Logs:Rich Girl's Boudoir
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 18 September, 2015 |
| Who: Drex, Everett |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Drex and Everett chat and make plans to have beers somewhere not the Weyr. |
| Where: Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 11, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions |
 |
Just off of the main passageway lies the small cavern that forms the hub
of the residents' quarters, kept immaculately clean by the headwoman's
staff and warmed in cold weather by a stone hearth to the left and well
back from the entrance. Comfortable chairs and a plush fur arrayed before
the hearth make an inviting spot to curl up with a book or handicraft, or
just to sit and chat. Beyond, additional chairs stand in clusters
throughout the room, some upholstered with age-softened hide, some plain
wood. At the widest point of the cavern, a round table gleams with polish,
though its surface is nicked and scarred from Turns of use. Beyond the
table, the very back of the cavern often lies in shadow unless the
glowbaskets there are unlidded to cast cozy pools of light. The commingled
scents of klah, smoke and polish permeate the air along with the sweetness
of rosemary and lavender.
Tapestries hang across the entrances to dormitories and more private
quarters as well as the exit to the outer hall, colorful protections from
drafts. The weather's kept more than it's fair share of the residents indoors, where possible. By mid-afternoon, Drex has finished whatever work's been assigned to him for the day, and it's possibly a little too early to head to the bar yet -- surely that's one of the few reasons he's found his way to the common room, sprawled into a chair. Part of his presence here, too, might well be the argument-in-progress by a pair of younger women -- something about taking each other's men, or hair products, or something. It's not entirely clear. Drex is just here for the view, mostly. It's not that Everett doesn't have any friends, but at this time of day, it isn't the sort of time that his kind of people are sociable. As a rule. Left to his own devices with actual daylight in progress... whatever he's been up to, it seems to have involved being outside at some point, because he comes back in through the common room with wet hair, carrying a similarly dripping coat. Which he drapes across the back of a chair near the fire with no regard for the upholstery. He seems intent at first on just warming up and drying off, but apparently he's as much a red-blooded young man as anybody, to start peering over in the direction of the girls. One of the girls reaches over to flip the others' hair, causing a gasp, and things quickly escalate to hair pulling. Drex is, naturally, sitting up as a result, chortling under his breath. It's only when an older woman walks in and breaks up the nascent fight that the sailor slumps back down, disappointed. With the entertainment gone, his gaze wanders, settling on Everett with no small amount of surprise, like he's unused to seeing the man in daylight, or out of the bar. "Hey," he gives an easy tip of head in the direction of the bartender. The bartender's showing no sign of laughing, at least not outwardly, but his face suddenly takes on expression when his attention drifts enough to finally catch Drex, and he grins. "Hey," Everett says back. See? So much expression. "Contrary to popular belief, we are sometimes allowed to leave the bar, they don't actually keep us chained up back there or anything." It's almost like he's seen that look before. Drex doesn't really have the grace to look embarrassed at having his expression interpreted so readily; instead he pushes up, crossing to a more readily conversant distance, dropping into the chair next to the bartender. "Aint judgin'," is his reply. "Listen, uh, wanted to you know, thank you. For the whole tab thing?" he tips his head, like he's not sure Everett will remember. "Don't really care if you were. Girls, now, sometimes I care. Won't say it was nothing," hardly a pause to transition from the one thought to the other, "but it did get paid. No skin off my back." This may not be strictly true, but Everett shrugs it off as though unconcerned, then ruffles a hand through his hair as though testing to see if it's any closer to dry, yet. "Not like someone like that can't afford it hell of a lot better than some of us." If Drex is uncomfortable with the idea of his girl playing his debt, it certainly doesn't show. "Aye," he agrees, wholeheartedly. "Aint like I'm asking you to break out the expensive stuff or nothin', either." He slumps into the chair, staring at the fire. "And I mean, I have to put up with a lot, you know? The other night, some fuckin' dragon dumped a herdbeast head in the fucking weyr. Like..." he shakes his head, like words can't express how bizarre he finds this. "Dragons are rank. Why would anyone ever fuckin' want one?" "Don't think that's normal, but can't say as I've been here long enough to say that for sure." Everett sits back in his chair. New he might be. Stupid--well, at least he's well-spoken. The kind of guy who knows that two and two make... "Can't be much worse than cleaning up after drunk farmers puking up cheap beer. This would be same weyr, then? Man, I'd rather have the dragon any day out of seven. Though I've seen the sort of stock she keeps, guess it'll at least keep you in the expensive stuff, long as you like. Some might say that's worth it." "Aint so sure I'd bet with you on that," is Drex's somewhat glum response. "Cleaning up after drunk farmers is predictable at least. Aint any idea what those dragons are thinking." Everett's mention of stock has him frowning, a little. "Aint one for the fancy stuff," he says, finally, with a glance over. "You?" The distinction is waved off as though unimportant, but the rest, Everett actually takes a moment to think about. "Haven't had enough of the really good stuff to know, you know? Like what I've had. Think it's like... folks drink the cheap stuff to forget their lives. They drink the good stuff to enjoy their lives. Rather be in that latter category. Someday." A pause. "Though I think the only way I'm apt to get there is if I find out I'm the bastard and only surviving heir of some rich dead Holder. Don't see a lot of rich bartenders." "Guess I haven't, either," the sailor concedes, though frowns for a moment. "Thought you'd, y'know," Drex waves his hand, "Take a little sample from the bar now and then, when no one was around?" his brows go upwards, as if it's expected. The last is given a rather forceful snort, indeed. "You and me both, man." After a beat, "We should, y'know, get a beer somewhere. Somewhere you don't work, maybe out of the Weyr? Couple of places within riding distance, if I remember right." "Standard practice," Everett explains, like this is common knowledge, "is to top the bottle off with water or, if necessary, the cheap stuff, when you've poured a little out. The trouble with the top-shelf bottles is that the people drinking them are more likely to know the difference." Secrets of the trade! He should write a tell-all book. "I did it as much as anybody, my first few jobs. Here? Here, I'm not going to risk it." No risks to his employment here, apparently, unless they involve goldriders. "Don't know any of the places around here well. Up for it, though, if you know someplace. Don't like hanging out here on my nights off, if they get busy I'm as apt to end up behind the bar as actually getting to enjoy myself." Clearly, this is news to Drex, who leans closer, obviously fascinated. "Fuck," he says, expressively, face screwing up. "I knew that drink I had down Far Hills' way tasted like shit." He looks pleased, giving a nod. "Know a couple, on the way to High Reaches Hold. Bet there's better ones, though. Have to ask some of the locals, maybe, find out. You ride?" he wonders, as if that might be an impediment. A lift of shoulders, a bland smile. "If it's done right, most won't taste the difference, and it lets all those Harpers and Lord's younger sons believe that they have an impressive capacity without letting them make complete fools of themselves," Everett points out. "I can manage--do they have runners to pull out of storage the same way you would a hand-me-down sweater, here, too? It seems like it'd be just as easy to arrange a ride. I mean, not with her. But it's only a few minutes out of the day for anybody else." A cheerful sort of snort comes from Drex. "Yeah, though if they don't know you they ask you to put down some marks. Might be lucky enough to catch a trader wagon, elsewise." It takes him a moment to realize that by ride, the bartender means dragon. "I don't," he makes a face. "Aint my thing." He doesn't much try to hide the distrust and discomfort in the way he shifts around in the chair. "A man ought to know he can trust whatever's under his feet, whether it be a land or a good ship." "Pass aside, think just as many men have died runnerback or at sea as between." Everett says this only casually. Another hand in the hair--but this time any sign of rain's now past. "Especially on muddy roads." Okay, very few people die at sea because of the roads. But it evens out somehow or other, right? "Still. Weather's only going to get worse once it turns to snow. Might as well make the best of things." "Aint sayin' it's logical. But when your first memory of a dragon is being carried in claws, nearly drowned, and getting dumped onto the bowl thinkin' you're already dead..." Drex's voice fades, frowning, looking visibly unsettled. "Anyway. Prefer a muddy track. How about I scout out a place, and you can come on yer fancy dragon? If nothin' else it'll impress the locals." Everett's frown is like a mirror on a slight delay. Awkward moment, about which he says precisely nothing. He'll just be grateful for the chance to move on. "Impressing the locals is the last thing I want to do. Not having anybody think I'm easy pickings." But this sounds more like a vague excuse to cover the more general matter of masculine pride: "If you can manage it after getting all soft in a rich girl's boudoir, I can manage it." "Dragonriders are easy pickings?" Drex asks, perhaps more surprised by the interpretation than that it comes from Everett. His reaction to the last is an amused snort, and a lift of his chin; challenge accepted! "You have yourself a deal. Speaking of a rich girl's boudoir..." he pushes up from his chair, and reaches out to offer a hand towards the bartender by way of friendly farewell. "I think trying to get someone to let me pretend their dragon is mine is a touch harder than just getting someone to take five minutes to give me a lift." Everett sounds a bit amused by the notion. "Still," he says while he stands as well, "think you are out of your mind, the number of women around here who--well, just remember, next time, you're paying for your own, and I guess enjoy yourself in the meantime." The handshake is more of a brief clasp. "You know where to find me, most nights." There's a myriad of complex expressions that seem to surface in Drex's face at Everett's comment about the local women, though it settles on more accepting than anything. "Aint sayin' it's easy. But she's worth it," with a quick grin. "Aye," is his response as to where to find the bartender, and then the sailor's disappearing out through the the inner caverns, whistling. |
Leave A Comment