Difference between revisions of "Logs:Running into Rimara"

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.

It's a typical night. The bar is crowded with riders and weyrfolk, some drinking, some playing cards, and some just sitting with friends. The bar itself is has numerous filled seats, but a couple are empty. Most of the tables have at least a couple of people at them, but there are booths open to the side. Bar maids are circulating through the tables, trays of drinks or food carried carefully in their hands. Rimara is one of those tray-carrying girls, delivering a pitcher of beer and three empty mugs to a table of riders. She's smiling, and maybe flirting a little, but mostly working at keeping out of reach of hands.

Midst the bustle and claiming one of the larger armchairs by the hearth, Satiet sits with her feet tucked beneath her and her head tipped to one side, rested against the backing. One arm keeps her upright by bracing an elbow against the armrest, the other secures an empty old fashioned against her bent knee; all the while pale eyes drift from happy drinker to happy drinker, from clusters of friends chatting to playing cards - studying casually the vision of excess and good cheer about her. Then something catches her eye. The movement of a barmaid in between the groups. And those cool, bright blue eyes work their way across her features: from that smile to the flirting, to the way the woman's hair might flip and the way she might move her hips out of reach. But it's a momentary study, something new to once over on her gaze's descent down to the emptiness of her glass.

It's during her rounds that Rimara spots the rather regal looking woman seated in the armchair. She continues her normal path, then deviates so she can present herself at that very armchair, tray in hand. "May I get you a refill, m'am" she asks, her smile a rather practiced, professional pleasant one, but certainly not unfriendly. "Is that an Old Fashioned you're drinking?" is the next question as she waits. Other barmaids are more engaging with the customers, perhaps, but Rimara shows a degree of skill at her craft. Perhaps she's done this before, or maybe she's just not the type to get involved with patrons to the degree the more curvy girls do.

Whether Rimara has skill or not at her craft, it's clear the slender woman half-sprawled in that seat remains unimpressed, for those dark lashes, followed by pale eyes, lift slowly from the glass to glance up at the interruption. With a brow cocked up and her dark head of hair tipping towards the barmaid, Satiet imparts a very thin, very dry smile. "It's an old fashioned I'm drinking from, sweetheart. It doesn't necessarily mean the drink in it was an old fashioned." The pet name is anything but sweet, touched lightly with a thin coat of flirtatious mocking, in imitation of men (and perhaps some women) about the bar and their attitude towards the barmaids. "Perhaps you should ask before you assume, ...?" a beat passes, silence, that's quick to be filled by an would-be encouragement, "And this would be where you tell me your name, sweetheart," if it weren't for the fact that nothing about those glittering eyes seems particularly interested in a name.

"Beg pardon, m'am," Rimara admits. "You are quite correct, I should not've assumed." Her voice is neutral, neither too friendly, too repentant nor too afraid. "What is it I can get you, M'am," (and here the capital letter is apparent) is asked, followed by a differential bow of the head in apology. "I'm Rimara, M'am," and there's a bit of a dip of curtsey, "and I meant no offense." She stands in front of Satiet, not knowing who she is, but immediately aware that she may have made A. Mistake. Perhaps even a Big. Mistake.

Perhaps the neutrality and the lack of repentance or fear colors Rimara's words in unintended ways. Perhaps Satiet's just in a mood tonight, hellbent on taking anything the wrong way and the barmaid is just as likely a victim as the Headwoman might be the next day. But it's all in the timing, and the unfortunate fact of it is, the timing of Rimara's intrusion and subsequent apology-that's-not-so-sorry could not be worse. The sharp relief of her cheekbones colors visibly against the backdrop of her thin ever-pale face and that dry smile presses thinner, but retains the slightest curve that hooks one corner higher than the other. Her next, "Rimara," is so gently spoken and level, "I've had an incredibly long day and tomorrow will likely be longer. A skill you might consider learning from the bartenders is who to interrupt and who to wait to beckoned to. Not everyone enjoys flirting with the local help." Then, missing only a beat of a breath, the weyrwoman considers the empty glass in her hand before lifting her face back to the barmaid. "Tiriana didn't hire you." Statement.

Rimara accepts the chastisement with due respect and an expression of growing concern. If it wasn't present before, it is present now. "No, M'am, I was hired by N'th---Weyrleader N'thei, M'am." Voice now contrite. "My apology for interrupting you, M'am. If you wish, I will continue my rounds, and wait for you to indicate you want another drink, M'am." A beat. "Or, if you prefer, another can wait on you." Rimara swallows a very large lump in her throat, and the tray is now held in very visibly shaking hands. She stands, uncertain whether to stay or leave, waiting. Kind of like an errant child who knows they will be punished for their transgressions, even if they're not sure what those trespasses were.

While Rimara explains, Satiet goes silent, the glass in her hand being tilted from one side to the other by her two-fingered hold: index and thumb. Something of the repetitive motion acts as a snap to the dark-haired woman's reverie with her empty glass, and like that, whatever she's angry about dissipates into a quieter, "I haven't had a drink all night." Unspoken is the rebuke layered into those simple words; unelaborated on, but present. "I haven't been to the Snowasis in months. I shouldn't be here right now." Her dark lashes fan across her cheeks a moment in brief serenity, then lift just high enough to allow her a feathered view of the girl. "Take my glass to the counter." The glass is held out, followed by Satiet's disentanglement from the couch, her knees unbending and feet touching air for the first time in a while given the striations of cloth marked into them. "And give the bartender that tip." That tip that is then dropped into the empty glass - a full mark piece. "I'll think tomorrow whether I'll let you keep your job or not."

A bobbed curtsey. "As you wish, M'am," is said, Rimara's eyes downcast and exceedingly subservient. Not another word is spoken, and Rimara takes two steps backward, away from Satiet. She is careful to set the empty glass---plus tip inside---on top of the tray so it can be seen by any and all who care to look. She then carries it straight to the bar, delivering it to the bartender. Once at the bar, perhaps she releases the breath she's been holding without realizing she was even holding it. Words are exchanged between her and the bartender, who nods in Satiet's direction. A horrified---near terrified---face is turned to glance over her shoulder at the Weyrwoman, and then Rimara whirls back toward the bartender. Without a doubt, Rimara is now totally aware of who the woman is, and is there any need to guess why she suddenly lowers her head to the bar top in sheer resignation? No, no need to guess at all.

If Satiet cared about the impact she left on other people, she'd stop to watch. As it is, the slight woman, feet now extricated from beneath her bottom, gets to her feet, a little unsteady despite the lack of liquor. Somewhere between, she fishes her shoes out from beneath the armchair and slips them on before making the trek across the bar, passed the bartender and Rimara, ducking conversation and greetings with a tepid smile and only the barest acknowledgement, before exiting. And in the morning? That tomorrow where she'll think about whether to let Rimara keep her job or not, a messenger girl appears at the young woman's designated cot bright and early before sunrise to wake her and deliver a book: [ The Art of Mixing ] Which includes recipes as well as the tools and glasses of the trade. The day after, again before the winter's sun rises, the same girl delivers another book: [ Knowing Your Audience ] Accompanying the second book is a note, written in clear, feminine writing: You have the day off. Start filling your empty head with knowledge.