Logs:Bottle Owed
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| RL Date: 4 October, 2015 |
| Who: Hattie, X'vin |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: X'vin brings Hattie the whiskey he promised her. |
| Where: Herb Garden, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 13, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'muir/Mentions, Harriet/Mentions |
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| Echoing through to both the shore of the lake and out across the scrubbed earth of the bowl are the cries of a rather unhappy soul, the noise identifiable as belonging to a child mostly thanks to its uncensored, piercing quality. From the herb garden, one of the Weyr's many nannies strides towards the caverns with a squalling bundle, the Weyrwoman left in her wake, standing at the edge of one of the benches and staring after her, jaw set and hands curled into tight fists. Moments pass, and Hattie eventually turns, seemingly to walk on, only to change her mind and sit down. It's not as if the bowl, or the lake shore, are quiet, especially on clear days with kinder temperatures. And the strident calls of a babe are not often a siren's song for men of any age, so maybe it's just that X'vin was already on his way to the garden for some purpose or another. He's got a package in hand, undeniably a bottle whose label is covered by neat paper wrapping and a length of gold-dyed twine artfully coiled around the length, terminating in a neat bow at the top of the neck, just beneath the tell-tale cork. In counterpoint, he's smiling as he clears the trellis, his gaze over his shoulder on the departing pair. "Ah. Good. You are here." As if there could be any doubt. Hattie lifts her head and looks up at X'vin, her attention on him without any immediate acknowledgement or recognition, until she blinks a time or two and actually sees all that's in her line of sight, rather than stare quite blankly. With actual focus comes adjustment of her posture, slumped shoulders eased back as she sits up straight and folds her hands in her lap instead of knotting her fingers together. "X'vin," she greets, crisp, but not impolite, though it takes her another few seconds to modulate her tone away from being too formal. "What can I do for you?" If he's affronted by her lack of recognition, he doesn't show it. Anything there is smoothed over with, "Babies are exhausting, but with lungs like that at least she's irrefutably healthy. And you," this with a tilt of his head as he studies her, closing to a respectable distance from her, "look like she's taking it out of you. Or, maybe, like you could use a drink." He lifts the bottle demonstrably, dangling it between two fingers and wagging it back and forth like a lure. "She has her father's stubbornness," Hattie claims dryly, a glance about given as though saying so could summon the man. "Of course, he attributes it to me, which I think means we're only proving each other's points to be correct." But at least she's no longer looking longingly after the baby she's allowed to be carted away, dark eyes darting from X'vin, to the bottle and back again. "...She's not solely to blame," must be out of loyalty to the child who cannot defend herself, yet she admits, "though I could do with a drink. Unfortunately, I can't promise I won't just curl up in your lap and sleep." It must be a joke, for all its deadpan delivery. "It sounds more like she's just doubled-down on stubbornness and beat the house. I bet she expected to have you all to herself." X'vin doesn't say it unkindly, nor does he hold the bottle hostage for very long after her confession. He does laugh at it, otherwise the balance of the tiny universe between them will be wrong. After all, "When you make a joke, you're supposed to smile, weyrwoman. If months of sobriety have made you an easy drunk, I swear I'm a perfect gentleman for naps. This is for you anyways. I'm sorry I didn't have the foresight to bring glasses; I didn't imagine a drink might be so pressing, but I always forget that a drink is always pressing, for parents with new children." "I'll be sure to remember that when I recall how to do that too." Still, Hattie tries out a smile that doesn't end up looking so theatrical for it being an effort, though there's no denying its weary edges. "Don't worry. I'll be a lady for now and won't let rumours start up about us being uncouth and passing a bottle back and forth on a bench." Said bottle is accepted without any move made to break it open there and then, cradled like she might hold her absent daughter. Her, "Thank you," is delivered without the tinge of wry or dry humour, genuine despite its quiet. "I imagine that Besmernyth has long forgotten the why by now?" "You're quite welcome. We keep our promises. I am told by reliable sources that is the sort of whiskey to sip, not defile by drinking straight from the neck. To each their own, but for a triumphant return to proper drinks, it seemed nothing less would do. It may knock you down, later, but it won't be into my lap. I imagine plenty of people would be unhappy to hear about our poor judgement if it did, and equally overjoyed to spread the news of it." Of Besmernyth, X'vin has a lowly barked laugh, curtailed and rough around the edges. "He forgets. Then I remember, then he does for a while. You can take that as apology from me, both for his actions and for his lack of contrition." Hattie regards the bottle for a moment before supposing, "I'd best make sure that I'm nowhere that should require my being picked up off of the floor then," in a matter of fact sort of fashion. "And that I'm near the only lap I should be falling into." She lets that sit while she takes a breath, then cracks something closer to a proper smile. "It might not be ladylike, but I promise I can handle my drink, and I won't disgrace myself, you or the whiskey by managing anything less." The goldrider shrugs one shoulder. "It's all right. They are how they are. I think it's what shocks new weyrlings the most, sometimes. They're not prepared for their dragons to be people all of their own." Relieved of the bottle, X'vin's hands slip into the fleece-lined pockets of his jacket. "I feel like the crafters would wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, not knowing what drove them there, if someone treated their bottles badly. They are so sensitive. It seems the sort of bottle for a cold night spent in, from what I can tell. If I had a taste for the stuff, I'd have gotten one to test the theory." His agreement about their lifemates is a little hum, the brightness of his smile dimming while he considers it. "Sometimes. He is...well. Not sorry, for one thing. I'm just glad he is also not especially social. I'd be buying apology bottles every seven for everybody. I'd be the most popular man here." "Let me guess..." Hattie says slowly, seemingly about to, rather than use the words as some sarcastic dig. "I'm going to hazard that you prefer wine, probably red. You don't strike me as the sort to be content downing beer after beer of an evening, like some of them." She pushes to her feet, the bottle held snugly against her. Perhaps its weight is reassuring. "Not that I can blame you, if it's true." Her smirk is not quite a smile. "And well... just as well that Elaruth has one very clear preference so far as bronzes go. A seven together and they might drive each other mad. She's more social than most people I know." The Weyrwoman tips the bottle a little. "Thanks." Again. "...I have a whole stack of hidework to get to." X'vin's tilt of the head concedes to her assessment. "A good guess, or you could have just talked to the bartenders in the Fountain; they know well enough by now. But yes, my palate was spoiled in my youth by my family's expensive tastes." Spoiled, pah. "I'd give them an hour," he says of the dragons after a moment, "Besmernyth is also not as patient as I think Elaruth must be." At any rate, he knows a dismissal when it's given, and, "I've got Flint gathering in an hour. What adventurous lives we lead. Enjoy that," the bottle and all it implies, not the paperwork, "and the rest of your day, Weyrwoman. I hope you find time to enjoy it." He'll be the one to give her a little bow and dismiss himself, so she can leave at her leisure -- or retake that bench for a little while longer, if solitude is what she seeks instead of work. "Well... I'll be sure to ask the bartenders what they know now." It's offered over one shoulder a little after he steps away, and a little after she turns, words imbued with the last hints of humour that Hattie summons. With distance there, and with no-one watching her, she lets her shoulders slump once more and hugs the bottle closer as she trudges off in the direction of the Weyrleaders' ledges and council room, to surrender herself to her fate. |
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