Logs:Jaded Innocence
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| RL Date: 29 September, 2014 |
| Who: H'vier, Iaevri |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Iaevri makes decent life choices in regards to H'vier's advances. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 12, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Just so it's on record, even H'vier's player hates H'vier. |
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| Winter in High Reaches; it's always the same, isn't it? There's the cold, and the snow, and the ice, and the rampant amount of individuals bum-rushing the nighthearth and other warm locales to thaw. Therefore Iaevri, the girl who has taken a spot at the hearth, cozy with her knitting and her oversized mug of klah. She's quiet, out of the way, though most have abandoned the nighthearth for the living caverns and dinner, which is underway at this time of evening. H'vier, instead, has likely abandoned the bar for the nighthearth. There's something just slightly drunk about his manner, but not so much that he can't walk around and pour himself a mug of klah once he gets to the hearth without setting himself on fire or anything. He's smooth like that. "This tastes like shit," he complains after his first drink. But it doesn't make him abandon the mug. He takes it with him as he starts to turn toward the nearest seat. Drunken bronzeriders. Iae's been warned about these creti... er, creatures, surely, with how her eyes lift calmly to watch the bronzerider cross. "Perhaps it needs sweetner." She has the voice of a local, and if H'vier's spent enough time around the infirmary she'll have a familiar look about her, most likely. "Or cream." Her dark eyebrows lift in faint inquiry. The voice draws H'vier's attention toward the girl, eyes squinting at her for a moment before he rumbles out, "I know how I like my klah." And in case it's not obvious, "Not tasting like shit is how I like it." He flops down into his chosen seat near her, still watching her in a way that some might consider 'creepy' or 'pervy'. "I see." The tone of Iaevri's voice makes it quite evident that she doesn't, but she knows better than not to humor a drunk of H'vier's size and rank. "And yet you still drink it." Perhaps she doesn't know EVERYTHING -- or perhaps she doesn't care to act on everything. Teenaged rebellion and all that. "What's your name, darling?" asks H'vier like she's not saying those ridiculously obvious things that he doesn't want to pay any attention to. "You look familiar." And one can imagine where he remembers most women from, even if she's a bit younger than his usual demographic. Not unheard of, perhaps. Oh, look, a pet name already. He hasn't even grabbed his crotch yet. That has to be a new order of affairs for Iaevri, whose eyes are obscurely jaded in their obvious innocence; a strange dichotomy, certainly. "Iaevri," she offers, her voice as still and calm as it has been. "I work in the infirmary. I think I've seen you in there a time or two," she hesitates, "Bronzerider?" It's a hazarded guess. Of course H'vier is pleased that she knows, at least, that he's a bronzerider. It's important to him. Though maybe not important enough to constantly wear a knot. People just ought to know who he is, after all. "H'vier. Reisoth's. I've been a time or two, yes." Probably not even as often as he ought to be. "Busy?" Heavier. Right. That one. What? That's not his name? Someone should inform the healer apprentices. "Reisoth. My regards to him, rider." She's polite if not terribly forthcoming, a certain quiet reticence to the way she shifts the drape of unfinished garment across her lap. "Oh, just... the normal evening, I suppose." She looks as if she knows she should ask him if he's busy, but doesn't quite feel the gumption to do so. His eyes are drawn down to where Iaevri moves the garment across her lap, but then travel back up slowly toward her face again. "Do you want to be busier? I could use the company." H'vier could probably do without the slight slur in his words, too, but that's there anyway. "What did you have in mind?" There is a colorlessness to Iaevri's voice, something that edges just to the proper frame of politeness, without actually inviting anything further. She is so awfully young... but weyrbred. Maybe she just wants him to actually say it. There's a hint of perversity to the crook of her dark brows. You know that look when a man thinks he might have hit the jackpot? H'vier is not very good at hiding it right now. Maybe he wouldn't think that if he were less influenced by alcohol. As it is, he says, "I figured we could go back to my weyr and see just how well you know your way around a man." Maybe it's supposed to be an anatomy joke that fell flat. "Oh." Iaevri seems to think this proposition over - for an indecently long amount of time, or perhaps she's just trying to come up with the best way to shake off this H'vier creature without lending herself to possible violence from the man himself. Her voice echoes with a faint regret: "I'm afraid I'll have to pass on the offer, bronzerider, but I thank you for the consideration." Best verbal rejection letter ever. She takes a long time to answer him. And H'vier takes awhile to react to her rejection. In the end, it's mostly just a grunt and he's settling back into his seat with his klah. "Probably a good call," he finally says, not sounding all that put out by the decision now that it's been made. "I'm sure there are plenty who would be happy to warm your furs, bronzerider." Iaevri's going to make this a pep talk, because she's a strange, strange young woman. "It's just a matter of having the eye to spot them." Typically drunk, stumbling, otherwise judgmentally impaired, etc. She serenely returns to her knitting. "I know how to find ass just fine on my own," is offered a little more defensively. H'vier certainly doesn't need a teenager's help. Even though he was just, you know, asking for it in a slightly different way. He sips at his klah again, which has, unsurprisingly, not gotten any better since the last time he sipped at it. "I'm sure." The reassurance from Iaevri doesn't seem at all sarcastic... unless one looks at her, with that slight glance askance that she sends him. She seems ready to leave him to his silence except for the entry of a child, out-of-breath, communicating that she is needed in the infirmary. A rueful look crosses the girl's face, and she shoves her knitting into her bag. "H'vier, I wish you an," Does she twitch, just a bit? "Entirely eventful evening." She inclines her chin and is off, the natural sway of her hips gentle as she heads 'round the corner and back into the living caverns. |
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