Logs:The Muse
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| RL Date: 29 January, 2015 |
| Who: Lia, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin and Lia check in, and get not much further than last time. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 12, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: H'vier/Mentions, Oisa/Mentions, M'lach/Mentions, Mielline/Mentions, Z'ian/Mentions, Anvori/Mentions, E'sren/Mentions, Rhonda/Mentions |
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| Twilight hits the Weyr, the horizon a smudgy pink line that's threatened by dark clouds. Tomorrow's weather does not look good at all. The Snowasis moves slowly tonight, just a few cluster of lower caverns workers here and there, unwinding after a long day of unpacking tithes. Anvori mans the bar, but even he's about to call it a night as he makes a few last notations in a ledger before heading into his back office, and signals to the backup bartender to take the wheel. Lia sits at the bar, wheeling about on a stool and swishes the whisky that is low in her glass. A charmingly polite, "Need some more?" is met with a cocked brow and a really, do you need to ask look. "Make it two," comes a familiar voice, R'hin claiming the bar stool next to the greenrider, easing onto it as pale gaze fixes on her empty glass. There might be something approving in that look, but if so, it remains unvoiced until at least he's tasted her selection. That he appears after Anvori disappears might well be coincidence. "Soon," remarks Lia to the familiar voice without actually glancing at him, "Even whisky'll be hard to get a hold of. Fill up while you can, right?" The bartender gives her a refill and then some, a double with a hand wave and a sheepish, flirty smile, and fills R'hin's just a little less. He turns and makes a note on a chalkboard and then returns to his duties on this slow slow night. "Must not think you're as pretty as me." "Drink it before everyone else does so. But," with a sidelong look, amused, "We have the advantage of being able to seek other sources. There'll always be some backwater bar with a dusty bottle of fine-grained whisky that was used as a doorstop." R'hin's none too worried, yet. With a grunt, at Lia's observation of treatment: "It does happen, sometimes," his gaze is going ceiling-wards, thoughtfully. "Not often, so -- enjoy it while it lasts," he says to her, lifting his glass in a mocking toast to the bartender's back, taking a gulp. "So, how are things going with Oisa?" Lia's glass doesn't bother with the toast, instead climbing up to her lips for a long sip that ends with her shoulders hunching a little and her face squinting a lot. An audible, harsh exhale escapes. "I'm drinking aren't I?" is all she initially says in response to everything R'hin's said. The glass falls heavy to the bar and the dark haired woman slants the wingleader a look. "Need a wingsecond?" The bronzerider's chuckling, more than half to herself, but just as likely half-at-her. "No," R'hin says, easily, without a trace of apology. "Besides, if you wanted just any wingsecond position, there's other wings. I hear H'vier's short, for example. I'm sure you'd be his... type," after a glance at her, eyebrows going upwards. "I don't fuck where I lead," is Lia's placid, steady-toned response. "Then you're definitely not going to be my wingsecond," replies R'hin, light amusement counterpoint to her steady-tone. Lia shakes her head, a smile heard rather than seen as the glass comes up again for a smaller, more paced sip. "We're not fucking. You had your chance, and if you think I'm H'vier's type, what does that say about you?" Level brown eyes slide another glance at R'hin. "Your meeting with M'lach seemed successful." "I said he's your type; you're pretty," R'hin gives a shrug, as if this shouldn't need explaining. He turns enough to settle elbow on the bar and prop chin in the palm of his hand, hmmming to himself for a moment. "As I recall, there was an invitation made. You left," with a gesture, almost dismissive, of her mention of M'lach. Old news. "Could've stopped me." She could've stayed. Potayto. Potahto. Tuber. "I heard Oisa's going to promote E'sren or Rhonda." The sudden shift in the velvet monotone with actual inflection is mired with disgust. "Rhonda. I've made my peace." Having already given up the pretense of calm, Lia finally half turns in her stool, leg traveling up to cross over her knee, and looks at R'hin. Her arm presses against the bar to both balance her leaned frame and so she can keep her drink on a flat surface. "Chaos induces change. Change is good for a stagnant world." The lips curve, the smile, in all its slightness, somehow dangerous. "Make chaos with me." R'hin's snort is certainly for the possibility of Rhonda, and not for could've, would've or should've. He's certainly not unaware of her crossing of legs, pale gaze caught looking, albeit with an unapologetic raise of gaze to her face moments later, amused. "What do you want to... break... first?" It was a movement designed to catch eyes, not just R'hin's, as a table of caravan unloaders also pauses to look and then goes about their business, albeit with the added bonus of glancing every now and again at exposed leg through the slits of the skirt she wears. Look, for she's smugly aware behind that placid demeanor. "What do you think is the Weyr's duties in an Interval?" Of which they are thirty-six turns into already. There's a flicker of something, a tightening of expression before R'hin reaches for the glass, taking a generous gulp of it. "Is it the Weyrleader's role you're after, next?" he counters, idly. Even the promises of glimpses of the greenrider's legs aren't enough to hold his attention, it would seem, given he's looking from those unloaders, to the pair of riders off in the corner, and the bartender cleaning the far end of the bar. "Not unless I take Z'ian's pair, attach them to myself, and Daehyeth turns bronze." There are Traditions to uphold, mind. "I don't believe we can sit here, do drills and practice for a future none of us will ever see. Again," the last word is added a half-beat later for R'hin's benefit, as those flickering eyes size him, his age, and the history she knows of him up. "And expect Holders to keep giving us what we want. Fort's problems are only the tip. And aren't we already seeing it here?" Lia shrugs, the gesture faux-diffident, as if in that tiny overtly delicate gesture, she's relinquishing the decisions to him. "Besides, if I became Weyrleader, you would probably regret those wet dreams you've been having." "Not all of the wings do that. Mielline is more... progressive. I'm surprised you haven't already asked for a transfer," R'hin says, with a twitch of shoulders, as his gaze finally, lastly comes back to rest on the greenrider beside him. "She ended up doing what Z'ian tried to, a bit more successfully in some cases." There's a wave of hand for her mention of Fort, saying only: "The only problem Fort has is incessant inbreeding. But then that's true of all Holds," with a slight twitch of lips. "Mm?" brows twitch at the latter. "I'd never regret them. Never have, too old to stop now. 'sides, I already get ordered around by plenty of women." "Boreal runs in my blood and I wasn't talking wings. I was talking the Weyr. Or are you someone that thinks each wing has to do their own part to make their own way through the Interval while our Weyrleaders sit and...?" The trail off of her words and inflection imply a great deal of Lia's opinions of the Weyr's leadership. And spoken as if she's continuing the conversation, the greenrider notes, with only the final word emphasized in a mocking way: "We should just get it over with sometime, daddy." "No," the bronzerider says, simply, after draining his glass. To the first, to the last, or both, isn't clear. Lia doesn't respond, nursing her own glass in a return sort of response. The thunk of R'hin's glass hitting the bar precedes his turning turning towards her. "And what would Lia do, given the chance? You don't strike me as a farmer, nor a cook. Perhaps we should," he reaches out a finger to tap at her glass, "Send you to the vintners. Help them come up with ways to address this... shortage. I'm sure you could be sufficiently motivating." "I'm a muse." She could be joking. Now that he's turned the questions onto her, Lia turns terse. "A shit starter. The storm bringer. There are," she pauses, before uttering his name in a voice fractionally quieter, coddlingly mild, "R'hin, other things Weyrs are capable of other than farming, cooking. You do one of them, and I don't mean with this." Having little shame, and no audience other than those men who have lost interest anyway, the greenrider leans in to grab his crotch, favoring it with a none too gentle squeeze, and slips off her stool. "You coming?" She's walking away, not looking back. R'hin's expression, reflexively, molds into a picture of feigned innocence, though that's somewhat destroyed by her bold reach downwards, the bronzerider's expression tightening, letting out a sharp breath once she lets go. There's no doubt he's considering it, with a look after her. But, turnabout is fair play, and when he leaves, it is not in pursuit of the greenrider, but towards the back steps out of the Snowasis. |
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