Difference between revisions of "Logs:A Deal Struck On Turnover"

N'thei's head was swimming. How drunk had he been? Was the Snowasis really full to the seams with boisterous revelry? He had so little memory, one beer after another, F'rint was lining up shots, there were slurred toasts, the high laughter of people too drunk to remember ever knowing sorrow. Hazy memories dissolved in the thick of his headache, the cold blue night hitting him full in the face as he dug in against the snow and ice to cross the bowl, a blast of warmth when he passed Teonath on the ledge. She was here, home, and he had a dim recollection of realizing that she was awake, the faint stir of knowing there was someone in her weyr. But he was too drunk; even if he had made his way in, fumbled to draw her to him, it would have come to nothing. He had started drinking hours ago to forget where he was this night a turn ago, to drive away the memory of skin and blood and sweat and savage pleasure, and it had gone on and on and on until now all he could do was stumble into his weyr and pass out, flat on his face, boots hanging off the end of his bed, Wyaeth's rumble of told-you-so amusement sloshing around in his stupor.

I want her still.

« Take her. »

Caution to the wind.

« Ain't that your motto? »

Unconsciousness.

In the morning, he made his way back to the same seat at the bar, his head aching, his eyes burning, his gut rebelling. He plopped down heavily, grumbled something about a hangover cure, squinted at the wreck of the night's revelry that left its mark in a room not yet tidied. Just settled, just getting the heels of his hands to gouge into his eye sockets, something nagged at the edge of his battered thoughts-- unfamiliar faces, someone smirking, blue eyes watching him with unabashed amusement. The nauseous drink landed by his elbow and he caught it up, spun on the bench to face the person in the corner.

A man, older, fair hair graying, blue eyes bright and intelligent. He caught N'thei's gaze and held it, pushed out of his seat and crossed the room with a light-footed grace that reminded the bronzerider just how slouched and over-sized he was, the bull beside a stag. A man's pride caught at a thought, he could break every bone in this man's body twice over, and he sat up straighter to drain the horrendous tomato-and-egg mixture with a grimace. Bleary eyes fixed the older fellow, a smile tricked into place.

"I have a proposition for you."

"Sorry, mate. You're not my type."

"No, but I'm about to grow on you. I'm Rajiv."

Handshakes. There was no small talk. It was business. An hour later, the trader stood from the stool he'd taken next to the Weyrleader and asked in no uncertain terms if they'd had a deal. N'thei stuck out his hand, shook on it, and pushed to his feet a moment after without even making a point of looking down and down on the slighter man. They had struck an agreement and went their separate ways; N'thei just caught a glimpse of a fair-haired girl at the edge of the room, of a man in his twenties with her, the two of them with the look of kinship to this Rajiv.

« Now you have something to tell her. »

What she doesn't know...

« But you'll tell her anyway. »

What makes you so sure?

Like a slap in the face, N'thei felt his own desolation from the night before, heard his own words echoing in his mind; I want her still. He set off across the bowl, shoulders huddled around himself.