Logs:Trying to Make a Deal With Anvori
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| RL Date: 24 September, 2008 |
| Who: Anvori, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 2, Month 11, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr(#555RJ) 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. Drinking at the Snowasis early in the afternoon apparently pales in comparison to egg gawking, for the crowd is a little sparser than usual. Then again, it is just after lunch and maybe even Reachians aren't so big on indulging so early. This makes Anvori's task of manning the bar while the bartender eats his lunch an easy one, with the trim Tillekian's sporadic attention paid to alternating exits as he thumbs idly through a small notebook filled with his particular brand of chicken scratch: illegible. Maybe /most/ people don't take to drinking this early in the day-- right out in the open, anyways-- but N'thei suffers no such discretion. Stripping his jacket, his scarf, all the outerwear necessary for flying in the late autumn, he makes a pile of it on an empty table at which he has no intentions of actually sitting. He's halfway to the bar before there's any indication that he realizes this is not the usual afternoon-face serving drinks, and the knowledge comes with a sudden, sharp frown all heavy with suspicion. "What are you doing back there." In the time it takes N'thei to arrive, strip, and head over, Anvori's pressed open a particular page of his notebook and sets to playing with two jiggers, a metal mix cup and an assortment of oddly colored bottles. It's while one's being carefully filled with green liquid that N'thei interrupts him and a splash more spills out over the sides. It's the only beat he misses, his startlement covered with a quick, amiable smile. "Keeping your glasses filled and your residents intoxicated and ridiculously happy while that overworked man of a bartender goes to eat something. Promise," says the Tillekian, "I won't be adding poisons to your ale today." Never mind the extra splash, the jigger and potential experimentation are set aside. "So what'll it be?" N'thei blinks solemnly through this clever response, literally unmoved, still standing four feet from the bar with the exact same frown in place. The only change is a glance to the spilled green-stuff, he saw that!, and then back up to Anvori's face for a moment designed to precisely emphasize the blandness behind his eyes. Let him start again-- "Who are you." Because, for all that's not what he asked, that's very clearly what he /meant/. It's all too easy for an assuming man like Anvori to get lost in the crowd; a nothing to the Weyr's leader -- as easy as that grin that sinks in all the deeper, setting hazel eyes aglitter. Presuming, an old-fashioned is filled with something amber, harshly spiced, but just drinkable and is set before N'thei and his looming four-feet away frame. "Anvori. And you're N'thei." It's not as easy for the Weyrleader not to be recognized, unfortunate that. "Drink up." His growing smile obscures the fleeting wink of one eye. "You'll be in a better mood to glare at change and ask nosy questions if you're toasted." "Anvori." A twitch, a head-tilt, N'thei tries to place the name amid all the other clutter that he's collected in his mind. Whether or not he ever does connect the dots is questionable, since there's no read of it in his expression. To answer his assumption though; "Not likely. And stop grinning. Don't care overmuch for the sight of big-bright-smiles while I'm in my cups." So saying, he sits down in front of the good-guess drink. Depsite the brusqueness of the words, he seems to be "over" glaring hatefully. Improvement! N'thei's discomfort is Anvori's delight, and being ordered to stop grinning only ellicts a low chuckle from the temporary barkeep. Rather than return to his experiments in front of such an august figure, the man pretends busyness with idle swipes of a rag kept along his belt line. He doesn't need to ask 'good enough' to recognize his guess as good, but a few moments later, he does interrupt the other man's enjoyment with a dry, "Nice place you got here," that doesn't quite end there on the train of Anvori's thoughts, but that'll do for now. At least he accompanies an attempt to talk with a second waiting glass that rests on the bartop just beyond the halfway line, closer to N'thei. N'thei purposefully takes a long-silent-drink after Anvori's words before there's any chance he plans to formulate his own response. Then, a thumb wiping under his lip, the glass set meticulously down on the bar in front of him-- "So you got my name and my drink, or close enough to it, but missed the don't-like-small-talk part. Shame that." He gives the Snowasis a once-over, a quick half-turn to survey the room in its entirety, like he's actually giving a little thought to the nice-place-here probability. "Mmm," says Anvori's noncommittal exhalation, his hazel eyes tracking N'thei's once over before returning to judge the state of the man's glass; half-full or empty. "Can't really tell what kind of clientale you're hoping to attract though. A little of everything and everyone or the salts of the earth?" Censure and appraisal wrap into one carelessly spoken thought, the swipes of his towel a little more deliberate in their aimlessness. "And I was told otherwise. That you'd like to speak with me about a brewing endeavor? But I'm sure," another smile follows his jawline, traveling up to set alight his eyes, "You have more important things to dwell on with Lady Edeline's prolonged stay." "/Small talk./" N'thei wheels back around on the stool, brackets his hand around the base of the mug, and essays one more dull look to Anvori before his lips disappear into his drink one more time. Got to be near empty by now. "Business is another matter. Want to sell your moonshine. Which hopefully means going into business together. Or else I rip you off and sell it at a hefty mark-up. Really, either way works from my end." Benefit of the doubt there, he doesn't talk to Anvori like the man's particularly stupid, just a little annoying with all the cheeriness. Again those hands go up along with that simplistic shrug: what do you expect? He's a bartender, small talk and getting people to talk about themselves and drown their sorrows is his livelihood. Though the experiment with its extra splash of green has long been set aside, the man stretches, reaching for the untended notebook and thumbs through it once more until he stops at a certain, early page. "Do you one better. If you have the people, I'll teach them how to brew it and other things I've been dabbling in here." Caveat, punctuated by a finger lifted that then segues into a reach for the bottle, ready to pour into the empty glass while using its blunted end to nudge the waiting second glass forward. "I get a five percent vested interest in all profits out of the Snowasis. Co-ownership if you will." N'thei stands, a hand beckoning-- except, when he "beckons," it's more like "come this way now or you might get punched." A flip to raise the partition allowing him behind the bar, his intent for the little-back-room. "Been trying." The hard stress on /trying/ does not imply success, neither does the way he shakes his head resolutely on his way. "To put together a still here, just a small one to give it a go. And you're going to have to give me a lot more than a little lesson in brewing and some rot-gut to get five percent of my take, friend." His his his. Anvori doesn't follow immediately. The threat of N'thei's punches lack reality for him, or else he's just stupid and doesn't care as he's clearly not actually built for fighting. But there are things a responsible fellow's gotta do before scurrying off to the Weyrleaders' beck'n call: the counter to swipe down, a study to gauge various levels of drinks around the room, and there in and of itself lies the reason he actually does leave his post, notebook at hand. There's practically no one there. But since it's not an official posting, a favor between comrades, Anvori's not above pouring himself a glass and then following N'thei with an ambling gait to that back room behind the bar. He leans in the entry, keeping tabs on his temporary domain and regards N'thei, amused. "Trying ain't done deal, desperado." But good luck figuring it out on your own. "Five percent can't even compare to how much you," and a faint emphasis draws out a crookeder smile on his face, "Are throwing away stocking up that bar given how many people here seem to require liquid medication." N'thei waits. Doesn't like waiting, shown in the stance in the open door, the unwillingness to dislocate his eyes from staring hard at the side of Anvori's head, from faint but discernible flex of his fingers. But then there's a reason for his patience: that room, that "still," is mostly just a mess of copper tubes and corks and barrels and chaos. Whatever he and F'rint have been doing back here, it has not involved any degree of success. So he's right-- trying is by no means a done-deal. "Will pay you off flat for instruction, or even just getting things off the ground. Not making a co-ownership for a little training seminar. But if you're confident in your abilities to make money, you could always take a cut on any increased profit margins, neh?" Anvori likely listens, there's an altogether too-attentive look about him for him -not- to be listening. But without any immediate response to N'thei's offer, it could be just a trick of his trade. From the bronzerider his gaze drops to find the gizmo-gadgety mess of N'thei and F'rint's attempt. "Did you like that?" That being the glass he lifts, toasting N'thei silently before taking a careful, testing sip. "Can put this together for you for free then, with a manual in case anything breaks," he adds, with a grin that crinkles only half his face. The likelihood of N'thei breaking something? No way. "But doesn't mean you'll make anything worth drinking out of it. Seen -your- Weyr, man. Seen the type of people here. Know one of your best drinkers. You can only pass off piss poor rotgut for so long before they'll take their business elsewhere." There's a beat. "Can't match the vintners in smoothness, complexity, but bet they can't match my offer." Being that he's not all that familiar with Anvori, N'thei tacks on extra words just for his benefit; "Does it matter?" If he liked it. Oh joy, says the brief hard smile that greets the offer of a manual, oh how it warms his bitter heart. But-- "Still not giving you five percent. Show me you can make money, and you'll get what you deserve for it. So let's talk alternatives. Will give you ten percent for every percentage our profits increase once you're signed on." While talking, he lifts what passes as a manual; a complicated pamphlet of arcane diagrams and terminology that's been folded, wrinkled, torn, abused. Now it's just a matter of pride, sticking to his guns, but discussion of the percentages of lack thereof is set aside. He's amiable like that. "What were you trying to do?" Just a splash of incredulousness, and a hand that tucks the notebook under his arm and reaches out with his suddenly free hand to pull down the pamphlet in total askance. "Where did you get that?" Anvori's not mocking him, really, he's not. For some, haggling is a matter of pride, sure; for N'thei, it's a matter of obsessed-with-money. That Anvori leaves off the issue at the moment bothers him, shown in the brief tic at one corner of his mouth, the pull-back of the manual like now he doesn't want to share it with the man after all. But he tilts it, releases it, leaves it for Anvori to mull over. FYI-- "You ask a lot of questions." "And you make a lot of demands," returns the Tillekian moonshiner, not missing a beat. "How's that working out for you?" There's that damnable smile one more, flickering and fleeting, before pulling that pamphlet all the closer, unfolding it and eyeing it. "As old as my dad's dad's dad," he mutters under his breath, a finger tracing the way one copper ding-a-ling connects to another. "Can put this together for free and the rest you can figure out on your own." He pauses, folds the manual close to his chest, then pockets it. "So, did you like it?" Relentless. And smiling toothily to boot. See? N'thei's eyebrows climb right there, for-you with a question-mark at the end, his forehead creasing up and eyes widening with the effort of mutely drawing attention to his case-in-point. The whole rest of the conversation aside. "You're not getting five percent. Just can't do it." And he almost sounds like he's sorry for it, the big shrug that ignores Anvori's perpetual smile to press on to matters that actually matter to N'thei-- which is pretty much everything except what Anvori keeps rattling on about. "Reasonable man though," all evidence to the contrary aside, "willing to talk numbers. Would rather pay you than someone else." Anvori smooths down the pocket where he's stuffed that pamphlet, the hands continuing to drop to smooth down the lines of his slacks. "And sorry, just can't paid for work that's child's play for me. Besides, she'd kill me if I took advantage of her Weyr." Though the possession of the Weyr shifts, the emphasis remains the same. "You want the process I use, the way I put the ingredients together for the simple things and my stores of brandy I've kept for the last eight years... we'll discuss payment later. First, let me get this crap up and running for you." He can totally be reasonable. Just not right now. "Can't get it up, this whole deal isn't worth it anyway, right?" His head jerks back to the bar that's gained a cluster of pretty girls as customers. "Let me get you another drink, N'thei and you can be my wing man for them." Does he wait? No. And with a sunny smile, the slim man turns, ostensibly to welcome such pretty faces to his bar. Let's just not talk about her-in-particular, this conversation is going badly enough without that addition. Blunt; "You're getting on my nerves." N'thei imparts this important tidbit before he leaves the back-room, flips down the partition in the bar, and resumes his seat in front of the long-since emptied mug. "Ladies," with an amiable tip of his glass to the gaggle of them, not a one of which is likely to consider him any further than they can throw him-- reputation-- but are absolutely sure to fuss and fawn and play-nice with Handsome behind the bar there. All kinds of giddy for anyone new and presumably not-a-prick. Whether he's a prick or not is hard to measure in two months time. What is known is that effortless smile is flashed indiscriminately and with the banter of one at ease behind the bar, he makes them their various fruity, girly, sugary drinks and once their tittering and giggling drifts away, turns back to N'thei to finally give him that offered next pour into his empty glass. "On the house." Anvori lifts his unfinished glass in another toast. On the-- "On the house?" N'thei steeples the top of the glass with his fingers before he goes any further with that line of thought, slides it on down the bar so it stops in front of him. Where it belongs! "Did you actually just say on-the-house to me." Really? "You never said if you liked it or not." Brazen in light of a six-foot-four giant seated across from him, displeased at that, Anvori looks to the bottle he holds in one hand, and the glass in the other hand. "Well, did you?" "You know." N'thei empties that second glass pretty much straight down, which might mean he likes it. Or it might mean he's really not enjoying this little chat and readying his departure. "After the second time I asked, I'd have figured out that I wasn't going to get an answer and let it go. How long will it take you? By comparison." Though all the signs point to him liking it, that that guess was as good as gold, Anvori bottoms up his own glass and drops it on counter. "S'long as it takes, bossman." A mocking little salute, two fingers that snap away from his forehead, and then he's off to leave N'thei to depart in peace. No more sunny grins, no more affable good cheer; no, instead the next recipient of such appreciative good-nature is another girl, less pretty, who's come off her nanny shift. |
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