Logs:Gin Fizz
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 23 November, 2014 |
| Who: Farideh, N'vad |
| Type: Log |
| What: One young Holdbred girl and one Holdbred bluerider talk about expectations over drinks. |
| Where: Snowasis, HIgh Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 5, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Cold, damp. |
| Mentions: Mishal/Mentions |
  |
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. In the time since N'vad's arrival, he's settled into a wing, into ordinary life, into a regular barstool at the Snowasis. Like: This one, it is his. Most evenings, though, the ones occupying those nearby are also occupied by men of a certain age, leading the vicinity towards conversation that would probably not be of great interest to other demographics. This particular evening, there is a distinct dearth of such talk; his compatriots otherwise engaged, N'vad seems instead to just be making rapid progress through what is clearly not his first drink. The relative peace N'vad and any bar patrons around him have experienced up to this point is about to end. Without any excuses or benign niceties, a skinny, brunette girl plunks herself on the bar stool next to the bluerider and settles her elbows on the bar top, her head in her hands and fingers tangled up in her hair. She is strangely quiet for a minute, until she growls loudly and gives her head a frustrated shake; then, just like that, she sits up, back straight, and combs her fingers through her hair, expression completely denying what had happened moments before. A tad concerned, but more interested in marks, the bartender asks for her drink order and she simply says: "Something strong. And hard." The first bit, the head-in-hands--it's not that N'vad isn't paying attention. The look on his face is, momentarily, the sort of horrified please-not-here face that one might normally make if the person next to them, say, looked like they were about to be sick. Thankfully, with her in that position, the only person who's apt to catch it is the bartender. He's able to clear his throat and have a drink and look a bit more composed by the time she sits up. Composed, except possibly for something that starts out like a snigger and turns into a cough, hand over his mouth. Composed! Right. "Reckon you've had a bit of a day, there." True to the oblivious nature of this particular brunette, there is a sharp intake when he speaks, her head turning slightly to the side to see who is there. She exhales softly and lifts her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, letting her eyes fall back to the bartender as he sets a shot of something sinister looking down in front of her. "Month. Turn?" Farideh plucks up the short glass and, only wrinkling her nose, tosses it back; an audible "ahhh" of the regretful kind follows. At the last, N'vad raises his glass as though bad Turns are somehow due a toast, but maybe it's just an acknowledgement before he has a sip. No knocking back anything for him, at least not now. He can be the very picture of moderation, although the promptness with which the bartender refills his glass after a couple more sips suggests something less moderate. "Don't know as the drink ever fixes much, but it can smooth off the rough edges for a spell." That bartender, he's on his game today. He whisks away the girl's shot glass and because she looks like she needs it, he even gives her another without prompting. Farideh grabs the glass, tipping it so the liquid slides back and forth. "It doesn't, but maybe I can get drunk enough to forget. For one night." She tries downing that shot too, but halfway through she pulls back and makes a face. "That's.. ugh, I think I'd rather eat rocks." Not a drinker of hard liquor, this one - she sets the glass back down and slumps against the bar, folded arms on top. No mind does she pay the bartender; he can keep on giving her the stink eye. "Maybe," N'vad suggests, watching her with amusement in his eyes, "you ought to try something a little sweeter. Gin fizz, something like that." A girl drink, he could say, but doesn't. He has another sip, ponders the glass, then ponders her for a moment without bothering to hide that he's eyeing her. "You don't look old enough to have the sort of problems warrant trying to forget like that." N'vad's suggestion is met with a contemplative stare, but instead of calling on the bartender - who has moved down the bar to help a pair of customers - Farideh stares sullenly down at her unfinished shot glass. "I'm a runaway, taking refuge in a place I don't understand, with people I'm not supposed to like, and meanwhile my sister's husband plots to marry me off to a stranger. Is that sufficient enough reason?" Brows raised, she drags her eyes from the bar to N'vad. A little tap to the side of his nose, there. "It is indeed," N'vad agrees, having listened about as attentively as one could expect of a man with a few drinks in him. "I... was Hold-folk myself, once," added after a moment's thought. "Different, I reckon, not being a girl and all. Still. Not a man here would send you off if you don't want to go off." A beat. "Or woman." Some old habits do die hard. It's the admission of their common tie that has Farideh looking at the bluerider full-on. "How long did it take for you to adjust? Did you.. ever.. all the way?" She does another over-the-top shrug, swinging her knees around so they bump into the wall of the bar. "I don't know if I want to stay. I should just go home," but her tone implies much more - that she doesn't, or that the thought doesn't sit well on her conscience. "And I'm tired of washing other people's clothes." The rider makes a not-very-mature sort of face, just for a moment. "Maybe I never did, not completely, but ain't too much difference 'tween my life there and my life now. A little towards keepin' the peace and a lot towards... mm, keepin' myself up, I guess. What I got ain't a life most women would want, though." N'vad at least does qualify that without prompting. "Can't say as I'd want to do laundry my whole life, either." Thinking better of that drink - serious conversation require serious buzzes - Farideh finishes what's left with another grimace, putting the glass back down with a loud 'clink' against the bar. She pushes it as far away as it will go and slants a look at N'vad, then back to the bartender. "A ginn fizz." Besides taking his advice on her beverage option- "You're saying this life is harder on women?" Just to be sure they're on the same page. "Is it so bad? Having your freedom? To choose where you get to go and what you get to do? Even if you're bound.. here." A beaming approval for her drink selection, and a little gesture with his glass which suggests that the bottle for his own be brought back over soon after. Not entirely empty, but N'vad finishes the rest of it off while she's going on. "Ain't bad at all for the ones as like it. But I try to imagine my mother doing the same thing--ain't seen a weyr yet any distance off the ground doesn't get drafty in winter. Weather gets bad, you still got to brave it just to get breakfast." Rider-specific, but a man his age, doing it this long, what else does he know? "Even in these days, folks get hurt." Evidence the stick leaning against the bar. "The weather is horrific," the girl laments, watching the bartender pour and mix her drink, then set it down on the smooth wooden bar top. "It was hard enough watching all of you off in the mornings." Farideh purses her lips ruefully and toys with her glass, not quite ready to try the fabulous concoction that N'vad has suggested. "And no better inside when there's extra layers to wash in the laundry." She stays silent and lifts her drink, finally, to her lips, where it hovers and she slides the older man a glance over the rim. "I didn't catch your name." "N'vad. I'm... from Benden, and Bitra before that." There, there's a proper introduction remembered, and another slight raise of glass in response to hers. "Plenty gets done around a Weyr that isn't laundry. Reckon you could find some other line of work suits you better'n that. You seem like a clever girl." Granted, he says it with that sort of tone people use to compliment children and pets. "N'vad, it's nice to meet you." A hand is held out in an offer for a handshake, a smile surfacing, despite the disheartening topic at hand. "Farideh, of Big Bay." It could just be an erratic movement, the way her eyes dart to the side when she introduces herself, but it's fleeting, her smile warming after she takes a generous sip from her glass. "I can barely hold my own there, I'm afraid I'm not suited for much, save pointing out the glaring lack of fashionable attire around here," spoken in a sweet voice, that's half self-deprecating. It's not much of a handshake, just a brief clasp, like N'vad has some concerns that her hand might actually be made out of glass. Or something more fragile than glass. "Farideh," he repeats. "'Fraid fashion's not been one of my major priorities in life. Used to see a girl back home who was always very well-dressed." A beat. "Still mostly wearing the clothes she picked out," he says like he's not entirely sure this is the sort of thing one should be admitting, but hey, how many drinks has he had? A bunch. That is hilarious, or it's the alcohol causing the girl to giggle into her glass until her eyes crinkle at the corners. "No, fashion seems to have skipped most riders, but you do what you have to for practicality, hm?" Farideh tips the glass back with three fingers and takes a long swallow; more and more, the fizzy contents are disappearing. "Shut up." Her hand falters, glass dropping from her mouth, so she can gawk at the bluerider. "How old are yours clothes?" Ancient. "A few Turns now." How many is a few to a man his age? Maybe more than a few to a girl her age, admittedly. Not that anything he's wearing presently looks too worn, but they might have overall fit better on a fellow a few years younger and a little more well-built. N'vad is, at least, holding up quite well to her giggling and gawking. "Didn't work out. That happens. Best thing I think I can say for the Weyr is that when it does, you don't spend the next decade trying to pretend it's not so." Though the gravel in his voice just about breaks there in a way that suggests that maybe he's not so cavalier about the whole thing as that might suggest. One more, no two more, make that three little sips in between N'vad's storytelling, dwindling her fizzy gin drink down to the bare ice and murky dregs. "All the better for it. There isn't a reputation attached to couples that break up here, not like when you're married and you split. You may as well pull a sheet over your head for the rest of your days." This is all quite depressing, and so Farideh is going to need to flag down the bartender again for yet another round. "Did you break up because she wasn't like you? Or because you weren't like her?" Curious eyes come to rest on N'vad, her attention snagged, for now, or until her next drink arrives. Starting out, N'vad was drinking--why? Just to drink, maybe. Now, he might have to have another for other reasons. Depressing, indeed. "We--sometimes--you know--er--" Talking is hard. "Reasons. We had reasons." So many reasons he's having trouble coming up with them. "We were very, very different... people. From each other. I dunno. Reckon if I knew..." He has another drink there and seems to lose track of the sentence in the midst of it. "Just the sorta thing that happens, is all. Not important." Another round of drinks - to go with another round of sad, sad, depressing chatting. Armed with her new glass and a brilliant, if drunken, smile, Farideh nods her head knowingly; like she would even know, being of such an age and such an upbringing. "That's hard. Like being a farmer and weaver. Those two things neeeevverrr go together," she sing-songs, turning on her stool so she can eyeball the guy who sidles up to the bar next to them. "You're not sad about it?" Passing the new guy over, she turns back to N'vad. "This is great," of the drink, with another enthusiastic grin. For his part, N'vad seems to fully expect when the girl's gaze drifts elsewhere that it's likely to stay drifted--the last has him looking back up again with a bit of surprise. Oh, his drink. Wait, she'd had a question, and now she's still paying attention, which suggests he's stuck answering it. "Yeeeeah, well, mmm, no, I'm fine, anyway, we're all better off. I'm better off. She's better off. Everyone is better off." "Uh huh." Farideh drains the rest of her glass, makes a pleased 'ahhh' sound, and turns to face N'vad. "It was nice to meet you, N'vad. I feel wonderful now, and I'm going to go.." Her eyes stray to the side, towards the exit, "somewhere. Enjoy your evening." She sets her payment down for the bartender to collect and hops down from her stool, much more collected than when she arrived. Now longer is she the frazzled, crazy young woman, but a happy drunk girl who happens to bump into one too many chairs on her way out. "Yes. Ah--yep. Definitely. You have a good evening, too." Well, one of them has remedied their unhappiness this evening--N'vad, for all his talk about how fine he is, might linger another half hour or so about the dregs of his last glass, exuding that eau-de-Eeyore that keeps others at bay until he can go sleep it off. |
Leave A Comment