Logs:An Alcoholic's Homage - Revision history

K'del at 23:03, 9 April 2015

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Bot at 23:02, 22 January 2015

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Satiet: Created page with "{{ Log | who = N'thei | where = | what = | when = | gamedate = 2009.02.20 | quote = | weather = | categories = Vignette | mentions = A'son, I'daur, Talien, Milani, Satiet, P..."

2011-09-27T17:23:51Z

Created page with "{{ Log | who = N'thei | where = | what = | when = | gamedate = 2009.02.20 | quote = | weather = | categories = Vignette | mentions = A'son, I'daur, Talien, Milani, Satiet, P..."

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| who = N'thei
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| log = Most of the time. Lately. After something like this. He would have burned-one-down with F’rint. But he hadn’t even known F’rint “back then,” and there was a feeling like-- well, if he’d been more in touch with his feelings, he would have recognized the feeling as nostalgia, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Anyway. Ista.

Always the same routine at the beginning:

“When are you coming home?”

“I already am.”

They started drinking. They started reminiscing. It had been more than seven Turns since they were candidates together, seven Turns since they were I’daur’s weyrlings; how much had changed since then? They were still the golden boy and the fuck-up, still two sides of the same coin. They had been rivals, co-conspirators, fellow prisoners, simultaneous Weyrleaders, and finally friends. Friends that could line them up to honor a man that had helped shape the careers laid out before them. They talked about weyrlinghood together-- weyrling wingleaders, Aleith’s flight, Talien’s eyes.

The night grew long and serious, the way things always go when a person’s been drinking too long and reminiscing too much. With lingering bitterness, they glossed over the way I’daur had taken the fall for them over Crom, about how it never sat quite right with either of them that the old man let the rest of the world think he was to blame, but they’d never heard him complain about it. Maybe he liked the notoriety? Maybe it was better to be infamous than nothing? The boredom of Interval life was getting to these two comparatively young men, so how bad must it have been for an old cripple like him?

“You think you’ll end it like that when you go?”

“Probably. Probably better that than dying slow and sad, neh? You’ll probably wind up old and beloved with a dozen people sobbing something fierce at your passing.”

“You think so? I don’t believe you’d ever off yourself. Someone will probably slit your throat before you can do it yourself.”

Talk drifted from memories of I’daur. They talked about Ista and the Reaches. They talked about Milani-- where had it gone wrong for the “lovebirds,” why it wouldn’t work, whether or not it stung a little to know she was shacking up with a sixteen year old boy, hah! They talked about Satiet-- "Why?” “Because she’s in my blood.” They talked about friends they shared and ones they didn’t-- X'lar and Persie and Caitlyn and the others. They talked about the noblesse oblige-- what it really felt like being the Weyrleader, and whether or not the one missed it and the other would ever do it again. They talked a lot.

It was their version of an homage.

Eventually, the slighter man slumped forward, his forehead hit the table, and a drunk snore left him quietly. The big man stood, feeling himself light on his feet, and thought about the possibility he would make it home if he tried it. That, he thought with internal irony, would be the ultimate homage. He thought for a moment about going down somewhere warm and sandy and sleeping it off, but a measure of discretion crept into the back of his mind: how many people would he have to hear it from if he got found in a drunken stupor on the beach of Ista Weyr? So he stepped out onto the ledge, feeling the warm heat further muddle his thoughts, and he plopped down heavily against the hide of a certain dust-devil bronze. << Helluva thing, idn’it? >>

Helluva thing.

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 Helluva thing.
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