Logs:A Certain Kind Of Establishment
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| RL Date: 1 December, 2011 |
| Who: Emme, Quinlys, Riorde, Taikrin, Tiriana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Taikrin invites the weyrlings out drinking; they run into Tiriana. |
| Where: Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area |
| When: Day 10, Month 5, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
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| Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area A little ramshackle and moss-grown around the edges, most riders would probably have a fit about the green condition this place is in. Perched on the side of the road between High Reaches Weyr and Crom Hold, this is your typical small waystation comprising a four-walled building with a main room filled with dilapidated tables and chairs, a splintery bar and copious quantities of bad beer. There's a kitchen at the back and a single large room where cots can be set up for sleeping. A small beasthold provideds shelter for up to a half-dozen runners. Riorde's turnday last sevenday, down at a quaint little beachside cothold / bar just outside Southern Weyr, was likely a revelation for the more sheltered weyrlings. Drinking, dancing to bad (but enthusiastic!) music, more drinking, a little debauchery, Taikrin buying rounds left right and center-- it's probably no surprise that Szadath is so supremely confident when he broadcasts to the weyrlings post-drills: « We're going here. Hurry up and get dressed or you'll miss out. » The image itself is nothing much to look at, but a sense-memory of racuous fun infuses the whole thing with vibrant life. Once people start arriving, though, it seems quiet enough: Szadath is lounging alone, on the far side of the cothold from where it looks like a modest trade caravan has set up camp for the night, and Taikrin herself is talking animatedly with one of the few men still outside guarding the wagons. While it's not something that Emme normally does. Okay, -ever- does... apparently having a few drinks and seeing how non-exiles dance to bad music appealed to her today. Or, Rhazekth became *curious* and when he is *curious*, she really has little choice but to follow along and make the best of things. Thus, when he lands with a gentle backwing, she slides down his side and rubs her hands against her sides nervously before looking around. Lalalala. Nothing to see here. Weyrbred through and through, and not exactly one of the youngest and most innocent amongst the weyrlings, There are probably few revelations Taikrin can make to Quinlys-- which doesn't seem to reduce her enthusiasm for the excursion. Olveraeth's « We'll be there, » is firm in that scholarly way of his; his peculiar-sounding rumble can be heard soon after, as he circles down to a landing not far from Szadath. Hopping down, Quinlys yanks free her jacket, and looks amused; "Big plans to turn this place upside-down, Taikrin?-- Emme, hi. Come on, let's see what's going down." Taikrin turns briefly to watch the weyrlings' landing, then again once they're both on the ground. She claps a hand on the trader's arm with a coarse laugh, then ambles her way over to intercept Emme and Quinlys. "Says two of his lads ain't half bad with a gitar, and one of Jym's kids's gotta flute, reckon we might have some dancin' after all!" Granted, this place looks a bit rougher than most as far as dancing is concerned, though Taikrin doesn't seem to notice. With a magnanimous, arms-spread gesture, she heads towards the waystation proper. "You guys make it in okay? Expecting more?" Her expression is guileless -- at least, as guileless as Taikrin ever gets -- but her gaze flickers back up towards the sky as if she expected her ex to appear there any second. "Hey Quinlys." Emme's greeting is cheerful at least, her gaze taking in the unique ambience of the place with a clearly curious expression. "You come here before? Can't say I've seen anywhere like it." Not that she minds. At least not overly much. "Taikrin, hi! Rhaelyn might join us. But not quite sure yet. I imagine others will filter in. It's alright for us to be here, right?" Yeah, cause -Taikrin- is the right person to ask about that. Quinlys is not someone inclined to beating around the bush, and after all these months of weyrlinghood-- "I have no idea if Riorde is coming or not. Rh-- right." She bobs her head in Emme's direction, to confirm, shrugging her shoulders in a way that suggests she has no idea about anyone else. "Of course we're allowed to be here; we're allowed to be anywhere, now. And we're wingseconds, so we get to help decide." She's pretty firm about this, and grins at Emme; then, to Taikrin, "Good place. Different. Now. Booze?" There's a flush to Taikrin's cheeks when Quinlys mentions Riorde, though she tries to play it off with a surprised look a moment later. Rather than acknowledge it directly, she instead leads them indoors. "'Course it's fine. Been comin' here for turns; it's on one of my sweeps. Known Trader Ziam since forever, too." Beat, and a sly smile. "'Sides, you girls are riders now. You're welcome wherever you flaming well want to go." The bar inside is relatively full, with a mix of folks who look used to roughing it: most of the trader train, a couple of odd travelers, and a set who must be miners, descended from the nearby hills. She heads unerringly towards the bar, talking over her shoulder all the while. "Yeah, yeah, booze-- hold your runners. Quick word-- if you don't know what somethin' is, ask me before y'drink it. And don't let any of these jerks sucker you into a drinkin' contest, yeah? I don't fancy havin' to mop you up off the floor." "Well sure, mostly. Anywhere. I just thought..." Emme's voice trails off. She's not about to call attention the wariness the exiles are still treated to if they aren't. And hey yeah, shinier knot! Quinlys' quick emphasis on booze earns her an amused smile from the harper hopeful. "Right, booze." she agrees, guilelessly. And just as naively follows Taikrin's lead into the bar. "Maybe I'll just stick with beer. That's safe right?" Except for the taste anyway. And she looks so hopeful. Is anyone going to tell her it tastes like runner piss? Anyone? Smirking, but not in a malicious way, in response to Taikrin's flush, Quinlys is nice enough not to pursue the train of conversation, and instead, follows the brownrider into the bar. "The beer is probably better than the wine, but the whisky is probably better still. None of it will be much good, though, chances are," is the bluerider's assessment. To Taikrin: "No drinking contests, right. Don't worry so much, Taikrin. We're not all useless at this kind of thing." That doesn't mean she doesn't give the interior of the bar a good, thoughtful glance before she heads for the barkeep. "Dunno, Quinlys; thought I heard you took 'em all to /Ista/ for /whores/. Can't be too careful, and I reckon Meara'd skin me if I accidentally got one of you dead from booze poisoning." Taikrin can match smirk for smirk, especially since they're not talking about Riorde anymore. To Emme, "Well, beer's safe in that it's probably not gonna kill you, but it tastes like piss." They've made it to the bar, close enough for the bartender to guffaw and remark back, "I don't care who's piss you been drinkin' Taikrin, so long as you pay for it." Apparently familiar with both the bartender and his abuse, the brownrider only makes a face before introducing, "Oi, Jym, watch it! Brought a coupl'a weyrlings out with me, delicate ears, you know? Emme, and Quinlys. Reckon they want some whisky, yeah? The /good/ stuff, mind, not that crap you gave me last time." "You're ruining all the fun," says one unexpectedly familiar voice from behind Taikrin. Tiriana cuts her way through the crowd easily enough, as ever; and she pauses at the bar to lean against it and flag the bartender herself. "For me as well," she echoes the brownrider's order before turning back to the weyrlings. "No drinking contests? Next you'll be forbidding them from fighting, Faranth." "Yeah, we're not all useless. Just me." Emme jokes, giving Quinlys an arm nudge before dutifully heading towards the guillo... er, the bar. "Wait, who went to Ista for what now? For... whores? What are whores?" And then her lips turn into a disappointed frown at the news that the beer tastes awful. She just sort of nods at the bartender, meekly going along with this idea to knock back some whiskey. And then... there's the evil weyrwoman of doom. "Why would we get into a fight?" Boggle. After grinning at Emme for that joke and nudge, Quinlys is blase: "The whores were a... side-effect. Byproduct. Whatever. And anyway... who put you in charge?" The bluerider is so busy talking that she manages to entirely miss Tiriana's presence until turning her head back towards the brownrider-- she swallows, then throws together a smile. "Weyrwoman!" Emme's question? Utterly ignored. Or forgotten; it's hard to tell. "We could totally get into a fight. Us against-- I don't know. Someone. It'd be fun. E'gin would murder us, probably." "Hey, whatever, you guys end up dead? I'm gonna tell Meara I tried my best, and whichever one of you survives can explain it to-- Weyrwoman!" Surprise, then cautious delight, spreads across Taikrin's still-slightly-sunburned face. "Hey, they can do whatever they want, I'm just sayin', I ain't gonna be draggin' their asses out." The bar, though relatively crowded, is quiet. For now. "Well, maybe a little draggin', but only if it's fun." The drinks arrive, and Taikrin is quick to snatch up the mostly-clean glass to knock back her shot of what is clearly a drink only a few steps removed from grain alcohol, no matter what they're actually calling it. Only once she's had that bracing drink does she explain for Emme, "Whores. Painted girls. And boys, I reckon. You know, for the rent?" Emme looks first at Taikrin, and then at Quinlys. "I think it's best if we plan mutual destruction in that situation. So neither of us has to explain." she decides, nodding once and firmly before she picks up the glass that presumably is hers - and promptly sniffs the alcohol first to try and be sure it won't kill her. Alas, nothing can prepare oneself for the burn of something akin to paint thinner. Thus, her eyes water and her next breathe is something like a wheeze. "Painted girls. And boys. For rent? People rent themselves out?" Does Tiriana knows this too? Wide eyes land on the Weyrwoman next, as if expecting her to corroborate this. "It's not rent, it's a job," Tiriana says, sounding confused, even exasperated by this confusion. Turns in and she's still spending her valuable drinking time educating tomorrow's leaders? "What, you didn't have them on the islands? There's always that one girl that'll fuck anything with three legs for a pretty shell, right?" She looks from Emme to Quinlys and Taikrin in confusion. Quinlys is slow to take her drink and slower to drink it; that's why she's still halfway through the shot as the conversation develops, and that, too, is why she chokes on the rotgut liquor. Fanning herself - as though it will help - the redhead can't help herself but lean back against the bar and choke out, finally, "Shells." Clearly, she has nothing intelligent to add to the conversation, but reassures Emme, anyway, with a cheerful, "And there's nothing wrong with anyone doing that! As long as it's by choice, anyway. Me, I prefer the freely willing." Riorde and Sforzath are a little slow in responding to the summons -- likely this has something to do with the way she slunk around the next day when she finally managed to crawl out of bed. She comes in grumbling -- but hey, she's here. "Why," she raises her voice in complaint as she locates the others and cuts a path that conveniently has her winding up alongside Taikrin, "are we in another sodding bar?" "They have sex for... shells? Marks? /Really/? People pay to... you know, get some?" This is clearly news to Emme, despite Taikrin's exasperation. "N-no. No, there wasn't really. Everyone had to get married at some point. And even if they didn't, I mean, there weren't that many of us. So the ones who would 'fuck anything with three legs' did it for free. I mean, shells didn't keep anyone fed or clothed so why..." Her poor brow just furrows, and she drinks more, no matter how stupid her coughing makes her look. "Right, willing. I think I'd prefer willing. Ri, hi." "Well, people who're dead ugly or their dragons are too terrible to catch the right greens, or, you know. They gotta pay." Taikrin says it lightly, but there's disapproval and disdain in her voice, that she hides by-- being utterly and totally surprised that there's suddenly a Riorde at her elbow. Apparently Szadath didn't warn her, because she staggers back against the bar with a very unmanly yelp. "Riorde! When did you-- I didn't think you-- how did-- uh-- hey." Too little too late, she tries to play it casual. "So, uh. Happy you could make it. We were just talkin' about, uh--" She winces; whores. "Booze's terrible, you oughta have some. Another round, Jym!" "There was a guy, ran 'em down at Ierne," Tiriana muses for a moment, as she reaches for her own drink to take a shot. Afterward, "Daddy shut him down, though. We don't take much to upstarts." She lifts her shoulders, a vague shrug. Bemused, she casts a glance then to Riorde. "What else did you expect?" Quinlys wipes her mouth with the back of her hand as her dirty glass gets set back down on the bar; she makes a face, but doesn't protest the ordering of the next round. "Riorde," she greets, when her hand comes away again. And, "I think it's more common in holds, where people are... funnier about these things." Beat. "Your father should have just taken the business over, Weyrwoman, and kept the marks for himself. That's what I'd do. If people are fool enough to pay-- well, I'd rather get the money than not." There's been a lightening of Riorde's mannerisms towards Emme in the last seven; something about drinking more than she'd ought to wound up with Ri making confessions of 'it's not your fault, it's Elgin's,' so now she's downright nice, cracking a smile. "Hey Emme." Her smile pulls to one side with amusement as she eyes Taikrin. "I shouldn't," she demurs unconvincingly, not putting up much of a fight as she almost immediately turns back to the others while Jym is getting those drinks ready. "So Pern's just bars, basically," she answers Tiriana. With dry humor, "Huh. No one told us that." This will give Emme much to ponder, as she sucks back horrible alcohol. "That makes some sense, I think. Holds." She nods, trying to seem like a little less of a simpleton now that the initial surprise and confusion has passed. She even seems intrigued by the exchange between Quinlys and Tiriana there. Shutting down the upstarts vs. scoring some cash. There's a good morality lesson here somewhere, which is obviously why she pays close attention for the answer. Notably, her shoulders also lose some of their tension when Riorde actually smiles at her for the first time in ages; to which she obviously offers one in return. "All the /fun/ parts of Pern are bars," Taikrin corrects as she recovers some of her equanimity. "The parts worth seeing, anyways." The next drink is taken slower, used as something over which she can make a point of not staring at Riorde by looking way too intently at everyone else. Over on the other side of the bar, there's a ruckus of activity as someone shoves a table against the wall, onto which three guys - two with gitars - climb up and begin working out the beginnings of a melody together. "Eh, whores're dirty business. Don't reckon it's worth the marks to keep 'em going. Anyways, they just attract losers, and I reckon the Weyrleader don't want losers hangin' around, yeah?" "She's right there," Tiriana is in firm agreement with Taikrin there, at least. "Anyway, yes. It's better in a hold, where the not-for-profit options are pretty limited. Weyrs, there's too many free sluts to make it really worthwhile. And nobody cares who's fucking who, either, so you can't even get a little more out of them for being discrete." In lieu of answer on the topic of whores, Quinlys takes another drink, slamming her empty glass back down on the wooden bar: take that. "Booze is better, anyway," she decides. "It's not something you can get for free in the first place, not generally. A natural commodity, not something you can commoditi-- whatever." If her attention turns towards the attempts at music, it doesn't linger. instead, to Emme and Riorde, "There're plenty of not-bars worth visiting, too. Though I guess it depends on if scenery does it for you. Or watching hatchings. Or-- other things. Stuff." "According to /you,/" Riorde retorts with a bit of a bite -- though not much, especially as her eyeroll is accompanied by a grin. Even with her initial protest, no one has to force a drink into Ri's hand, and she picks up a glass without even needing prompting. Her eyebrows lift at the way Quinlys slams that glass down, and apparently she takes it as a challenge of sorts, since she tosses back that bad booze and puts her glass back down with a bang on the bartop. Not without incurring a cost though. The weyrling practically doubles over with a sudden coughing fit, and anything she might have said is lost. All sorts of new phrases for Rhazekth to internalize and utilize in the worst manner possible. Things like 'free sluts' and 'not for profit options' and 'whores'r dirty'. It's a veritable smorgasboard of salacious word choices that he can twist to his liking and then present to Rielsath to remember in their giant book of swears! Outside, his talons even scrunch in the dirt happily with his excitement over this. Maybe that's why Emme flushes. Or maybe it's just that the alcohol is already having an impact on her. "Scenery. Maybe we should go trying to find the best scenery as our next weyrling outing." is suggested, glancing hopefully at the other 'lings. While trying not to gawk at all the blunt discussion being thrown around. If she slurs a little, and her feet tap to the music starting to play....wellll. "Ri? Breathe!" "Oi, easy!" Taikrin pounds Riorde on the back, in a way that's probably meant to be solicitous, though she's working hard to suppress her mirth. "Ain't I warned you about this stuff?" On the makeshift stage, the three performers seem to have worked out what to do, because their noise is starting to sound more like music and less like, well, noise. The first one is a folk song, common to the area, about the miner's daughter, the farmer's son, and some very unhappy chickens. Over the building racket, Taikrin adds, "Scenery's boring; you'll see all of it soon enough on sweeps. Ain't no reason to be wastin' your precious free time to see it /now/. This's better." Drinking rotgut. Listening to terrible music. Mingling with slightly smelly people. Fun times! "Scenery, overrated," Tiriana agrees, flagging the bartender for another drink. "Maybe you should go find a whore to entertain you if you're so bored of bars. I'm sure Southern has any number of them; it's that kind of place." Riorde earns a clap on the back and a mildly disdainful look as Tiriana takes another shot of alcohol; "Hold it together, Faranth. Lightweights, makes me ashamed for my Weyr." Two drinks down, and all Quinlys can do, as Riorde coughs, is laugh: her cheeks are flushed, and it clearly isn't embarrassment. It doesn't stop her from ordering another drink, either, and musing, "Music's all very well, but it seems silly to come to this kind of 'stablishment without... I don't know. Knife games. Cards with dangerous looking people." Beat. "What brought you here, Weyrwoman?" Emme still likes scenery, dammit. But she's not about to argue the point with either Taikrin or Tiriana thanks. Instead, "Knife games?" Perk. Why that, of all things, appeals to -her- of all people... one of life's mysteries! "You should show me how to play knife games." is prompted, regardless of who answers. She doesn't even realize she has another drink in her hand and endures more eye-watering when she sips at the new glass. Riorde visibly rocks from the force of Taikrin's 'help,' and then Tiriana's, putting one hand high on her chest as if that will somehow make the burn dissipate faster. Recovering, she straightens up and declares, "A mouthful of saltwater goes down easier than /that./" Her pride's on the line between Quinlys' laughter and Tiriana's comments. "I'm /fine,/" she insists, facing the Weyrwoman with a stubborn expression. "Just wasn't expecting it. And I don't need a whore. But I will have another." So there. The next song is bawdier, whores and bandits and double-crosses, and a few of the drunker tables are starting to sing. Loudly. And badly. Now that Riorde is more or less recovered, Taikrin draws her hand back, only to plunge it into the pocket of her riding jacket to retrieve a well-worn dice up. "Gambling? Reckon we can get it started. Here, I know these guys--" She tears off from the group, bellying up to a table of drunk, surly-looking miners. "OI! You lot feel like losin' some marks? Me and the ladies here figure you lot got too much money floatin' around, needs losin'." From the look of their clothes and hygiene, they can't have all /that/ much money, but the taunt is well-met. There's a return launch of insults as another cup of dice appears and room around the table is cleared, while Taikrin grins cheekily back at the Weyr-contingent. "Wait, are we playing dice games or knife games?" asks Tiriana, her brows furrowing up as she peers from their would-be victims to Taikrin and back. Her eyes narrow. "Whatever, it all ends the same. I'm in," she decides, probably ominously. Quinlys fastens a wary glance on both of her weyrling compatriates, but holds her tongue; "Dice, for now," she answers, presumably for Tiriana. "But I'll have to teach Emme the knife one some other time. I'm," she stands up, drawing herself away from the bar, but not away from her latest drink. "In, too. Let's take their marks and make a scene." "Haven't got my knife on me," Riorde reflects, sounding rather sad about it and unlikely to make the same mistake twice. She lets herself be drawn in alongside Quinlys, giving the other weyrling a lingering, thoughtful look. "You never strike me as the sort to make a scene," she comments before giving the miners her best impression of Rhaelyn with a haughty toss of her head and a smirk. Taikrin probably hasn't had enough to drink for the slur she's got in her voice, and the too-wide smile-- she seemed fine a moment ago, after all. "'M Tai," she introduces, sloppily and with an ever-thickening accent that's quite similar to the miners' own, as she rattles her dice and cup to start the first round. "'N this's, uh, Ri, an' Lys, an' Tir, an', uh, Emme." She frowns, briefly, at the breakdown in her hasty pseudonyms, then shrugs. "We're playin' straight shoot, yeah?" The question is punctuated with a rattle of her dice up, and then she dumps it upside-down, dice still hidden. "Whatta we got?" Let the betting commence. It's mostly small marks indeed being tossed down, a variant of craps bets. A couple of the younger specimins slink casually around the table to smirk at the out-of-place women, while another goes to fetch drinks that are, if possible, stronger than the rotgut whisky. Quinlys? She's an enthusiastic participant in the dice games that follow, drinking her fair share right up until the point where she goes slightly pale and, wordlessly, excuses herself to go outside for a sneaky spew. She'll probably be back, though; she's up for a long night's fun and games, vomit aside. "Ti," Tiriana corrects, with the air of impatient longsuffering brought out by drunks everywhere. "It's just Ti." She slides in at the table herself, leaning over to watch the proceedings (and incidentally give a nice view of cleavage (babies are good for something)). The small-beer bets, though, have her scoffing openly. "Really? /Really/? And here I thought we were going to play for some real money." Finding a space around the table, Riorde pays the others close attention, enough that someone might take it as encouragement (if they're not staring at Tiriana's boobs). Really, though, her scrutiny is an attempt to pick up cues rather than admit she's never actually played dice before. "Here," she pronounces, fishing out a wooden mark piece of her own - notably, it's not the big money Tiriana's goading the miners toward, though neither is it the smallest value on the table. Of course they're oggling Tiriana's boobs. And Riorde's backside, and well-- there isn't a lot to oggle on Taikrin, but that doesn't mean there aren't a variety of rude comments being aimed in her general direction. She, notably, hasn't put any money down on her own roll; she clearly enjoys getting marks /out/, more. "Hey, don't scare 'em off the roll, Ti. Don't want these poor guys t'get scared and run away, now." It works as if they'd planned it, more marks appearing while some cheeky bastard in the back suggests maybe they should be playing strip instead, while another plies the riders with a fresh round of drinks. The music drones on, still bawdy, and there's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it trading of punches on the far corner of the bar. "You first," is Tiriana's blunt counter to the offer of strip poker. She leans back at that, as if suddenly becoming conscious of just how on display she had been for that moment. "Here," and she drops her own small mark piece on the table as well, in fitting with the theme. To Taikrin, with a sigh, "Fine, fine. I'll play nice for now, just for you. "I'm going to need a lot more to drink before that happens." Riorde's remark rides on the heels of Tiriana's. And drinks appear, just like that: magic. Riorde doesn't pass it up, even if there are men about waiting for the tops to come off; she rather pointedly ignores them and looks at Taikrin instead. "Well?" She makes a show of it, rattling the dice around some more, nearly lifting the cup to tease a reveal, but it's only once the huge miner across from her starts getting annoyed that Taikrin pulls it up with a flourish to reveal... snake-eyes. Those that bet on her striking out on the first roll whoop with triumph, and off the dice go to the other side of the table. "Ahhhhh, fuck," she gusts, her voice careless, as she plucks a drink from the hands of a young man who seemed to want to press the second glass onto Riorde, too. "What, you want to see /them/ naked, Ti-- Ti?" She gags around her drink, theatrically. "How about I pay y'all to keep your clothes /on/, yeah?" Riorde, unsurprisingly, bet on Taikrin. That initial loss for someone who's only recently started to learn the value of money and consequently hoards it has her muttering, "Fuck me" -- not the best choice of words given some of the responses she gets back. Rather than give them an answer, Riorde favors the men with an incredulous, disdainful stare. "I'm gonna check on-- Quin," she announces. "Back in a minute." Because she wants those marks back, dammit.
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