Logs:Men Suck
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| RL Date: 30 May, 2014 |
| Who: Quinlys, Jadzia |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys seeks entertainment outside the Weyr. Jadzia obliges. |
| Where: Bar, Crom Hold |
| When: Day 8, Month 12, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: G'laer/Mentions |
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| Crom Hold Like many Holds of Pern, Crom is built within the shelter of a solid panel of rock. An expansive courtyard rests beneath this shelter, leaving up towards massive stone-wrought doors and a wide deck of smoothed boulders. The distinctive shadows of the watchdragon's ledge, the drumheights, and the fireheights rise high on the cliff and dotted along the wall are windows that are either flung open or shuttered depending on the weather or, more dangerously, Thread. Vegetation is lacking in this mine-based Hold, though the carts and beaten paths of miners returning home weave in twisted circles about the Hold, leading far off towards the furthest reaches of the few mines untouched near Crom itself. A proud Hold, the crests and banners of the family flap in the wind, hanging from the highest windows of the stone walls. Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor. Winter isn't generally fun for grown-up adult people that have to work around the cold and snow all day. But once the work is done, that's what bars are for! And that's probably why this one is pretty crowded tonight. There's a fire blazing in the hearth, groups of holders playing card games, drinking and making noise. Jadzia is one of the drinking variety, perched on a stool at the bar with her back to the counter so she can watch the nearest game of poker. Even without her knot, and in a heavy coat that's not a rider's jacket, there's something about Quinlys that screams 'Weyr'; perhaps it's in the way she strides so confidently casual past the tables on her way to the bar. Perhaps it's the way she shakes snow out of her hair, too, and leans forward to rest both elbows upon the wooden bar-top; or perhaps it's simply that she's a stranger, and that the marks she flicks out of her purse are from further afield. "Rye," she orders. "A double." Her people-watching position makes it easy for Jadzia to notice and track the unfamiliar face. There are probably other unfamiliar faces, granted, but this one holds her attention because of that Weyr-ish quality. Whether Jadzia recognizes it as such is another matter. She eyes the hair, eyes the marks and finally offers a, "Hey." It's the polite thing to do in a bar, after all, talking to random strangers. Quinlys' drink is slid across the bar towards her in short order; she picks it up, sniffing cautiously at the contents as she turns her seat - all the better to give Jadzia a sidelong glance. "Hey," she agrees. She sips. Splutters. "Shells, but this stuff is awful. Is it me?" Her glass gets another sniff. "I'm not even sure if it's supposed to taste like this." "No, it's pretty awful. Gets less bad the more you drink, though." Much like most bad alcohols. Jadzia glances at her mug, then gestures vaguely with it to the other woman, "Ale's not bad. Not great, maybe. But not bad. If you're looking for taste, you're probably in the wrong place, sorry to say." There's a grin to go along with her helpful commentary. And then there's a hand to go with her name, "Jadzia. Where you from?" She could take guesses, but she's not going to. There's strength in Quinlys' grip, despite her relatively diminutive size and soft shape, and callouses in her palm. "Quinlys," she says, in answer. "From the Weyr." The only Weyr that matters, clearly, despite Crom's history of contention between High Reaches and Telgar. "This felt like the kind of place you ought to order something like rye. Maybe I'm being stupid. Actually, I've probably made myself sound like a tourist, haven't I? Visit crappy bars, attempt to mimic their customs, and feel smug and superior when I go home and tell my friends..." She does look a little smug. Jadzia's grip is strong but not overly so. Not even with however much she's had to drink already tonight. She sounds sober enough, anyway. "Well, Quinlys from the Weyr. Welcome to Crom." Surely this is not the best representation of the Hold, but it's where they are. "Is that what you weyrfolk do to pass the time? Come linger among us little hold folk and run back to talk about it with your fancy Weyr friends?" Her tone is a little annoyed, but mostly curious. "No! Well, I mean, it's not what I do. I'm sure some people do. I was trying to make a joke." Quinlys downs the liquor in her glass, screwing up her eyes and gagging as she manages to swallow it down, her shudder exaggeratedly dramatic. "I teach, so I come to random bars to drink to make sure I don't run into former students. They get all weird, sometimes, when all I want to do is have a few drinks, you know?" She doesn't seem entirely convinced, eyeing Quinlys suspiciously before the thought is shrugged away in favor of finishing off her ale and shifting in her stool to wave at the bartender. "Let's get some shots over here, yeah? You said you were buying, right?" The last is to Jadzia's new acquaintance. Never mind that the woman never said any such thing. "You teach? What do riders have to teach?" For a moment, Quinlys regards Jadzia with dark red brows raised-- and then she laughs. "Shots," she agrees, turning a winning smile onto the bartender. "Not rye, this time." Her empty glass gets set back down upon the bar, nudged towards the bartender with two fingers. "Weyrlings," is her answer to the question. "Itty bitty new dragonriders. Like... I don't know. New recruits, except they have a baby to look after at the same time." "Not rye," Jadzia agrees. When the bartender holds up a couple of bottles like this is standard practice, she points at one of them and that's what they'll get served. It's still not great, but it's strong and not quite as bad as the rye. "I know what a weyrling is," she feels the need to point out as she picks up one of the shots. "You teach 'em? You know an asshole named Gallag-- shit, no. G'laer, I think it is. You know him?" It's enough of an improvement over the rye that Quinlys doesn't even make a face when she downs hers, the fingers of her free hand gesturing for a refill. "Well then, that's what riders have to teach," she answers, cheerfully. "Yes, I teach them. I'm the Weyrlingmaster, even." Her head turns, those blue eyes bright with amusement as she confirms, "G'laer. I know him. I grew up with him, even, and then had to teach him - talk about weird. 'Asshole' is about right. You must have known him during his guard days, then?" Once her shot is gone, Jadzia nods for another. But that one stays on the counter for now. She eyes the other woman, this Weyrlingmaster, for a few moments like she's not sure someone with a title like that is trustworthy enough to drink with. Especially someone with a title like that who grew up with someone like G'laer. "Aye. He's the reason I'm not a guard." She smiles. It's not friendly. But it's not really for Quinlys, either. It's for the asshole that isn't here. Quinlys greets that tidbit of information with silence, neither supportive nor dismissive for all that her gaze clearly studies the other woman. "Bastard," is what she concludes, then, after a few moment's consideration. "There's a story there, and I won't push you to tell me, unless you want to. But: bastard. Seems like a place like this could use more female guards, not fewer." "Boring story," admits the blonde, whether it's true or not. But she can agree with the, "Bastard," bit with her own echo. Jadzia eyes her second shot, moving the glass between her fingers without actually picking it up. "He came by here the other day. Hadn't really talked for turns and he expects me to be happy to see him or something. Men are stupid." Granted, that's probably not really what G'laer wanted. "I think they're scared we'll be better than 'em or something." "Did he?" This interests Quinlys, who turns on her seat so that she can glance more squarely at the other woman. "He's an idiot. Always was, really. You're right, though: they don't want to be shown up. They never do. And we are better than them," at this point, she lifts her glass, something like a toast. "Often, anyway. I'm a damn fine rider, and I bet you would've been a damn fine guard. What do you do with yourself?" To that Jadzia can lift her shot. "I think I like you, Quinlys from the Weyr," she tells the other woman like it's an important sort of thing. "I would've been a fantastic guard, it's true." She takes a drink before she continues with, "I train some of the runners the Guard uses. Canines, too. The rest of the time, I hang around places like this. Very rewarding." That's sarcasm. It's hard to miss. Then she rounds back on, "He brought me a picture. Gave it to him turns ago. And the bastard kept it. And tried to give it back to me." Can you believe that? Jadzia has had a lot to drink. That smugness is back in Quinlys' expression, though it's tempered slightly by the sheer enthusiasm in her gaze, and the way she grins so broadly before knocking back part of her shot. "I like you too," she declares, she who has not had quite so much to drink, but is nevertheless merry. Jadzia's story, however, gives her pause. "I'm not entirely sure I have enough context to grasp that," she admits, "But I'll settle for saying it was a dick move, regardless. Does it piss you off that he had what you wanted, with the whole guard thing, and then gave it all up for Search?" Jadzia grins at the mutual liking. It's nice, apparently. "It does," she says now that Quinlys has pointed all that out to her. Had she considered it before? Surely, she has. But she doesn't sound like she has. "That bastard. I can't believe he had me kicked out and then he went and got himself a sharding dragon. A green. I kissed him once, you know." She probably didn't know that, no, Jad. "It wasn't very good." Well now she's just being immature. "I'm so glad my Olly hasn't chased his green," announces Quinlys, who signals for another round, letting out a long exhale. She's finished the rest of her shot, by now; it probably seemed important to do so. "But then, Teisyth seems to pick the dragons with male riders. Maybe that's why the kiss was so terrible." She sounds almost triumphant when she says that, though it's clearly at least partially the booze talking. "You're well clear of him, anyway." The plaited blonde finishes off the rest of her half-finished shot to make way for another round. But even another round can't distract Jadzia from grinning like a fool. "I knew it. He was acting like I was being stupid for suggesting he was that way. But I knew. That bastard." She says that word so earnestly. It's almost a shame he isn't here to hear it. "Aye. Well clear. Unless he gets it in his head to come around again." Then, belatedly, "Olly?" She's probably confused by the nickname. Quinlys, eyes rolling, allows, "He can be persistent. And stubborn. But hopefully he'll have learned his lesson, and will stay away from you. Otherwise... knee him in the balls, and tell him I said you should." Her teeth catch the light as she grins; the way she talks, she must absolutely hate the guy... even if she doesn't, actually. That's beside the point. "Olly. Olveraeth - my blue." "That," says Jadzia, "is an excellent idea. He's faster than he looks, though. Maybe if I get him drunk first." That's getting to be an involved plan just to knee a guy in the balls. But it makes her grin, so it's not completely without merit. "Olveraeth. Olly. Olly's easier," she decides after testing out his name herself. "I didn't know they let you nickname them." The alcohol is beginning to stain Quinlys' cheeks as red as her hair, but her enthusiasm is, if anything, heightened by it all. "There you go," she enthuses. "That'll do it. Get him drunk, knee him in the balls, tell him exactly what you think - and about me - and then walk off. It'll be awesome." She doesn't down this shot, the one she's got in her hand, quite so quickly. It's really very sensible of her. "Some do, some don't. Olly's been Olly since the beginning, for me. He doesn't mind-- he's much more interested in thoughts than labels." Beat. "He thinks I'm drunk, though. Too drunk, maybe." Jadzia picks up the latest shot and lifts it up in another toast type fashion. "It'll be awesome," she agrees, taking a sip rather than a gulp from this one. "Runners don't care what you call them." It's possible that Quinlys is not aware of this fact. "Mostly. There's this one gelding that always pins his ears back when you call him Lady." Jadzia laughs because this is hilarious. Because she is all too drunk, maybe. It is hilarious. It has to be, because otherwise Quinlys would not be losing her shit laughing the way she currently is - or slapping the bar with one hand for emphasis. "I love it! I mean, it's practically a compliment, right? Being a woman is awesome. But noooooo, even male runners are too dumb to see it." She does stop laughing. Eventually. "Men are stupid." "Men are stupid," Jadzia repeats the sentiment with a sigh once they're both done laughing. She lapses into silence for a few long moments, then, taking a sip of her shot before she's turning to look at Quinlys with a grin. "I'm okay if you want to talk about me with your fancy Weyr friends, by the way. You're good." She doesn't even seem to care that they might just laugh about the drunk holder girl. "You staying here tonight?" In other words, can riders fly when they're drunk? Or is it just her that intends on staying drunk for the rest of the night? "I won't, though," is Quinlys' response, rather more serious than much of what she's said has been. "I'm not like that." She's rather slower to answer the question, staring as she is into the depths of her shot - which she has the sense not to actually shot, at least. For now. "Is it safe to collapse in the corner in here?" It's not quite an answer. "There's 'do what I say and not what I do'" She pauses, nose scrunching, as though she's well aware that that's not quite the way the phrase goes, "And then there's stupidity. Never between drunk. It's bad. Baaad." Now she sounds like a sheep. That makes Jadzia grin in a way that's probably too much considering the answer. Especially in comparison to Quinlys' seriousness. The blonde glances toward the nearest corner, then shakes her head as she says, "Maybe. But if you need somewhere to crash, though, I have an extra cot." Least she can do since she made the bluerider pay for all these shots, right? And she probably shouldn't giggle about betweening drunk. But she totally is. Grins are infectious, once one's at this stage of drunkenness; Quinlys echoes Jadzia's, pleased. "An extra cot! That would be much more comfortable than collapsing on a bench. I'll take you up on that. It's not like I have anything to get back to." She's waving her shot glass around as she talks, a little, though hasn't (yet) spilled any of the contents. "No weyrlings, see. Boring. On the plus side, it means there's no one for me to be a bad example in front of. Meara - she used to be my boss - used to worry about that. Should being a teacher stop a person from having a good time? Ridiculous, right?" "I've fallen asleep on these benches." Which she obviously survived. "The ground might be more comfortable." Can that possibly be the case? Maybe Jadzia knows from falling asleep on the ground, too. "Listen," she slurs, "You deserve to have a good time. Everyone does. Especially teachers. Except for the guard ones." Because screw those guys. With that, Jadzia finishes off her shot, setting the empty glass against the bartop with a heavy thud. "Anyway, having fun isn't setting a bad example. That's a good example, right? Fun is good." Flawless logic. "I'm getting too old to sleep on a bench or on the ground," announces Quinlys, in a way that might be dismal were she not drunk and getting drunker (because yes, there goes that shot). "Twenty-nine, next month." Tragically old, no really. She waves for a refill, glass set back down upon the bar. "But you're damn right I deserve a good time. Fun is very good. It's important!" She's also slurring. "Lemme just say, you look damned good still. Twenty-nine isn't anything." Which is probably supposed to be an attempt to make the older woman feel better about being older. "You'll probably still be smoking into your forties, at least." Evidently you're not old until you're forty, according to Jadzia. She might push that back once she's gained a few more turns, though. "Is this what you usually do for fun?" Quinlys' smugness has returned wholeheartedly, as a result of these complements. Her glass is refilled, and she reclaims it, waving it around as she says, "You're buttering me up. I appreciate it." She gives the glass a glance, then returns her attention to Jadzia. "Getting drunk in strange bars, talking with strange women... yes. Sounds about normal. Of course," her smile is abruptly bright, "when I'm in a Weyr, sometimes I pick people up and take them home with me, too." Jadzia looks guilty. If one can look properly guilty while they're grinning like that. "It's true," she assures Quinlys, leaning her elbow against the counter and her head against her hand as she listens. "Well, you get to come home with me instead. It'll be new and exciting for you. It doesn't even smell like runners." That's always a good thing, right? "One more for the road? Before I drag you back to my lair?" She reaches for her last shot now, lifting it up as she eyes the bluerider sidelong. "Your lair! You make it sound delightful." Quinlys is too drunk to do much more than grin about this - well, aside from lifting her shot in acknowledgement. Down the hatch it goes, and if she'll regret it in the morning (entirely possible), for now it's simply fortification against the walk. On the plus side, she doesn't snore, not even while drunk. She'll even slip out early: the perfect house guest. Good times. |
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