Logs:A Party Unattended
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| RL Date: 15 November, 2014 |
| Who: Rafevan, Drex |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: A chance meeting inspires a trade. |
| Where: Snowasis |
| When: Day 11, Month 4, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Itsy/Mentions |
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| 11/15 It's relatively quiet -- one could say deserted in the Snowasis. A single server staffs the entire bar, with the majority of the Weyr celebrating the graduation of the first batch of weyrlings in the meadow. Either Drex is not one for celebration, or more likely he's not one for people, considering his first appearance at the bar is when it's practically empty. He's seated at the bar -- which allows him quick refills with a tap of fingers against the bar -- content with his mug of beer and the relative quiet. Likewise, this almost-empty place is where the night finds Rafevan, avoiding crowds of people celebrating more people he doesn't know. He shrugs off the jacket he's donned for the chilly evening as he turns in, heading up to the bar himself. A murmured greeting for his neighbor Drex--"Evening"--and then to the barman, "Whiskey, please." Drex's head turns, marginally, at the new arrival, giving him an openly wary looking over, lingering briefly on the smith knot, before a grunt answers his greeting. Perhaps in concession to being sociable, he adds, "Make it two." And after a beat, offers, "Drex." Two whiskeys served up for the pair, and Rafevan curls his fingers around his before he offers his own equally short introduction of, "Rafe." Then, the glass is lifted, as though to make a toast. "To parties we don't have to frequent." A hearty chuckle rumbles Drex's frame as he lifts his own glass in toast, downing the liquid in two quick swallows. "A man after my own heart. Figured Itsy and I'd be the only ones not going. What's your excuse?" His is obvious, or at least he thinks it obvious enough not to elucidate. For his part, Rafe is content to sip on his own drink, nursing it slowly. "Itsy?" he wonders briefly, before moving on. "I can't say as I know any of the honorees," he explains then, with a faint quirk of his lips. "And more hollow congratulations seem unnecessary at this point." "My Cap--" Drex coughs, undoubtedly in reaction to the whiskey. "A fellow sailor. We've been together forever." Certainly, when you're seventeen, forever is rather subjective. His brow furrows at the term honorees, shaking his head. "Figured most people just went for the food," is his opinion. With a nod towards Rafevan's knot, "You got a specialty yet?" "There's always food," Rafevan points out, "though I'm certain it's of a higher quality than typical. But is that increase in quality really worth the hassle of maneuvering through that crowd?" His shoulders shrug, the question up in the air for both of them. "Predominantly flamethrowers, agenothree, things of that line. You sail." Statement, not question. With a spread of hands, Drex seems to indicate that his decision is well made. "Flamethrowers, huh. Not much use for that on the water. Maybe as a defensive measure... what with all these pirates around." Is that a brief twist of lips as he ducks his head? He regards his empty glass for a moment, then taps the bar with a nod towards the bartender. "Do you do lessons?" Drex doesn't answer the obvious statement, either. Rafevan, with a slight nod, agrees, "I suppose not. You've the sea to drown Thread, and like as not, you'd light yourself as much as it if you tried." He takes another slow sip of whiskey, but now Drex has his attention more fully; Rafe lifts a brow. "To the lower apprentices, yes." There's a brief smirk from the sailor at the prospect. The bartender refills Drex's glass, and with a brief gesture from the sailor, seems ready to top up Rafevan's, too. "What would it cost," Drex asks, "If you're not an apprentice?" Though he's not finished the glass, Rafe obligingly slides it over to the bartender to top up. "Well," he says in the meantime, considering. "I was under the impression the Weyr already offered basic classes on the usage of flamethrowers, though I expect not so regularly in the interval now. I've helped teach those for Holders in the area before," It is not quite an answer. "The more technical applications... I must concede I haven't truly thought of it before. I shouldn't think the average person has much use for them?" "I aint exactly average," Drex points out, with a wolfish grin. "And I gotta bit of time on my hands. No ship to take care of, and I get ansty. Would help keep me occupied. Can," he considers the older smith. "Teach you to tie knots that are unbreakable. Scale rope. Even sail, once we get our ship back," he shrugs. "Useful hobbies, I'm sure," and while Rafevan achieves a dry tone without any effort, there's no denying an apparent interest in what Drex offers. Still, rather than leap aboard the deal at once, he wonders, "How did you come to be a sailor without a ship, as it were?" Drex's brow furrows, and he gives his companion a long look. "The storm," he says, shortly. "Thought it was the talk of the Weyr, what with that gold 'n all." He takes another gulp from his glass, clearly not used to savoring alcohol. "Bluerider pulled us out of there. Lost our Cap'n." "Ahh." Another of those slow sips; Rafe does not seem the kind to hurry, at least through his liquor. "I'd heard of that, but Weyrfolk seemed more preoccupied with mourning their queen than celebrating the lives saved, if you'll pardon my saying so." His voice takes an apologetic turn all the same, and he adds, "Still, I'm sorry to hear of your losses, and if my talents can provide a surely welcome diversion until you find yourself back at sea--." Drex snorts, briefly. "No one thinks we're particularly important," he's not so oblivious he hasn't noticed that. "Bet they'd trade us in for that queen of theirs. Or... I heard some stories...?" it might be a prompt for more information, but he's possibly distracted instead by the latter, with a nod of his head. "That'd be good. Appreciate it," he holds out a hand towards Rafevan, by way of sealing the deal, thanks, or possibly both. "Our lives pale next to a dragon's, and a queen's no less," murmurs Rafevan; his air of indoctrination doesn't quite reach his amused blue eyes. His own hand's offered a beat later, along with, "You can find me in the smith tents often, when you've some free time. I'm working on my journeyman's project now, so I've no formal classes to attend at present." The sailor's handshake is firm, his hands calloused from Turns of physical labor. Drex takes in the smith's words with a snort and shake of head, but doesn't say anything aloud. Instead, he gulps down the remainder of his glass, tosses a couple of coins onto the bar, and stands. "I'll come find you," he promises with a wide grin, before slouching off towards the caverns. |
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