Difference between revisions of "Logs:Hitting The Bottle"

>---< Clearing, Ista Hold >--------------------------------------------------<
  Lush green grass and wildflowers of every imaginable color grow about     
  waist high and in stark contrast to the verdant greens, tall trees, and   
  twisted, knotted vines of the nearby rainforest. The clearing is large    
  enough for multiple dragons to land and lounge comfortably, though the    
  frequent landings of the large beasts do little to harm to the vegetative 
  growth. A small creek winds its way through the clearing, the grassy      
  carpet growing right up to the rocky banks. Ista Hold sits right at the   
  south edge of the clearing.                                               
 -----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
  R'hin        M   52  6'1  lean, sandy hair, pale blue eyes              1s 
  V'ros        M   21  5'8  Slim, Brown hair, Brown eyes                  0s
 ----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------

A gather is generally a place for celebration, and while the mood as a whole is generally upbeat, it seems that someone didn't get the memo. Looking casual in shorts and an unbuttoned shirt, R'hin has staked out a corner of the drinks tent as his own, radiating unsociability to keep away the curious. There's already a number of empty bottles on the table, and though one of the bronzerider's feet is propped up on an empty chair, he's clearly settled in for the long haul.

Loud laughter and an over-the-top, bawdy ballad precedes the arrival of a small group of Snowdrift riders; to be exact, it's X'ton and a tall freckle-faced bronzerider with a mop of curly hair, each with an arm around V'ros, nearly dragging him with them as they stumble into the drinks tent. They stop briefly, only to order another round, and then start meandering through the tables on the lookout for something out of the way. That's how they find R'hin kicked back in his own corner of the tent. "Ey, R'hin," X'ton calls over the din of nearby voices, but it's S'raf who shoves a clearly inebriated V'ros into the closest empty chair, looking satisfied with himself for thinking of it.

Even in his own state, it'd be hard for R'hin to miss the approach of the Snowdrift riders, pale eyes narrowing briefly, as if that might somehow discourage their approach. When it fails to, he grunts by way of greeting, frowning expression fixed on V'ros for a beat, before he looks questioningly at X'ton. "What'd you bring him here for?" Hard to tell whether he means, Ista, here, or my table, here.

Out of the three, X'ton appears to be the most sober and it's the bluerider who takes the lead on explaining their motives, given S'raf is leaning and leering at the two pretty blondes who have just entered the tent. "Y'know, how it is back there, had to get out and do somethin'. Figured we could all use a drink or two. Or ten." He's grinning boyishly, from ear to ear; the older bronzerider's attitude likely hasn't permeated his drunken stupor. "Kid's a little worse for wear though," he comments, peering at V'ros who's glaring back with red-rimmed eyes. "Y'got this, huh?" but X'ton's already backing away, followed by an overeager S'raf.

The Savannah rider's gaze narrows again at back there, a faint grimace easily mistaken for a smile as he buries his face in his mug for a time, taking a deep drought of whatever's in there. "Idiots," is growled at the pair of retreating riders, and he doesn't even look at V'ros, not yet, leaning forward to grab the nearest bottle, turning to shove it at the brownrider without looking too closely. "Drink, boy," he orders.

All of that laughter and loudness doesn't linger with V'ros, and he sits in the seat, slumped to the side, wearing a thin sweater and lightweight trousers in silence. He doesn't respond to R'hin's insult to his wingmates - and who could blame him - but neither does he reach for the drink that's pushed towards him. "I don't think.." with a sharp inhale between, "I can.. can drink, anymore.." His hand comes up to press fingers between his eyebrows, as if there's a persistent ache there. "I can't stop thinking about it." It, presumably, being the Teris situation.

"Then," R'hin says, with an implacable determination, "You clearly haven't had enough yet. Drink," he repeats. "You're young. Your body can take it." There's a hint of black humor briefly audible in the Wingleader's voice.

"I don't.. think.." V'ros lifts his troubled gaze to R'hin, but does, after a brief pause, reach for the bottle previously offered. "Isn't there a.. saying.. you can't drown you problems in the bottle?" He peers down the neck of said bottle, sniffs at it, and then takes a hesitant sip, resulting in a grimace of his own. "It'll still be there, people will be talking about it, when we go back," he mutters morosely.

"Whoever said that just wasn't determined enough," R'hin says, with a low-throated laugh. And, after a beat, "Besides, tomorrow, you'll be focused on your hang over. It'll give you a couple of days respite. And time... fixes a lot of things." But not everything. He seems to be following his own advice, taking a gulp from his bottle, jaw tightening as his voice darkens. "Would've been easier... better, if she'd gone the rider's way. If they'd let her, earlier."

The laughter gets a confused stare. "I hadn't even.. I'm not over what happened to Aishani, and then.." V'ros sighs and lets his hand, holding the bottle, drop back to his lap. "Those dragons at Fort were bad.. and now, Teris is dead too." He swallows loudly and focuses on a stop in the middle of the table. "Can that.. how could that happen?" As for the last bit, about prolonging the goldrider's misery, all he has is a dark frown and glower; he must think much the same. "I couldn't.. not without Zmeyth.. not now."

R'hin hisses out a breath, and leans forward, his hand snaking out to grip at V'ros' arm. "You're going to have to learn to adjust your idea of what's normal sooner or later, kid. I'd suggest sooner." His grip doesn't tighten, but seems to be there to catch -- and keep -- the brownrider's attention. "During fall, we'd lose, one, two people every three days or so. More at the start. Sometimes you don't get time to get over it. You deal, and you don't fucking wallow in what-if's."

It's enough of a surprise that V'ros' mouth falls open and he stares with growing horror - and abject humiliation - at R'hin. He stays silent until the end, to his own credit, but he's at least a few shades ruddier. "I'm.. sorry.. I didn't mean to.. it's.. shit."

"Yes," R'hin agrees, releasing his hold on V'ros' wrist. "It is," he says with some fervor. "Drink," he extols, again, "There are plenty of nice beaches to spend the night on here. The market at the Weyr opens early in the morning. I'm sure Snowdrift won't expect you after," his gaze shoots after the brownrider's wingmates, with a hint of disgust that he probably ordinarily wouldn't show.

V'ros doesn't hesitate another time, bringing the bottle to his lips and closing his eyes as he drinks long and fast from its contents. He surfaces with a shudder. "No, Mielline knew we were.. where we were.." His body heaves with his next sigh and he shakes his head ruefully. "Are you going back? Is the rest of Savannah here?" he asks, setting the bottle back on the table.

"She entrusted them to you," R'hin says, with certainty, squinting through the bottle briefly before exhaling. "No," he says, forcefully, presumably to both questions. "I'm not a fan of talking it out," he says, though whether that's pointed or not is debateable. "You ought to find some pretty girl to distract you." He gestures towards the Hold-at-large, as if there's a nice selection out there.

"I'm not good at that," talking to pretty girls, "sober.. especially not now." V'ros passes a hand over his forehead, which winds up covering his eyes, however briefly. "But I can go.. neither of us want to.." He gestures lamely and pushes his chair back, standing up on wobbly legs. "I didn't mean to interrupt.. your.." Healing process?

The look that R'hin gives the brownrider might not be pity, but it might not be far off it, either. With a wave of his hand, "Stay. But if you stay, you drink." His terms are pretty simple, and he takes another gulp of his bottle, turning attention towards the crowd. Apparently the staying doesn't come with a guaranteed conversation, either.

V'ros stands awkwardly for a span, before slowly sinking down into his chair. He must agree to the terms - he is completely, perhaps companionably, silent on his end, similarly sitting in a slumped position, bottle back in hand, and observing the people who come in and out of the drinks tent. And he won't return to the Reaches tonight, after all.