Difference between revisions of "Logs:A Change of Pace"

Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr

About as high up the bowl wall as it is possible to get before hitting clear sky, right up against the rim, this ledge is tiny, narrow and not terribly inviting. Though angled towards the sun, there's not enough room to properly stretch out, and that same angle ensures it receives the worst of bad weather, with no shelter whatsoever. From above, there's not even an obvious passage inside, as if this particular ledge is, in the end, nothing more than a natural outcropping. It's only from atop the ledge itself that the cleverly concealed entrance becomes clear, angled into the stone as it is.

Inside, there's a cavernous space, more than making up for the stinginess of the ledge. There's one large main room, and a much smaller back room that could probably be used as a bedroom - if this weyr were in traditional usage. Instead, the main cavern is largely filled with a collection of mismatched tables and chairs. Towards the back, there's a bar made out of old, recycled wood, manned during peak hours; there's plenty of alcohol on display behind it, though most of it tends towards the cheaper end of the range. Old, but still impressive, hangings cover the walls, all depicting scenes of High Reaches in glory. The back room has been turned into a storage area, with several cases of whisky and a variety of other spirits ready and waiting.

A strange pipe contraption comes through the ceiling and towards the stone floor, where a large bucket sits beneath it. A lever turns on water from the pipe: fresh rain or snow, ready for drinking.

Ominous clouds hang low overhead, cloaking the spires, as snow falls steadily into the bowl on this winter's eve. Smart people would be sheltering in the warmth of the inner caverns, but there's a poker game in the rider's lounge, so obviously, there is a crowd inside the re-purposed weyr. Tension looms above the poker table, where a handful of riders are holding out for the championship. Another circle of onlookers rings the table, talking in hushed voices, and wagering on the outcome. Still, there's some who aren't to be bothered by the game. V'ros is hunkered down beside one of the assembled couches, listening to an old Istan regale everyone with his stories of the freak comet 'fall. Next to him, one of the weyrling greenriders, perched on the lap of a bluerider, keeps giggling despite the subject matter of the story. "Ne'er seen so much scorin' in my life," the oldtimer says with a flashy wave of his hands.

Good mood when cradling any cards is quite the poker face. Too bad there's more to the game, or else Azaylia would have lasted longer than one or two hands. Instead, she's bent and leaning on a brownrider, hands folded atop his shoulder as she watches him and the rest continue to play. The gruff man doesn't seem bothered by the cheerful good luck charm, although he otherwise doesn't try win her favor. Busy. Cards. Grunt. Dressed even more comfortably than usual, and without anyone making a fuss, it's easy for the Weyrwoman to blend in. There's a smooch offered to the stony faced rider's brow before she straightens and drifts toward the liquor. Daring only a splash, given the whiskey's quality, she catches a bit of the Istan's story. Though her (favorite) couch is occupied, she finds a perch on the arm of it, next to V'ros. It's after a sip that she recognizes the weyrling, a warm though silent smile offered.

The problem with the place where everybody knows your name: At some point, you have to have entered that space a total stranger. Well, apparently N'vad's managed social enough since his arrival to find out that this is a place, so there's that. Out on the ledge, his dismount process is not so graceful as some, but once he's on solid stone the cane can be of some use to get him inside. With one hand so engaged, he can't start peeling off his coat without pausing in the entrance, but that process gives a chance to give a look around the crowd. If he drifts in the direction of the storyteller, perhaps it's just more familiar territory. He'll just--hold up a wall for a moment, there, before observing, gravel-voiced: "Don't see as it's anything to titter about. Happened once, stands to reason it could happen again." Cheery.

"No body asked you, cripple," the Istan sneers. But his focus changes when Azaylia moves to their group, and he's just too happy to indulge the Weyrwoman of the Reaches by spinning a wild tale that involves more holes than swiss cheese. Someone calls him out on it and it results in the two men getting chest to chest, arguing in each other's faces; Azaylia isn't the only one imbibing tonight, obviously. V'ros has watched the goldrider's arrival into his corner of the lounge with a tight-lipped frown, one which stretches into the fakest smile ever when she graces him with one first. "Ma'am," he mumbles, standing up from his crouch and giving the proper salute. Curious eyes flick, briefly, to N'vad,

Azaylia looks startled behind her tipped glass at the Istan's bad manners. Her eyes flick to N'vad, down to his cane, then back to the storyteller with pursed lips as she swallows that halted sip. The moment passes, although she's not as warm while continuing to listen-- until the peacocks start flashing their feathers. Rather than seem bothered, the Weyrwoman is reaching to tug V'ros down if he's not already sitting, "No no no no. None of that. We're at the lounge. Which means," and she's happy to explain with a soft laugh and fingers ticked, "No ma'ams, no salutes, no sad faces." Had she caught that earlier frown? "Only fun." She follows the weyrling's gaze to N'vad, offering a gentle nod and smile.

It's sort of hard to tell how much of a rise that comment gets out of N'vad--his face doesn't darken much, but then it wasn't terribly cheery to start with. Bit of a twitch around the corner of his mouth, bit of a brow-furrow. But he lets someone else do the calling out, and peers after them. But they're strangers, and what has he got? A stick--well, maybe it could be of some use, but all he does is lean on it as he heads off in the direction of the bar, not quickly, but apparently no conversation here seems worth tolerating entirely sober. He seems manifestly unconcerned about the quality of the drinks, so long as a glass ends up in hand relatively promptly.

"I.." V'ros can't finish that statement, someone is grabbing him by the back of the jacket and hauling him off, laughingly, towards the bar. There's a "sorry, Azaylia!" from the perpetrator, but they've already made the weyrling disappear into a crowd of solid dragonrider bodies.

Startled for the second time that night, Azaylia decides that her little splash isn't going to cut it tonight. Once her glass is emptied, she buys some time just in case V'ros and his friend intended to avoid the Weyrwoman. She knows she isn't as young and cool anymore. She instead chooses to watch those posturing riders, small curl of amusement on her lips when it seems like they aren't going to come to blows. Finally she stands, walking back toward the bar and refilling her glass, curious glance dragging her back to N'vad, "You're the Benden transfer, yes? Liardith's rider?" She's not stalking him, honest.

If a woman not yet thirty can't count as young and cool, where does that leave N'vad? Nowhere terribly complimentary. Probably wouldn't even if he was a decade or two younger, though; something about him suggests that he was probably looking like someone's dad long before he was really old enough for it. "Ma'am." What did she say about that word? Doesn't seem to have sunk in. "I'm... from Benden. Needed somethin' in the way of a change of pace, though I reckon... well, some things seem just like home already."

"Azaylia." She corrects, however gently. "Let me pretend that I can be off duty, sometimes." It's a light tease, smile bright as she leans back and takes the transfer in. She's not good at hiding her curiosity, but at least it's tempered when it comes to conversation. "I hope you're settling in. Ah... and I'm sorry if Hraedhyth decides to welcome Liardith in her own way." That is, invite herself onto his ledge for a proper cuddling. "If he's really unhappy, I can get her to move." A practiced warning for all new riders along with her bubbling excitement, "I'll have to send a welcome basket your way, won't I? Any preference in liquor? Cheeses?" With the Weyr doing well, it's a habit that she's able to indulge in once more. Likely nothing fancy, but well meant.

"Pretending--" No, N'vad doesn't finish that sentence, he just shakes his head and takes up his glass, lifting it. Not quite a toast. "If you like." If he remembers. "Not sure as a full-grown queen would fit on our ledge. Or why one would taken an interest in--oh, shut up." Surely by his age the habit of talking aloud should have been broken, but apparently not. It's clearly not directed at his esteemed company. "Bourbon, if I'm allowed my pick."

"No? Is it one of the smaller..." The goldrider trails off at N'vad's distracted speech, ducking her head to try and stifle a soft laugh. "I'll call her away before she does any real damage to ledge or wallow." But Faranth help them if she does miraculously fit. "Hraedhyth is a social dragon. No matter what color." Now she can't help but grin, "Though it sounds like she might make someone's ego worse?" Azaylia isn't subtle in her fishing for tidbits about the bluerider's life mate. Standing taller, she gives a little bounce on her heels as her own drink warms her belly. "Bourbon it is. Not the best, but... it won't be the worst." Fair warning.

"Not an ego so much as he hasn't got the good sense of a box of rocks." N'vad keeps his voice down, there, like the dragon's going to overhear. From his own ledge. Like he probably hasn't heard the same things in N'vad's own head plenty of times; it sounds like a well-practiced sentiment. "Anyhow, we got enough space for our purposes. Takes a bit to get settled, but it'll be all right."

Another laugh at N'rad's muttered insult which is quickly followed by a sip. "Good. I know I'm busy and it doesn't make sense for me to say," Whiskey has seemed to have burn a hole in her tongue, "But if you need anything, just let me know. Or the, ah... Headwoman. Yes. She's probably... but I'd like to help." The sentiment seems genuine, for all that her good intentions are getting muddled. There's a mix of cheers and hissed oaths from the poker table that has Azaylia standing straighter. "Up for a game?" An invitation, as well as making her intents known. He might actually get some peace, should he decline.

"Um." It takes N'vad a moment to actually evaluate this offer, glancing in the direction of the card-players, lips pressed into a thin line. "No, thanks. Think--I might get back to that dragon after this drink. Been a long few days." He's not really rushing it, of course, even if it's not really a beverage that takes well to sipping. "Watch the fellow in the green," quieter, like he could be talking to himself. He's barely spared more than a few glances in the direction of the game since that initial survey, of course.

Azaylia accepts his answer with a nod, "Alright then. It was nice meeting you..." Her beaming smile falters as she stumbles, deciding on, "Liardith's." Not as embarrassed as she should be, the Weyrwoman turns and joins in the cheers for not-brownrider-from-earlier. She's an equal opportunity celebrator. If she lasts more than a few hands this time, it could be due to her subconscious wariness when it comes to those in a particular hue. Luckily, Hraedhyth doesn't choose N'vad and Liardith as her company for the evening. They're safe... for now.