Logs:Mutiny
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| RL Date: 6 February, 2015 |
| Who: Azaylia, Drex, Rafevan |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Drex and Rafe plot some more. Azaylia is inadvertently funding piracy. |
| Where: Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 13, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Itsy/Mentions, Rh'mis/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that: two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond. Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall off. An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl. The snowfall is light and intermittent throughout the day until it tapers off completely into a frigid night. The ground is damp, though very little sticks. It's chilly out on the patio--downright cold, actually, though the snow has stopped. The bare ground is slowly starting to ice over, crunching underfoot of those who venture out into it. Those like Rafevan, who has fingers curled around a steaming drink, bundled up in fur against the weather as he studies the dark bowl in thought. Inside, it's bright and raucous, and he's having none of that. A single, random fight isn't enough to discourage Drex from returning to the Snowasis. In fact, it's probably the reason why the sailor's here, tonight, walking in from the inner entrance with beer in hand, dressed in black coat. There's two belt knives at his hip, one on each side, and he's patting the left one absently with his free hand as he emerges out onto the ledge, looking around. He spots the smith and, like it was his original intention all along, angles towards Rafevan. "Busy in there," the sailor grunts, by way of greeting. "Thought they were all going to fuck off to the Hold." "Oh?" says Rafevan, turning to glance at Drex as the familiar younger man sidles up beside him. "No such luck tonight, I'm afraid. Maybe tomorrow." He turns then, to study the other man more fully: that first glance has turned up something off, and now Rafe is inspecting those bruises with unhidden curiosity and a lifted, questioning brow. Drex gives a grunt that is, maybe agreement, maybe disgruntlement, who can say. He's not unaware of Rafevan's inspection, and with a grimace, explains, "Asshole rider," like that's all that needs to be said. He gulps a mouthful of beer. "This shit happen here a lot?" because, apparently, the smith's the most likely to know these things. It suffices, to judge by Rafe's slow nod, an almost smile that's a flicker of amusement at Drex's expense. "If you believe the rumors," he says, with a fluid lift of his shoulders. "These are a people who had to exile their own Weyrwoman, after all." "Huh," not that Drex seems worried so much as surprised. "The way Farideh reacted made it sound like they'd slit your throat if you even thought of pulling a knife on a rider." Not that... he'd totally not do that, no. Instead, he's gulping a mouthful of beer, eyeing Rafevan a bit. "Heard things," he agrees. "Wasn't sure what that meant though. We'd do the same, if our Captain was a... anyway, it happens." Mutiny is an accepted part of life for him, apparently. "I wouldn't know, though if you're worried about what might happen to your poor throat--I'm sure they'll have a clutch for you eventually," Rafe says, snorting as he takes a sip of his own rapidly cooling drink. "Rider? Woman? Crazy fucking bitch?" he supplies various endings to that sentence, curious. "A clutch?" Drex is eyeing Rafevan, warily. "Aint sticking around for no dragons. Ship ought to be ready by spring." And he has no idea how dragon clutches work, either. The sailor's chuckling at those suggestions, but he's shrugging. "Don't mind a woman Captain," he concedes, "Long as she knows what the fuck she's doing. Makes no difference to me if she don't have a dick." That wary look earns just a serene little smile for Drex; Rafe is enjoying this, apparently. "Like your friend?" Because by now, while he may not have met her directly, Itsy is a fairly well-known face too, for those who know of Drex, surely. "I'd sail under her any day," Drex says without a beat of hesitation, the lift of chin turning it into an almost dare for Rafevan to challenge this assertion. Which Rafevan does, with just the faintest lift of one dark blond brow. He studies Drex over the rim of his mug when he takes another sip. Drex's gaze narrows all of a sudden, fingers tightening around his glass. "What?" A beat, "Itsy could take anyone any day of the week. She's a badass." "I'm not arguing your point," says Rafe, noting those shifts in Drex's demeanor. He shrugs. "Only curious, since I've not had the pleasure of her company myself. "I didn't think there would be many women sailors, but I expect there are many who would say the same thing about my craft." "Itsy could do anything she put her mind to," Drex asserts. "And," in perhaps concession, his demeanor a little less defensive now, "Not many women. Aint seen but one or two others. But those that are there earnt their place." He frowns a bit over the comparison to smithing, taking a gulp of his beer rather than voice anything aloud. "I'm sure Itsy--" the strange nickname sticks on the tongue "--can. I mean, you two are getting a whole ship together, right?" Rafe studies the other man for another moment, then relents, glancing out across the bowl instead to save the frowning Drex that bit of scrutiny. "Yeah," Drex agrees, quickly. "I mean, we'll have a crew, too. Those that didn't die in the storm, anyway." He grimaces, taking another hastily gulp of beer. "Have to recruit a few new ones, though. Ever considered a life on the sea?" The twitch of lip might suggest the sailor's joking. "Could work out the kinks on your contraption in person, while we sail." The question is enough to surprise Rafevan, just a little. He looks back to Drex, smirking himself. "I'm not sure the waves are well-suited to extended time smithing, but--well. If we can get a thing installed, we'll still have to do some thorough testing to make sure it works. Wouldn't want to burn your new boat to ash in the sea, would we." "Can test it on one of Ista's ships," Drex suggests, with a sudden grin that makes it seem he's only half-joking. "If you need parts, or anythin', we know lots of different trader folk." The former offer earns a snort; the latter one, less dubiousness. "That may come in handy. I think I could conceivably make most of what we might need, but considering my time is very little my own even as close to journeyship as I am..." A twitch of shoulders, barely a shrug, is Drex's response to that. "Aint like I got much else to do other than earn my keep around here. I can get in touch with some people, if you tell me what you need." He drains his glass, then, as if it's suddenly occurred to him: "You know where you'll be posted, once you make Journeyman?" "Mm. No idea, though likely I'll stay here if possible. The master I was sent to study under is the best at my particular specialty, so I can't imagine them parting me from him so soon. I hope to be promoted by the summer, at least. More importantly: "Can you get me plans for your ship, first?" Rafevan wants to know. "He's your Captain," this is how Drex understands the world; by relating everything to ships. His eyes narrow at that last request, straightening to eye the smith. Grudgingly, "Could," he allows. "Would have to go to the Hold though, and we hate being there." Because apparently Drex cannot go without Itsy. "Why do you need it?" The pair of them are standing on the ledge, bundled in their respective coats against the cold, Drex's glass empty. "My captain," repeats Rafevan, clearly amused by the comparion. They're enjoying the frigid night on the patio, one with beer, the other with a hot mug that's long stopped steaming. Rafe sips from it anyway. "Because," he explains in the patient tone of teachers, "I'm not very familiar with ships, and while the basic structure of such a 'contraption' is easy to imagine, if you want blueprints fit to actually make it, I'll have to figure out how to actually install it." The sudden change of temperature is noted in Azaylia's soft gasp, a hiccup in the steady laughter that otherwise leaves her. White puffs of breath escape her smile as she calls back, "A moment, I just wanted to check on something." Past the two men, toward the very edge of the ledge, where the Weyrwoman can inspect the wilted, dormant flowers in those blue ceramic pots. Her mug is steaming, and while she's not teetering there is a slight sway where she bends at the waist. "Hm!" Whatever has brought her out here seems fine, and she turns practiced grace and a glance for the nearest pair. "Oh," after a moment, "Knot boy." Wait, no, "Drex, hello." Far too familiar, it's a case of a good night spilling onto others-- whether they want it or not. "And your friend?" Oblivious to plots, joyfully so. Such considerations had obviously never occurred to Drex, frowning in thought rather than at the smith. "Guess it could be fun seeing that Lord stuff Itsy into a dress again," he says, with a little laugh, as if remembering the last time. Dark eyes track the Weyrwoman's progress for a moment, but doesn't linger. "Try and get you something before the seven," he says to Rafe, with a nod, and a lift of empty glass, even if it's a poor toast. It's only when Azaylia addresses them that he reacts -- at first with a narrow-eyed look at her form of address, only slightly mollified when his name follows. "Hey," he goes for casual, and glances at Rafe. The smith can introduce himself, and he neither confirms nor denies that appellation of friend. Whether it's the thought of Itsy in a dress or a Lord stuffing her in one, Rafevan gives Drex an arch look, but he doesn't comment on that with this new intrusion. Instead, "Madam, good evening," he greets Azaylia, with a tip of his head to her: entirely polite, on the edge of formal even. "Rafevan, of the Smiths." "Pleasure to meet you, Rafevan." Azaylia doesn't quite mean to mock that formality, though her too-quick curtsey is paired with a smile. "What're we drinking tonight, boys?" A quick glance at Drex's empty glass and she's pursing her lips. "Here. Warm yourself up?" Her hot cider is likely spiked, and offered to the lad expectantly. Whether he accepts or not, her expression brightens as she turns on Rafevan, "Maybe your smith-friend here can help me?" She aims the question at the blonde man, even as her eyes slide over to Drex. "What do you suggest I offer him as a trade? You probably know him better than I do." Making a lot of assumptions there, goldrider. There's a snort from Drex, possibly directed at Rafevan, for his formality, though the sentiment isn't voiced aloud. Instead, he's staring at Azaylia, then at her offered mug, kind of warily. "Nah, not my... thing." Cider, apparently. "Gonna get some more beer, soon." He even takes a sidewards step like soon, is now, but he stops thereafter. His brow furrows at the question directed to Rafevan, a little uncertainly -- interested, though, in any potential answer. "Acquaintances at beast, I'm afraid," Rafevan demures of his relationship with Drex: not friends at all. "Drex," and he makes the name sound unfamiliar just so, with that half-pause before it like he's making sure he's got it correct, "and I were just comparing our crafts. I understand he's very eager for a ship, if you're feeling so generous, Weyrwoman?" He doesn't quite maintain a straight face; there's a crooked smile for the joke hidden behind another sip of his chilled drink. There are no hurt feelings as Drex refuses the cider, Azaylia bringing it to her lips instead. With a soft nudge for Rafevan, "My mistake. I thought you'd be my way in for sure." Admitted with an easy laugh, she does nothing to stifle that smile, "I heard about the ship. Their ship, although I can't say I've got one lying around." Despite her humor, there's an apologetic glance for Drex. No pocket ships. "I think the best I could do is offer to have a... what's that thingy at the front? The wood carving?" Her fingers wiggle in their uncertainty. "One of those made, for the ship." The one that doesn't exist. The grin from Drex is, apparently, agreement, or something, for Rafevan's correction, leaning against the wall. He gives an easy shrug, for Azaylia's reveal that she can't supply them with a ship, but, "The figurehead?" he frowns. "Think Itsy would want to design it, but, guess you can talk to her." The nudge, Rafe tolerates, though the smile's a little thinner. "Ah, well, I tried at least," he tells Drex, with a look back for Azaylia; the oh-shucks ruefulness of the gesture's played up just a bit for the apparently tipsy Weyrwoman. "But I'm sure some extra funding toward a part of the endeavor will never go amiss, yes, Weyrwoman?" "Ah!" Azaylia points at Drex, "I just might." Talk to Itsy, for whatever power the goldrider assumes the young woman has. "Yes, the figurehead. I like to give the crafters marks." That's for Rafevan. "Flat out paying a young boy to teach you rope tricks seems... wrong." At least when she says it, head tilted in consideration. Lucky for both of them, she's being called back inside by her name, rather than her title. "Oop. That's for me." Who else would it be? "Have a lovely night, boys. Rafevan," He gets a warm smile before she turns, brushing by Drex with a sing-song of, "Knot boy." Drex's expression can only be described as landing somewhere between confused and vexxed by the Weyrwoman's words, perhaps as much for her form of address for him as anything. His narrow-eyed gaze tracks her departure, and there's a little pause before he observes to Rafevan: "Should call her 'woman who leads because of dragons fucking' and see how she likes it." Rafevan, meanwhile, lets his expression relax into its more native smirkiness as Azaylia departs them. A snort serves as agreement for Drex's words, though he adds, "Mm. I don't know as many people are on such friendly terms with the Weyrwoman. She could be a very useful patron, perhaps. She certainly seemed willing." And he's shooting one of those very curious looks at Drex then. Clearly, the thought of a patron had never occurred to Drex, judging by surprised grunt and thoughtful frown. "Maybe she can help pay for your thing." The fire thing, presumably. "Need to get another beer and think about it." Because beer makes thinking good. The questioning look he gives Rafevan appears to be a silent offer for him to get the next round, judging by his glance at the smith's mug. "For something, at least," Rafe agrees, with a small nod. The gears in the smith's head are grinding away, and it takes him a moment to nod to the unspoken request. "Yes, let's," he agrees then, leading the way. |
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