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Logs talk:Quiet

2016-07-24T05:51:06Z

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==V'ret (22:51, 23 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

This is fine. V'ret is fine. Everything is fine.

Reston

2016-01-11T02:32:18Z

V'ret:

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|picture=Reston.png
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2016-01-11T02:31:25Z

V'ret:

Logs:The Opportunities That Present Themselves

2015-12-14T00:37:43Z

V'ret: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jo, V'ret, |what=Jo joints V'ret to warm up his new weyr. |where=The Women-Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=14 |month=7 |turn=39 |I..."

{{Log
|who=Jo, V'ret,
|what=Jo joints V'ret to warm up his new weyr.
|where=The Women-Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=7
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.12.13
|quote=Ambitious bronzeriders don' have a choice in the matter.
|mentions=Farideh, Irianke, Jocelyn, Lys, Mielline, Taikrin, T'gar
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon V'ret sitting.jpg
|log=Thankfully for any arrivals, Zoth makes no attempt to lounge out there on his brand new ledge. He's taken up a post there, this evening, watchful, one might say looming. Perhaps he's just keeping an eye on the comings and going of the queens and taking notes for the future, for the sake of V'ret's ambitions? Perhaps. He was at least willing to relay the invitation, but he isn't chatty beyond that. Come over, have a drink? V'ret is waiting inside. Bottle on the table, two glasses, deck of cards. The important things in life. Well, perhaps not so much waiting; he's standing on a chair, fiddling with the hooks holding the hanging that covers the entry. No weyrling's weyr is ever going to arrive in perfect repair, right?

It's possible that Jo's been taking her wingsecond duties serious enough that she's been missing in action more often than not. Other than the occasional check up from her bronze fire lizard (if both Zoth and Asaroth had been noticing a fire lizard blinking in and out in their vicinities), the bluerider is at least not around, breathing down the bronze weyrlings' backs. So, when an invitation comes along, Tacuseth sends back to Zoth that they'll be along. The bluepair arrives with no fanfare, landing long enough to drop Jo off before he launches back in the sky and towards the feeding grounds. "Nice place," is her greeting with the hanging in front of her before the entryway - so she must mean the ledge she's on. "Need help?"

"I got it." And indeed he does, climbing down and pulling the hanging back; now it moves properly out of the way. Presumably this is new. "Just a few things a bit quirky, but it's a nice place." Then V'ret is gesturing her in. None of it's remarkable, of course, nothing of shocking beauty and space is surely at a premium, but he's beaming to beat all. "Just moved my stuff up this morning before lunch. And I thought, who better to have over than the most delightful of my cousins." Broad grin.

With the hanging being pulled back, Jo steps back briefly enough to peer into the place before stepping in. "Bet ya never have a big space like ''this'' before," she says as she looks around, nodding her approval. "That places we come from. Yer cousin approves." There's a slight smirk as she turns to face V'ret, pulling free a drawstring bag of contents clinking inside as she hefts it before she tosses it in his direction to catch. "Lil' housewarmin' for ya," is her words for it.

"This will be the first proper night I've ever spent without someone else in the same room, presuming you don't count a few times in the caverns where I managed to stay up until my compatriots were already up and gone." The bag is set on the table without yet inspecting its contents. V'ret turns to the bottle, to pouring, and generously. Not that it's the best whiskey on Pern, but quantity can hopefully make up for the absence of quality.

"How does it feel, this lil' more bit of freedom?" Jo asks now as she moves toward the table where the drinks are set up. "I remember when I got my weyr. One of the best feelin's in the world, darlin'. Barely invited folks over for the first few months 'cause I wanted to indulged the feelin' of bein' in a space where it was just me. Ain' never had that before then." She nods to the cup in thanks.

Once he's taken a seat, V'ret has a sip from his own glass but then turns his attention to emptying the pouch's contents into his hand. Bad form, perhaps, to inspect such a gift, but so what? "I like the space to myself. Even if it's small." Small is precisely what he's used to in his private spaces, but those are precisely that: not even Jo gets to be privy to everything. "But wouldn't want it to be just me, not all the time. Got my eye on a girl. Hoping she'll like it, even if her new place is prettier."

Sitting, "Enough marks to get ya somethin' good," Jo explains the weyrwarming gift with a gesture. "A ridin' jacket. Better straps. Shit, ya can even spend it all on booze'n women if ya wanted. It's yers. Got yer eye on a girl." This last gets repeated with a lift of one brow as she settles back in the chair and takes a full drink. "Space is space, darlin', no matter the size of it. What's this 'bout a girl? Lookin' to be distracted already?" with amusement.

Even despite the explanation, V'ret seems to need to count everything out before he puts all the marks back away. "Thanks. Means a lot to me." Means, it seems like, more than a jacket would, anyway. He tucks the pouch away in his pocket. "She's friends with Jocelyn. And Farideh." Ticking off on his fingers, actually. "And Irianke, I think, or she worked for her, anyway. I figure, if I'm not going to get anywhere with any of them, maybe this is at least... useful. Silver thread, too."

Nodding, "There'll be more where that comes from, when yer ready," is all Jo says on those marks with a grin. Moving on to the girl, she listens in silence, studying the young man before her as he speaks before she takes a drink and briefly sets the cup down. "Not goin' to....yer in no position to fully get anywhere with either of them yet, darlin'. Rat'n ya both. Once yer'n Zoth are free to Between, the world is yers. That means the weyrwomen could be, too. Ya think ya can use this girl 'cause of her connections, or is she a daliance? Or more?" Pause. "I heard ya got Silver Thread, too," she notes, pleased. "I imagine yer takin' a hide from Rat's book in not keepin' off their radar?"

"Okay. Let me re-phrase. I have no interest in sleeping with a woman my mother's age, I have no interest in sleeping with a woman who belongs to a friend of mine, and I would not do Jocelyn with another man's dick." Again, the ticking. But V'ret at least seems amused by the notion. "Whatever happens in a flight might happen in a flight, but if I'm to have influence outside of hoping to be Weyrleader someday, somewhere, I have to make plans for that. Besides. She's pretty." Any other reasoning, he keeps firmly under his nonexistent hat, after he takes another long drink. "Didn't ask for the silver, though. Just happened. I'm only taking advantage of the opportunities that present themselves."

The way V'ret phrases it has Jo laughing out loud. "Ya'll use another man's dick, or yer own if ya wanna be Weyrleader someday," she tells him, trying to keep most of the laughter in and clearly failing. "Ambitious bronzeriders don' have a choice in the matter. Anyway, we'll have to agree to disagree on our Weyrwomen. If only Tac was bronze'n I were a man." She says it as if she would know. As for other women, she snorts on the mystery girl being pretty before she remarks, "It's a trap, darlin'. The pretty ones always are. Well, as long as she don' trap yer attentions too much, who ya trap yer dick in's yer business. How's that bronze of yers? Ain' much of a talker, ain' he? I ain' mad 'bout the silver thread," she tells him as she drinks. "T'gar seems to think this is a ''good'' thing for y'all. I'm willin' to watch'n see."

"If your dragon was a bronze, you probably would have never needed me. Or Rat." There's a slightly disgruntled hint in the last, as though the duplication does not sit particularly well, but V'ret drowns the issue in his drink. "Zoth is well. We talk plenty to each other; I don't think he finds anyone else's company particularly compelling. He'll do a far better job of letting me know if I've let a woman get too much of my attention than anyone, I'm sure. Might turn out to be nothing, anyway. Last pretty girl turned out to be nothing."

"Our uncle would've wanted as many fishin' poles in the water that the lake could handle," Jo counters with a slight smirk. "Just as well. Competition's healthy." Perhaps that's to the disgruntled hint she had detected, the little smile playing on her lips could be any indication. Lightly, "Then there's that Weyrsecond position's no one's managed to land," she adds, leaning back. "A position just as powerful. It's good that Zoth'n ya get along. Gainin' that knot's gonna take teamwork. Rat still struggles with that, I've been told." She drains her cup then and angles it in an aim for a refill as she says on girls, "I've a lot to say on pretty girls, darlin'. Yer the clever sort to not need me tellin' such. I look forward to havin' ya flyin' with us soon. Kait, M'ron'n me."

"You in Snowdrift, Kaitlin and M'ron in Equinox--you intend to keep us spread out?" V'ret is courteous enough to pour again, and generously, and refreshes his own while he's at it. "Weyrsecond seems like a long shot in the short term, but in the long, well. In the meantime, I'm trying to comport myself well enough to make good impressions. Just not so well as to be worth remarking on. Anyway, it's all rather a lot of recordkeeping and meetings, it seems like, at this stage. Can't say being wingsecond would seem terribly appealing if it didn't give me more time with my wingleader."

"Should I get to wingleader, the spreadin' out will change," Jo tells him with a knowing look. Once her cup is filled with a nod of thanks, "I'd like to have all of us in lucrative positions one day," she reveals to him as she drinks. "Meetings. Do ya get in with the Weyrleader? ''Your'' wingleader...." Yeah, she caught that. There's a look of anticipation on her face as she suspends that cup from her lips.

"Not to have had any conversations with him of any significance." V'ret cannot quite manage to sound totally regretful of this. Apparently the sacrifices involved in considering sleeping with attractive women, even if he elects not to attempt it, are different than the sacrifices involved in having to hang around with guys he clearly doesn't consider very interesting. "Anyway. My wingleader, for the month, at least. I suppose it's a bit of nepotism, her asking me, but it's not like I'm not working for it. We just wouldn't have any time together if I didn't." And he's happy under these circumstances to leave the implication of what that time together involves be, accurate or not.

"Just bein' involved'n listenin' to his meetins'," Jo clarifies with a shake of her head. "Did'ja learn anythin'?" Amusement colors her tone on his answer to his wingleader, what more he reveals drawing a wry, "Well, I reckon ya know what yer doin', Ev. I ain' one of those that'll dog yer every step. I have plans for ya. For Rat. So long's ya stay in one piece by graduation." It's said likely to all revealed as she takes a lingering look about his weyr once more. "I still expect to be swimmin' in Benden white, darlin'. Me'n ya."

"You and me," and V'ret raises a toast to this notion. "I'm not intending to graduate in multiple pieces, anyway. Rat, I can't speak to. My dragon keeps his teeth to their intended targets." Point of pride, there. Civilized! "I do have a bath here, but it's nowhere near large enough for swimming purposes. Somehow I think I can do better than that. Just... need a bit of time, that's all." And he smiles. Relaxed, comfortable in a way he certainly wasn't during all those sober months of weyrlinghood.

Jo toasts to that, her smile opening up in a way it hasn't in months. "I have my trust in ya, Ev," she admits with a nod. "It's why I want ya take care of yerself. This silver thread thing might be a good thing after all. Also, I want ya to let me know when Zoth'n ya are cleared for Between. There's a place I wanna take ya to see. It's far, though. I need to make sure yer ain' dyin' on her gettin' there." That she's proud of his progress since Impressing is evident - like a proud mama. She look exasperated when Rat's name is brought up, the wingsecond frowning as she says, "He hasn' been as open to any of us like ''you'' have," she says. "Him, I'm still not sure 'bout. I don' think he'll betray any of us, but, it's obvious to me that he's on his own agenda than our family. That concerns me, but, as long as his agenda doesn' fuck over ours....."

This requires a few moments of thinking, some staring into his glass. "I feel closer to you, now, than I do anyone back home," V'ret admits, but carefully. Always carefully. "But I don't see any reason for interests here not to align with their interests. I don't see any reason why what's good for us shouldn't also be good for them." As to who any such arrangement should be better for, of course, maybe that's an open question, but not one he's going to speak aloud, certainly. "But it all could take a lifetime. Rushing isn't going to get us anywhere."

Listening, Jo lingers on the remaining liquor in her cup, only drinking it down towards the end. "I want y'all to do well here as well as back in Greenfields," she says, seeming to agree. "I ain' blockin' y'all from havin' yer goals. Shit, I have my own apart from what we do here'n there. I don' want y'all to forget yer loyalties as well. If it ain' with us, the sooner we know, the better. Like with what happened with Taikrin'n the family back home. S'all I'm sayin'. Just don' forget us." She lifts her cup to that and takes another drink. Speaking of, though, "Does home know yer here?" she asks now.

"I have... half-siblings, but we were never close. I'm not even sure they'd remember me." V'ret waves off the concern, freshens his drink again, sits back. "My parents are both long gone." In neither case is that true, of course, but it's an old and familiar lie that flows smoothly from the tongue. "This is where I'm supposed to be, not Crom, not Greenfields. They'll have their own lives. If I manage to do really well for myself financially, I'll send something back for them, but not anywhere near there yet."

"Family of the born-with type ''do'' make things complicated," Jo agrees, seeming to take his lie on his parents in stride. "I do believe ya belong here, the way ya were able to take to this place quickly'n I like that yer lookin' at the future. That kind of thinkin' is what I want to cultivate out of us here in the Weyr." Draining her cup, "Someday, we'll talk more of yer plans'n things ya wanna do once yer able to. Have ya been studyin' the wings? Any that stick out for ya that Zoth'n ya might prefer gettin' tapped into?"

This answer takes no thought at all: "I wanted Iceberg. I haven't gotten very far yet with wanting any of the others, now that there's no Iceberg." V'ret even sighs, as he has another drink. "Rest of the wingleaders, I see them giving their reports, you know? But I don't know any of them well enough to have any idea if we'll get on."

Nodding, "With H'vier dyin', I saw Iceberg shuttin' down comin'," Jo says grimly. "With other wings shuttin' down, too. Have ya looked into Glacier? Taikrin ain' all that bad. Mielline in Snowdrift ain' either'n that's not from me bein' biased on both. Then there's Taiga if ya wanna get close to the Weyrleader. Well, somethin' to think 'bout. If I get to wingleader myself, ya know I'll be anglin' for ya, even if yer already in a wing."

"Do you think it's likely? You getting a wing. Not that I mind," V'ret adds hastily, sitting forward now, "just that I don't want to get too settled if it's going to mean moving again." A grin, for that. "I'll be thinking about it, I'm sure, more as I get more time. Tonight, I've still got work to do before bed. But I thought we should have time enough to catch up."

"If it happens at all, I doubt it would be anytime soon," Jo answers on her making wingleader. "Even I'll admit that I've still gotta lot to learn. Didn' realize how much work went into all of it when yer just a wingrider. Might suit ya, too, if yer into the work that comes with it. Somethin' to think 'bout anyway. The path yer on, I've gotta feelin' ya'll get a lot of opportunities yer way." She drains her cup again at the mention of work, the wingsecond getting to her feet as she adds, "I don' wanna keep ya. I'm glad ya called. Now that ya can fly, stop by my weyr sometime. Even in Kait'n M'ron's, they like to have card games in the evenins'. Ya'll let me know if ya need anythin', right?" for she's stepping away from the table and moving back towards the ledge where Tacuseth lands.
|Categories=General Logs
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Logs talk:A Motivated Wingsecond

2015-12-13T02:46:54Z

V'ret: Comment provided by V'ret - via ArticleComments extension

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==Roz (17:46, 12 December 2015 (PST)) said... ==

http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mek55unFL41r6fshmo2_250.gif
==V'ret (18:46, 12 December 2015 (PST)) said... ==

https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/98/30/7c/98307ca72c822f768e532234f6f550d5.gif

Logs:Hands To Yourself

2015-12-13T02:38:48Z

V'ret: Adding later poses.

{{Log
|who=Farideh, V'ret, P'tras
|what=The best rule is to keep your hands to yourself.. or not.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=8
|month=7
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.12.11
|quote="Do you think she's not wearing knickers under there?"
|mentions=Irianke, Mielline, Drex
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh ohshit.png, Icon V'ret sitting.jpg, Icon P'tras pretty.png,
|log=The evening is well advanced at this point, the Snowasis busy, and V'ret is trying heroically to get used to sitting on the wrong side of the bar. Maybe he ought to be here with friends, but on this particular evening, his company is only the occasional attention of the bartender. Which is not to say he's sitting in sullen silence. Instead, they seem to be having a conversation which is punctuated by periods where the other party is hastily trying to fill drinks. Playing catch-up, it seems. In between, the weyrling is left alone with his glass, which is empty, but he's not made any move to fix that fact.

Crafters aren't generally known for their fun after-work antics or anything, and that's probably why P'tras got in on Hailstorm's cards when he showed up at the Snowasis some time ago. He's had a good few drinks by now, but it's unclear whether that has anything to do with his cheering when he throws down his cards and stands up, hands in the air like he's some sort of amazing talent with an incredible lack of humility. "Woooo! Suck on ''that'', ladies." He reaches over to pick up his marks, a half-smoked cigar and the pair of very impractical panties that made up the pool. "Calm down, I'll buy your next round." And so, panties pulled over his head to be worn like a necklace, P'tras makes his way over to the bar to pull V'ret's friend away to fill an order for the table's drinks. But he takes his first, and settles down. No more cards for him tonight, apparently.

Soft, rose velvet and tiny, detailed ribbons are the hallmarks of the impeccably-tailored dress Farideh shows up in at Snowasis, looking less pale and unwell, and more like her fresh-faced self from months past. She's on the arm of some poor schmuck -- a bluerider in Tundra -- and chatting amicably about who-knows-what, until the outburst from that table over there (the one with the panties) draws their attentions for very different reasons. While the blonde-haired rider excuses himself and wends his way to the table, the goldrider follows at a much more sedate pace, after the panty-winner; it leads her right to.. V'ret. "V'ret," she says, in greeting, when she's standing right behind him, but she's staring at P'tras like he's an oddity in a show.

"Man, I'm pretty sure that's not how you're supposed to wear those." V'ret might have had a moment's disappointment on his face at the loss of his presumably-friend, but it's fleeting. Hazards of the job. He has to know them, right? Instead, seize on the things that are near. Right behind him, though, he lacks eyes. The familiar voice has his shoulders straightening instantly. "Weyrwoman. Uh. Hi?" Maybe the attempt to reconcile the two people nearest has given his brain a bit of trouble. It's been overworked of late.

The Tundra greenrider glances over at the greeting to the weyrling, and lifts his glass to the woman staring at him. It's not every day a man like P'tras has the attention of a woman like Farideh, even if only for a short while. "Do you want my drink?" he blurts out very unsmoothly. Then, "I can guy you-- Ha! Guy. I can buy you your own, I mean. Not that you can't get your own. You make ''way'' more than I do." With wide green eyes and a nervous laugh, he looks at V'ret. Sweet Faranth, save him from himself. Please. "I already have a pair on," does not probably convey what he intended to convey.

Whilst unashamedly ogling the greenrider, Farideh ''might'' intentionally bump her arm into V'ret's shoulder, or it ''could'' be an accident. "It is very strange how I keep running into you of all people," the goldrider tells the weyrling, dropping her eyes briefly from P'tras to glance at V'ret. There's more to be said, unequivocally more behind the words already spoken, but.. "Yes?" Her eyebrows lift in mild surprise as her head turns, eyes lifting to P'tras again. "You're welcome to..?" she responds, pausing in lieu of his name, which turns into a narrowing of her eyes.

"It's a bar, Farideh," V'ret points out, very reasonably, gesturing with his empty glass, sounding--not drunk. Perhaps a little more relaxed than usual. "I used to practically live here." Though not recently, but never mind. "Not that I know why you'd come here, since--" This bit, he turns to P'tras. "She's got a better stash in her weyr, unless she's finished it off since last I saw, anyway, she's got a better stash in her ''weyr''," that isn't repetitive at all, "than this place does, pretty sure."

"Yes?" P'tras sounds confused. Maybe he doesn't hear yes very often? "Yes!" Then he looks at V'ret, then at Farideh, then at V'ret. "Wait. Are you two--? Shit. I'm sorry. Here, you can have this," says the greenrider as he sets his drink down in front of V'ret, then turns toward the counter to flail a hand in the bartender's direction. "Help! I need a drink for the weyrwoman and another for her lover." When he turns back, he's adding that half-smoked cigar in front of V'ret, too. Peace-offerings! "Sorry, I didn't know. I'm drunk. I thought you were bigger." Then he starts to turn away, except he bumps into the big guy coming up behind him to get a drink of his own. Okay, he'll just stay here.

A censorious look is given to V'ret, complete with a furrowed brow and disapproving frown; greenriders ''have'' to be the weyrling's saviors at this point, because it's the former's antics that pull Farideh's focus to ''him''. "Excuse me? Him?" Her cheeks go red at the same time that she makes a sound that's part laugh, part frustration. "No. Why are you--" She tilts her head, watching, with growing concern, the ''drunk'' P'tras, call the bartender and try to escape, only to be foiled. "Are you ''very drunk''?"

"Shh, relax." V'ret, currently trying to live on whatever allowance they actually give weyrlings for entertainment purposes, has reason to be grateful for the free drink, however it arrives. He just has to calm Farideh down. It could happen, right? "The gift runners and the looking in the mouth?" The eyebrows are imploring. The rest of V'ret, of course, is busy availing himself of the drink, even if this bit of good fortune is fleeting. "He's had a good night and is feeling incredibly generous, we shouldn't insult his hospitality."

"I don't know. I felt okay until I stood up." And that was at least minutes ago by this point. P'tras squints at V'ret, leaning in closer like he can't see him quite well enough-- nope, a little too close once he loses his balance and reaches a hand out to catch himself with a yelp. It braces against V'ret, and stays there while his other hand tries to grab the weyrling's face. "Why not? He looks okay," he says, squishing V'ret's face forward so his lips pucker up. And then P'tras is letting go and re-bracing himself against the bar to give Farideh a very serious (drunk) look. "He seems nice. He doesn't even smell weird." What more could a woman possibly want in a man?

One hand flies to Farideh's mouth to ''try'' to cover up the laughter that comes when the greenrider starts squishing up V'ret's face. "Don't-- you'll bruise him, and then, he won't be of any use to ''anyone''," she says, barely keeping a straight face. "What? V'ret is good looking in that ''classical'' way, I suppose, but-- he's a weyrling, and more importantly, he's ''V'ret''." That should close the case, as it were. "I think we should get him a water-- bartender?" Hand up in the air, she bounces up on her tippy-toes to be seen, because, Faranth, you're all fucking tall.

The weyrling is remarkably good-natured about this manhandling, though he quickly gets his hands on P'tras', to dislodge them and place them back safely on the bar. Then he rubs his mouth, like it needs some help remembering what shape it's supposed to be. "Those? Those are your reasons?" He gives Farideh an incredulous look. But then distracted by practical concerns and giving the greenrider a look-over. Apparently, his formerly-professional judgment agrees. "Hold on, I'll get it." Because it's busy, and it's not like he doesn't know where everything is, or like giving away water is likely to get anyone in trouble, and more importantly V'ret has had at least enough to drink to make taking the matter into his own hands seem like a good plan. But not enough to have trouble find his way behind the bar.

The greenrider makes a rude sound, pushing air out through his lips. "I'm fiiine." That's what drunk people say, but P'tras is perhaps too drunk to realize that right now. "They get their weyrs soon, anyway. There's this one that-- one of the guys I work with has an eye on her, if you know what I mean." Everyone probably does. He's not being very subtle. "Don't worry, Verret. Even if she won't sleep with you, lots of other people will." P'tras leans harder against the counter, absently lifting the thin bit that goes around the hip of the panties to his mouth like someone might chew in a piece of hair or a necklace.

Farideh looks relieved when the weyrling offers to handle the water situation, but not so much that she refrains from stealing his seat once he's gone. "I suppose I should say it's because of Drex, but ''regardless'', you're still-- you." She settles in on her pilfered stool, skirts smoothed by diligent fingers, and cants her head towards P'tras, who earns a bemused stare from the brunette. "They're not like ''weyrs''. You can't just call dibs on a weyrling," she adds, conversationally. "You shouldn't-- oh, ''don't''," aghast, about his panty-munching.

Returning with a glass of water, V'ret agrees, if not entirely happily: "Yes, of course I'm still me. Now, drink, you'll feel a full fifty percent less dead later." Shifting attention in between to push the glass into P'tras' hands. Not a hundred percent; he's realistic. "Which one is that? There's more than a few pretty girls." In contrast, he seems to not consider the greenrider's new bad habit to be worth saying anything about.

"You can be ready to try getting in their pants, though, can't you? I'm sure they're all getting fevered. Ones who haven't been getting it on anyway, anyway." P'tras is also realistic. He gives Farideh a strange look, though, like he has no idea what's gotten into her, even though he has to talk around the fabric. "Thanks," is not actually very enthusiastic. "Does it matter? I-- he'll probably ask all of them, anyway. You know how it goes." Completely off topic, he reaches out to try feeling the fabric of Farideh's dress between his fingers. "Your dress is pretty."

"You ''can''. It just seems weird to ''say'' it, like you're-- ''he's''-- hunting prey. Next, you'll tell me bronzeriders don't have dirty thoughts about me only when I'm proddy," Farideh replies, wry, with half a smile. Moments later, her smile falters, and her eyes flick from P'tras, to his hand on her dress, up to V'ret, and back to P'tras. "Thank you. It's a little something from Lemos. I've never been partial to pink, but sometimes the time is right." Where's that bartender? Now, she needs a drink.

"Wait. Wait." V'ret has his borrowed drink, here, and now that he's getting back to it, he's frowning. "Do you mean to say you think bronzeriders ''only'' think you're attractive when you're proddy?" Brow furrowed, clearly he isn't following that line of thought. "Anyway, that's how it is. Men and women. Men do the chasing and women like being chased. Just like dragons. Right?" Surely P'tras is going to back him up on this, says the look cast in that direction.

"I'm pretty sure bronzeriders have dirty thoughts all the time," P'tras says unhelpfully. It distracts him away from feeling up Farideh's dress, though, and he looks at V'ret uncertainly. "Sure. Men like chasing. Women like being chased. Put up with it, at least. But, you know, I'd like being chased sometimes, too, I think." He has to imagine it because it probably never happens. "Not just when Ri's feeling bothered." He glances at Farideh's dress again, chewing on those panties, but he keeps his hands to himself this time.

''Men''! Cue Farideh rolling her eyes. "I ''know''. I was being ''sarcastic''. Big, shiny dragons and big egos go hand in hand." She settles her gaze on the bartender -- distracted from the weyrling and the panty-chewing greenrider while she orders something to drink -- and crosses her arms over her chest snugly. "I doubt ''every'' woman likes being chased. Women like-- like ''Irianke''. Do you ''really'' think ''she'' likes it? I can't imagine it. Or Mielline. Or Taikrin. Or--" Her voice trails off as she gives it some thought.

There's a bit of a smirk, now. Real amusement. "But you're not denying that you like it," V'ret points out to Farideh, and it's downright triumphant. It's not a personal thing. It's just a being-right thing, obviously. Only slightly tempered by the odd look that P'tras gets for that last. So unhelpful. "I'm not saying there aren't some people who're..." What's a non-offensive word? "Different." If only he could say it less like that's a bad thing. "I'm just saying it's a perfectly natural state of affairs."

"They're all ''old''," is P'tras' take on the women Farideh mentions. "No one even wants to chase them. No one who isn't old, too. And you get weird when you're old. Like, your stuff doesn't work anymore." He takes a drink, but furrows his brows at V'ret while he does that. When he's done, he's had enough time to come up with, "Are you calling ''me'' different?"

"I never said that I liked it. I don't ''think'' I like it. Drex has never--" This conversation should have probably never come to fruition, because now she's thinking and having all these ''thoughts''. "You called him different," Farideh accuses V'ret, merrily, but that's due to her drink arriving then; alcohol puts a smile on everyone's face. "It's been such a ''lovely'' chat," she begins, already sliding back off the stool, "but I should go. You," to P'tras, "should have some water and a nap."

Right through when Farideh cuts herself off, V'ret is following her words with avid attention. But, foiled. "Well, look, you're just the sort of exception who proves the rule," he has to defend himself, hastily. "Anyway, you see? Women. Start things and don't finish them." Somehow. "Have a nice evening. And if he didn't, well, maybe he should be trying harder." V'ret raises his glass to her parting, but he doesn't, say, actually volunteer to tell Drex this himself, at this stage.

"I'm not different." P'tras may be drunk, chewing on panties he won in a card game, but he's pretty sure of that. He seems both disappointed and relieved that Farideh is starting an exit, glancing at his water and then at her. "Fine, ma. I'll get right on it." As an aside to V'ret, one that probably could've waited until the weyrwoman actually left, "If she didn't want to be chased, she wouldn't be wearing a dress that looks hard to get out of." Then, as if he's suddenly thought of the meaning of life, "Do you think she's not wearing knickers under there?"

Both weyrling and greenrider get glances, which are ephemeral at best, but one of P'tras' comments has the brunette cutting him eyes; not the good kind. "No," is her farewell -- and parting gift? -- before she flits off to wherever it is goldriders who aren't allowed to ride a dragon go.

"You can't just say that around a girl," V'ret protests, although that isn't to say that he isn't pay attention to the answer, craning his neck to look after where Farideh has gone. "I mean, sure. I think she likes the attention. That's a thing, isn't it? She has a baby, she doesn't feel pretty, she wants someone to say she's pretty. That doesn't mean you're supposed to say you don't think she's wearing underwear."

P'tras watches her go, too, looking a little sad about the fact that she is. But at least V'ret is still here, and the greenrider turns back toward him to point out, "She'd never sleep with me in a million turns. It's the least she can do, isn't it? Give me a pretty picture to take home with me." He taps his temple, then reaches for his water. "It'll keep me warm at night." He lifts the glass like he's giving a toast, then takes a drink. Then makes a face, because it's just water.

This first is waved off, just before V'ret finishes off the contents of his glass. "She's... not married, I know it's not 'married', here, but it's almost the same, right? She's got a guy. Decent guy. Know him. They've got a kid." His brow furrows more deeply as he goes, as though he's losing track of why that was relevant. "Anyway. You've had enough to drink to stay warm through next winter, at this point. I know that when I see it."

"Even if she didn't," says P'tras absently, looking down at his water now like it's the saddest thing he's ever seen. Then the greenrider is moving, pushing himself away from the counter and onto his not entirely cooperative legs. "Fiiine. I've had enough." That was supposed to be an impression of V'ret's voice. It's pretty terrible. "I'm going home. Are you happy?" He starts making his way down the length of the bar, very slowly using stools and people both to assist him with his balance. The stairs into the bowl will be hilarious.

"If she didn't--" V'ret doesn't bother going through the hypothetical at length. Not when P'tras is making his way off. Unsteady as it is. "Ah, fuck," more under his breath than to anyone, and then he's getting up himself. "Faranth. Let's at least get you to your dragon in one piece and hopefully she has enough sense to get you to your own weyr, if nothing else."

"I don't need your help," says P'tras, glancing at V'ret in a way that kind of throws off his balance just enough for him to take an extra step. "Did you get the cigar? Can I have it back?" The wandering thoughts of a drunk greenrider. He doesn't care too much if V'ret has it, one way or another, but there might be a pathetic sigh in the case that he doesn't. Fortunately, Riennath's bulky form is already waiting for her rider at the bottom of the stairs, as close as she can manage with her neck stretching toward him, head offered for whatever support he needs. They've done this before, apparently, and P'tras only nearly falls when he misjudges the last few steps. "I so don't miss being a weyrling." That's the thing to say right now.

"You need ''somebody's'' help, and I'm here." Given that P'tras is slight and V'ret's been doing all that business with the firestone sacks and such for a bit now, it's at least no great burden to keep him upright the whole way. "I'll owe you a cigar, okay?" And hope that the greenrider doesn't remember that later, probably. "Nobody misses being a weyrling, do they? If we had to live like this forever..." Well, thankfully they don't.

"It's not all bad. Learning new things and all. The wings get kinda boring, doing the same things all the time. I hate drills. Don't mind sweeps that much. But I like Tundra pretty well." And talking, evidently, since P'tras can't seem to shut up now. "You're real nice, Verret." That makes him laugh. "I'm sorry Farideh doesn't want you. I'd fuck you if I was her. Probably for the best, though. They aren't the same when they have babies. You can't even have babies, what does it matter to ''you''." The last is more defensive and almost certainly aimed at the dragon who steps back from the steps and steps out toward the bowl a few paces to it's easier for her to lower herself closer to the ground.

"V'ret." How much does the correction matter at this point? Not a lot. "I'm taking that as a compliment, but you're really drunk." So taking it seriously, V'ret is not, which makes it much easier to take as a compliment. "Here we are. Can you get the straps?" V'ret has poured drunk riders back onto their dragons before, of course, enough to be of some help, but it's easier if it's not just him.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs talk:Lemons and Honesty

2015-12-06T08:10:52Z

V'ret: Comment provided by V'ret - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Lemons and Honesty]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==V'ret (00:10, 6 December 2015 (PST)) said... ==

Honesty? Let's not be hasty, here.

Logs:Whatever It Takes

2015-11-29T05:02:00Z

V'ret: Created page with "{{Log |who=V'ret, V'ret{{!}}Zoth |what=We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold |day=25 |month=5 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=..."

{{Log
|who=V'ret, V'ret{{!}}Zoth
|what=We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=25
|month=5
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.28
|quote=Keep your cards close to your chest.
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon V'ret meditative.jpg,
|log=She was from Ista, originally. She was a fisherman’s daughter, and she was pretty, and it was pretty enough to get her in trouble. If she’d been weyrfolk, of course, nobody would have cared when she got pregnant at seventeen, but she wasn’t, and they did, and it didn’t matter that she miscarried.

She did whatever it took to survive.

She was bright and surprisingly well-spoken, and some men liked that. And she was fair-haired and young and slim, and more men liked that. Eventually, with a young son getting nearly old enough to have to explain entirely too much, there was a man from Crom who seemed to like both. And Crom seemed far away. She imagined herself wrapped in furs, walking with this charming fellow in the snow. She’d never seen snow. They went north.

Later, so much later, with her son grown and gone and her other children nearly there, she picked out a bolt of fabric printed with little pink roses, cheerful and looking forward to summer. She bought it from a trader who’d come from further south. They talked about the long winter and how she missed the sun. He coughed, but she hardly noticed it. Pretty things helped to smooth over the accumulated hurts like powder on bruises.

She had the pattern for the dress, but never finished it.

As people got sick, V’ret stopped going to the Snowasis, not even for his one drink. He had a few bottles by then, not all of them properly paid for, but most of them, anyway, tucked in places he judged them unlikely to be found. And even if they were, none of them were good liquor; the marks for that just weren’t coming anymore.

One was tucked in a cleaning closet with two biographies of long-dead Lord Holders and a history of the Weyr. And, after a few weeks, a cushion borrowed from stores because he didn’t like sitting on the floor very much. He’d been days, weeks even, scouting out places, moving when he needed to, avoiding anywhere with people.

<< Keep your cards close to your chest. That’s what they say, isn’t it? >>

No reason to talk to anyone, no reason to let anyone close. Zoth was company enough. The books were company enough. Safe and sterile.

One evening, he took a roundabout way out of the living cavern after a dinner he only picked at, wove through the caverns to settle in for a few hours before bed, and found his books stacked neatly on the wrong shelf. The bottle beside them, untouched. There were two cookies wrapped up in a piece of paper, an inventory sheet of some variety, on the wrong side of which was a note that the reader was welcome to use the space, but should avoid displacing the cleaning supplies as it made keeping track difficult when things weren’t on the right shelves.
He almost bolted. Maybe should have. On the same sheet of paper, he scrawled an apology, and left it folded neatly on the same shelf with a quarter-mark tucked under it.

The next day, it was gone, and a few things had been rearranged to leave a bit more space on one side of the closet floor.

If V’ret spent his evenings lost in books and daydreams, and his nights largely staring into the dark. More to drink might have helped him fall asleep easier, and sometimes did, but mostly the sleep came with dreams too vivid to forget come morning. He would recite names and dates and places, mouthing the words, giving them no sound. Four hours a night was enough sleep for anybody. As he got used to it, he rarely overslept anymore.

The silver thread was there, one day, and he carefully wove it into his knot.

He talked less.

He smiled more.

<< We do whatever it takes. It will be worth it. >>

To say that Zoth butchered his kills would be too clean. V’ret had been told at some point to try to reign in his dragon, but had not cared to even attempt it. To others, the bronze’s voice stayed smooth and rich as satin. To his rider, it now had the metallic tang of blood.

V’ret had trusted two people in his life that completely. His dragon and, once, in what felt like another life entirely, his mother. Only two people alive.

And then there was one.

If he had known, it would not have changed a thing. Not then, anyway.
|Categories=The Plague Logs
}}

Logs:Time Flows Like a River

2015-11-12T00:43:48Z

V'ret: Created page with "{{Log |who=V'ret, V'ret{{!}}Zoth |what=A weyrling and his dragon find ways to pass the time. |custom=Month 2 of weyrling training. |day=1 |month=4 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=1..."

{{Log
|who=V'ret, V'ret{{!}}Zoth
|what=A weyrling and his dragon find ways to pass the time.
|custom=Month 2 of weyrling training.
|day=1
|month=4
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.11
|quote=Maybe I just like having less boring secrets.
|mentions=Jocelyn, Yesia,
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon V'ret earnest.jpg,
|log=Time passed.

It seemed to do so more smoothly than Ev had expected it to, in the early days where he’d struggled to fill the hours. The work was work, but work wasn’t a struggle. Work flowed like water, ran over the days and smoothed them until they seemed like no barrier at all to the passage of time.

The exams weren’t what he’d expected. He’d always assumed he knew plenty about history, or at least as much as anybody needed to know. His writing is good, if too wordy. His math is… okay. But nearly three thousand years worth of history had passed in the corridors he walked every day, wearing them just as smooth, and what he knew of it wasn’t more than a drop.

When he had free time away from his dragon, he read. With no intention of letting anyone think he was the soft, bookish type, he read away from prying eyes, books stashed in the caverns in disused broom closets and vacant rooms. Some of them were supposed to be locked, but they weren’t particularly good locks. He might never spend much time behind a bar again, but he still had other skills, older ones.

<< Jocelyn takes notes >>, Zoth observed, once, awake but placid. If V’ret’s mind raced until it eroded obstacles, then Zoth’s was entirely still. Deceptive. Deep. What was down there? When his voice dripped, it was smoother than water, thicker. Blood.

''I don’t need notes, and I don’t have time to take notes. There’s too much to get through.''

It was like a card trick. You didn’t, he thought, practice those out where anybody could see when you dropped the whole damn deck and ended up chasing down cards from under chairs for half an hour. The work happened behind the scenes. The work happened behind closed doors, locked doors.

<< And then when people see, they think it is effortless? >>

Over his one drink in an evening, he had the blonde girl from the kitchens pick a card. Her name was Annona, but that hardly mattered. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t allowed to be a date. It was, he told her, just meeting a friend for a drink. He had her pick a card, and then he plucked it out of the air, and she was delighted. She wanted to know how he did it. Magic. Of course it’s magic. And having clever hands. He said it with a straight face. He’d practiced saying it with a straight face. He practiced everything. She blushed.

With Zoth in his head, it was like he could find his center, there, in the stillness, and sometimes things actually come out just the way he’d practiced them. His nerves didn’t jangle the way they used to.

<< Why do you care if they see you struggle? >>

He didn’t have an answer for that. It was in his bones. It was like breathing. When another weyrling made a comment once about his taking off, there wasn’t a moment where he considered just telling the truth.

''You can’t expose yourself to people like that.''

Instead, there was a grin, a joke with a not-very-veiled reference to masturbation.

<< Most people would prefer, it seems, that others not think that they were engaged in such activities. >>

''Maybe I just like having less boring secrets.''

They were babies--toddlers, now, maybe? V’ret knew next to nothing about children and had no intention of ever remedying that deficiency--but they weren’t. At least, Zoth wasn’t. Were the rest of them? Looking at the other dragons, hearing their thoughts only secondhand, he wondered about that. Zoth took a positively gory level of interest in the anatomy of the creatures that became his meals, that started to bleed into an interest in other kinds of anatomy. That added more books to the list.

''I wish you could read.''

No obvious hint of frustration. << You borrow my eyes, I borrow yours. >>

But Ev didn’t, not very often. Zoth considered that one girl, of every woman in the Weyr, to be an unacceptable distraction.

<< Left to your own devices, you would think of nothing else. You would accomplish nothing else. >>

One afternoon by the lake, he’d almost said something foolish. But whatever it had been, it hadn’t coalesced into words at the right moment, and even if it had, what did he expect?

<< Perhaps, if you would not want that from any woman who would give it to you, you should consider why it is that you insist on setting yourself up to fail. >>

''You would prefer it if I failed.''

<< I prefer you to focus on the things in life that are of genuine import. >>

He read, without taking notes, just letting the facts bounce around like pebbles as they poured in. The names and dates were dull and lifeless. Between them, some things weren’t. In retrospect, it seemed less a surprise that the Lord of Seven Holds had fallen to a Benden bronzerider than that the man had managed to survive long enough to take that much territory in the first place.

He thought about it while Zoth tore into something that had once drawn breath.

<< Most people, >> said Zoth, << are sheep. >>

Somewhere in Crom, a man came home drunk and started a screaming match with his wife. He bloodied her lip with the back of his hand, but it could have been worse. In the morning, sober, he promised to buy her something pretty to make up for it. She had a whole dressing table full of pretty things.

V’ret thought of them almost not at all, and time passed.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

HRW:Weyrlings/Month2/Recap

2015-11-12T00:28:32Z

V'ret: /* V'ret */

{{#pagetitle: Month 2 - Recap}}{{WeyrlingNav |title=Month2}}Recaps are, as always, completely optional, but one thing that would be useful for your weyrlingmasters is if you could indicate how your character did on each of their exams (a letter grade is fine).

Any questions, just ask!

== Ellerey ==

== Jocelyn ==

* '''Reading:''' A
* '''Writing:''' A-
* '''Arithmetic:''' B+
* '''Local History:''' B-
* '''World History:''' C

Jocelyn scores well overall on her placement exams, which probably doesn't come as too much of a surprise given her turns of lower caverns management. She's still more apt to criticize first and consider feelings later, but she's not unwilling to (brusquely) help those who ask for assistance so long as they demonstrate that they're ''trying'' rather than attempting to sail through some obstacle with someone else's wind. Calisthenics, this month, require more work in her off-time since she isn't the fastest or the one with the most stamina.

Learning dragon anatomy is ''interesting'', and a subject matter that ultimately isn't too difficult for her since she's good at memorizing and understanding how pieces connect into a working whole. The etiquette classes, on the other hand, aren't the easiest things for the redhead, who hasn't traveled much aside from having visited the occasional local gather over the turns. She's good at memorizing what to say and to whom, but struggles to mask her instinctive, disapproving looks and mannerisms behind politesse. While she has dry wit in spades, it's a tricky thing to curb it into a tone that can still come across as appropriately polite. Since Impression, she's been slowly improving at biting her tongue; Aidavanth's influence ''helps'' in some situations, certainly, but she's yet more apt to choose to be blunt rather than frank.

Speaking of Aidavanth: She continues to be warmly solicitous of her siblings and classmates, cheerfully engaging with any and all who pass by even if it's just to share a quick hello. She still requires a fair amount of Jocelyn's attention while she's awake; she isn't demonstrating signs of being mentally or emotionally needy, but there's so much ''more'' of her to oil. There's a significant amount of itching, but nothing out of the ordinary presents in her physicals to suggest that it's due to anything but constant growth.

== L'ton ==

== Lys ==
*'''Reading''': A
*'''Writing''': A
*'''Arithmetic''': C
*'''Local History''': B (stronger with more current events)
*'''World History''': C

Month two sees Lys and Evyth becoming more social; still largely 'fringe' of the class, Evyth is undeniably the more social of the two. Lys tries to keep her attitude in check, but it does slip out from time to time. Some might notice that she seems to be struggling as reality is setting in about just what the life of a dragonrider entails; not struggling because she objects, just because it's a lot to wrap a head around. She still shares blissful moments alone with Evyth, but finds weyrlinghood increasingly demanding. Evyth is friendly as ever, still a little worried for the occasional darker moods that strike. Mostly, in classes and exercises, aside from Evyth's clumsy moments, they're unremarkable (and only occasionally challenging.

== N'klas ==

== Pia ==

== S'rin ==

== Silva ==
* Reading: B
* Writing: B
* Arithmetic: A
* Local History: C
* World History: D

There were more than a few upraised eyebrows when Silva pulled off that placement in math - wasn't she just a ditz? Something must have filtered down from her craftmaster father though, because in most matters she manages to be the middle of the pack. Except for World History because, like... who even cares? It's an attitude that has her teachers shaking their heads in despair.

Dragon anatomy is gross kthanks. But since Zaisyreth seems interested Silva has forced herself to look at the pictures and learn what she can. She even followed C'ris' advice and finally visited the healers to have her blue's needle sharp talons trimmed down so he's not cutting his thin hide while sleeping.

Her hair is cut. Woe. :(

Any way Silva can get //out// of work she's taking it, but under the careful eye of the WLM and AWLM she isn't getting away with as much as she could. Maybe there is a useful member of the weyr in there. It's just... buried deep deep under her skin. There hasn't been a whole lot of integration with the others - for once it seems like Silva is a loner. It's fairly often that Silva is found in tears though, or right on the edge of them, so maybe the isolation is starting to get to her, even if she's snappish when someone else tries to reach out.

Zaisyreth takes life exactly one day in time. He has endless patience for Silva's mistakes and foibles, gently encouraging her till she gets it or even supporting her on another course of action. In many ways he enables her, but it's possible there is change to be found. Nothing ever seems to ruffle his feathers, even when baby-foibles cause him to get hurt and Silva is just shy of hysterics.

== T'gar ==

== Torlynna ==

== V'ret ==
Reading: B
Writing: A
Arithmetic: C
Local History: D
World History: D

Lackluster, but he seems to have a solid foundation on the rules of grammar and a decent vocabulary, and far better handwriting than someone would expect, although it tends towards cramped and it might be best read by someone who still has young eyes. His knowledge of history seems to get about as far as "seems to have learned most of the basic teaching songs at some point and recalls most of their contents", but there's a lot of questions he doesn't even attempt, rather than guessing and putting down something wrong.

As far as his fellow weyrlings are concerned, V'ret is pleasant, agreeable, willing to joke around, and usually not terribly interested in hanging around in his free time; he seems to disappear the moment it's tolerable. He doesn't appear to take his academics particularly seriously, even after his exam performance. Zoth appears to take his absences in stride, now. Zoth takes a mild interest in what's going on around him, but is often more of a watcher than a participant. He incredibly efficient at breaking down a herdbeast, but has a habit of being finicky about consuming the results. He would, and this he doesn't bother concealing from anyone, much prefer that the beasts were merely lamed and left out for them; no matter how fresh the day's delivery is, it's never good enough for him.

Logs talk:There

2015-11-09T21:24:34Z

V'ret: Comment provided by V'ret - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:There]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==V'ret (13:24, 9 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

I object to being included in that list. I deserve my own list.

Logs:Clothes Make the Man

2015-11-06T07:23:51Z

V'ret: Created page with "{{Log |who=Telavi, V'ret, |what=Major decisions about one weyrling's future sweaters. |where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |day=15 |month=3 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |game..."

{{Log
|who=Telavi, V'ret,
|what=Major decisions about one weyrling's future sweaters.
|where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=3
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.05
|quote=But really, V'ret, 'the best' isn't that simple.
|weather=A layer of gray clouds hangs oppressively around the spires. The air is humid and cool, but there is no snowfall today.
|mentions=K'zin, C'ris,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon telavi listeningish.jpg, Icon V'ret crossed.jpg,
|desc=Massive in scale, the Weyr's main storage passage connects to the kitchen
on one end and the outbound tunnel on the other. Large enough to admit a
wagon laden with goods, the tunnel easily permits the unloading and
organization of supplies into the various storerooms.

Branching off from this corridor are multiple caverns, the nearer two
being 'open' stores from which residents can readily help themselves,
while the deeper stores are kept locked up tight with a posted sign and
inventory hung on a hook outside of each. An alcove next to the public
stores serves as a catch-all area for reshelving items whose destination
is uncertain; two sets of stone shelving and several bins hold these items
neatly until a stores assistant has a moment to deal with them.

Though the storage caverns vary in size, shape, and the smoothness of
their walls, all belong to the same system: whitewashed walls, swept
floors, and most importantly, neatly labeled and inventoried shelves
providing ample space to stow all the supplies a busy Weyr needs. Though
there's no direct internal lighting, a glowbasket may be brought in from
the niche outside each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky
dark of deep caves.
|log=The deep caverns aren't ''warm'', but at least they aren't as cold as outside; with dinner settling in as slow-burning fuel, Tela's had an assistant headwoman-- someone with whom she's well acquainted, by the friendly sound of it-- give them leeway to roam. "At least you aren't growing an inch a seven like ''some'' of them," the greenrider says as she leafs through a pile of gear. "Shoulders fitting tight at all? Arms? And how picky are you for sweater-scratchiness?"

"I hope not," says V'ret, wandering after her, hands in his pants pockets, looking about as they make their way into the cavern. "Used to think I wouldn't mind filling out a little, but I've met fellows who had a good six inches on me, and I wouldn't like to have to find trousers to fit that." It sounds a bit distracted; he's finally started really looking at the contents of the shelves. "I could use more room in the shoulders. Not too snug, but--" He picks at the fabric of his sleeve, thoughtfully. "Does anybody actually answer that they prefer their sweaters to be awful? I would just as soon find the best I can get."

"Six inches as you are ''now''?" Telavi glances back to survey him, eyes green today in the glowlight before she gets back to sorting. "No, it is a pain. But at least when you're a full rider, and are probably as muscle-y as you're going to be, you can get things tailored better as long as you aren't in too much of a hurry... this ''cold'', I hate it." She offers him a couple of sweaters, roughly the right fit, one baggy enough to allow for layers. "But really, V'ret, 'the best' isn't that simple. Soft is nice and all, but it pills something fierce, and it wears through. It's not that I want any of you wearing something ''awful''," she even shudders, "just that if you can handle some coarseness without scratching in the middle of class, you shouldn't wind up with patches so soon."

Bit of a smirk, for that. "Probably about that, yeah. You meet some interesting characters, working in bars." Which is totally what V'ret has done his whole adult life so far, such as it is. And nothing else. No. "That's the problem with all this rummaging, isn't it? I would far sooner just rather get a new sweater. But for some reason my income seems to have dropped at exactly the wrong time." So regretful. Even so, he takes the ones he's offered, tries pulling one on over his current shirt. Eyeing a cuff that comes up about two inches short, it comes back off again, almost but not quite taking the shirt with it.

Tela laughs, lilting and light; "''Imagine that''." She's quick to steal back the reject unless he proves to be more figuratively attached, not to fold it immediately but to compare it to some of the others. "How did you get into the bar trade, anyway, were you 'raised by your father in the grand tradition'? I can't imagine it was just liking to drink, or else everyone would be."

The weyrling proves completely commitment-phobic when it comes to sweaters, eventually going through the others he was originally offered, some of them for reasons far less obvious than sleeve length. "Something like that," V'ret declares of the last one, "only--gray? Or black. Colors are too hard to match." Without so much as a pause, he goes on: "I left home and needed work and wound up washing glasses, worked my way up from there. Started before I had any taste for the stuff, actually."

Her brows arch up, but Telavi addresses the last first; "Really? What was so great about washing glasses? It must have been awful on your hands," she says all sympathetically. "It's nice to see someone care about colors; so many people don't." It's worth a sigh, as she exchanges sweaters, searching. "And ''practical'', to try for things that go with everything when you grab them in a hurry. There are a few more... but if you don't settle soon, you might freeze." He could be here all night, hypothetically, but Telavi ''needs her sleep''.

"Better than going down a mine." A few more inspected, her picks and his own, a smaller subset of those tried on. V'ret sets two aside through this process, though neither is precisely gray. "Might be a weyrling, but I intend to look respectable for a bronzerider. Here, which of these would you say is more neutral?" One is a sort of grayish-brown, the other green enough to make it an odd question. "I learned a long time ago that, whenever possible, decisions of fashion should be left to women."

There's fashion, and then there's... "Mm," Tela says. There's a sideways glance at him, ''temptation'', but not the usual sort associated with bronzeriders. Still, she points to the grayish-brown this time, before choosing a third sweater to show him; this one verges on reddish. "'Respectable.' Not a dandy?"

This new offering also gets tried on, and V'ret seems content enough with it to, after taking it back off again, spend some time squinting between his choices. "If I'm going to go out with a woman with taste, it behooves me," because bartenders who almost ended up down the mines totally talk like that all the time, "to look good enough to be seen with her but not so good as to distract attention from her. I don't see a temporary hiatus in my social life as a reason to change that."

Telavi stays out of his choices, ostensibly because she has shirts to look through; "That," she says with some surprise, "is a very ''considerate'' approach." She holds one up, shakes her head in a way that sets her braids swaying, and sets it back; the second is rejected, but the third, "I'll just compare this, if you'll turn your back," ready to do just that in a professional rather than touchy-feely way. "Poor K'zin, he had Rasavyth nudging him to wear this or that, when he wasn't used to the nicer things yet... You don't sound nearly so overwhelmed as a lot of them do." 'Temporary hiatus,' and all. "I hope it stays that way."

Turn his back? No particular comprehension for her process on this, but V'ret seems to have an easier time obliging this sort of request than anything to do with dragons. "K'zin. I don't think I've met him, at least not properly. I suppose being older helps. Some of us. Maybe it was the line of work there, too. Have to be... adaptable." A pause. "Pay's good, but the hours are long. I could do without the mornings, and I miss my tips, but it's not as though I'm not used to working." And adapting to the dragon? No comment.

As long as he obliges, she'll just get it done: squaring its shoulders to his, checking the biceps, stepping back with a disappointed ''sigh'' about sleeves that are too tight. It serves for comparison purposes, though; "You would have if he were still working for Quinlys," no sigh there but the tiniest of pauses where one might have gone, "but he likes Tundra and smithing, so that's good, and we're doing ''fine'', even with C'ris' canine trotting about." Telavi works through shirts, not fine material so much as ''warm''. Nor is there any mention of dragons from her, but then, she's not the sort to be caught gazing into Solith's rainbowed eyes. "I'm glad for your sake that you are. Adaptable, I mean. It can be hard with... not just mornings, not just how do-this do-that the way it gets, but so ''circumscribed'', you know? You'll have even less free time if you get into the silver thread program, of course."

"I'm not sure who thought that was a good plan. Zoth had some idea that it might make appropriate hunting practice." Practice. Right. "Time to kill means I have to come up with a way to kill it. I always thought, you know, if I work an extra night in seven, or even two, but that gives me the marks in my pocket to make the next night off something special, why wouldn't I do that? Now--" V'ret stands very straight until she's finished, then relaxes a bit, looking at her over his shoulder. "Now, maybe it's about long-term payouts instead." A smile.

Telavi's ''pfft'' speaks volumes for that canine, though she doesn't exactly urge that Zoth 'practice.' Not in so many words. She's still smiling when he looks back, a hint of dimple to go with the moment's pleased assent; "There's long-term and then there's long-term... but if you want access to wingleaders," if he thinks he'll present well, if that's at all the path he'd want to take, "that's the way to go." Tela lets that hang before adding with a bit of a moue, "In the meantime, though, we'd better finish up."
|Categories=General Logs
}}

User:V'ret

2015-11-04T00:14:48Z

V'ret: Created page with "Things you should know about V'ret-player: Mostly I'm available weekends and evenings weeknights, Eastern time. As of November 2015, my work schedule is settled down right n..."

Things you should know about V'ret-player:

Mostly I'm available weekends and evenings weeknights, Eastern time.

As of November 2015, my work schedule is settled down right now, but it's somewhat prone to occasional meltdowns. Sometimes that can result in just a day or two here and there where I have to stay late or go in on a weekend. Every now and then it lasts for weeks at a time. I try to give warning when that's going on.

I am terrible at this logging thing and about remembering to post or read anybody else's. I apologize in advance. Not really in the habit of posting like this. I'm working on it.

Logs talk:Don't Worry

2015-11-04T00:10:42Z

V'ret: Comment provided by V'ret - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Don't Worry]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Squishy (23:42, 2 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

Oh yes this can't end horribly at all~
==V'ret (16:10, 3 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

We should all just pick up and collectively move somewhere warm. We can just pretend it's High Reaches, while we lounge around on the beach.

Logs talk:The Benefits of Being a Bronzerider

2015-11-04T00:04:10Z

V'ret: Comment provided by V'ret - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:The Benefits of Being a Bronzerider]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Squishy (21:45, 2 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

Curves are overated.
==Alida (00:48, 3 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

Like Squish said.
==V'ret (16:04, 3 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

High Reaches, where the men are men and entirely too many of the women are built like men...

Logs talk:Tall Tales

2015-11-02T02:00:06Z

V'ret: Comment provided by V'ret - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Tall Tales]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Yesia (11:19, 1 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

Edyis, you fuck.
==Edyis (11:45, 1 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

-whistles-
==Silva (12:42, 1 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

I'm dead now. Just dead.
==Alida (17:39, 1 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

Hahahahahahahahaha! I want to see Yesia's reaction when this finally comes around to her. ;)
==V'ret (18:00, 1 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==

Two Yesias! I can't see any way that could possibly be a problem.

Logs:Seeing Red (Green)

2015-11-02T00:51:32Z

V'ret: Created page with "{{Log |who=Yesia, Yesia{{!}}Aeaeth, V'ret, V'ret{{!}}Zoth |what=Zoth approves of Yesia about as much as Aeaeth approves of V'ret... but seeing her through Zoth's eyes is no di..."

{{Log
|who=Yesia, Yesia{{!}}Aeaeth, V'ret, V'ret{{!}}Zoth
|what=Zoth approves of Yesia about as much as Aeaeth approves of V'ret... but seeing her through Zoth's eyes is no discouragement at all.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=26
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.31
|quote=<< Maybe you'll be able to train him the way they do canines. >>
|mentions=H'vier,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon V'ret grin.jpg, Icon yesia beanie.png,
|desc=The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but
here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening
and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions
to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.

A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides
warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced
off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water
there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows
drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge
undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be
bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge
divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky
outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one
-- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly
tempting stairs.
|log=The people of the Reaches would be fools not to welcome a relatively dry day as this one, however unpleasant it strives to be. The wind today is rough everywhere, but seems colder as it snatches up the chil from the water and turns them coppy and unwelcoming under each buffet. Yesia stands at the edge of the shore, her arms crossed and mittened hands tucked into her armpits for warmth. She's dressed for this: warm, fur-lined jacket and a cap drawn down over her ears, breeches as always these days. In the midst of the unpleasantness, serene and pale-lovely, Aeaeth basks on a rock just off-the-center of the body of water, apparently perfectly calm despite sometimes being splashed by an enterprising wave.

Even in unpolished youth, this two-toned bronze has the promise of presence. He might have been merely a pale specimen, were it not for the heavy shadows that drip, as though wetly oozing, from the tenebrous ridges of his spine. That pattern, if it can truly be called such with its extreme irregularity, is unbalanced from one side to the other: absolute boundaries of dark swallowing light in some places, grisly smears to unite them in others. Though bright against their dark spars, his wingsails also bear the erratic splatters of arterial spray. He's a solid, strong creature, but age will whet his angles into ever sharper, ever harder lines, from his hooked muzzle down to his honed talons.

Today is a brand new day, and its failure to be completely miserable outside is probably what has driven V'ret and Zoth out towards the lake, during some of their free time. Not that Aeaeth's interest in the water is predictable. Of course not that. It's slow progress across the bowl, since Zoth seems disinclined to move at a pace that might require him to look undignified, but the stroll does eventually pull them close to a familiar face. Or at least a familiar coat. "I miss getting to see your legs. I'm not sure I'm allowed to say that." Most people would start a conversation like this with 'hello', but same diff.

Yesia's parted her lips to breathe into the chill, letting the warmth of her exhales coalesce into tiny little wraiths that the wind steals away, and she's mid-exhale when V'ret's voice reaches her. "Ev!" Because ''who cares'' what his name is now, she gets to call him whatever she'd like, including nicknames that may not still apply. She swivels around to look at him more closely -- or maybe at Zoth -- and smiles winningly. "It'll feel so long, having to wait to see them again," she teases, and she could mean a break in the weather or the length of his training. Hard to tell. "I wouldn't tell on you, if you weren't. I think you're just not supposed to touch."

There's no correction for the name, just a broad smile like V'ret manages to be completely pleased that she's even remembered that he has a name. So easy to make him happy, it seems. "I'm not supposed to do a lot of things," he says, but then there's a momentary pause, and he amends, "but I suppose it's for the best. Still. I can look." And shove his hands into his pockets as though it's necessary to restrain himself from more. "Still, he's growing like a weed." Pause. "A very handsome weed." A handsome, bloodstained weed who could not be less interested in Yesia, though he's wandering off in the direction of the water, watching after Aeaeth instead.

"A very handsome, very ''bronze'' weed," Yesia amends helpfully, still smiling. Her eyes drift between the two of them in sequence, and she shrugs unhelpfully. "He just...he'll understand, soon. It'll go fast, and then we can keep each other company again. Not just ''look''. But until then, maybe the weather will warm enough for dresses soon." Her smile turns wistful even if she doesn't sound exactly hopeful. Zoth's movements ultimately hold her attention because they are absolutely more interesting than either her own dragon's or V'ret's, and perhaps that helps him catch Aeaeth's attention too. The green lifts her slender snout from the water and watches the bronze back, and a deep emerald curiosity reaches for him. << Do you swim? >> (re)

"Very bronze," V'ret agrees, watching his dragon go off, still beaming with a pride that if he had any dignity at all left he'd at least try to play off as ironic. No, not yet. "Though--bronzeriders don't seem to be having the best of luck around here, lately." That thought appears to escape his mouth before his brain entirely catches up with it. Added, quickly, "I'll just have to get lucky, I guess." He's grinning. His dragon is considerably more serious, testing the water. << It is cold, >> he appraises it. And probably wet, too, while he's being obvious, but that he doesn't say.

"He's bronzer than Aeaeth is green." This certainly true. Aeaeth's pallor is stark even in the gloom of a Reachian winter, but Yesia has very little time to dwell on true or falses there. Her smile falls almost at once, a flicker of surprised sadness at the bluntness of it all that she works quickly to temper into something less disappointed. Her lips purse and her brows furrow. "H'vier was..... Not many people will miss him. I think I do, though. A little. Goldriders don't do so great either, from what I hear." Yesia eyes him sidelong, and it's cold enough that she shuffles closer to him, to bump her elbow against him like she might lean there. Like before he Impressed. "You could just be smarter. You had me convinced you were smart." Aeaeth snorts. << Not too cold. Do you prefer the warm? >> She doesn't say how disappointing his life will be, if so.

They're both bundled up against the cold. Surely, it can't be against the rules for V'ret to just put his arm around her. It's not an embrace. It's a side-hug. They're perfectly chaste. Everybody knows that. "Had a drink with him now and then. Seemed okay to me. I'd like to think I'm smarter." Which is a bad segue to the furrowed brow and the, "Wait. Is she... not green?" V'ret is squinting off that way. Zoth is staying right where he is, regarding Aeaeth placidly. << Tolerance and preference are entirely different, >> he says, though he sounds... distant? Distracted.

"He was smart. He was just...drunk." Yesia turns around to make sure no weyrlingmaster will descend upon them before she shuffles the last few inches to rest under V'ret's arm, where she sighs quite contentedly. It's just a side-hug. Totally means nothing. "She says she's ''just this side'' of green," she ponders slowly, like it means less to her than to her lifemate. "I never really understand, but she knows her colors." It's no skin off Aeaeth's back. She settles back in, lets her muzzle rest in the water again with the soft chime of bells. << Suit yourself. >>

"Mm." It's just a noise. An acceptance of fact. One of those facts. It is, of course, a nice thing, this stolen bit of proximity, but it shouldn't be so nice to warrant closing his eyes, like he needs to savor it. Long breath. "She isn't... not green, but there are plenty that are more green." It's not the most certain thing he's ever said. << He is somewhat defective. >> That... is not the sort of praise one would normally expect from a young dragon with regards to his new rider. << And he does not listen. >> No, he's not even paying attention. Not to his dragon, anyway. << She is distracting. >>

They're likely to get caught, they stay this way, but she nods, all that red hair crinkling funny against his jacket. Yesia's genuinely curious when she ventures, "What's Zoth like? Besides, you know. Handsome and bronze? You barely know, in the beginning, but I feel like...like around where you're at now, that's when I started really knowing who Aeaeth is." Aeaeth: sweet but critical, kind but arrogant, private and ''nosy'' and very matter-of-fact when she says, << You could have chosen anybody who was there. Your own fault. I bet he is very hard to train. I tried to tell him I did not like him, but he just kept coming around. Maybe you'll be able to train him the way they do canines. >> She is only slightly nicer when she notes, << She is. It is because she's very pretty. I thought she was the prettiest, so I took her before anyone else could. >>

He might not have warning, but it says something for how distracting this young woman apparently manages to be that V'ret just stands there without making more than a cursory attempt to lift a hand and shield his face from the spray. Then, he moves in the direction of his dragon. Priorities. Poor upset baby! Because he is just a baby and this is clearly just infantile distress about feelings he does not understand. "His taste is excellent," seems more a reassurance for Zoth than for himself. "I think he's just... overtired, is all. We should head back--but I'll see you later? I really--" Pause. "I'll try to find some time to see more of you. But later. You are so beautiful, you know that?" Impressing has not cured him of non sequitors.

"Sure he did," Yesia says, with that distant patronization that comes when she's splitting her attention. Aeaeth lowers her head just enough that she might look closely at Zoth, but she offers no further commentary. Maybe she would roll her eyes, if she could, given that departing remark, but she can't. She can snort-scoff, even as Yesia tucks her hair behind her ears to stick her helmet on her head. "Yes," she says brightly. "I do. You're pretty good looking yourself. Even if you look like you need sleep." That, of course, will be chronic. "Tell him to call Aeaeth, if you want. But, we're not hard to find." Same lake, same weyr, same time, every day.

Dragon just short of what seems like it could very well be a tantrum, V'ret is beaming like nothing could possibly be wrong in the world. "You stay warm until I get free enough to warm you up myself, huh?" Never mind that half a year from now will also mean it won't be winter anymore by that point. "No, look, you're fine, I'm fine, I don't know what you're--come on, we're going back, okay? We're going." This is the first he's resorted to speaking aloud, amidst this all, and his dragon suddenly has enough of his attention to warrant turning away to head back to the barracks.
}}

Logs:Careful (Perhaps)

2015-10-31T17:22:16Z

V'ret: Created page with "{{Log |who=V'ret, V'ret{{!}}Zoth |what=Someone is dead. Others are still alive. |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=25 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2015.10.3..."

{{Log
|who=V'ret, V'ret{{!}}Zoth
|what=Someone is dead. Others are still alive.
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.31
|quote=A lot of men knew your mother.
|mentions=H'vier
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon V'ret meditative.jpg,
|log=It woke Zoth, but whatever he thought about Reisoth's departure, he didn't wake his rider, or at least not until it was properly morning. He was uncharacteristically mellow enough to allow V'ret to go get breakfast, where he found out from his peers.

But they didn't talk about it.

The day went on in the way that was becoming completely ordinary. Feeding, oiling, lessons, meaningless small talk with the others. Zoth slept--or pretended to--long enough to allow V'ret both lunch and dinner.

Maybe, he thought, maybe the worst of it is over.

After dinner, in the caverns, a passerby touched him on the shoulder, smiled, and passed him a little package bound up in rough cloth. It went into his pocket and he moved on without even looking at it, without letting himself even think about it until he was back in the barracks. Until he'd passed an evening with reading a history of the Ninth Pass. Or staring at the pages and attempting to will the black marks there to cohere into words that made sense.

A headache settled in behind his eyes, a cold pressure, and it lingered there until he was laying awake in a dark cavern listening to every little creak of bed frame, every little cough.

He found it in the dark, slow, careful, soundless. The contents of the flask burned going down, but the burning settled warmly into his stomach.

<< You aren't supposed to have that. >>

''You're supposed to be asleep.''

<< The rules do not say that. >>

''The rules are broad enough for any idiot to enforce them. Do you trust Quinlys more than you trust me?''

His heart raced, sure any moment that Zoth was going to wake someone, but no weyrlingmaster descended upon them. It was quiet. Someone was snoring, but not loudly.

<< You thought-- >>

''He might have known my mother. I should have asked.''

<< A lot of men knew your mother. >>

''Would you go back to sleep?''

<< Why does that upset you? >>

''It matters, in this world, where you came from. Who your parents were.''

<< You could ask her. You have always been able to ask her. >>

''I'm not going back there. Not ever.''

<< Not even when the man with the belt is dead? >>

Not 'gone'. No mincing around the word, for Zoth. It sits there with an awful finality.

H'vier is dead. The man with the belt will someday be dead. Someday.

<< Why didn't you do it? >>

V'ret had another drink. This was supposed to last him. It wasn't going to last if he kept drinking it that way, he realized. He carefully put the cap back on and then slipped the flask between the mattress and bed frame.

He shifted onto his side and looked off into the shadows, trying to make out the lines of his dragon laying there.

''He was a good man.''

<< He was not. But why should that matter? Why do you care? >>

''We could have been friends.''

<< Perhaps. >>

Zoth's voice is smoother than the liquor, but the warmth is still there. It feels like good wine. Like Benden. It washes over him, and eventually, he sleeps.
}}

V'ret

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Come Hither Vibes]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Jo (13:41, 22 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Poor Ed. Always caught as a rock between a hard place. ;)
Definitely a contrast to when Tacuseth won! An interesting read~
==Yesia (13:46, 22 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Shhhh, her first flight was a really troubling time, okay?
==Alida (20:37, 22 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Hahahahaha!
==Edyis (22:00, 22 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

SHE WAS HITTING ON ME, I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS WEIRDNESS!!

Hopefully Everett took one for the team~~
==Everett (10:04, 23 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

There are some sacrifices he is absolutely prepared to make.

Logs:Plenty of Fish

2015-09-06T18:54:13Z

V'ret: Created page with "{{Log |who=Everett, |what=Reflections on then and now, and Everett finds company for a morning, but only just for the morning. |custom=Day 25, Month 9, Turn 38... and about a..."

{{Log
|who=Everett,
|what=Reflections on then and now, and Everett finds company for a morning, but only just for the morning.
|custom=Day 25, Month 9, Turn 38... and about a decade earlier.
|day=25
|month=9
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.06
|quote=You could do better.
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Everett-portrait.jpg,
|log=Day 17, Month 9, Turn 28

"Appearances," his mother said, dabbing powder over the bruises, "matter."

Paint and powder, creams and perfumes. She spent an hour every morning just doing her hair, unwinding the curls from the rags she'd tied them up with the night before. Lioretta knew how to manage the appearances. Everett did not understand, not at that age and not ever, where she came up with the marks to pay for it all. It was inconceivable that his mother's husband would have given her enough of an allowance to cover all the little pots and boxes on her dressing table.

"You weren't old enough to remember how it was before, but this is better. We have to be grateful for this, dearling."

The husband in question was now asleep, or, more accurately, unconscious in the next room. Ev's younger brother and sister were staying the night with their grandparents. Not Everett's grandparents, which was why he'd stayed shut up in here through the worst of the shouting, and what came after.

She came in, after, and didn't start to speak until she'd already gotten her hair put up. He'd watched her, watched her face in the mirror. It was so old that the glass reflected only imperfectly, like there was a shadow over her.

"You could do better," he said, finally. "You could at least try."

"With all three of you? I wish. You'll understand when you're older. It's nice to dream about nice things, but you have to be realistic."

----

Day 25, Month 9, Turn 38

Everett made it out to the bowl before it really sunk in that she wasn't coming.

She'd come before, after all. (Boy, had she ever.) But she wasn't coming, and his cheeks burned from what the weyrlingmaster had said. He still had the flask, and he took a few drinks from it as he tried to find her ledge up there, but it was so hard to make out which one it was, from the ground. Shame did not mix well with lust. It twisted, in his aching chest.

The bowl was more busy than would normally have been expected for such an early hour. His heart lept every time he saw one of the greens--it was so hard to tell them apart. One of them landed quite near him. The rider was pretty, fair, but not the right greenrider at all.

"I know you. The bartender, aren't you? Hey, if you're looking for company, my weyrmate's off visiting his sister."

He should have other girls, right? He was entitled to it, as much as any of them. More. He'd been through more than any of them.

The angry thing curled around his heart and dug in with claws, and he smiled as easy as breathing.

She didn't even protest, or not much, when he got his hand around her throat in the middle of it. She still let him sleep off the rest of the morning in her bed. But, by that night, when he saw her at the Snowasis, she wouldn't look him in the eye.

The whole world seemed a little more crisp, a little more clear. He was the bright center of the universe.

He didn't even know her name.

He was okay with that.
}}

Logs talk:Time to Move On

2015-09-03T01:44:25Z

V'ret: Comment provided by Everett - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Time to Move On]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Squishy (16:31, 2 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Reisoth Good job!
==Everett (18:44, 2 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

That, right there, is a good friend.

Logs talk:Unfinished Chances

2015-08-31T01:32:12Z

V'ret: Comment provided by Everett - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Unfinished Chances]]
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==Squishy (17:25, 30 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Aww. So cute.
==Everett (18:32, 30 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

So cute. So terrifying.

Logs talk:Weird Public Displays of Affection

2015-08-28T17:34:10Z

V'ret: Comment provided by Everett - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Weird Public Displays of Affection]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Varied (07:55, 28 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I can only imagine what Anvori would say. >.> They are cute.
==Yesia (10:03, 28 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

/SIGHS
SORRY ANVORI.
==Everett (10:34, 28 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Ev is probably going to end up trading a night off to make up for it. Now, if he lets Yesia behind the bar, that will probably have to involve more copious apologies...

Logs:Weird Public Displays of Affection

2015-08-28T02:44:18Z

V'ret: Created page with "{{Log |who=Everett, Yesia, |what=Everett and Yesia, sitting in a bar, B-O-O-Z-I-E-R. (There might also be a little kissing.) |where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High..."

{{Log
|who=Everett, Yesia,
|what=Everett and Yesia, sitting in a bar, B-O-O-Z-I-E-R. (There might also be a little kissing.)
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=8
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.25
|quote=An acquired taste, as they say. But there's nothing wrong with liking whatever it is you like.
|mentions=Alida, Taikrin, Jo,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Everett-portrait.jpg, Icon yesia sitpretty.png,
|desc=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.
|log=Here we are: exactly where every guy wants to take the object of his affections. His workplace! Oh, but it's Everett's night off, which one can tell because he's sitting playing solitaire on the wrong side of the bar as he waits for this girl to show up. He has a beer, there, that he's been working on for a few minutes, but it's a particularly mild form of liquid courage. Just a few sips to take the edge off, not too many to remember which order the cards have to be stacked in. He seems to be trying very hard to avoid looking in the direction of either entrance. For at least a few minutes, it'll work.

Among the things Yesia learned during weyrlinghood? Leatherworking; dancing; self-defense. The importance of being on time. Okay. Maybe that last one slipped past her a little bit, because she's ''never'' on time, even for dates. You have to keep them on their toes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she fell between. Any of these things might cross Everett's mind, if he gets anxious enough waiting, but eventually the greenrider ''does'' show up, dolled up as only Yesia dolls up to go to a place literally three minutes from her ledge. The skirt she's chosen stops mid-thigh, white, and the tunic is a bright yellow thing like the gemstones people sometimes find in the mines, with exactly the same shine. There are ribbons in her hair to match, and - well, ''yes'', she looks very pretty. Finding Everett isn't a chore; if he keeps looking he'll spot her well before she slids into the chair across from him, propping a chin in her hand and grinning. "Hi."

The first game is nearly won; the second is begun and lost in short order before Everett lets himself start looking at the door. In a way, a slight delay might have been worse. She might have caught him on edge, instead of after he's had a few minutes to force that back into a near-perfect facsimile of calm. He does look up before she reaches him, makes eye contact there, but then it's all broad smiles. He's... well, he's made more of an effort to match than usual. His clothes are crisp, fresh, monochromatic gray and black. There is a brief moment where his gaze is tugged downward. Still holdbred enough to be impressed that women have legs, evidently. "You look fantastic." At least it has the advantage of sounding heartfelt. Or somewhere-felt.

It is to Yesia's credit that she doesn't say she knows. She simply lights up at the compliment, tilting her head so the ribbons and curls bob off to the side while she studies him, his clothes, noting the effort he's put in. "You look nice too," she decides after her suvey is complete. "I don't have a lot of reason to wear dresses or skirts anymore. The worst part about dragonriding is that all my clothes would get ruined." When she frowns, it's not entirely serious, though she does seem the sort. "Were you waiting long?" The question is innocent sounding, as she leans down to peer at his cards, like she might commandeer his game again.

"I hadn't even thought about that. It must be tricky just getting down to the bowl--" Everett cuts that off before it can progress to the logical line of questioning. Too forward? "A few minutes, but it's not like I was bored, and a little bit of anticipation is good for the spirit, isn't it?" He doesn't give her too long to look at his cards; he collects them back up and starts to cut them--no, he can't seem to shuffle like a normal human being, not with an audience, instead it's a complicated-looking series of sybil cuts. "Speaking of spirits, what do you fancy? All top shelf, I'm not cutting any corners on a special occasion." He squares up the deck and sets it down again.

"It's not so bad," Yesia assures, leaning back and waving a hand as he takes his cards up, her eyes tracking his movements with curious eyes. "I mean, it's just Aeaeth bringing me down, but straps aren't comfortable without breeches, or a jacket, and then you have to wear the helmet and..." So yes, it's actually tricky. She's hypnotized by his hands, the flip and switch of the cards, enough so that she says, "Wooow," in a very low voice, barely blinking until he asks about drinks. "Oh. Whatever. You're the bartender," only, not right now, "I trust you to pick something I'd like. Maybe a good, sweet wine. Or, one of those," she gestures with her hands in stacks, "layered, colored fruit things, with the speared fruit out of the top? I don't drink much, usually." Hint.

"Sweets for the sweet," Everett says, grinning. "I got it. You just sit pretty, I'll be back in a minute." He leaves his beer, the cards, pushes his chair out to go let himself back behind the bar. He has to wave off a couple orders in the process, but surely this is too important to be left up to someone else's discretion. A couple minutes before he returns, with another beer in one hand and the other with, well, a girl drink. It's not the size of a boat, just a Collins glass, and the fruity garnish is limited to a trio of raspberries on a skewer. But it's impressively red. "I like doing fruit. Even though we're generally a bit limited in whatever we have on hand on any given day. Sometimes you get folks who come in wanting something that involves every berry known to man and I wonder how they think we just keep all that around."

Sitting pretty is her specialty, and Yesia smooths that very short skirt to fold her hands in her lap very obediently, with a very bright smile that follows him. It can't take him too long, otherwise she'll get distracted and probably wander off, if the way she's looking all around the Snowasis by the time he returns is a prelude of things to come. She catches his return though, with an "Oh!" of delight when she spots the drink in his hand. She'll take it greedily when it's offered, but her first sip is dainty, testing it. "Most people don't know how to do them right, here. Everyone just drinks cheap beer and whiskey, or these really expensive, thick, burning things. I don't like the taste of them. So fruit." And she plucks a raspberry off to put it in her mouth. "I'd go all over Pern to buy berries for good drinks, if I knew how to make them."

There's lemon in it, which helps to cover up both the gin and the sweetness that might otherwise take on a certain cough syrupy quality. "Most people have more workaday tastes," Everett reflects as he resumes his chair, watching that trick with the raspberry with avid interest. "I think I get more orders for this sort of thing from men than women, strangely enough." Or maybe not strangely at all, if he were to take a minute to think about it. "But women do drink more cocktails and less straight liquor. I... I only do straight liquor either when it's incredibly expensive, which is almost never, or when I need to get drunk very efficiently, which is also almost never."

"''Wine''," Yesia emphasizes, "is easiest. And good, and not hard to get even if you can't afford the expensive stuff." She, who never really buys her own drinks, would know this certainly. Even so, she's alternating toying with the straw - with her tongue - and drinking during the conversation, apparently rapt on Everett's inferences. "I think the women here are very mannish," is her explanation for the dichotomy. "I mean...there's Alida, and Taikrin, and...Jo. They're all more manly than most men."

His eyes have a habit of following her mouth like snakes are supposed to follow flutes. Everett is not the most subtle of creatures, here. "I like some wines better than others. It's easy to get spoiled by the good ones, I think. I guess that's true of a lot of things, if you think about it." Which is not actually apropos of what Yesia's going on with, and his focus is now clearly on catching up. "Well, expectations are different, here. I guess when you're free of having to be what tradition says you have to be... some people make different choices." He looks at her over his glass, eyebrows raised. "Do you prefer that kind of macho? I could probably take up grunting instead of having real conversations."

Yesia, however, is the most subtle of charmers. She ''can't'' be doing that incidentally, not cold sober as they both still are. "I guess," she ventures, "I don't really have very refined tastes for wine, then. I still prefer klah, just klah, or tea. I got a very old whiskey when we graduated from weyrlinghood, and I think I'm going to sell it to someone. I hate it." The blasphemer -- lucky for her looks, she is. She leans away from him though, as he brings up tradition, heaving a sigh. "I think they were mannish to start with, not that the weyr made them this way. It hasn't made ''me'' mannish. My new wingleader isn't mannish. Even my friend Paz, who Impressed a blue dragon," like that's a ''scandal'', "isn't like that. Try again." She laughs over her glass at him. "No. Well. Sometimes. It depends on what I want. I ''like'' talking to you. When guys are just...big and grunty, they're probably better for other entertainment."

All of this seems to bear some real thinking about, it's not necessarily all just pleasant small talk. Everett even frowns a bit there, momentarily, but it washes away easily. He finishes off the first glass, finally, and moves on to the second, but it's not particularly noticeable when he says, "The way you say that, I could almost think you'd been here all your life." There's a wry smile to go with it. "I'll take what I can get. The grunty types have their uses, but I'm not good at it. Can't really get the, ah--" He makes an attempt at such a sound, hand on his belly. "Diaphragm, I think. Doesn't come out right."

The greenrider's expression goes stony for a second or three, then she shakes her head vehemently in rejection of his comparison. "No. Only about a turn. Maybe it takes time, before I start grunting and growing a mustache and...back hair." Shudder. "It's been a very long turn, though. Everything changed so much." She uses a perfectly manicured nail to twirl the skewer of fruit around the rim of her glass, chasing it absently with her fingertip. Her laugh is chiming and lingering, that hand drawing away from the glass so she can cover her mouth and shake her head at him. Yesia sounds suggestive when she says, slow, "You don't have to be grunty to be good at it."

After another drink, Everett eyes Yesia across the table, eyes first on her finger and then on her face. "Don't I? No, I suppose I don't, do I." Allow him to look a little pleased with this turn of conversation, sitting forward in his chair. "I thought you were going to be shy. That I was going to have to be patient. Now, I'm starting to wonder if this isn't all going a bit fast." Only, he doesn't actually sound particularly concerned. "You're something else, aren't you?"

Yesia looks archly at him, her lips pursing. “You think so?” is a question of everything he’s said, and she picks each apart in turn. “I’m very shy, sometimes, and I don’t ‘’mean’’ to be too forward. I mean, we haven’t kissed or anything, not really, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, not when you make me feel so comfortable.” There is something genuine in that last bit, but she doesn’t let it linger. “We can go slower.” All those calculated movements cease: finger withdrawn, posture prim, taking another sip of her drink. “I’m just a holdbred girl with a green dragon. There are plenty of girls like me. What about ‘’you’’, bartender?” Affectionate, that. A pet name, more than a title.

"Plenty, really? Will you make me a list? I'm kidding." There's not even an actual pause between the second question and what follows, there, no chance taken on any possibility of her taking it seriously. "What about me? I have a decent job, a few marks in my pocket, a little free time. I'm good at stupid card tricks. Most of my jokes aren't very funny, but I mean well. I think I'm a good listener. You could do worse." He takes his glass in hand but doesn't drink for a moment. "And I'm perfectly comfortable, so long as you are."

Yesia levels a look that might be dangerous, were she not smothering a smile, but any semblance of it fades as she listens. Habitually, one big ringlet of hair ends up between her fingers, twisted around. “Not ‘’that’’ stuff. Tell me - tell me what you did before you came here. What about your family? How did you end up at the weyr? You can’t have been Searched without dragon to lay the eggs, but people come and go all the time. Everyone has their story.”

Curses, this attempt to divert the conversation appears to have been foiled, and that's exactly the face he makes. At least not trying to hide it. "From near enough to you to curse not having known you sooner, it would have probably brightened things considerably. Mother got married when I was a kid. Her husband and I never got on. Took off soon as I could, did odd jobs, learned to do this," lifting his glass, "and then decided I should try and get a job somewhere with a slightly classier clientele than my last place of employment, maybe a little less... uptight place than even a major Hold's apt to be." He pauses, has a drink, pauses some more, eyes the glass. "Don't know much about my real father, but he was a rider. Maybe I've got half a fancy that if I hang around awhile, it could happen."

That, at least, appeases her more than his first attempt. And, in retrospect, maybe it ‘’is’’ an accident that she moves the way she does because she is twirling that stick of fruit in her rink again, daintily and without apparent thought, before she pulls it out to pull the last two raspberries off the spear. It was probably more effort to sit still. “You wanted classier clientele and you ended up ‘’here’’.” She sounds amused. “Are you disappointed? I was. Am still, sometimes. It’s not what I thought it would be, the people, the place, even the job. Only Aeaeth. Aeaeth’s ‘’perfect’’.” Sigh, wistful and affectionate. She hooks onto his last, though, and sounds gossipy when she imparts, “I heard you can ask to Stand, when there’s a clutch on the sands. Don’t even have to ‘’be’’ Searched.”

"Disappointed?" What Everett sounds like, actually, is genuinely surprised by that. "No, it's great. I mean--sure, it's not a Harper's tale, but what is? Tips are better than I've ever had, even if some of them come from strange quarters, and I don't worry about somebody nicking all my stuff, or at least, I don't worry as much as I used to." His wistful look echoes hers, but it's a slightly different sort of wistful. Passes soon enough. "One way or another. Not like I don't have time to think about it, of course. Don't know what I think of the whole... thing." A vague wave of the hand. The future is so far away, right? Voice lowered a little bit, though he's smiling, "Don't know that anybody in this world who gets put in charge ever does deserve it, but mostly I try to avoid getting in a position to get ordered around." Really. Look, he didn't say he succeeds.

“It’s not like the books,” Yesia suffices, not that she should ‘’think’’ that living in the weyr is anything like those silly harper’s tales. And yet, “I just think I imagined there would be more...glamour? Fun? I don’t know, I realize it’s silly. I’ve been ‘’told’’ it’s silly.” She gives a little, bitter expression for that, but she smooths her face into neutrality. Dubiously, then, “I guess. It’s not what you think it is, even when you ‘’do’’ know what you think. I’d try not to think about it at all. It makes things easier.” Not thinking, of course. She scoffs at his last. “Sometimes they do. I think K’del is very good as Weyrleader. Less for ‘’Farideh’’, who didn’t even get Searched, she just ‘’asked’’,” which explains why Yesia knows that loophole. She takes another drink, this one with feeling, and long enough to empty her glass at last. “Being a dragonrider is nothing but getting ordered around, Everett.”

"I'm not sure I'd call a dragon nothing. Being able to travel. Maybe someday getting to give some of the orders?" Everett, of course, would be the one exception to his own rule. The tone of his voice suggests he might actually believe that. "But I don't know. Would kill right now just to have a little room of my own in the caverns. I have a neighbor who snores terribly." Gently, but firmly, diverting the conversation back to lighter things. "Do you want another of those? Something else?" He's already reaching for her glass.

“Fine. ‘’Just’’ a dragon,” is also not really a fair assessment of the greenrider’s situation, barely a concession. “And a weyr,” she amends when he mentions space of his own, and that with a big smile. That was the best month, when they all started getting too large for their couches and they had to move us into our own places.” Beat. “It might be worth it for those two things” She will nudge her drink towards him with a nod. “Something else,” she says at once, with a friendly reminder, “You said you’d teach me how to make drinks.”

"Mm," is the only response for the first part. Thoughtful, not an argument. Everett's attention is more on the latter, anyway, or at least it seems to be. "I did say that. You know, if you're going to go holding me to all my promises..." Such an empty threat, his eyes bright with the smile. "I can't turn you loose on the customers, though. Not at this point, anyway. Here, why don't you sit tight and look pretty and think about how great I am until I get back." Which is his way of saying that it's going to be a minute, but it doesn't actually take too long for him to return with a tray of things, calling, "I'm bringing them right back, hold ''on''," back to his coworker.

Yesia sits ‘’so’’ pretty, adjusting the ribbons in her hair and thinking about -- well, hard to tell, or maybe not since when he returns she says, abruptly, “I could show you my weyr, some time.” She adjusts the things on the tabletop to make room for Everett’s platter, flashing a brilliantly charming smile past him at the other bartender then saying, “I mean, if you wanted. It can be my promise, since I’m holding you to yours.” Once he’s set the things down, she nudges them with a knuckle, giving him a taste of the smile too. “I don’t want to pour drinks for ‘’them’’,” she notes, “just us.”

On his return, Everett comes around to her side of the table, dragging the chair around so that he can sit next to her. Did he give her personal space, on the beach? Yeah, he's not so keen on leaving the extra room, now. He sets the tray down. "I would like nothing better," he assures her, but lingering too long on that line of thought might be terribly distracting, so instead it's back to the tray. "This is simple. Lime, triple sec--which is an orange liqueur--and tequila. Which is to say, your garden-variety margarita." And on, so as to save both typing and reading, with the standard 3-2-1 recipe, the shaker, and so on. At some point in there, he rests a hand on her shoulder, all encouraging.

Yesia isn’t a flighty sort - well, mostly - which means that invasion of her space and that encouraging hand are both met with beaming smiles as she works through the tray with his direction. There’s probably too much tequila, if that is possible, but there are no disasters. The shaker, for example, doesn’t fly across the room, and eventually she pours it with caution that becomes triumph. “Aha!” And a sidelong look, that is teasingly unimpressed, “That wasn’t so hard. I ‘’should’’ steal your job.”

Two glasses, there, which lets Everett retrieve one to test it. "Drinkable," his verdict, like there was some question of that, but he's having a hard time holding the grinning at bay by that point. "A toast to your new career?" He offers his up for the purpose, while some distance away the actually-working bartender is saying something pointed about needing his tequila bottle back, which Everett thoroughly ignores.

“Just ‘’drinkable’’,” she echoes him with a pretty little pout, but she ultimately toasts back and takes a sip, eyes rolling ceilingward thoughtfully as she considers the taste. “Alright,” she concedes at length, “just drinkable.” But not bad enough to stop, and that bartender in the back might be up a creek as Yesia leans against Everett fully, tipping her head onto his shoulder. “You’ll have to tell me what I can do to make whiskey drinkable.”

Trapped. Thoroughly trapped. What can be done about it? Nothing. So Everett doesn't even bother responding. His coworkers must adore him. Maybe he has other virtues? Not that he's concerned about, right now, anyway. His hand slips the rest of the way to get his arm around her. Leaning in, he inhales deeply, takes a moment to get around to answering. "Like many things in life," he finally says, "it takes practice. An acquired taste, as they say. But there's nothing wrong with liking whatever it is you like." He has another sip, rolling it around in his mouth like he's tasting wine, though he swallows after a moment. No reason to let it go to waste.

Oh, his life must be so terrible. Yesia is very good at this snuggling nonsense, but she takes her sips carefully, like she may not like hers. When she moves it’s just to set it on the table. “You’re the first person to tell me that about anything,” seems like praise, and it certainly must be about more than just her taste in alcohols, with a relieved smile like that. “What ‘’now’’?” she asks, big eyes innocent when she looks up at him. “I mean, are you going to teach me more drinks? How to do ‘’card tricks’’?”

"If you want." So easygoing that Everett can't possibly be really considering doing all that. Not while he's all relaxed there with one arm around a girl and a drink in his free hand. Who has hands for cards? "We could do something else." He actually sets the glass down, goes to catch her chin, long enough to get a good look at her face. Confidence! Mixed with just enough nerves to need to take a deep breath before he suggests, "Maybe we could use some privacy. And you said something about showing me your weyr. But--" Confidence? Deep breath. Growing smile. "That's up to you, isn't it? I guess we could make out here. From what I've seen lately, I'm not sure anybody would notice."

“Are you into that? Those weird, public displays of affection?” Yesia’s pert nose wrinkles, but her mouth is very close, feather light when she speaks.Her voice is throaty, her smile salacious. “You’ll ‘’love’’ flights, I bet. All that kissing,” kiss, “and touching.” Well. that too, fingers plucking at his shirt. “We can go to my weyr. It’s not far. Privacy, right? I can show you...’’stuff’’.”

"Mostly, right now, I'm into you," is the pat response, his voice low with her right there close. Everett waits for her to initiate the first kiss, but after the invitation's put forward, he helps himself to another. Not long enough to scandalize anybody else in the bar, though. Just enough to serve as an answer before he starts pulling away. He was supposed to return this stuff, right? Another sin for which he can do penance later. He keeps at least one hand on her shoulder even when he's getting up out of his chair. Parting for that long would be unthinkable.

Given the nature of people in this particular place, the bartenders on duty are lucky the bottles get left behind. Truly, they're being comparatively kind. Yesia ignores her drink altogether in rising, taking the hand on her shoulder so she can twine their fingers together and tug him away, out to the bowl where a clearly miffed green dragon awaits to loft them up, to the ledge with the permanent puddle.
}}

Logs talk:Drinking Without Assistance

2015-08-26T17:56:35Z

V'ret: Comment provided by Everett - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Drinking Without Assistance]]
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==Squishy (23:18, 25 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Everett is kind of adorable.
==Jo (09:33, 26 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Yep, that's my Everett. He WAS adorable in this scene though!
==Everett (10:56, 26 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Hey, whatever works to get the tips.

V'ret

2015-08-24T15:33:02Z

V'ret:

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''"There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief.''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">Bob Dylan, All Along the Watchtower</div>
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|body=
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== The Hand, As Dealt ==
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''He will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool.''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 1em;">William Shakespeare</div>

Everett was born and raised among miners in Crom. His mother was from elsewhere, and moved there to marry his stepfather when he was very young. It was never a good relationship, and that only got worse as he got older. He took refuge in cards long before he was old enough to be drinking, but while he was a clever kid, he wasn't too clever to get caught cheating, and he wasn't enough of a kid for it to be forgiven just like that. On the other hand, working it off got him away from his stepfather, and it put marks into his pocket. He soaked up information like a sponge, and sometimes that information was useful. By later adolescence, he was starting to fancy that soon he'd be able to move up in the world, but "moving up" turned out to involve learning to pour drinks at a dive bar in Greenfields. It wasn't precisely glamorous, though it was still better than working in the mines.

Then, abruptly, new instructions: Off to the Weyr, with Jo, a job already lined up to hold him until the next clutch hit the sands. Hadn't he been telling anybody who'd listen that his real father had been a bronzerider? Maybe that would breed true. Meantime, well, he's making himself useful.

== On the Table ==
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''The poker player learns that sometimes both science and common sense are wrong. ''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 1em;">David Mamet</div>

* Arrived from somewhere in Crom in the summer of turn 38.
* One of the regular bartenders at the Snowasis, if presently very junior among them.
* Very chatty while he's working, but if it's slow, usually winds up playing solitaire.
* Hasn't yet taken anybody up on an offer to join them for a few hands, but seems to like watching other people play.
* Seems to be on quite friendly terms with the Greenfields crew. Somebody's cousin? Then again, he's friendly with a lot of people.

== Ante Up ==
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''All stealing is comparative. If you come to absolutes, pray who does not steal?''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 1em;">Ralph Waldo Emerson</div>

* Always happy to pour a drink and talk. Need an impartial ear, a shoulder to cry on? That's what bartenders are for, isn't it?
* People interested in playing other Greenfields criminal types should talk to Jo. People already playing other Greenfields criminal types should beg free drinks.
* If you have plot info that it'd be helpful to distribute more widely, tell Ev. If you have plot info that you don't want anybody else to know... tell Ev anyway. What can it hurt? He's so trustworthy.

== The Evidence ==
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''Wine in, truth out.''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 1em;">Charles Dickens</div>

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[[Category:Crom]]
[[Category:Crom_Hold]]
[[Category:Greenfields_Hold]]

V'ret

2015-08-24T15:24:47Z

V'ret:

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''"There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief.''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">Bob Dylan, All Along the Watchtower</div>
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== The Hand, As Dealt ==
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''He will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool.''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 1em;">William Shakespeare</div>

Everett was born and raised among miners in Crom. His mother was from elsewhere, and moved there to marry his stepfather when he was very young. It was never a good relationship, and that only got worse as he got older. He took refuge in cards long before he was old enough to be drinking, but while he was a clever kid, he wasn't too clever to get caught cheating, and he wasn't enough of a kid for it to be forgiven just like that. On the other hand, working it off got him away from his stepfather, and it put marks into his pocket. He soaked up information like a sponge, and sometimes that information was useful. By later adolescence, he was starting to fancy that soon he'd be able to move up in the world, but "moving up" turned out to involve learning to pour drinks at a dive bar in Greenfields. It wasn't precisely glamorous, though it was still better than working in the mines.

Then, abruptly, new instructions: Off to the Weyr, with Jo, a job already lined up to hold him until the next clutch hit the sands. Hadn't he been telling anybody who'd listen that his real father had been a bronzerider? Maybe that would breed true. Meantime, well, he's making himself useful.

== On the Table ==
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''The poker player learns that sometimes both science and common sense are wrong. ''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 1em;">David Mamet</div>

* Arrived from somewhere in Crom in the summer of turn 38.
* One of the regular bartenders at the Snowasis, if presently very junior among them.
* Very chatty while he's working, but if it's slow, usually winds up playing solitaire.
* Hasn't yet taken anybody up on an offer to join them for a few hands, but seems to like watching other people play.
* Seems to be on quite friendly terms with the Greenfields crew. Somebody's cousin? Then again, he's friendly with a lot of people.

== Ante Up ==
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''All stealing is comparative. If you come to absolutes, pray who does not steal?''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 1em;">Ralph Waldo Emerson</div>

* Always happy to pour a drink and talk. Need an impartial ear, a shoulder to cry on? That's what bartenders are for, isn't it?
* People interested in playing other criminal types should talk to Jo. People already playing other criminal types should beg free drinks.
* If you have plot info that it'd be helpful to distribute more widely, tell Ev. If you have plot info that you don't want anybody else to know... tell Ev anyway. What can it hurt? He's so trustworthy.

== The Evidence ==
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''Wine in, truth out.''</div>
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 1em;">Charles Dickens</div>

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[[Category:Crom]]
[[Category:Crom_Hold]]
[[Category:Greenfields_Hold]]

Logs talk:Talking as a Perk

2015-08-24T13:34:43Z

V'ret: Comment provided by Everett - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Talking as a Perk]]
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==Jo (06:26, 24 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

(( punts Everett into Farideh's Pit and dons gladiator BATTLE GEAR!! )) * Aeaeth's my ride-or-die chick. * Awesome scene, guys~ ;)
==Everett (06:34, 24 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Ev is going to get murdered over a girl before he even gets to second base, isn't he?

V'ret

2015-08-19T03:19:01Z

V'ret:

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File:Everett-portrait.jpg

2015-08-19T03:17:52Z

V'ret: