Logs:Weyrfolk and Flights
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| RL Date: 21 February, 2015 |
| Who: Laine, Quinlys, Rafevan |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: During Niahvth's flight, weyrfolk and non-weyrfolk deal in various ways. |
| Where: Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 1, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: H'vier/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions |
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| It wasn't long ago that the tension that's been pervading High Reaches for days reached a crescendo: even those without dragons can surely feel the shift in the air as Niahvth took to the skies. Although no doubt as affected by all those lusty feelings as everyone else, Quinlys is breezy enough as she makes her way into the caverns, shaking snow out of her hair and off of her coat before stripping off those outermost layers. The caverns staff have laid on alcohol, and so it's towards there' that the bluerider waltzes, winning smile in place. Gold flights: fun for the whole family! Laine's been nesting: she's got a booth to herself toward the back of the caverns, and all her winter clothes have been piled up around her like a bunk. Burrowed under scarves and sweaters, she's propped herself up with knees pulled to her chest and her fingers laced around a glass of something golden and alcoholic-looking. She's got that distant, dazed look in her eye that might mark her as a first timer to a gold flight's effects. She's avoiding eye contact with a nearby table of riders, and busies herself with staring intently into her cup. While for the weyrfolk, it might be business as usual, for some it's less so, Rafevan among them. The smith is ostensibly talking to some of his fellows, but while they seem to be managing conversation all right, he's notably more distracted: people-watching, mostly, with sharp blue eyes picking up the details of those who drink, and those who find other ways to distract themselves. Finally, he excuses himself from his companions to go refill his own glass from the Weyr's supplies of liquor tonight. "Coping okay?" Quinlys is, it's true, more in 'I'm going to pick up' mode than 'Let me take care of people' mode, but a weyrlingmaster is always a weyrlingmaster, and it's probably obligatory that she wonders that of Rafevan, at this moment. Indeed, her gaze has already half-slid over his shoulder, finding Laine down the back of the room, and narrowed in upon her: next target, whether the girl wants to catch anyone's gaze or not. Probably for the taking-care-of and not the come-sleep-with-me, but one never can tell. When the last of her drink disappears, Laine's expression is vaguely shocked. When she looks up, it's as though to accuse the caverns at large for failing to provide a refill, and she begins the slow, arduous process of emerging from her cocoon of fabrics. She shakes off an afghan and slips out of her booth, takes a moment to brace herself against the tabletop--whether she's drunk or just a bit muddled isn't clear--and then starts the wobbly process toward the holy grail that is the liquor supplies. She does have the presence of mind to slap away the hand of a nearby man, with a sharp-tongued, "uh. No." "Mm?" It's a noncommittal, curious sound as Rafevan looks around at Quinlys, taking in the other woman now in lieu of the other people around. "Oh, of course; quite," he tells her then, in a tone too bland to be genuinely bored. Not on a night like this. "It's... an interesting glimpse into Weyr life." Translation: you people really live like this? A glance goes toward Laine for her sharper words that rise over the general din just enough; but he makes no move to help her. She's got this. Quinlys lifts a long-fingered hand towards Rafevan as if to say 'just a moment' as she tracks Laine's progress. "Back off her," is her warning shot, more authoritative than height and build encourage; though her knot's clear enough, with all those loops and tassels. "I understand they can be a bit difficult to get used to," she adds, in a more conversational tone. "They're... tense. But it can be fun, if you're up for that kind of thing. I'm Quinlys." Laine's got a sudden, sunny smile up and over for the voice of support from Quinlys, even if it takes a second for her eyes to track the source. She's also got a eloquent (read: crude) gesture for the man at the table beside her as she totters her way over to Quinlys and Rafevan. Her arrival is announced with her empty cup set a mite too hard down on the table and a groan of--relief? Discomfort? "When's the fun bit start?" The shift in Quinlys's tone makes Rafevan study her, more interested in the woman than the man who's accosting another. Only Laine's interruption breaks his focus, and he glances away to her before he nudges a nondescript bottle across the table her way. "I think," he answers, tone serious even when there's a smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth--though, fortunately, not of the lascivious bent just yet, "it depends on how low your standards are." Quinlys opens her mouth to answer, and then laughs; Rafevan has beaten her to it, and clearly she's not wholly disagreeing with his answer. She busies herself, finally, with actually pouring a drink, and says, "Well, that. For some, it's a good excuse to go home with someone just because you want to. And if you really don't want to, I advise clearly out before the flight ends-- people in here are buzzing, you know, but they're not flight lost. It's a whole different kettle of fish. Drink up, regardless, though." Laine wrinkles her nose, visibly considering this answer, then answers with an ambiguous "huh". It's not clear from this where her own standards are, at the moment. The apprentice tanner reaches for the bottle offered by Rafevan, fills her own cup, and takes a small drink. She tips the rim of her glass at Quinlys, and finally manages a whole sentence (with a smile and everything): "'preciate the advice." Then, with a sly glint in her eye: "Is it inappropriate to ask how low your standards are?" The 'your' could be both Quinlys and Rafevan, or either, or the whole weyrs'-worth of people, judging by her expansive gesture with her glass. Only after Laine's refilled hers does Rafevan take the bottle back to top up his own. A sip, a grimace--it's not the best quality, but on a night like this, that doesn't seem to matter to most people. Rafe takes another swig. "I'm still deciding," he answers Laine then, with a more honest grin. In introduction: "Rafe." "Mine are hopelessly low," shares Quinlys, smirking. "By which I mean... I will go home with someone this afternoon; I just haven't decided who that'll be, just yet. I always do. It's one of the nice things about riding blue. I don't have to chase, just reap the rewards." She's cheerfully blithe about this explanation, and lifts her glass into something of a toast. "I'll still try and find someone pretty, at least." Oh, names: "Laine," as though she'd forgotten. Her hands are busy with bottom-shelf liquor so you'll excuse her if she doesn't offer a hand, but she's got a brightening laugh for their honest replies. "I'm gonna go with his answer," she volunteers, with a jerk of her head toward Rafevan. "Never had something get so," and her eyes flick past the pair, an expression of discomfiture crosses her face, "so in my head before. S'weird." Gaze resolves on Quinlys, and Laine's grin turns into something part-shocked, part-captivated, and she returns the toast. Weyrfolk. While Rafevan doesn't look entirely scandalized by Quinlys's answer, he nonetheless arches his brows, considering her again. "'Pretty' isn't much of a qualifier if we're going to help pick your next lover," which apparently they are now, says the expectant look he aims sideways at Laine. "There are any number of pretty women here, by my reckoning." Because of course she wants a woman. She rides blue. Quinlys' gaze goes vague for a moment, and then, grimacing, "She just got caught. Fucking Reisoth. Oh well, at least he sticks to the junior que--" She trails off, probably in part because of the gut-punch of hormonal energy that's surely hitting just about everyone, as the dragons consummate their catch in the sky above. "What, you're going to help me pick? Nice of you." Laine absently tacks on, "men can be pretty," to Rafevan's comment, but dutifully turns on her heel, wheeling in place to give the rest of the cavern crowd a slow once-over. "Gotta account for taste too," she adds, but it's quietly, almost to herself, as that reaction ripples through the room: a hot, electric current that floods in from nowhere and everywhere. Groups of two, three, are drifting out from the living caverns, already, but the open door and the cool swirl of light snow that comes in is a relief. Laine snaps back to attention, bright-eyed. "Right, then. Taste. What's your liking?" On a mission, now. The name means little to Rafevan, no flicker of comprehension on his expression--just, a moment later, that surge of hormones, the dragons' release. His mouth tightens in response, his own tension evident for those few seconds. Then, he clears his throat, takes another long drink before turning an expectant look on Quinlys. Yes, what is your taste? Quinlys' taste? First, it's a taste for liquor, in the way she downs the rest of her drink, just like that. And then, a moment later, it's for someone in particular: a dark-haired woman walking past. "'scuse me," she murmurs, vaguely, towards her two companions, as she sets down her glass and waltzes away to fall in line with the woman; and then they're gone. That. That is, apparently, her taste. Laine watches the woman go with a faint air of surprise. Just like that, huh? She rounds back on Rafevan, and for an instant she's got a feral glint in her eye that suggests she's about to start pairing him off with someone, too. But that fades with a quick shake of her head, a long drink from her cup. "I should, uh," she mutters. Laine doesn't actually say what she should do, but wheels around again and starts weaving her way back to her booth in the corner. Poor Rafe, abandoned. He looks bemused when Quinlys leaves, though his expression shifts to something a little more inscrutable as he studies Laine. "You probably should," he agrees with her non-statement in the end, his own voice dry as he watches her go. |
Comments
Azaylia (03:29, 22 February 2015 (EST)) said...
I hope there's a non-bronze/brown rider scene every goldflight. <3 It's really cool to get a peek at how the flight affects those not chasing-- especially with such different personalities. ^^
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