Logs:Little Tessie and the Dark Knight
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| RL Date: 26 April, 2015 |
| Who: B'sot, R'oan, Tess |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Tess is out for drinks with the girls. She runs into two familiar faces, one of whom punches the other in a manly display of chivalry (or something) and neither of whom get anywhere (apparent) with her. |
| Where: The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Violence. Back-dated! |
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| The Glass Fountain is having a great night, if great nights are defined by a veritable human sea of patrons swamping the bar and near every seat already taken. The noise is great enough to drown out one's own thoughts. There's a line for the bar and it's in this that Tess waits, having departed from a table claimed by an assortment of women who work in the caverns. "Waits" might be too generous a term, for what she's really doing is flashing a smile here, exchanging some words there and somehow bypassing some of the others. It's a combination of charm and the way her bosom is outlined in the teal sheath of the dress that falls to her knees, to be sure. Few, if any seem much the wiser for being taken in by Tess' pretty smile. There is a stool at the Glass Fountain's bar that practically bears an imprint of R'oan's ass. It is likely that his name is emblazoned somewhere on the stool itself, even if one has to look under it. It is collectively, surely, known as R'oan's spot. It is also the singular empty spot at the bar currently, possibly through subconscious, collective knowledge. It won't remain empty for long, not with its owner currently slinking into the subterranean cavern, still clad in worn, warm riding leathers with windblown hair. His path, of course, is as straight as one can manage in this crowd towards the bar and that seat. No, not long at all! Tess slides right into the spot. Perhaps she lacks the enlightenment of the rest of the bar's patrons, or perhaps she just doesn't care for perceived ownership (or ownership in general), but there she is, hopping her just this side of skinny rump onto the empty stool and leaning onto her elbows on the bar to try to flash her smile in the bartender's direction. "You're in my seat," is the murmur that comes from behind and slightly to the left of Tess, R'oan's lean mass a presence there even before he says anything. But it is only after, with that warning provided, that the brownrider's fingers brush against silken hair, idly wrapping it briefly around his knuckles before he allows the strands to slide away. "Am I?" Tess queries cheerfully, leaning away from his touch. She can't be expected to know him from voice alone after just the one encounter. And yet, when she does turn her head to look at him, there's no flicker of recognition. "I must have missed where it says your name," she tells him with a pleasant smile. "Fortunately for you, I won't be long, so long as I can get my order taken soon, then it's all yours," this last is said placatingly. "I could show you," suggests R'oan at the point about his name, but the brownrider is easily placated, at least. Or he pretends to be, or he simply isn't as invested in claiming the chair right this moment, since he makes a gesture of allowance for her to keep the seat, a little wave of his hand to indicate that she should feel free to continue sitting there, as if it's his to give away. "Flashing marks usually works better than a pretty smile," he adds in advice, however, as he does so in the bartender's direction. "Well, I suppose that's one way to do it," Tess answers him with amusement, "but it's almost cheating: giving the man what he wants most." She reaches up to tuck tresses behind her ear and is just opening her mouth to speak when she's interrupted. "Tessie," is addressed in the way of one pulling from long disused memory. The bluerider is Fortian, older-- older, even, than R'oan himself, and more rugged than handsome, his nose crooked and face scarred. If R'oan knows him by reputation or simply long time living in the same Weyr, he's a deplorable sort of fellow. The sort that preys on the weak and the innocence for their naivety. "Little Healer Tessie," he pushes up beside the woman who's stiffened just enough that R'oan at his close proximity is likely to notice even if B'sot isn't likely to have done so. "I thought I recognized you," he sounds delighted, reaching already to touch her face in nearly the same familiar fashion as the brownrider did with her hair some moments before, only Tess leans away, into R'oan, as it happens to actively avoid this touch. R'oan allows that lean, easily reaching around her to catch at B'sot's wrist, though his words only hold a warm amusement that seems at odds with the steel in the gaze he levels on the other rider. "I think little Tessie isn't interested, B'sot. Move along." With that, as if he expects that command to be obeyed, he shifts to turn away from the other man, though not without angling his body between the bluerider and the Healer as his attention turns back to the bar. He remarks to Tess, ignoring the other presence, "If you aren't cheating, you aren't truly trying for that drink, are you?" The amusement or the steel perhaps makes B'sot laugh loudly. "Oh, but she used to be, so interested in riders." At least the bluerider doesn't reach for her face again, even if her jump mid sentence as she answers R'oan with a smile (that falters when she jumps), indicates a touch lower, and around the side of the brownrider's intent to block. "You may have a-" jump "-point there." There is probably some hypocrisy in R'oan's reaction, surely, given his own laissez faire fingers earlier. But now, at that clear jump and the brush of air as the bluerider reaches past him, the brownrider turns on B'sot and sends a fist flying at his face without warning. It's clear that he's paid attention to his self-defense classes and that he's had quite his own fair share of fights, given the crack of knuckles into the other man's jaw as he places the hit well. But, the Glass Fountain isn't the type of brawling place, and soon enough, there's attention drawn their way. (Though, notably, at least a few riders bearing Sandstone knots have leapt to their feet, seemingly ready to fly into action.) B'sot, it would seem, is more bark than bite when it comes to harassing men, or anyone that can actually do damage, for even with the blood that he must taste as a result of the connect of fist to jaw and the way his drink spills, he's quickly begging off with mutters that might be sweats or apologies. Does it matter? Not if he ends up getting to slink away and lick his wounds. Tess, for her part, has watched, quietly wide-eyed. She's not one to waste opportunity though. Since she obviously has the bartender's attention (or R'oan and B'sot do, anyway), she clears her throat and rattles off an order for her not forgotten companions, herself, and probably R'oan, too, if anyone's counting heads, and Tess is digging in a pouch that had been tucked into her bust on a leather cord around her neck for the appropriate marks in the next moment, as if nothing significant had happened moments before. As soon as it seems as if there will be no fight, the bar relaxes. Those Sandstone riders go back to their drinks, and the man who seems an awful lot like a bouncer only watches them from a distance, rather than coming over to throw them out. And R'oan, well, he doesn't pursue a fight either. Especially since as soon as B'sot has left, he is shaking out his fingers with a hiss of breath through teeth. Already, they have started to swell, rather quickly, and it takes him a moment to retrieve his own dropped marks that he was flashing a moment before before rejoining Tess at the bar. "Fuck, next time--," a pause, before he continues with a somber, "We should stick with the mark method." Once Tess' marks are present and accounted for in neat stacks on the bar's top, she twists to smile softly up at R'oan. "Perhaps the finest idea I've heard all night." She reaches with a hand for the one that landed the punch, asking even as she reaches for it, "May I?" It's really the only acknowledgement that she makes that the punch was even thrown. "It's fine," is R'oan's immediate answer to that question, but he doesn't move to pull it away from her. Instead, he will only challenge, "But you Healers never take that as an answer, do you?" Just as he doesn't need a mindhealer, his hand is fine. (Read: it is not.) Instead, it will become clear that one of those fingers is dislocated while another has fractured along the line of bone, there. The healer's fingers are gentle as she makes her brief examination. (It still won't be comfortable, of course.) "Mm, you're right. Just fine," Tess tells him, releasing the hand and leaning up and in to murmur, "When the middle one hurts so bad that you want it cut off just to rid yourself of the pain of it even if it means never doing that exceptionally pleasant thing again," the one he did that time, to her, "see a healer," she finishes with a cheery flash of a smile, intending to straighten and wait patiently for the drinks that are taking forever. R'oan's reaction to that murmur is the quirk of a crooked smile, likely not what it should be given that healer's opinion. Yet still, perhaps it's a warning to what he does in response, fingers brushing over his own injured hand before he suddenly pulls sharply at that dislocated finger to pop it back into place. (The fracture likely goes unnoticed, for now, by him.) "I thought I did many extremely pleasant things," he suggests back to Tess, once that seems taken care of. The healer doesn't seek to interfere, his finger after all! She does watch though, with unreadable expression. Then Tess looks for the bartender, seeming to brighten and lean forward when she sees him heading their way with the small tray that must be the order, only to sigh expressively when the man gets sidetracked halfway to them. She's left to the brownrider some moments longer, "Did you?" Tess queries as if she can't quite remember before lifting a hand to sort of wave it off. "Well, I'm sure I needn't lecture a grown man about when to see a healer." Since the time is so obviously now. "They probably wouldn't even mind much at this time of night if you brought your drink," which will arrive any turn now with Tess', sooner if willing can make a difference, since the blonde seems to be putting significant effort into that as her eyes go back to the bartender. "I could certainly think of places I'd rather spend the night than the infirmary, with or without a drink," is countered lowly, suggestively to Tess. But even as she watches the bartender, R'oan leans forward to brush fingers against her neck, at the hair there again without shame in obvious continuation of his suggestion. "You must have quite an imagination," Tess answers his words, leaning away from the touch, a not terribly subtle rejection of his suggestion, though at least she's not insulting about it. She looks to the brownrider, "I'm here with my friends," she nods toward the table of women who are not the least disinterested by the happenings at the bar. The tray of drinks arrives and Tess smiles to the bartender before sliding one onto the counter, "But here's something top shelf for your trouble, and I'll let you get back to your seat," she flashes him a smile. It's a very generic smile. She probably uses it for patients in the infirmary. That kind of thing. A brow is curved upwards to Tess at the flash of that smile, a challenge there that is left silent as R'oan reaches to pick up that glass with his uninjured off-hand. "Cheers, then," he replies, saluting the Healer with that drink before lifting it to his lips. The smile stays in place, pleasant, impersonal, as Tess nods to his reply and she picks up the tray, sliding off his stool to rejoin her friends, who burst into renewed noise at her return. Evidently, all the details are wanted. Tess can be seen to laugh and make facial expressions enough to tell the story without hearing the words: she doesn't know R'oan, or B'sot. Just men being men. Soon enough, the drinks are distraction enough to erase the topic wholly (apparently) from the collective consciousness of the girls' night out. |
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