Logs:Strangers in a Bar
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| RL Date: 14 September, 2013 |
| Who: Gallagher, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Gallagher flirts(?) with Telavi. Only not really. And it doesn't go well anyway. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 10, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated, played via gdocs. |
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| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook. Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
To some, it comes naturally to stir up trouble. The nicely dressed trio are not the only unfamiliar faces in the place tonight, and another, knotless, man slides neatly onto the empty stool, looking as innocent as three turn old before a cookie heist. It's like he doesn't realize that putting his leanly muscled body in between the whiskey blonde and the refugee is interrupting anything. His arms settle on the bartop, on hand lightly wrapping around the other, and smiles to the bartender who delivered the drink. "I'll have what she's having," He nods to the short wide glass rather than to the wine. "And two of your cheapest ales for my friends there," He jerks his head to indicate the pair of redheaded men left with a single vacant seat at their table. It's only then that he flashes a charming smile at the woman, as though it were an afterthought, "Faring well this evening?" Yep. Just like that. As if the refugee man who'd been chatting her up didn't even exist. He slides in, and the refugee's young enough that he loses his concentration and some of his cool, entitled enough that he clears his throat loudly, as though somehow the interloper might indeed have missed him. The bartender stays out of it, flashing a practiced smile before moving to fill the request, and as for the woman ensconced upon the stool? After a glance from the arrival to his 'friends,' she notes with some amusement, "I was having what he was having." So by association... "Who?" The knotless man asks the woman, as he makes a show of turning and glancing and oh, finally noticing the young man on his other side, "Well, friend," He flashes a smile which might normally be disarming, but just now is probably infuriating, "You have good taste." And he turns back toward the whiskey-blonde with another warm smile. "So what's a pretty girl like you doing without pleasant company in a place like this?" Because, clearly, the refugee counts for nothing. But the newcomer can't be trying to antagonize the refugees, right? If he were trying to antagonize this particular refugee, he'd be succeeding; as it is, he's... still succeeding, the young man bristling to his feet on cue, barely glancing at the newcomer's shoulder to ascertain he's not visibly one of their hosts before getting into a, "Listen, you no-account--" The young man's not even trying to look past to the woman anymore, who's neatly drawn both the glass closer towards her and her feet closer to the spine of the stool, but focused on the other man. As for why he breaks off, that would have to do with the large, gnarl-knuckled hand that's just tightened on his arm, thanks to his companion on the other side. None of the three have thought to check to see whether the redheads are still where they'd been. Nor has the woman, who's considering the knotless man right back, and-- after a glance flicked behind him that edges the least little bit beyond-- even putting not-quite-matching warmth in her own eyes. "All the pleasant company got impressed," a discreet pause that plays with the word, "into some militia or other. It's really quite tragic. Do you do this sort of thing often?" Even people who are good at what they do have moments where their attention is too much elsewhere to guard every expression. Available only to the woman (and presumably other parties facing the same direction) is the brief look of intense awareness as the young man is heard getting onto his feet and the words that start. It's possible that the attentive ears even hear the sound of hand touching the shoulder that isn't his. The redheads haven't moved from their seats, but both are keeping a keen eye on the happenings of the bar, only they're both wearing knots that indicate them to be locals. At least this much is revealed in that moment, the blonde isn't really the focus of the brunette's attention. "Do what often?" He questions after a moment that's a little too long for natural conversational flow. "Talk to pretty, lonely-looking girls at a bar? All the time. I'm quite the cure for lonesomeness." It might be this moment, with this smile, that the sense might dawn that this man could do a whole lot better at flirting if he were really interested, and not just using her for whatever his purpose here is. That smile, that sense, they come proverbially too little and too late, but 'too late' is the least of it. The woman just looks at him as the refugees continue to settle, green-today eyes closer to gray; she looks him over like she'll remember that face, and then she doesn't accuse him of not listening, not bantering, not responding. She doesn't give him a polite smile, or any smile at all, or any words at all; it's just a steady look that doesn't really belong in a bar. With that, she swivels her stool in the other direction, part of a smooth motion that's picking up both her glasses and slipping free. With them, she makes her way into another group, one that parts to accept her; if she's lonely even so, it's not because of him. The man watches her go, but makes no attempt to hold her up or to stop her. Really, he looks unbothered by it on the whole. His trio of glasses arrive, the one shorter one and the two mugs of the cheap stuff and he's slipping off the stool without another look at the refugees to move back to his friends. He's greeted with loud if good-natured gripes about what took him so long and the distractions of a pretty face. If he was doing more than hitting on the whiskey-blonde, his friends seem oblivious. That's probably how the man likes it. |
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