Logs:Self-Made Jerks
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 4 February, 2016 |
| Who: Drex, T'gar |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Drex comes swinging at T'gar. |
| Where: Garder Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 5, Month 13, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, R'hin/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Language. |
  |
Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
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.
A layer of gray clouds hangs oppressively around the spires. The air is
humid and cool, but there is no snowfall today. With no snowfall this day, there's weyrfolk out and about early in the night. While the Snowasis revved up for the night's revelers, T'gar has chosen a seat bit away from the bar entrance to pour over a few written sheets of hide next to a glowbasket. There's a mug of something on the table with him along with a small plate of a half-eaten roll of bread. It'd be easy to ignore the next person that steps out of the bar; just another reveller looking for a quiet spot to consume their beer. Except that the person's steps carry him deliberately and directly towards T'gar, along with a growled, "Hey," designed to get the weyrling's attention. It's not a hey of greeting as much as it is a hey seeking attention. Drex's slouched posture looks tense, fingers of one hand clenched around his full mug of beer, the other curled into a fist as he looms near. The greeting - or the tone it's delivered in - has T'gar looking up in time to see Drex standing there before him. "Hey, man," he calls with a nod of greeting, setting the hides aside from the table for his mug. "When did you get back? Everything okay?" Picture of concerned innocence, this one. "A bit back," is Drex's vague recollection of the date of his return. "Need to talk to you," the growled undertone doesn't quite leave his voice, and he glances over his shoulder to take stock of who's nearby. There's a handful of riders at a table across the way, but they appear to be paying them no mind. "The fuck," he adds as he turns attention back to T'gar, slamming his mug down onto the table where the hides were moments ago, "Did you say to my girl?" "That's cool," T'gar is casual, leaning back in his seat a bit as he takes a drink from his mug. It's only once he's put it down that he takes full stock of Drex, now noting the tense stance and the growl in his voice until the very last. "Who, Farideh?" he puts out as if buying time - as if racking his memories. "You might have to be specific," he says then. "It's been awhile and I've said a lot to her. Mainly in response to the things she says to me." Drex's eyeroll is fair more eloquent in answering a who else?, then the mumbled response that accompanies it. "She about took my head off. Got it into her head I asked you to watch her or some shit. Aint ever asked you to do no such thing," which would probably explain the suspicious look he's giving the weyrling. "Thought you could move in on her while I was gone, that it?" T'gar's casual movements are clearly infuriating, and he reaches out to try and knock the mug out of the weyrling's hands. T'gar is not quick to answer, but his mug is knocked successfully from his hands with a pointed look to Drex as he straightens and looks down as the ale-soaked clothes he now has on. "First of all," he starts to say as he's looking for something to pat the liquid with, "if I recall that time perfectly, I was goading her for dancing around with men in the bar. I didn't say that you had hired me to look after her. Could you honestly see me taking up a job like that if you had asked? It was Farideh that came to that conclusion, even after I joked that the look on her face was priceless from the implication alone." Finding nothing to wipe down with, he gives up his search and pierces Drex with his gaze. "And second," he adds, "I don't want Farideh. It's hard to see whether she's attractive or not whenever she's insulting me - which, by the way, is all the time. There's easier women. Not to mention, I'm sort of after someone that's not her, so." Pause. "Do you want to slug this out?" he's asking now. There's a faint hint of satisfaction in the sailor's gaze, hands settling at his hips. "Don't know you well enough to guess what you would or wouldn't do. I do know yer a bronzerider," as if that answers the question of what Drex thinks T'gar would do. The hard look suggests he's not entirely convinced by T'gar's rather wordy explanation, but the last he comprehends with absolute clarity: "Aye, I fucking do," and he draws back a fist with the intention of doing just that. "Well," is all T'gar could say before that fist comes right at his face. He scoots away to a stand to duck it, coming to his full height as he says, "So you'd rather fight me than look for answers?" is his question, not throwing a punch back. His arms are out though, as if welcoming Drex to give it a shot - even though he adds, "You don't want this, man. I've got a background that lends to me making marks off my fists for turns." His tone turns serious from the casual lilt it's been, watching Drex with some quiet study. Drex doesn't really look like he's up for the debate -- nor for being convinced out of punching his way out of a situation -- something he's clearly familiar with doing. His shoulders twitch after his missed punch, and he half turns as if turning to go, but turns back at the last second, stepping into the movement to give the punch aimed at T'gar's gut some sort of force. Perhaps T'gar was anticipating the feint, for when it comes, there's just a half-second where the weyrling twitches in a way where he stays his defensive reflexes and takes the hit. The hit has him double over, taking to breath out of him enough to drop into a vacated chair to catch his breathing. Drex, really, doesn't look all that satisfied, like he knows the weyrling didn't try and defend himself. He edges back a step, scowling down at the bronzerider. "What, didn't they teach you weyrlings to look after yer own shit? Or are you just reliant on yer dragon to come rescue you like some wayward child?" His hands pressing into where Drex's fist connected with him with a slight wince, there's a long pause from T'gar in answering before he does. Stealing a look up at him as he remains seated, "I told you," he grunts out through panted breath as he sucks up air. "And, I'm not getting kicked out of here over a misunderstanding. Kick my ass if you want. It's better than the alternative, mate." "Afraid of some big bad Weyrleader coming and what -- frowning at you in disappointment? Weak," is Drex's summation, giving the other man's chair a frustrated kick before he drops into one of the other chairs, still glowering. He does, however -- after a long moment of consideration -- nudge his untouched mug towards the weyrling, before leaning back. "More like transfer my ass out of here," T'gar counters darkly. "That's not happening to me. Call it weak all you want, but, at least your life's fucking secure. It's so easy to come down on me and mine, isn't it? Since we bronzeriders have it so easy." He watches Drex darkly from his seat as the other sits before his gaze transfers toward that mug being nudged towards him. There's another roll of eyes for that faint. "Aint much difference. You can go anywhere, anywhen regardless. Who the fuck cares if it's here?" Drex clearly has no association of the concept of home with High Reaches. A snort follows, soon after. "Secure? The fuck you know about me and mine?" Despite his tone, he doesn't take back the token gesture of the beer, at least. "The Reaches is home for me," T'gar states that evenly. "I'm not looking anyplace else." Gesturing towards Drex, "I don't know anything about you other than what you do," he says to that. "If you hated it, you wouldn't be doing it, so that tells me there's some sort of security involved." Now he leans forward to take up the mug for a drink from it. "Aint that simple," Drex replies, with a scowl, though this time it's not so much directed at his companion. In fact, he seems to take the acceptance of the drink as some kind of indicator, since there's a subtle relaxation of tense posture. "Aint like people in the Weyr'd stab you in the back for a bottle of rum, or to climb the ladder or nothin'. Yer all... civilized," and the word comes out more like an insult than a praise. "Aint no security but what you can enforce with yer fists or yer sword." Shaking his head, "Look, this place is a fucking gather-ground compared to the shit places I've been," T'gar notes back to Drex. "Just because I managed to Impress a dragon doesn't mean I didn't have to watch my back from being stabbed. I didn't grow up in this place." There's a pause, even a hesitance before he says, "I didn't even grow up in a Hold, man. Or a crafthall. If you'd given me a chance, you'd have learned that. It looks like we've got more in common than you think." He takes another sip before setting the mug down. Drex gives a snort. "Yeah, because so many riders just get all up and stabbed." Like K'del. Or R'hin. Hey, it isn't like he's up on the local history or anything. He gives a grunt, and another narrow-eyed evaluation of T'gar, before he says in seeming concession, "She almost didn't take me back. Thought I didn't trust her, that I set you -- and fuck knows who else -- to watching her every move while I was gone. You must've said something -- she aint just gonna pull that out of nowhere." Because she's he's girl, and he's clearly the paranoid one in the relationship. Snorting, "Drex, I wasn't even talking about riders," T'gar says, but he doesn't linger on the point. "Though, I will admit, your hatred of dragonriders is rather touching. I thought the guys I kicked it with in the past were bad, but, you blow them out of the water with it. It's enough to have you blind to anything I say in the end, doesn't it?" He leans back, those words perhaps in answer on the altercation with Farideh. Shaking his head a bit, "Look. If I had known that she was the sort to twist every little thing I say to her, I wouldn't have said it as a joke at all. Lesson learned and for what it's worth at this point, I apologize. It's your choice to believe her, man. Like I said, it's not going to make a different what I say. Bronzerider," and he gestures at himself as he takes a drink. Drex frowns, arms crossing over his chest. "The fuck else you talking about then?" because, whatever else he might've been, T'gar's clearly a rider now -- which might account for the lingering suspicion in the sailor's gaze. "Suppose yer not a full asshole, yet," the other man allows, in what seems like acceptance of the apology. "You want another?" with a nod towards the beer. "I am an asshole," the words seem quite rehearsed from T'gar's lips by now that he doesn't even have use emotion to say them. "The best one, evidently. Might as well get used to that now. Saves you on kicking my ass later should you find that out then." Beat. "You're paying," is his acceptance to another drink, the weyrling making quick work on the mug he has in hand now. "Nah," Drex corrects, with a grin, as if he's sure T'gar's going to like the answer: "Fari is," and he levers himself up, slouching his way into the busy bar. It seems he doesn't rate first class service -- that or it's particularly busy, because it's some time before he emerges with a couple more glasses, sloshing only a little bit when he steps to avoid a collision with a hurried apprentice, oblivious to his glare. The sailor sets the mugs down, pulling the nearer to himself. "So," after a gulp of the beer, no such niceties as toasts bothered to be observed, "What'd you do before you decided to become a bigger asshole?" aka impress a dragon. "Long as it's not me," T'gar is easy in saying on who's paying, setting his empty mug aside for passing worker to catch up. Once Drex returns with the new mugs, he collects one of them with a nod of thanks before starting in without any fanfare. Since it looked like a fight wasn't going the brew after all, those few residents that have been watching their table all this time are finally starting to look away (likely disappointed). To Drex's question, there's a pause before, "Can you keep secrets?" he asks him then. "As in, not even Farideh?" Drex's, "Of course I fucking can," is said with just the right combination of indignation and vexation at the accusation. He's oblivious to the onlookers, scowling into his beer as he takes a gulp. Snorting at Drex's answer, "I ask because she and everyone else here thinks I'm from the hold in Bitra," T'gar says with his slight Bitran accent slipping to something more from Crom. "That I'm remotely Blooded with my dad's side of the family having been cut out. He had a stable business where we bred runners and traveled a lot because of it. In actuality," he adds slowly, "I doubt my father has even stepped foot in a Hold unless to rob it. As for me, I used my fists for a living until I couldn't anymore." Drex might be wordly in the sense of having traveled a great deal, but he hasn't spent enough time in non-port Holds to much be able to discern the difference between Bitran or Crom. "Your Blooded?" the sailor says, with the same tone one might ask, You've got the plague? He shakes his head sharply. "In my experience, the further you stay away from that shit the better. Even thieves have more honor." He pauses a moment, concedes, "One or two exceptions aside." Being that the mother of his child is one, presumably. He seems less disturbed with the rest of the tale, giving one of his half-shrugs. "Aint no shame in doing what yer good at, to get by." "I figured saying I was would open some doors," T'gar answers on being Blooded. "Of course, all it really takes is for someone like Farideh to go to Bitra and check it to find it's a lie. It's not my best con work, but then, I doubt dragonriders here would go out of their way to check on one cocky asshole candidate like me. Now that I'm one of them, no one even cares what I've said." Nodding once as he drinks, "Cons and stories were my thing when the fists weren't working," he admits to him. "I've heard that my Bitran and Bollian accents are flawless. I was a damn good fighter, too. Got around. Some bastard was always looking to pay for muscle." The sailor gives a snort. "What a waste," is Drex's opinion. "They'll throw just about anybody on a dragon here. Even ex-cons. Hell, they even tried to ask me -- if that tells you how low their bar for respectable is." He nods towards the latter, unsurprised, like it's known and he isn't shocked by T'gar's association. "And now yer nothing but muscle for the Weyr." "The dragon ultimately chooses," T'gar is even in saying about Impression. "Asaroth didn't give one fuck where I came from." Shrugging, "Hey, I wasn't the one saying how respectable and civilized us dragonriders are," he notes now with a look on the last said. "You made that assumption, and really, I think folks like me on dragons are few and far between. Most of my sorts don't trust dragonriders and so, wouldn't be caught dead here. And I'm no muscle for anyone other than myself. Like I said. I'm just a Bitran runner breeder to these people here. That's all they need to know." "That's because they make you like them. All those respectable lessons they make you do. Why do you think there's so many asshole bronzeriders? You aint completed the training yet. Just a matter of time," in Drex's not-so-humble opinion. He takes a gulp of beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "Oh yeah? Yer Wingleader tells you to jump, what are you going to do? Say how high, or sir, yes sir?" Complete with terrible, half-assed attempt at a salute. "If you don't, figure they'll do what a crew at sea would -- make yer life difficult till you do." "How are asshole bronzeriders respectable?" T'gar wants to know. "I was assuming it was either-or. If I'm already an asshole - and according to your lady, I've been the Lord of Asshole Fanclub before Asaroth - then I can't be respectable. I prefer just being the asshole. Disappoint people head-on." There's more of an amused snort for Drex's antics, the weyrling downing some of his drink. "If they tell me to jump, I'll probably be the asshole asking why, and, what will jumping do to my calves," he answers wryly. "I might even sing a bit. A difficult life doesn't scare me. I'm used to doing things my way and Impressing's not changing that." "Because they have a dragon," Drex says, in a tone like he doesn't believe it's true, and yet it is. "Think girls care if some guy's an asshole, if he has a bronze and swoops in to rescue her from the drudgery of her day?" He eyes T'gar doubtfully over his raised mug. "Guess we'll see when they put you in a wing," he says with the tenor of someone who is sure they will be proven right. "Seems to me impressing makes you do things their way, whether you like it or not. Aint like you can give away the dragon none." "They do, actually," T'gar interjects on girls and assholes. "If they didn't, I'd have been swimming in tits'n'ass up to my ears by now." Sniffing with a shrug on wings, "If I get the right wing, it won't be a problem," he tells Drex with some confidence. "Not all of them are stiff as boards. I'm not worried. I know what I'm doing. Everything I've been doing's a method to my madness. If it pulls off right, I'll end up where I want to be. If not, I always keep a card up my sleeve for a rainy day." "If you aint," and Drex gives him a weird look, "Then you aint trying hard enough. Or the girls you're after already have an asshole rider who is hotter than you." He seems fairly dismissive of T'gar's confidence, though he doesn't verbally disagree, gulping down most of the contents of his glass. It's the latter that makes him look up, curious: "Oh yeah?" "I don't know about the hotter part," is all T'gar could find fault in. He's so humble. To Drex's curiosity, there's an focused look and a, "I'm looking to make high rank. Climb the ladder. Exchange knots. Your girl doesn't think I can do it, but good thing adversity only lifts my spirits." Draining his mug, "Good thing, also, that I don't mind putting all of my chips in on a gamble. If I lose, I lose. Won't be the first time, nor the last." Drex, for his part, ever practical: "All yer have to do is get yer dragon to fuck the right queen. Don't seem that hard to me." He drains his glass, scoffing, "If you do, you can hire me to be yer assistant. You know -- keep all the girls from flooding yer weyr," he's clearly bemused at the notion. "Aint my kind of thing, wanting to be at the top. More trouble than its worth, really. Just end up fighting off all the fuckers who think they can do better. Still, I suppose one asshole bronzerider is as good as another, eh?" he's chuckling, as he pushes to his feet. "Anyway. Sorry about earlier. We're good, eh?" "I'm used to fighting, remember," T'gar says on being on top. "Something like that, I'll welcome. You could definitely be my assistant, though, I wouldn't keep you from the sea." Smirking on later remarks as he drains his mug, "You're something else, Drex," he says, straightening up but not getting to his feet. "We're good, you crazy bastard. I'll be sure to keep my mouth shut around that girl of yours in the future. Thanks for drinks." The empty mug lifts. "Be obliged. I love her, but she can really twist my balls into really painful knots if she wants," Drex presumably means figuratively, and not literally, but then who knows what the dirty sailor's into. Let alone a blooded goldrider. He gives a nod, as much for the drinks as the agreement they're square, slouching off towards the bowl without another word. |
Contents
Comments
Farideh (06:57, 5 February 2016 (PST)) said...
This is why we can't have nice things! I'm disowning both of you.
Edyis (11:17, 5 February 2016 (PST)) said...
Pops popcorn and watches. MORE PLEASE!
Alida (14:29, 5 February 2016 (PST)) said...
Hahahahaha! :D
Leave A Comment