all very borderline incestual
without even the benefit of alcohol.

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The Log:

You climb up the crude ladder and disappear from view.

It's not that Marcus is off-duty; he's just spending a few casual minutes
talking with I'sai, who's leaned back in a chair -without- his feet up,
perhaps due to the good bartender's presence. The place is pretty quiet,
and I'sai doesn't even have a drink yet, so there's just their conversation
and the quiet sound of dishes being washed by a blonde barmaid. Naturally
blonde, even.

"How I envied the blade that you toyed with that night, love; you were a
fearsome sight, love, when you threatened the men!" Da-dum. Da-dum, da-dum,
da-dum. Kassi provides her own drumbeats to the song of mauling she so
cheerfully sings by smacking the ladder's side, and it slows her climb a
bit. Ensures Marcus--if not I'sai--knows she's coming, too. If the voice
isn't distinctive enough, the taste in songs probably is. Upsy-daisy,
scrambling out of that hole in the floor, and Kassi beams at the Lounge
entire; blonde barmaid at all. "Nay half so many sailors as I thought. 'Tis
as well. I don't know that I'm in the stupid bar bet mood, though I won't
rule it out."

I'sai breaks off to say, "She's coming," as if Marcus weren't perfectly
able to tell on his own. "Hide your brownriders." - "What? Fine." He gives
the man a long look - a 'going to run or stay?' look - and then promptly
beckons Kassima's way. "Kassi! Over here. You get the first round." He's
decided!

Brownriders? Maybe it's not brownriders who should hide. Maybe it's
bronzeriders. Maybe it's I'sai specifically--for when Kassi sees him, after
the immediate, automatic brightening with which she usually greets her
friend, a stormcloud descends on her brow lightning-fast. "*You!*" Storm,
storm, storm until she's glowering down at him. Not in all black; has she
changed her pattern these days? "*You*. I should throw whimry sandwiches at
you until you're so covered in bread that Marcus puts you on the menu.
*If'n* I'm feeling generous."

I'sai reaches for Marcus' arm. "Protect me," he says, sinking back with
pale eyes gone wide. "I didn't think it was -that- bad a suggestion. Was
it? Don't have to order anything too expensive." Marcus, however, looks as
though he might be considering this menu option. At least, if he gets the
profits.

Kassima would probably expect a cut. She leans as he sinks, so she's still
over him like a brightly-clad and sunhatted wher considering its kill. "You
sired I'kan," she intones. "For this you really should die in a fall of
bread. Then I may just track down Saskia and drown her in sauce, for the
sake of poetic murder. How could you? Come t'think of it, I need t'yell at
Taralyth too. *He* won that flight. Shells! Where will I get enough
sandwiches for that?"

For some reason, Marcus doesn't stick around. Maybe I'sai is a good
customer, but not -that- good a customer? "Saskia first," Is encourages; he
can always apologize to her later. "I can help you," he adds, if only by
disappearing so Kassima won't get distracted from her new victim. And then,
increasingly perturbed, "Taralyth did -not- win any of Duellth's flights.
Never. Ever. I can't believe you would say such a thing."

It's possible Kassi's the better customer and he's picking sides--but
perhaps more likely he doesn't want to be caught in a whimry crossfire.
"You'd help me kill Saskia? For bearing your son? You are absolutely the
living end," for apparently it's only right and just for Kassima to execute
Saskia for the sin, but I'sai, no, no, how *gauche*. The greenrider aims a
poke at his chest. With her finger, not a knife, as that might bear
clarifying. "Rinath's flight! Rinath! Think what trouble that
caused--imagine how Kaisan feels, when his *brother* and his *sister*--and
what about Kisai? You should've gelded that boy at birth!"

I'sai won't be the living end much longer, if this keeps up. He swats at
the finger in question, "Shells, woman! What does Kaisan have to do with -
you're not saying -I'kan- and -Kisai-?" -Now- he's rising, whether she's
still leaning over him or not.

"*What*? Oh--oh. Nay." Kassima pauses, her ire momentarily replaced by some
unfortunate mental images. She backpedals a step as much from that as his
motion. "*Ewww*. 'Tisn't that bad--I would geld him if'n 'twere, and 'twill
nay beg your pardon for saying so. I'd kill him." Scowl. "He's an
overly-fertile wher, but he's nay an *incestual* overly-fertile wher. Nay
Kisai. Khari!"

I'sai takes the opportunity to move to the side, enough around the table
that he has a better getaway option, "Carry what? Where?" - "Don't kill
anyone. Duellth wouldn't like it. Well, unless it were someone else. But
not Saskia either. You didn't -say- before that you'd kill her, just
whatever it was about the sandwiches, so you can't blame it on me. No
killing."

"Drowning in sauce would require killing, one would think. Drowning usually
does." That's Kassi, all logic and reason. And edging in step with him. She
doesn't intend to leave any getaway option. "Khari. Kharisma. M'daughter.
M'daughter, whom your reckless rampant virile son *knocked up*! How could
you! I should--I should--" But with Marcus fled there's no drink handy for
her to throw in his face; that's lucky.

"It does? Are you sure? That would be a lot of sauce," I'sai tries to buy
time, continuing to make his way along the wall like a particularly
insistent spiderclaw. "I thought you meant it just as, y'know, a figure of
speech. Basting. Massage. Something like that." He starts to pause but then
covers it with another, bigger step. "Well, shells. Guess we're related,"
as though they weren't already. And another, "He didn't tell -me-." And
another, "Is she sure it was him?"

Kassima slams her open palm into the Lounge wall beside him, in the
direction he's fleeing. "'Twould find a way," she assures. Her tone and her
eyes are full of sauce-laden doom. "That didn't involve massage. Why would
I massage Saskia at all, much less t'death, with sauce?" There are
questions that must be asked, even in moments like this. And, "Already
were--'tisn't technical incest, but shells, how wrong is this? Stand still.
At the moment 'twill probably--probably--nay murder you so long as you buy
the next... let's call it five rounds, but keep running and implying
m'daughter wouldn't *know* and the whimry's coming out."

I'sai settles for the running, or at least the rapid walking, if not the
implying: now they're heading around a substantial round wooden table, hard
to push over, which is probably why it's been a platform for quite a lot of
dancing. It might be a familiar table. "I don't know why you would, but I
can't wait to find out." Especially if it would buy him a little more time.
"And I agree that it's wrong. Very wrong. Don't know what the shard she saw
in the boy." - "She all right?"

Now might be a better time than earlier for Kassima to be singing a tango,
come to think on it. No roses, no ruffly skirts, but it's an argument with
rhythm. "*Six* rounds," she decides. "At least you've that much sense.
Didn't you ever talk t'him about nay knocking up everything he sees?
Staying away from the pretty lasses with protective mothers? He'd best do
well by her. You can tell him that--or 'twill tell him m'self," in what is
bound to be an interesting interview. "She's pleased, actually. *Pleased*.
She likes him. Why the shell she does, I do nay know, but I blame her
father." It's a day for that sort of thing!

"Definitely tell him yourself," I'sai encourages, making another round of
the table right there. "Faranth knows I've tried," at least once, "But he
needs to hear it from you. You can put the fear in him if anyone can. Bring
all your knives. From where did she get such poor taste in men, anyway?"
Speaking of blaming fathers, "Jh'rin?"

"If'n I brought all m'knives, I'd sparkle so much A'ser would come from
Telgar t'swoon inappropriately," which doesn't stop Kassi from finding
appeal in the idea. Her grievance delivered, she's not so much death on a
monument. Chasing him around the table, now, more for the fun of doing so.
"Since m'taste in men is of course impeccable--" Oh, the dryness, and a
moment's dark look that's all for herself. "I assume so. There were those
stories of him and L'tan, him and S'din."

Round number two! "And then A'ser could distract him and -then- you could
really get him," I'sai claims as he goes, without a single snicker about
her taste, or for that matter Lysseth's. Which really -is- impeccable.
Taralyth says so, so it must be true. "Sounds like a good plan to - _S'din_?"

Kassima asks I'sai, "You realize you're encouraging me t'go after your son
with knives? I'm nay opposed to the idea, but all things considered,
figured I'd check. Just how distracted would he be by A'ser?" Ooh, there's
the flicker of doom again. "Khari's nay a faithful sort *either*, but he'd
better have the manners nay t'make kissy-faces with A'ser of all people in 
front of her mother, that's all I can tell you, and if'n he doesn't... 
S'din. I never *saw* it. But they say 'twere both proddy at once once at 
Ista, and Jh'rin went 'round with a pillow stuffed under his shirt, 
claiming 'twas S'din's baby. They made with their own smoochy faces.
Something like that." At least Taralyth never decided he was pregnant.

"Fine by me," says I'sai through round number three, "Either he can handle
himself or, well, he can't." Although that might have been the original
problem. In any case, sensing further danger, Is ignores most of the A'ser
issue; "I'm sure that he would only make kissy-faces with A'ser in front of
her if she liked it. Some people do, you know. Maybe for a painting? Maybe
she can put a pillow under -his- shirt too, and paint it that way, by way
of revenge."

"I've never met a father that didn't mind m'knifing his son before,"
Kassima marvels, quite as though this has come up often. Dance, dance.
"Liked it. Khari? That's a sick joke? She--I *assume* she wouldn't. I
haven't asked," the greenrider admits. "D'you think Marcus would serve us
while we run around and around, because I'd rather do m'chasing with a
Thread in hand... that isn't the world's worst notion. I'd ask her whether
she's painted him a'fore but 'tis another thing where I'm afraid t'have the
answer."

Maybe the father wasn't the one currently being threatened? "You just mean
that much to me," I'sai informs her during round five. "Besides. It'd be
good for him. And if you won't ask those things, maybe you could get -
Marcus! Right, Marcus to ask. And then you wouldn't have to officially
know. Go ask him, and about the Thread too. I'll buy."

Come to think of it.... "You say the sweetest things," Kassi drolly
returns. "You'll nay warn him a'forehand, will you? Bristling with knives
isn't so effective if'n the target expects it. Marcus. You're thinking I
want Marcus t'be knowing whether a daughter of mine would enjoy I'kan and
A'ser making out." She peers at him. "How much have you already had? Let's
go together to ask. I don't trust you nay t'run the other way, flee into
the jungle and live as a wild man."

I'sai promises, "I won't." If there's any warning at all, which probably
there won't be, technically it would be Taralyth doing it. Beyond that, he
gives her a toothy grin for all that staring, and keeps on the other side
of the table. "Haven't drunk a thing. And besides, it'd have to be a
Southern jungle. Y'know: grubs."

When I'sai gives a toothy grin, there are three appropriate Kassi
responses: to grin also; to be amused, because she's in on the joke; to be
wary, because she knows him so well, after all. Guess which is given here?
"I like Marcus," she says, "but I don't really want him knocking her up
next. Drinking here would be so awkward. Couldn't your fire-lizards handle
Thread?" She hooks a finger at him: c'mon, c'mon, it's past time for booze.
"Tear wouldn't fit in the cave, I don't think. That's the problem."

"Not that much Thread," I'sai says, only to realize, "You're distracting
me." He reaches for his belt pouch, the old one he always wears with
Skyfire's sign upon it, and identifies a quarter mark by touch without once
looking down. "Before I go over there, you have to promise you won't hurt
me, first. Or tie me down and let someone else do it."

"And I'm nay even A'ser." It's Kassi's turn to flash teeth. "I can promise
nay t'be hurting you intentionally this evening. If'n we make a good show
of it and you fall drunk off your barstool and break your tail, I refuse
t'be taking responsibility. Tie you--the sash on m'hat would serve,
wouldn't it? But where's the fun in that." She, of course, leaves her money
quite alone. "I swear you won't meet a grisly sandwichy end at m'hands, nay
today."

"It would be hard for a man to confuse you two," I'sai agrees, eyeing her,
just a glimpse higher for the hat and its ribbons and no more. "Promise me
that you won't hurt -or- embarrass me on purpose today or tonight, and
we've got a deal." He can try for it, right? "And you can tell me if she's
got a name."

A beat, then a smile with humor in it. "I hope so," Kassi says most
sincerely. "I haven't a Scarf. Embarrass--Is, that really isn't fair 'tall.
What's the fun of drinking if'n nay anyone does something silly? Doesn't
sing a scandalous ballad, or dance on the bar, or circle around this table
again and again until we dizzy the sailors. But all right. For you, even
though you don't deserve it." She must've forgiven him at least somewhat
for I'kan's existence. "Tell me in turn what he says t'you when he tells you?"

I'sai spins that quarter-mark between thumb and forefinger: incentive,
incentive! And that's just the beginning! "I don't deserve it," he agrees,
"Which makes you that much more amazing for agreeing to it. Now, promise,
and yes, I'll tell you what he says too." If he says anything at all.
Father and son are not known for getting along.

Which may be why for all the glowering and chasing, Kassima's indignation
only went so far. Or it could all be the lack of suitable missiles to
credit. "Sweet-talking me won't save your life if'n he does ever knock up
Kisai," she warns him while her eyes keep flicking to the hypnotic mark.
"Just so y'know. I promise on the shell of Lysseth's egg, the hilt of
m'first knife, m'honor and Benden's soil that you shan't be *intentionally*
embarrassed or harmed at m'hands."

I'sai raises his free hand, "Heard and witnessed!" - "And I hereby promise
that I'll let you know what I'kan tells me about Kharisma...." only to
pause midway. "Are you -sure- you necessarily want to know -everything-?"

Kassima's wide eyes concede the point. "I don't think I want you knowing
more about--whatever--than I do," she says. "Is it too late t'get a return
promise that you won't *ask* for certain details? Because that, that would
really be unfair when I'm bound nay t'pour a drink in your lap, so I'm
appealing t'your sense of honor here. Please. Pretty please." Even so,
she'll settle at the bar with him to drink; and keep her word, not
embarrassing him on purpose, but if after the seventh round he decides to
shave his head or some such thing, let's safely say she's not going to stop
him.