Logs:Wingmates
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| RL Date: 13 April, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, Rh'mis |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Iceberg has new riders. They're reacting very differently to wing life. |
| Where: Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 3, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
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| Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr About as high up the bowl wall as it is possible to get before hitting clear sky, right up against the rim, this ledge is tiny, narrow and not terribly inviting. Though angled towards the sun, there's not enough room to properly stretch out, and that same angle ensures it receives the worst of bad weather, with no shelter whatsoever. From above, there's not even an obvious passage inside, as if this particular ledge is, in the end, nothing more than a natural outcropping. It's only from atop the ledge itself that the cleverly concealed entrance becomes clear, angled into the stone as it is. Inside, there's a cavernous space, more than making up for the stinginess of the ledge. There's one large main room, and a much smaller back room that could probably be used as a bedroom - if this weyr were in traditional usage. Instead, the main cavern is largely filled with a collection of mismatched tables and chairs, with a trolley at the far end that contains a prodigious amount of liquor. Old, but still impressive, hangings cover the walls, all depicting scenes of High Reaches in glory. The back room has been turned into a storage area, with several cases of whisky and a variety of other spirits ready and waiting. A strange pipe contraption comes through the ceiling and towards the stone floor, where a large bucket sits beneath it. A lever turns on water from the pipe: fresh rain or snow, ready for drinking. It's post-drills, and Fayla has closed off the Riders' Lounge for an Iceberg function - ostensibly to (very belatedly) welcome the wing's two new members, though there have been plenty of occasions in which that has happened already. The whole wing isn't in attendance, but a number of them are. There's a group playing cards, and another playing darts, and then there's Rhey, who has been stonily ignoring overtures made in his direction for at least twenty minutes, now. He's also been drinking, and that's what takes him to the trolley, now, to refill his glass with the cheapest of rotguts. Is it surprising that he's scrupulously honest about tossing payment into the lockbox? He does, even so. No sooner than Lythronath's acquired himself a doting green or two, A'rist has relaxed into the atmosphere. He's relaxed into it now, playing darts (badly) and being teased (generally with good nature) for his failings. It's a certain bluerider who suggests he might do better if he couldn't see straight. And it's that bluerider's coin that's got him going up to the trolley about the same time as Rh'mis. The freshly-graduated bronzerider is not so thrifty in his spending, least of all when it's not his spending. He takes a better rotgot. And has only a grin for his brownriding clutchmate. Well, that, and then, "If you let them talk to you, you know they buy you drinks, right?" "I don't need their drinks," is Rhey's answer, clipped and cool, without even so much as a glance in A'rist's direction. Exactly why he's still here is less obvious - but clearly he's going to be a downer for as long as he wants to be. It's more fun that way. "I can pay my own way. I don't take advantage of people." "It's not taking advantage," A'rist answers him, without the harsh defensiveness he's been practicing for the last, oh, since he started growing chin whiskers. Clearly, he's had a few drinks bought for him already. "We're a wing. We give, and they give, and we all have to be here for each other. One day, I'll get them all drinks too. So instead of paying your own way, you get to pay their way sometime." Didactic, yes. Chiding, not yet. Rh'mis' snort is dismissive, and perhaps would last longer, except that there's cheap alcohol to be imbibed, all without a cough, splutter, or nose-wrinkled face. "Whatever," he says. "It's just like weyrlinghood, except that now as long as I show up for things, no one bothers me. I like that. You can enjoy whatever you like, and I'll ignore whatever I like, and that's all we need care about. It figures, they'd not let me be rid of you." A'rist looks around him, to all those wingmates, to nothing but wingmates, and then looks back at Rh'mis. The rum he's got - if it can so be called... it's a concoction that once was something to do with something sweet, anyway - doesn't get lifted to his lips right now. "They're trying to welcome us. And you're not not being bothered. You're just being rude, is what they're saying." "I'm here, aren't I? They don't need me to have a party." Rhey's own gaze takes a look around the room, returning, finally, to A'rist himself: to look at him directly. "You know what happens, if I make an effort to be nice and friendly and grateful for their stupid, idiotic attentions? They'll expect it always. Might as well make sure they know exactly how I feel. I don't need any of you." A'rist takes a lean on that trolley. There's a creak, but so far, nothing moves or falls. "I don't think you're selling that very well," he murmurs, a bit softer, though his gaze is roving back to the dartboard, the waiting companions he has there. "And you're lying anyway, I think. Or else you wouldn't keep showing up and living at the Weyr." "It's as good a base of operations as any," says Rhey, staunchly. "I may not need any of you, but..." Rosvelth does. Fucking Rosvelth. He takes another swig from his glass, downing more of the alcohol: it probably has something to do with the pink of his cheeks. "Do the minimum, and no one notices you," he adds. "That's all. That's it." "But you're not doing the minimum," A'rist points out, his eyebrows dipping down as a strangely pleased little smile touches his lips. "You're trying really, really hard not to do anything, and there's a bunch of people noticing you. I don't have a lot of people coming up to me, 'cause I go up to them. You've got half the wing talking about you, you just don't know it 'cause you're trying so hard to do the minimum over here." "So?" Rhey just sounds defensive, now: stereotypical angry boy. "Why should I care? Go have your fun, enjoy your party. Be..." The disdain is audible. "Social. Maybe I'll just leave." He downs the rest of his drink, as if this should be cue enough to his intent to depart. Not, of course, that he's actually leaving. "So you're wrong," A'rist tells him with a shrug, now having a good swallow - okay, or two - of his drink. "But what do I know. I don't have top secret Nabol training. I'm not on a mission to avenge Rone, or... I don't know, there's lots of other theories over there," he nods back to his wingmates, who raise their hands in response. Okay, message misinterpretted. "But I wasn't following all of them. It's hard to, in a conversation that big. Probably why no one's going to remember what I said, come morning." It's at the moment when A'rist says 'avenge Rone' that Rhey loses it, aiming to throw a punch at the bronzerider's face. "Fuck you," he says; it doesn't matter whether his fist connects or not. "I'd piss on his grave, first. Fuck you." Well hi. That punch doesn't land; but A'rist's dodge manages to get much of his drink sloshing up, out of his cup. And his noise - not entirely a yelp, though certainly not a manly shout - is enough to get the attention of most of the wingriders. Oh good. Cavalry. Rhey doesn't quite recover smoothly from that attempted punch: it leaves him off-balance, awkwardly so, and ultimately has him slamming down his glass upon the nearest surface purely by accident. "Fuck you all," he says, louder, now. "I don't have time for this." Now he'll try and push past the other riders to make for the exit, successful or not. Now he's all out of patience. There are those who make comments, and those who make halfhearted grabs, but no one forces Rh'mis to stay. (Even if Lythronath and his green don't exactly assist Rosvelth in landing to fetch his rider, sprawled out as they are.) They don't force A'rist to stay either, but the bronzerider does, and eventually, even gets over enough of his attempts to salvage his ego that he can resume his game of darts. He's no better for the alcohol, imbibed or spilled. And Rhey? He probably has a wall or two to punch. Go figure. |
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