Logs:There's Always Ista
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| RL Date: 16 November, 2011 |
| Who: Riorde, Taikrin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: It's weyrling week with Glacier, and Taikrin takes Riorde drinking with the wing. Everything's okay until Taikrin disses exile island, and it's all downhill from there. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 2, Month 4, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: A layer of gray clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today. |
| Mentions: Meara/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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| The first day of the weyrlings' rotation with Glacier, Riorde turned up neither early nor late: a calculated effort to avoid the over-eagerness of early arrival and the presumption of tardiness. Her appearance too was a gesture toward unassertiveness, as she wore the pair of leathers she'd inherited with her induction into weyrlinghood: worn, faded, an unassuming tan spotted with old oil stains. Or perhaps that too was an assertion of a different kind, that Riorde would make no special efforts. She conducted herself in near silence that first day. Some might have read it as diffidence or disinterest, but there was nothing to suggest a lack of alertness, and her response to assignment came promptly; Sforzath merely answered for them. So, when assigned to shadow Taikrin--she didn't dare question, but hardly thought it a twist of fate--Riorde simply nodded and got on with it. The day after, much the same, and the day following, but at mid-week she showed up more smartly dressed, in a rich brown jacket with polished brass buckles that could only have been a new commission. Work is work, and there's no denying that Taikrin is very good at hers. Duties during the day are just that-- duties, and meant to be taken seriously. Very seriously. Perhaps a bit too much so, because over the course of the last few days a wearyness has been growing beneath the facade of strict professionalism she's displayed thus far. And while she's abstained the last few nights from the requisite post-duties drinking and gambling routine, tonight, on the way back from sweeps over Crom-bound minerholds she suggests it, almost absently: Glacier is having a get-together in the Snowasis tonight, and did she want to go? And then, once they're heading across the bowl to the bar, she offers what are probably the first not-strictly-business words a tired Taikrin has uttered, "Reckon you ought to break in that jacket, anyways. Lookin' way too weyrling-shiny still." When asked, Riorde hesitated before answering with a particular sort of determination: yes, why not? She keeps pace with Taikrin as they leave the dragons behind and misses a beat in her stride as she looks down at herself. "Yeah, well," she replies self-consciously, "that's the idea, isn't it. Break it in." She almost leaves it at that, but goes on after a moment, "Be better once I do - weird, having something new." "Guess so." Taikrin's leathers are looking pretty careworn, but then again so is she. "Probably gonna be rowdy," she adds, with a sidelong look at Riorde. "Drunk and loud, on account of tomorrow bein' our restday and all." Just off the entrance from the patio ledge she hesitates, sizing Riorde up and down. "Y'ready? They ain't gonna-- I mean they're not--" She makes a face as she attempts to sort out her last-minute advice, then scrubs a hand through her helmet-flattened hair. "Just, you know, be aggressive. Y'gotta." Initially, Riorde's eyebrows edge up. She turns to face Taikrin directly, not quite confrontational--her hands remain at her sides rather than moving to her hips--but certainly expectant. "What are you trying to say?" Unwittingly, she's practicing the aggressivity Taikrin advocates. "I like some of the other wings, you know." "Nothin'!" Taikrin snaps back, defensive and a little cornered. "Just wantin' to make sure you know what's what, s'all. Ain't nobody plays harder'n Glacier." And that's all she'll say, because with a final hard look she's pushing through the doorway and making a bee-line towards the table that's already host to a half-dozen of her wingmates. There's jovial (semi-drunken) greetings all around, most of which are good-natured, though a pointed jab of, "Hey, Taikrin! What's your count at, this month? Same as last?" from a bluerider earns the smirking woman a middle-finger. "Fuck off, An." Then, more broadly, "What're we drinking?" As if the translucent brown liquid filling most of the glasses cold be anything but whisky! Any response Riorde might make forestalled, all she can do is trail after Taikrin into the bar--that, or turn tail and head back to her dragon, but the latter course of action isn't in the cards. She follows closely, not caring to be seen as shying away from meeting other Glacier riders in this public venue, but close-mouthed as she is, it could certainly be read as reticence. A quick sweep of the group doesn't turn up any of her weyrling cohorts, so with no one to greet personally, she settles on a short "Hey" and the quick flash of a polite-but-reserved smile. There's a glance towards An, following the comment and the retort, but no particular reaction; what tension Riorde carries as she comes to stand alongside Taikrin, she carried in with her. Only after Taikrin has stolen someone else's drink (and ducked the swat to the head that came with it) and downed half does she offer, "Reckon y'all know Riorde, yeah? Riorde, this's--" She gestures to the table of wingmates, then shrugs. "Glacier." No sooner does she finish then another pair of riders slouch up to the table, fists full of beer mugs, and announce, "Drink up, assholes! I want you nice and drunk so I can take all of your money!" While the table falls-to, Taikrin gestures towards an empty pair of seats-- then plops herself down without waiting to see if Riorde is following. Down on the far end, a set of dice has appeared, and someone else is idly shuffling a pack of dragon poker cards. Riorde lifts her hand just enough to give a small wave--more of a flick of the wrist, really. She turns a little as the arriving riders with the beer approach, making way so that the drinks reach the table. "So," she puts forward conversationally, making an effort to break her own silence as she falls into the seat next to Taikrin, "did you all ditch the rest of my class out in the mountains?" Her fingers are at her throat, starting there in undoing the off-set buckles that keep her jacket closed; in the absence of a beer (she doesn't make an initial grab), it gives her hands something to do. "If they didn't get an in, well--" The middle-aged greenrider on Riorde's other side answers, gaze flicking significantly from Taikrin to the weyrling. "We must not know them well enough. Or they were scared. We eat weyrlings for breakfast." The man bares his teeth in a smile, then lets out a bark of laughter as the rider on his other side shoves a beer mug in his face with a bawdy joke. "Don't pay him no mind," Taikrin adds on afterwards, quietly. "He's only sayin', we don't drink with weyrlings we don't know. But I said you could keep up, so--" There are beer mugs coming around, and the brownrider covers from her embarrased explanation by handing one over to Riorde. "-- here." There's a pause before Riorde answers the greenrider, unfastening the last of the buckles. She leaves her jacket on; the fit is looser now that it isn't done up snugly. "Do you? Good thing for you that most of us are undernourished, otherwise--" Her gaze drops toward the man's belly and rests there, significantly, before turning toward Taikrin when the brownrider speaks. "Sforzath says Quinlys was gathering people to go down to Ista anyway-- thanks." Her hand closes on the beer, and she brings it to her lips thereafter, but as an aside after her first sip, admits, "Don't know about keeping up though." A dice game is in progress down at the far end of the table; most of the near end is leaning foward, tossing bets and curses and encouragements in equal measure. "Ista, huh? Our gamblin's better, and you ain't got to /buy/ your women." The brownrider on Taikrin's other side, catching the end of the comment, guffaws and shoots her disbelieving, which she ignores. Mostly. There's more irritation in her voice as she continues, "Anyways, I figured y'all must be sick of seein' each other by now. Time to make some new friends, yeah?" She punctuates the statement by finishing off her whisky, saluting with the glass, and moving right along to her beer. Riorde, apparently, has not heard of this phenomenon, little sheltered exile girl that she was -- "...buy your women?" She keeps her questioning quiet, not meaning her ignorance to extend beyond the riders in her immediate vicinity. A glance goes down the table to the dicing with casual interest, but as she turns back toward Taikrin, resentment creeps into her tone. "Yeah, I guess." Another drink, this time a full mouthful, and an effort to recover that comes out a little hasty. "But I'm used to seeing the same people every day - it'll be strange not to, really." "You know, whores. They got pretty much the biggest whorehouse I've ever seen down there." 'Whore' is not a term Taikrin has ever used lightly; Riorde probably never heard her say it once in all their time together. Even now, her distaste for it is clear in her voice. "Don't think much of them if that's where they're goin', at any rate." It's possible she'd forgotten just how sheltered Riorde is, because she flushes at that pointed reminder. "Yeah, well, change is good for you. Makes you strong. Makes you--" Whatever she might have said is drowned out by a roar of success from the dicers, as someone has improbably rolled a set of five 6s. Whore. Riorde knows the word, but more in the context of a woman, unmarried or worse, married, who wrecks havoc on the community (first; island-usage) or someone who sleeps around freely (a joking reference; who really cares about that in a weyr?). This adds a third definition that Riorde clearly pieces together from the way her eyebrows lift again, this time in a questioning comprehension. "Well," she resumes once the noise has died down (though not much -- Riorde's learning that Glacier's a rowdy bunch), "I can't see Quinlys going in for-- that. She's not really the type." That what? Buys women? "Heard they got boy-whores too, though I figure they're more into other guys. Not like it matters," Taikrin informs her beer glass, just before draining it dry. "Anyways, we have more fun here." Because Taikrin totally looks like she's having fun, what with the strain lines that are appearing around her eyes as she tries /very/ hard not to look at Riorde. The winner of the last dice game is magnanimous, and there's a round of whisky glasses deposited deftly on the table by a passing barmaid, one of which Taikrin is quick to snatch up. "You been to Ista yet?" Riorde learns more and more. Her expression stays straight, though the way her mouth moves conveys disbelief; Ri catches herself, pulling her chapped lower lip in to moisten it, then drinking more of her beer. It's only half-empty at this point, but still, not to be outdone, the weyrling follows Taikrin's lead in picking out one of the whisky glasses. It sits before her, an enticement to drink up. Riorde works towards that end singlemindedly. Toward the bottom of the glass, she allows herself to look at Taikrin again, and for herself not to look away. "Yeah. They were taking us all over, having us visit all the different places." They being the weyrlingmasters. Somehow, Riorde does not sound as enthusiastic about this wide-open Pern as one might expect for someone in her position, a weyrling newly introduced to between. Taikrin is still talking to her glass, though every now and then she shoots glances down towards the betting action at the far end of the table; a few more riders have appeared, and it's turning into quite the frenzy of dice-rolling and marks changing hands. "Yeah, but that's for learning the images. I mean, to /go/. Or somewhere else south? And wet?" Finally, she cracks the quickest of looks in Riorde's direction. "Figured you woulda gone to some beach, first chance you get." "We went to Southern," says Riorde, conveniently leaving off that 'we' included Meara. The beer finished, she pushes the empty glass out toward the middle of the table. It's at this point that she's finally grown warm enough - or comfortable enough - to take off her jacket and arrange it over the back of her chair. It must be the beer that loosens her tongue; Riorde, with her late acquaintance to alcohol and subsequent months of abstention, has never developed much tolerance. "Between, though. Rather not." "Yeah? But you already went there, so I figure you-- uh. Between? Why not? Doin' alright in drills, far as I can see. Still nervous about makin' the hops?" There's little that's less-smooth than Taikrin's abrupt change of topic, complete with flaming flush that a winter's pallor only highlights. Over their heads, the brownrider and greenrider on either side are making faces and rolling their eyes, though Taikrin doesn't appear to notice. "Ain't no thing but to practice. Thought you wanted to go on, like, some tour of all the beaches Pern's got, or something?" Riorde, however, does, catching sight of the rider beyond Taikrin. A sudden scowl, and Riorde hits the whisky. "Just don't like it is all," she mutters into her glass. "But," speaking of beaches; this makes Riorde look up, and starts to clear her frown, "Meara said she's taking us back." Does Riorde need to clarify where? She doesn't seem to think so, since she continues, "for a week." Bafflement. "Back to whe-- oh. Really? /Why/?" Taikrin truly doesn't seem to understand why Riorde would ever way to go back to the island, ever, because she turns, wide-eyed, to stare at Riorde. "Ain't there, like, /nothing/ there anymore? What the shells are you lot going to do over there for /that/ long? Ain't you got better things to be doin'? Like-- getting into wings?" Riorde has no response at first. The alcohol--not much, but enough for someone unused to it--has stripped off her customary reserve to the point that her surprise is plain to see. In quick succession, disappointment and a flare of anger. "You wouldn't understand." It comes out as an accusation, delivered low. Riorde starts to flush, and in her awareness of all the other riders, bites back anything further, turning instead to the whisky. The generous finger left in the glass, meant for sipping, becomes a shot. Taken aback by the force of Riorde's accusation, Taikrin blinks a few times, her flush darkening to a ruddy shade of pink, then looks away sharply. "... whatever." The brownrider to her side nudges her, leaning down to murmur something in her ear while gesturing at Riorde. She doesn't find it funny: the look she gives him is cold, with none of the good-natured violence that's happening further down the table. "Fuck off, N'maz." One of the dicers, catching the last statement, calls down amidst a chorus of laughter, "Flaming shells, Taikrin, you need to get /laid/!" That pink flush? Is turning red. Dark, angry red. Riorde sits back, taking the empty tumbler with her and cradling it between her hands. At a loss for what to say and now how to act in front of these unfamiliar riders, Riorde opts for doing nothing--that is, until she's implicated in the comments flying across the table. At which point Ri, remembering the advice Taikrin gave prior to joining this Glacier party, tips forward again, puts her glass back on the table with a sharp rap, and delivers slow and easy, "Well, there's always Ista." The greenrider on Riorde's left lets out a suprised guffaw, but then he elbows Riorde in the side in the same sort of good-natured roughhousing most of the other wingmates are displaying. "Hah! Got you there, didn't she?" Taikrin is trying very, very hard to pretend like this is all a very funny joke they're having at her expense, but her smile is really just bared teeth, and her voice is husky with all the things she's repressing. "Real funny, assholes," is her oh-so-clever rejoinder, to which she polishes off another glass of whisky and adds, "Y'all're just jealous about all those marks I took off you last week." Riorde, she's ignoring entirely, though there's a rhythmic twitch in her nearer eyebrow. With the way Riorde sits up with a start, it doesn't seem she's particularly used to physical contact from near-strangers. She gives the greenrider an uneasy smile, then seems to think Taikrin has the right idea since she reaches for whisky too, one of the last glasses remaining of the latest batch brought to the table. Slumping back as if that places her at a remove from the table, Riorde watches Taikrin; at this point, there's nothing covert about it though she's quiet, not drawing attention to herself. Riorde doesn't say anything at first and almost says nothing, but let's be honest: her inhibitions have disappeared. So, quietly and casually, she comments, "Haven't taken anything off me." No. She can't keep up with Glacier drinking. She was trying, really, not to lash out at Riorde, but now she's been baited into it. There's nothing particularly nice about the way Taikrin leers (though it's mostly for effect), and shoots back, "I reckon I've taken /everything/ off of you." Their nearest neighbors are watching again, with the anticipation of vultures around a wounded animal. It could be juicy! Riorde displays that hyper-sensitive awareness of her surroundings of encircled prey--she doesn't look around directly, but her manner is alert with muscles become taut. the readiness of fight-or-flight. Riorde's choice? She drains the rest of her whisky, then turns to face Taikrin fully with an affected smile. "Then I guess it's a good thing I learned to keep my marks out of your grasp." Riorde pushes back her chair, stands, and grabs her jacket. Addressing the table at large, she offers, "Thanks for the drinks," then starts towards the door; she's fleeing on the pretense that it's on her own terms. For a moment, it looks like Taikrin might just follow her anyways: as soon as Riorde stands up, she tenses in her chair like a coiled spring. If not for the round of curious stares, and an outburst of laughter from the far end of the table she might have, too. But there's face to be saved here, and so she settles for just calling out, "Reckon you're regrettin' it every day, too!" Only with a significant effort does she wrench herself away, then, to do some hardcore drinking and dicing. It's a /really/ good thing that tomorrow's a restday. Reluctantly, indifferently, Szadath breezes in to add, « She says sorry. » (Szadath to Sforzath) To Szadath, Sforzath has been paying close attention, so his response is prompt, present, with a keenness that betrays his own interest. « She says-- » A gap, a space that fills in with smoke. «-- nothing. » |
Comments
K'del (K'del) left a comment on Fri, 18 Nov 2011 01:37:41 GMT.
I really love the interplay between these two, plus Glacier. There's so much going on!
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