Logs:Taking Advantage of the Drunk and Depressed
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| RL Date: 23 September, 2011 |
| Who: Iolene, S'thyn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: S'thyn plies a willing Iolene with liquor and she propositions him. Iolene finds a special friend. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 11, Turn 26, Interval 10, afternoon -> Day 9, Month 11, Turn 26, morning |
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| Iolene isn't a face often seen in the Snowasis. In spite of this fact, she is still recognizable and where the blonde goes, whispers follow; whispers she's not entirely comfortable with as she claims a booth tucked in the far corner. It's a place to see but not always be seen. When one of the serving girls come to take her order, the blank stare is all the woman needs to merely smile indulgently and remark, "I'll bring you something to try out, see if you like it." Before she's off to take the orders of another round at a more raucous table near by, drunken Weyrfolk playing cards in the middle of the afternoon. In the midst of that grouping of drunken Weyrfolk is a red head - not quite the illustrious Weyrleader - more like some well-to-do Hold-brat, judging by the clothes S'thyn's wearing. There's a series of groans as the man collects his winnings, holding his hands up in response to the protests as he leaves the table with his newfound winnings. He trails after the serving girl, whispering something at her that causes her to blush and laugh, and then his eyes pass over Iolene. Trying to hide, or at least, that's what it seems like. And so with another comment and a flick of fingers towards Iolene's table, he ambles over there and sits down, uninvited, on the other side of the booth, props elbows on the table and chin in hand, and just... stares. Iolene can't help her fascination with the ard game, a smile curving unbidden when there's a definitive win. She can't help watching the winner of it all move; that wiry red head trailing the serving girl and then making her laugh and blush. Wistfulnesss rises in those clouded dark eyes at this repartee, perhaps a memory surfacing only to be banished by a shake of her head and an abnormal fixation on the stack of hides before her. Not that she's reading, unless the one title sentence on the first of her reports is /that/ fascinating or difficult to comprehend, and it's on that moment that S'thyn sits, evoking in her surprise. "You're staring." "So're you," S'thyn points out. "Not sure about you, but I'm waiting for the magical rainbows, or the golden eggs to appear around you." He waves a hand towards her, stretching hands skywards and folding them behind his head, still regarding her. "At least, judging by the way everyone whispers about you when you come into the room. Do they always do that? Must play havoc on your heading." "Magical rainbows? Golden eggs?" Surprise and bafflement aren't too far from each other on the emotional radar scale and Iolene slips fluidly from one to the other. "Why would the-," and then it becomes clear and she finally puts two and two together to get something other than five. A blue-eyed glance steals sidelong at the people who might whisper about her and then back to S'thyn. "They do that. They've done that. Since-, since we got here really. I've heard we're really savages and cannibals and the reason there aren't that many of us is because we ate each other." She can't quite maintain a bland deadpan voice with that, the streak of bitterness she feels all too apparent. "Huh," is S'thyn's initial reaction to that very tall tale. "Well, lucky for me I don't have much fat on me. And I can outrun most of the people in this bar," his fingers flicker towards the rowdy card-players with a smile, "So I think I'm pretty safe around you." The serving girl returns, and she's setting a couple of shot glasses and a bottle of some sort of amber liquid on the table. "You're a darling," Seth murmurs, leaning over to slip her a some coin and a faint murmur in her ear that makes her blush and giggle anew. Once she's gone, S'thyn pours liquid into both glasses, nudging one Iolene-wards, expectantly. Iolene stares at the flirtation between serving girl and greenrider, her front teeth visible as they bite down on her lower lip. Like a girl younger than the seventeen years she is, she sinks back into her seat, waiting until the girl is gone before speaking again. "That's not what I ordered." Though, truth be told, she didn't order much of anything. That doesn't stop her from reaching for one of those shots to sniff before a distasteful look sets it back to the table again though her fingers remain latched about the noon and six points of the glass. Abruptly, "Do you like that girl? Is that why she giggles and laughs for you when you talk to her?" "Guess she got distracted," is all S'thyn says in response to her protest. He doesn't seem inclined to encourage her to drink, or not: he just tosses back the liquor, exhaling as he sets the glass back down. Russet brows twitch upwards at that inquiry, surprised. "What are you like, six? They didn't teach the birds and bees on your island?" Another shrug follows, and does finally answer after a moment, "She's pretty, and willing. We've had a few good tumbles. You could join us, if you wanted." The blithe, ill-considered offer is casual, like he doesn't really care whether she accepts or declines. The offense Iolene takes to S'thyn's insult manifests only in the rise of color to her cheeks, and before she can think better of it, the lanky blonde tightens her grip of that shot and repeats his action. It wasn't the smartest move she could do, not that Io's particularly known for being smart, as a series of coughs accompany the burning trail it must leave going down her insides. "That's so gross," is what she first manages to get out, post-coughing, her expression unable to decide which emotion to stick with as it vacillates between repulsed by the liquid, dying from the coughing (and the alcohol), and both insulted and uncertain as to everything S'thyn says. But given how skinny she is, how little she eats in general, and a general propensity towards sadness, it doesn't take that long for that singular shot to sink in or for her to push it over for a refil. "I want another one." "It's easier after the first couple," S'thyn says, by way of what one assumes is sympathy. A low-throated chuckle escapes him as he says, "I'll choose to believe you mean the alcohol is gross, not my offer. If only for the sake of my ego." He leans to refill her glass easily enough, and lifts his up in silent salute as he downs his second. He, too, is not immune to the liquid, and there might be a slight watering of eyes, certainly a roughness to his voice, "I hope you appreciate how much this actually costs, kid. But I'm betting not." The second goes down like water, or a close approximation thereof, as it doesn't induce vomiting or more coughing at this stage. Not yet at any rate. The first shot's left a pleasantly numb path down her throat to her stomach and the warmth of it finally flushes her neck and the tips of her ears. "Another." Io's speech isn't garbled yet and there's no slur, but a slowness about her eyes as she requires more than a few blinks to fixate onto S'thyn, long enough to discern who he is again and what he's saying. A protest: "I've got marks." Now that she knows what marks are. "I do. I can pay." S'thyn's quick enough with the refill that it might almost seem he was ready to do so, her request not withstanding. He's examining her reaction to the alcohol, a little hint of amusement twitching his lips as he fills his own glass, continuing to match her. "Can you? Well, no matter. We'll sort out the marks later. See? It's not so bad now, is it?" Alcohol and Iolene never mix well together. Tomorrow, she might regret this and vow off the stuff (again) forever. Today, she takes the third and takes a sip, this time to taste it and remark, "It tastes like water now," before pouring the rest back. Liquid eyes turn up on S'thyn, and while she doesn't ask for a refill this time, the glass is set onto the table and flicked towards the greenrider with a flicker of fingers. Wistful, "Am I as pretty as that girl?" A gesture, that's a little too flourished, points out the flirty serving girl. In other life, S'thyn might've been a bartender, for the smooth and ready way he refills the young goldrider's glass. At that question, he turns to examine the serving girl, then Iolene, in that appraising way that could be termed almost intrusive. "No," he says, very definitively. "You're not." And then a very deliberate pause, as he leans in as if imparting a secret. "You're much, much prettier. But you have to pretend I never said that. Pretty girls who /know/ they're pretty aren't nearly as attractive." "Oh." In another life, just five minutes before, Iolene might flush at the flattery he piles on her, but that, much like the liquor he shares, is ingested all too easily. "I won't tell anyone you think that if you sleep with me." To the point. Possibly even more to the point now that she has liquid courage to hit on random strangers. S'thyn is entirely the wrong person to proposition if one is hoping that a moral qualm might cause him to refuse such an offer. There is a fair amount of surprise in the red head's expression for a moment, however. Then, with a low chuckle, he says, "How could I possibly refuse such an offer?" A tip of head, and he challenges her like he thinks she'll fold: "Now?" It's a sad person that takes advantage of the depressed and drunk. Not that Iolene's pointing any fingers and the responsibility of what she does and says? Squarely on whatever vintage S'thyn continues to pour for her. Weyrling rules also matter very little to her and with an overtly curious Ysavaeth not telling her an explicit no, Iolene shrugs her thin shoulders and ventures a sad sort of smile to S'thyn. "Why not? But not in the barracks. I don't want E'gin to see me naked and then start yelling at me. He's our wingleader this month," the last, spoken as if in confidence -- as if all that were her only real worries. The mention of barracks leaves a moment of hesitation on S'thyn's part. There is, perhaps, the slightest touch of Llynceth's wintry tones to test Ysavaeth's mood, and finding no concern, the moment passes. Then he's scooping up the bottle, rising from booth, and offering Iolene a steadying hand. "I've got a place." A weyr, in fact, though he doesn't bother to elucidate that part just yet. Not in the habit of drinking very often, if at all except that one rather regrettable time, Iolene has no cause to realize that standing is probably also not a good idea at this point. When she does stand, it's only to sit right back down again, steadying hand or no. "Oh. I can't-," she blinks and twitches her head like a dog whose just run through a fountain of water, "Is the earth shaking? I don't remember the earth shaking before? Why isn't anyone else panicking about it?" "You'll be fine once you're lying down." Which probably sounds just about as salacious as S'thyn means it to be. Except that, as he looks at her, he sighs, and casts a look about as if to determine just how many people are watching. There are definitely a few here and there. He carefully tightens the lid on the bottle, and says, "Can you hold onto this? Then I can carry you. And no, the earth isn't moving." Every girl's dream come true, to be hauled away by a cave man to his lair. The alcohol's relaxed Iolene immensely, loosened her morals, and made her exceedingly obedient to this complete stranger whose plied her with the aforementioned liquor. So that bottle is taken, her arms are stretched upward and the first actual smile floats to her lips, a serene, almost happy one. "Up. Up. Up!" Carry her up! S'thyn's expression is odd. Like he's kind of reconsidering it for like... oh. Half a second. And then he just scoops Iolene up, little-girl-request or no. "Just escorting her back to her bed, folks. A little too much indulgence. Nothing to see here," he's casually calling out as begins to carry her out of the bar, glancing down at her to check on her. If the whisperers weren't whispering before, they are whispering now. Hopefully, she's not being carried over his shoulder, cause if she is, Io wouldn't be able to start nuzzling against S'thyn's neck, wrapping her arms about his shoulders (nearly decking him with the bottle in the process), and swinging her legs in what appears to be good cheer. "I like drinking," for now. "And I like you, you're nice," today. Tomorrow, or maybe even a few hours from now given it's the middle of the freaking afternoon, all those opinions might change.
It's a testament to how much she had to drink as well as S'thyn's prowess in between the sheets (rather than her own) that it's morning now rather than afternoon, evening, or even night. Either way, Iolene would probably be unable to tell you just how she got into this predicament, let alone when so it's a moot point, particularly when the chill of encroaching winter draws her in all the further into the bed against the warm body beside her; a body that isn't Ysavaeth. The smell is decidedly wrong though not altogether 'off' in the sense of rotten fish or stale meats. It's just different, and while sleepy, her face breaks free of S'thyn's chest long enough to sniff again. This? This is not her Kansas and she is suddenly not sleeping. Instead, Io lies there, her once pliable body now rigid. While S'thyn doesn't further stir, with an arm over her waist it'd be impossible not to notice that sudden rigidity. "There's a pot under the bed if you need to throw up." Oh, that's just the sort of charming, comforting words that one wants to hear from a new bedmate. At least S'thyn, drunk or sober, is pretty consistent in his character. Rigid and staring up at the ceiling. Maybe Iolene's counting all the spots on it, the sparkling smoothness and the iron wrought hooks. What must pass for thought crinkles her nose and she tests the scent of the air once more and shifts her weight into the mattress to see how heavy the arm is about her waist. Then, "Can we do that again?" Anything to kill time and not go back to reality, even having sex with a stranger again. There's another long groan from S'thyn at that request, and it even makes him crack an eye to regard Iolene with a mingling of surprise and amusement. "Maybe when my head stops hurting a bit, love." A yawn splits his words, and when done, he adds, "Besides, no hurry. Day off for me today. We can just stay in bed. Have some more whiskey or something, it's over there somewhere." He's ignoring the fact that she's a weyrling and she'll be missed. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and it gives him the luxury of, just maybe, falling back asleep. Though they're far from needing introductions by this point, the blonde girl offers, "I'm Iolene. And I don't want anymore whiskey." Does she have a headache? Now that he mentions it, she shifts her head from side to side and finds nothing amiss, and as such twists about onto her belly and prop herself up on her elbows. Dark blue eyes peer down upon the sleepy, hungover man. "Can I ask a question?" "If you do it quietly," S'thyn responds with a long-suffering sigh, not even opening his eyes. He doesn't bother with names; he probably wouldn't give her his real one anyway, so there's not much point. "Can you teach me how to be better?" Iolene inquires, her head propped up by a fist, her body twisting onto her side. Beneath the sheets, one foot lifts to slide up to S'thyn's knees to tickle her toes against them and then down along the rest back to poke her big toe against one of his foot. "I'd like to be better at all that. How did you get so good?" She's really a lot more tolerable when sad and drunk apparently. It takes a moment for those words to sink in. The 'be better' is misinterpreted at first, and earns a dubious glance, before her latter words seems to clarify her intent. And then he's laughing, and groaning a moment later. "Good faranth, kid." A breath, and then he finally answers with a sly sort of grin. "Practice. Lots and lots of practice." Not that he's offering. Or, wait. This is S'thyn. That probably is an offer. After a considered moment, S'thyn adds: "And at least one threesome." "Practice. Ok. Prac-," -tice? Iolene's redolent lounging goes tense again and she stares at S'thyn in an open gawk. That toe that tries to flirt along his lower leg halts and the leg falls heavily against the bed. Perplexed, she's not so gullible as to not question S'thyn's requirements. "Why? We- we don't. I-," she can't quite make her words form correctly and so flops onto her back, all the better not to stare at S'thyn with growingly ruddy cheeks. "We don't ever do that on the island. Weyrs are weird. The people in Weyrs are strange. I don't understand how you decide who leads you based on who has sex with who. Since we had sex, does that make you my Weyrleader? No." Just as quickly as she asks that, she answers it in the same breath. But then there's, "What about K'del or Jaques?" "Well, you are a weyrwoman. Or will be. So I guess I'm a weyrleader in waiting." Oh, S'thyn's enjoying this far too much. He rolls over enough that he's on his side, fingers tracing a tickling path down her front, accidentally -- or not so accidentally, really -- pushing the sheets back. Then he stops, because, a slight cough escapes him. "No, it has to be another woman." He just says it with the certainty of fact. "Maybe a friend of yours from the island? Or even that pretty barmaid." She's not /stupid/ as innocent as she might seem, and the look she arcs S'thyn-ward, red cheeks and all, is completely dubious now. Really? /Really/? "Greenriders can't be Weyrleader." That much she's learned from her lessons, the few that have sunk in. But as much as she now doubts what he says, she doesn't swat his hand away or protest the sheets being drawn back. In fact, she doesn't protest much until he stops. "You're talking too much now," says the girl with too many questions. "But I don't think I'm ready for that," is said with a finality that she will like never be ready for that, though she's apparently all too willing to be ready for other stuff as she reaches for his hand to guide it in tracing idle patterns on her belly. "Well, if you like, we can work our way up to the threesome. Make sure you get better first." If S'thyn seems surprised at the girl's forwardness, it certainly doesn't stop him taking advantage a moment later. His hand slides towards her belly, and stays there for a while, before sliding lower still. And if those sort of attentions distract her enough that she stops talking for a while, as intended, well, it's win-win for everyone. She's certainly willing to practice and now? She's not talking, though she's not completely silent. It's certainly better than moping or constantly thinking about the only other guy who's never touched her in this particular way. And if she misses drills? Or gets in trouble? Oh well, what are they going to do? Take away Ysavaeth? So Iolene gives herself fully to these experiences and this particular brand of 'learning'. But really, she's going to have to eat some lunch later, which means leaving and facing the world. But not now. Now, S'thyn can be as smarmy as he'd like. |
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