Closed [Whiplash Plantation] Radacke Strong

[Poppy]

Timestamp: 38th of Winter, 513AV; 10th Bell

The day was cloudless, thank Syna; bright light from her rays bathed the Whiplash plantation, and no clouds marred the expansive sky. Mica Radacke, Head of Household, had taken the opportunity to scale one of the guard towers overlooking the Sea of Grass. Though the rains had wreaked havoc all over Kenash and the outlying areas, from his vantage point, the proud Radacke was not surprised to note that his buildings - even the slaves' quarters, though they hardly mattered - were largely untouched by nature.

But that knowledge afforded Mica only momentary satisfaction. In times of turmoil, manmade or otherwise, his enemies would be eager to capitalize on any perceived weakness. Though the Radackes had little to fear from other Dynasties, the Sea of Grass was a constant source of struggle. Now that the weather had calmed, Zith and Drykas alike would be restless, quick to seize on any opportunity for a little excitement.

Mica cracked his knuckles absently and grinned at the thought; that grin had been known to make even those colorful brutes of the Konrath family think twice. It was a grin that the slaves in the breaking grounds had come to fear outright. Mica's grin spoke of reckless danger, boundless thirst for action, and a streak of mean that could be aimed at any one, at any time. In this case, it also spoke of his own need for a little excitement. Truthfully, he'd welcome a quick skirmish right about now; bloodied fur flying from broken Zith bodies, or maybe some straightforward confrontation with those stinking horsemen...

The scrabbling noise of footsteps clamoring none-too-gracefully up the ladder drew his attention away from such pleasant fantasies of violence on the open grasses, however, and Mica's expression quickly turned to an irritated glower. The young guard whose misfortune it was to be the target gulped audibly before regaining his composure and addressing the Radacke patriarch.

"Sir. My lord. Sir," the youth stammered, "There is a man here to see you. Says you'd be expecting him, sir. Name's Owarro. Ororo. Drykas, from the look of 'im." The last was spoken carefully; it was rare that Drykas came willing to Whiplash, and the man's story about joining the Radacke guard had rung false to some of the older guards. They'd had trouble believing that one of the proud Drykas would choose to side with the Radacke, rather than against them in battle on the border of their grassland home.

Most of what the guard relayed was old news: of course he was expecting this Drykas, with his outlandish name - 'Oworo Birdflight', he remembered - or he'd not have gotten this far into the plantation. Still, a grunt was Mica's only reply, as he casually shoved the stammering boy-guard to the side; not so near the edge as to put the kid in danger, but enough to keep him on his toes. Mentally, Mica made a note to have some of the more experienced men in his guard rough him up a bit; kid had no balls, it was clear in his speech. 'Sir,' Mica snorted in amusement, as he made his way to the ground. 'If I'm a 'sir' its time to hand the reins over to Bice.'

The thought inspired a genuine laugh, loud and abrasive and unexpected in the chill air. So it was with an uncharacteristically open welcome that Mica Radacke strode up to the stranger amidst his guard and stuck his hand out in greeting. "Drykas. Welcome to Whiplash."

Good humor or not, Mica was prepared to test the young man's backbone - and the bones of his hand - with a handshake just short of bone-crushing.

With typical blunt lack of tact, he continued, "Why are you here, Oworo Birdflight? I have no patience for fools and it seems only a fool Drykas would come here for his employment. Convince me otherwise." Though his grin never faltered, Mica's words were hard in contrast. The man facing him now would need to be convincing, indeed, to leave with the job he sought.

[Oworo Birdflight]

They came for him on the third day. A party of four they were, rugged and hardened by the lifestyle they had chosen. Scars adorned their arms and face, swords and daggers at their hip; one of them even fingered a whip as he had stared at the Drykas. The head of the group had a shield strapped to his back, with a tower painted on the back; he was the one who spoke to him, his common low and hard. They were to escort him to the Whiplash Plantation. The purpose? To get Oworo a job. He hadn't waited long upon arriving to the city of Kenash before he had begun seeking employment. He had asked around at the Traveler's Complex, and quickly learned that the Plantations were always in need of guards. Oworo had never visited the city in his life, so he knew little of the families and their goals; he knew only the names that were given to him. The man he had been speaking to, though, mentioned the Radackes and how they were in need of extra hands to aid their search for some woman. A name, an assurance that they would need help . . . and now a meeting with the head of household himself. Oworo had left with the four men that morning, riding Oman in silence as they led him to their boss. For three bells they rode, with little conversation to ease the tension. At four bells, the youngest of the four rode ahead to announce their arrival, leaving the rest in literal dust as he galloped forward. Oworo hated the see him go, as he was the only one who didn't look onto him in mistrust. The other three, all of whom had seen more changes of the watch tower than him, glared at him when they didn't think he was looking. Why they felt that way towards him, Oworo hadn't a clue. Maybe he should've taken the time to understand the city and its people before delving into it. Alas, it was too late now, as the group drew up beside a tower, similar to the one adorning the shield of the guard beside him. They all were staring at this tower, or at least at the man who was descending it. The man radiated power and strength as he walked up to Oworo, who had dismounted to greet him. The man shook his hand, an iron grip that Oworo attempted to match, to no avail. Oworo noticed a tattoo peeking out of the man's shirt collar, feathers from what he could tell. The Drykas pondered the meaning of it for a moment, before the man spoke to him again. . . . . . so he knew his name already. Not that Oworo was surprised; he had given his name freely, in hope it would speed up the process in acquiring the job. The rest of the man's words bothered him, though. It wasn't because he was called a fool, but because he didn't quite know how to answer the question. What did the man mean by all of this? Should a Drykas be wary around this man? Oworo decided, then and there, that he should be, if not all of his people. "My mother used to call me a fool, too, but only when I deserved it. That was usually when I knew what I was doing was wrong. Today, though, I haven't a single clue why my presence is so queer. Three days past, I arrived to this city for the first time in my life. Your feelings towards my people, I'm as ignorant as a babe. I asked for work, and someone suggested you. So here I am." Oworo gestured to his horse behind him. "As to my . . . qualities. Or is it qualifications? Eh, I can shoot a bow well enough and ride a horse, is all I mean to say." Oworo felt silent at this point, unsure of how to continue. He waited, watching to see what more Mica Radacke would ask for him.

[Poppy]

Mica stared at the man hard, his initial good humor fading in a flicker, to be replaced with an unflinching scrutiny. 'Someone suggested' his plantation? Immediately the Radacke tensed; had it been some other Dynasty, hinting at a perceived weakness? What weakness? There was his cousin, missing these many days at the hands of the Rujaro. Though they had yet to find her, and Mica himself had sent men to search, surely that alone would not label House Radacke weak. Had it been a Draer this Oworo had spoken to? Unconsciously, Mica's fists clenched at his sides, before his mind fully registered the other man's words.

With obvious effort, Mica forced himself to relax; a smile returned to his lips, insincere and grim, but still a smile. "Here you are, indeed. Most men are fools, Drykas, in one way or another. Some might consider it foolish to approach a plantation where you are sure to be pitted in battle against your own people. So, are you a fool for showing up here, untried and untested, offering your services in ignorance? Or is your foolishness more subtle? Perhaps your foolishness is in thinking that your Drykas kin in the grass might find an advantage against me, through you?"

Without waiting for a response, Mica began to pace around the man's horse; under the right circumstances, a horseman who was good with a bow would be an acceptable addition to his forces. Though Mica preferred to fill his guards from the family ranks, he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. In typical mercurial fashion, Mica's expression twitched in genuine amusement at his own turn of thought.

Meeting Oworo's eyes over the horse's back, Mica continued conversationally, "Did you know that I have a cousin, beautiful girl, just 18 years old. And missing. Do you imagine you can shoot that bow," he nodded at the horse, "and ride this horse through the swamps well enough to be of some help with that?"

Mica stepped closer to the horse, nearly touching the animal, who snorted and shook his head in response to the proximity. "I imagine your horse here would sink into the swamp and be nothing more than granadile bait."

They were calculated, the insults; Mica wanted to test the man's mettle. In the Radacke security, the men didn't cater to egos or unreasonable anger. If anger overtook Oworo's emotions, made him incautious or impulsive, Mica would dismiss him out of hand. If, however, this Drykas man was able to address the words calmly, logically, Mica would have the man demonstrating just how good he was with the bow he claimed.