Logs:Getting To Know The Natives
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| RL Date: 21 November, 2015 |
| Who: W'leri, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two chromatic riders discuss plague and Benden interference. |
| Where: The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 5, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Mirinda/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions, Dahlia/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, M'kris/Mentions |
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Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and
frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly
in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque
glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements;
round-backed booths carved from stone, lined with deep, terra-cotta
colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a
subtle red shade. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of
smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into
the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.
All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the
massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the
ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all,
having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A
curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of
glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a
sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain
has become an elegant place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with
their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and
fancy desserts. The glass fountain is quiet today, as it has been in recent weeks, and a single bartender mans the curved bar; truth be told, he looks a mite young (peach fuzz and freckles) to be serving drinks. W'leri is standing at the bar with his shoulders hunched inside his leather jacket and his eyes bloodshot to hell, but he's glaring at the bartender with ill-concealed ire from behind a frosted whiskey glass. They don't exchange words, and the only sound is a trio in the far back booth whispering and the burble of the water in the fountain. There is something inappropriate in the bright, bold red of Olivya's riding jacket as she descends the stairs into the Fountain, especially in the quiet, emptiness. Her equally red lips are left uncovered by any mask, no sign of precaution for the plague that has worked its way through the Weyr. She crosses to the bar, leaning against it as if she owns it as she calls to the bartender, "Can I get a whiskey sour? If I'm not interrupting." Her gaze slides briefly towards W'leri, brushing over him, before it returns to the bartender. On a normal occasion, under different circumstances, an appreciative stare would be given Olivya's figure, but as it is, W'leri doesn't even look up when the woman steps up to the bar. He takes a swig of his whiskey, but doesn't remove his gaze from the youngster behind the bar, especially when the bartender blanches at her request and starts scrambling around. An unkind oath leaves the bluerider, before his fist slams down on the counter. "Fucking Faranth's teets," he swears aloud, ducking his head and leaning heavily against the bar. The outburst certainly draws Olivya's attention from the bartender to the bluerider, watching him instead with the slight curve of one brow upwards. "You aren't getting sick, are you?" is the question she settles on. No response to the greenrider's question comes for several seconds. "No," the bluerider drawls, lifting his big head and squinting red-rimmed eyes at Olivya. "Not 'less it's catching from the bottle these days." Straightening his shoulders, W'leri draws himself up, only to look her up and down; it results in a derisive snort. "Monacoan." Olivya's expression touches on doubtful for W'leri's answer, but she has no trouble meeting his gaze with a confidence that would befit a Lady Holder, despite his snort. "Depends on who you're sharing the bottle with," she counters lightly, only the bare hint of a smile to red lips. "Fortian, now. Even if it weren't for the quarantine keeping me here, the transfer papers have already been put through." "Half the Weyr's dead. Who would I be sharing it with now?" W'leri's voice is flat and his expression deadpan, for all that they're jesting over catching the plague. He resettles against the bar, but smirks into his whiskey glass. "You can call it what you want, but you've got the stench of M'kris all over you. I couldn't see how we could be brought any lower, and then that queen of Monaco's decided to glow." More importantly: his whiskey, in his mouth. Olivya only picks up her own glass, tipping it in a point to W'leri before she lifts it to red lips for one slow sip. Only after does she offer her own dry, "Must be horrible for you, following a Weyrwoman from Monaco rather than a Weyrwoman that could still be in the nursery. It's a shame that none of us got to make that decision." She doesn't address the topic of M'kris or his stench on her, but then-- That may be quite the sore spot. She doesn't seem phased despite it. "Tell me it's never happened before," W'leri returns, tipping his own glass so that it nearly sloshes out and onto his arm. "It should've been closed. Fort bronzes. Fort Weyrleader. So what if she's inexperienced? A proper, seasoned Weyrleader could have her in hand," and he punctuates that with a clenched fist. "Better than the get of that murdering bastard you called a Weyrleader." Now, he grunts, and finishes off what's left of his glass. "Fucked six ways and all we've got is a yellow-bellied Weyrwoman from Monaco to show for it." "And yet, you do have your Fortian Weyrleader. If you are so confident in your own bronzeriders, I am sure that one can handle Mirinda just as well as they could have handled any other goldrider," is a light counter, as if this were some debate over the merits of their drinks rather than their leaders. Olivya even gestures to the bartender with a smile, offering to him, "Another for the rider, on my tab. Thank you." But then her attention slides back to W'leri, taking another sip. "If only there were something that you could do about it. That any of us could do about it." "You haven't met N'rov.. have you?" W'leri turns one red, squinted eye on Olivya. "Impressed with him. He's an alright guy, but he's not the sort to lead a woman from what I've seen." His eyebrows go a wiggle-dance and he sighs, "We'll see what this next fucking turn brings. Less death. More.." His wide shoulders lift and sag, the leather of his jacket creaking with his motions. "You must be new to this. I don't have the right color dragon between my legs or I would've fixed it right. Benden had no business meddling," he says, scowling. "No, Benden didn't. With Fort or with Monaco," Olivya agrees, only meeting W'leri's look with the hint of a smile. "But if you are determined to wait around to allow others to fix this mess, with the right colored dragons--. Well, I'm sure someone will." As the bartender comes back with another whiskey for the bluerider, she is the one who will slide it closer, along with herself, careless of leaving space between them. "I haven't met our Weyrleader, no. Tell me about him?" "Woman." Woman. "Don't try to pull that.. that reverse mindhealing crap with me. I didn't anticipate Benden's interference. I thought Hattie would stand in line with the kid, but.." W'leri frowns, and looks suddenly intensely confused. "Huh? Fuck if I know." He grunts his appreciation for the beverage -- it's his due, as one of the only surviving wingseconds left, you see -- and lifts the glass to inspect it. "You'll find out. Pretty boy. Ladies of the Weyr love to look at him. Can't know I know anything more than what everyone else does." A breath of laughter twines on the edges of Olivya's words as she answers easily, "Darling, I am not trying to pull anything on you, except to point out that we are all in the same position. And Benden, well--." But she picks back up her own glass, taking a careful drink as she leans against the bar beside him. "Will I? I knew the pretty part. But you're his clutchmate. I figured you'd know more." "Now," W'leri points out, with his pointer finger, "we are. Before all this plague bullshit. Before Monaco. I thought any of the wingleaders would've given a shit if something was pulled out from under them. Not anymore. They're mostly dead and the dead can't protest." His moroseness comes out on the end, but he's back to big and swaggery in the next, lips slanted in a smirk. "I guess you could call me the self-involved type. I don't know him well." "How do you know we weren't before? You barely know me," replies Olivya easily, only lifting her glass to her lips as she is pointed at. But then she tilts her glass to him in a gesture back to the bluerider. "Why don't you tell me about yourself, then?" The bluerider relaxes to the side and both, bushy eyebrows lift up. "M'kris? Let a woman stand on equal ground as men in his Weyr? Unless you were one of his goons, I doubt it," W'leri says, lifting his glass to his lips for a sniff-and-sip. "You wanna know about me?" That's funny. He chuckles. "Nothing special to say. Weyrbrat. Stablehand. Weyrling. Rider. Wingsecond. Assistant Weyrlingmaster. Wingsecond, at last," with an exaggerated gesture like a half-assed bow. "I've never been one of anyone's goons," Olivya assures W'leri dryly, finishing off her drink finally and setting it down carefully on the bar, fingers draped in a careless gesture over the rim as she considers it like she may order another. But her gaze lifts under dark blonde lashes, soft blue eyes marking the bluerider at his gesture. "And that's all there is to know about you? What knots you ever wore?" "No one's worth getting to know that doesn't take a little time to figure out," W'leri informs her, with a wink. "I could tell you all of it now.. and leave out the mystery?" He gives his head a rueful shake, despite the grin that's split his lips. "Give you a chance to run tell your Weyrwoman friend all about me? No, I think.." And that's when he looks towards the entryway, frowning. Rather than excuse himself and show manners, he sets his glass down and.. leaves. Olivya's gaze trails the bluerider out, a light study made of him even as he leaves. But then she only straightens, pushing her glass to the bartender to refill before she moves to join the trio in the back. |
Comments
Mirinda (13:57, 21 November 2015 (PST)) said...
I feel the welcome. ;D
Kaleidoscope (17:37, 21 November 2015 (PST)) said...
I love W'leri. Also Liv. This was fun! More more!
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