Difference between revisions of "Logs:Dirty Mouths and No Prospects"

It's snowing outside. The air is frigid, damp, and the fall is steady... a good evening to find pleasant refuge, away from cold and responsibility alike. Evanthe is doing just that, curled up in one of the booths with some hot steaming mug of something in front of her, half-numb fingers wrapped around it for warmth. She's a little incongruous in this place, youthful as she looks, but any comments she's gotten so far have been dealt with handily via dirty looks and impolite responses. Unsurprisingly, she's alone.

Evidently H'vier didn't get the note about leaving responsibility out with the cold. When he shows up, it's with his not quite even one turn old daughter in his arms, all bundled up in plenty of winter paraphernalia. Hopefully, hopefully, this means he's not here trying to hit on women, at least. But it doesn't mean he doesn't stop at the bar and order himself a beer. He's got the one whole hand free, after all. It should be put to use. He doesn't stay at the bar, though, because it's hard to hold a baby on a stool. So he finds somewhere else. "Hey, kid," he says to Evanthe as he pauses near her booth. "Room for two more?"

Lots of women love babies. It would probably be a successful pick up tactic. Luckily for all involved, Evanthe is not one of them - the bundled up baby gets a furrowed brow of blatant skepticism, but she's already scooting around to make room for the two. H'vier was nice to her before. Instant free pass to sharing a table. "Not a kid," she says automatically, though there isn't much grumble in it. She's distracted, see. "That yours?" The baby. She's just doublechecking.

The bronzerider sits as he says, "Nah. I just borrowed her from the nursery to see how many women I could pick up before they noticed she was missing." He says it so seriously that someone might actually believe him. But once H'vier takes a drink and sets the beer aside, and out of reach, he sets the baby on the table, too, sitting on the edge, facing him. "You make up with the cooks? Or do you have to come here to eat now?"

Evanthe does eye him uncertainly for a moment after that claim, attempting to gauge sincerity. Whatever she concludes, she's apparently fine with it, as she gives a one-shouldered shrug and takes a swig of her drink. "Well. They haven't invited me back to the kitchens since then," she says wryly, tilting her head to watch the baby as it gets perched on the edge of the table. Aw. Lookit that. "Don't think they're trying to poison my food or anything. What's it's name?" It, not he or she, because either she can't tell or doesn't want to make assumptions... or doesn't really care enough to make such determinations. "The way you were talking to that other lady, Suireh, I figured you were single. Wouldn't have guessed."

"Always good to keep the people that make food on your side. Trust me." H'vier has Real World Experience with this sort of thing. He knows what he's talking about. "Her name is Tahvra." He's happy to clarify as he starts to peel off some of the girl's layers now that they're inside and settled. "I was single. At the time. Still am, sort of. It's complicated. You wouldn't understand, kid. What're you doing hiding in here by yourself, anyway? Shouldn't you be getting into trouble somewhere?"

"Tahvra," Evanthe repeats, still sounding generally doubtful. The complicated that he describes peaks her interest, eyes going back to his face and eyebrows raised. "I understand stuff." If she says it, it must be true. "I'm hiding in here because it's fucking cold outside... I mean..." She sideeyes the baby. At what age do you need to be careful with language around those things? "Anyway, it's cold. 'Sides, I'm now sitting in a bar having a drink with an older man, a bronzerider no less, who has a kid with someone he may or may not be in a relationship with, so. From an outside perspective, I'm doin' pretty damn good at getting into trouble, old man." Yes, she heard him call her kid again. That is the result.

"She's mine." Maybe H'vier feels the need to point that out now, just to make sure that the girl knows he isn't kidnapping babies from the nursery. "It is fucking cold outside," he allows, grinning at the baby who seems, for the moment, to be enjoying herself. Watching people is fun! So is pulling on H'vier's well-groomed beard. He mostly ignores that. "Fair enough. Though I'd watch who you call old around here. Guys my age know a thing or two about getting pretty little things into trouble." He pauses for a moment, glancing toward each door briefly. "By the way, if her mother comes in, we're talking about..." Something that won't get him into trouble. It might say something about him that he can't think of what that might be.

"You want a pretty little thing, you should be talking to my sister. I'm the awkward screw-up with a dirty mouth and no prospects," Evanthe replies in a dry mutter - just taste that thinly veiled bitterness, then washed down with the dregs of whateveritwas she was drinking. She moves on quickly though, brushing the passing moment off as she matches his intent looks at all the entryways. "Right. What does she look like? We're talking about...commissioning shit from my ma. I mentioned to you that she was a weaver when we met the other day, and you wanted to inquire after prices... to get your lady a gift. Of something." The lies come rolling out easily, with a quizzical note as though asking if this lie is plausible enough. She's happy to be complicit.

"Just so happens, I think a dirty mouth is pretty nice." H'vier says that to Evanthe, but Tahvra jerks on his beard just then so his focus turns to her to point out, "But not from you. You're never allowed to let boys think you're available." Especially not boys like him. "That's actually... really good, kid. Your ma is actually a weaver? Is she good? Because my lady is pretty fond of gifts. And I could use the points." Relationships are points-based systems, after all. "What was your name again?"

"And that's why you're allowed to sit at my table," Evanthe replies, smiling despite herself at the baby's babiness - nothing like a tough little lady already showing her dad who's boss. "Yeah, she's actually a weaver. Vana. Fine fabrics, colorful textiles, elegant feminine clothes that drape the curves oh so flatteringly..." That tone is back, that faint note of bitterness, but it is left unexplained - unless her own relative lack of sumptuous curves is the reason in itself. "Evanthe. You're H'vier?" As though she doesn't remember for sure. Psh.

There's a hint of a laugh at being allowed to sit at her table, but H'vier doesn't actually comment. "Sounds like something Tayte would like. I might just have to meet with her, see what she can do." The bronzerider offers the girl a grin, one of his handsome, charming sorts of grins. "I take it you don't craft?" Then, "Right. H'vier. Reisoth's." He picks up his beer again, leaning up and a little to the side so he can drink without Tahvra sending beer up his nose.

Evanthe observes the oh-so-dashing smile with solemn appreciation, then drops her gray-eyed gaze to her empty mug, now being used as a tool for fiddling. "Nope. Don't craft. Shouldn't kitchen. Not terribly useful." She nods at the reintroduction. "H'vier's. Resioth's. What did /you/ do before him?"

"Fuck," is his first thought. Definitely not the parent that cares about corrupting his poor daughter's ears. "That seems like a lifetime ago. I wasn't a crafter, either, though. Mostly the same as now, just without the drills and sweeps and paperwork. I used to do some prize-fighting now and then. Sort of frowned upon for riders, though." Which doesn't really explain why he still gets in fights with no money involved. H'vier studies the girl as he talks, saying when he's done, "You could at least pretend to have some confidence in yourself."

"I never considered prize-fighting as a career move," Evanthe admits thoughtfully, and what an idea that would be. "Fucking bite their kneecaps. Is that permitted?" His observation there at the end though, that gets the half-smile that /had/ appeared to fade clean away, and she shifts a little uncomfortably. "Yeah, well. I've done that. I /do/ that. Sometimes. It's fucking exhausting." She eyes him, considering his features in return, lips pursed. "You ever have a time when you /didn't/ have confidence in yourself?"

"I bet a lot of people would pay just to watch a pair of girls like you fight. I know I would." Tahvra has decided to stop trying to pull the hair off of H'vier's face for now in favor of making noises that only sometimes sound like actual words while she watches a couple of people at a nearby table. "Far as I'm concerned, biting only belongs in the bedroom or when someone's trying to kill you." Those are pretty different things. "And, sure, I still have moments. Just don't let myself wallow in them."

Evanthe actually laughs, a rare bright sound from her, while shaking her head at H'vier's words. "/Shit/ you're charming," she says, admiringly. Possibly she's the only one that would find /that/ statement so, but it works. Her mug, empty and now cold, no longer serving its purpose as handwarmer is turned absently between her hands and then lifted. "'Kay. Fine," she says. "I'll work on not wallowing." And she's getting up, letting the cup dangle from her finger by its handle. "You work on finding another tiny blond for me to fight." All her problems will be solved. "Good talking. Promise I won't turn you in on account of babynapping," she adds generously, as some sort of untraditional good night.

Charming. That has the bronzerider grinning again. Of course he's charming. "Good. You stop wallowing, I'll find someone for you to beat the shit out of." Fair trade. "I'll take that as a kindness, Evanthe. Don't freeze to death." His own good night, though he takes one of Tahvra's little hands and does that annoying thing where parents wave goodbye to people with their childrens' hands. She doesn't seem to mind, anyway.