Logs:Gumption
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| RL Date: 19 September, 2012 |
| Who: F'rint, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia approaches the Glacier Wingleader (and a good portion of the wing) with a question. She gets an answer. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 11, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions |
| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr 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. Is it ever not a boisterous night at the Snowasis, at least now that it's Interval? A good chunk of Glacier's gambling, and even a certain rusty-haired greenrider's among them, though for the most part she keeps F'rint between her and the guffawing men on his other side, even now... because Glacier takes its cards seriously, but that doesn't mean that they can't laugh when S'trun tries to bluff it out. F'rint leans over and tells the youngish bronzerider, "Nice try. Read 'em and wail." He's in his late sixties now, grizzled but hale enough, though the crows' feet about his eyes have deepened since he's had to take this job. Azaylia hasn't become a nightly fixture per se, but a few regulars should have come to recognize the goldrider by now. Though she sits at the bar, the drink she's ordered has yet to be touched other than a grateful sip to appease the 'tender. Ankles crossed, her legs bounce with nervous energy, eyes all too eager to jump to the raucous group of Glacier riders. She's slid off her stool three times now only to hop back on, and more times than that on nights leading up to this one. Finally, the young woman stands, taking her mug of warmed liquor and smoothing the fabric of her dress on her way over. The steps are bold until she's within speaking distance, legs suddenly beginning to quiver within dark leggings. She hovers somewhere near F'rint's shoulder, impolite though it may be, watching the card game for a moment longer. It's his neighbor, not the greenrider two places over but the other one, who flicks an appraising glance at the brownrider and then leans in. "F'rint, my man. You have an admirer." Is it worth stopping the game? Maybe not: he deals again. F'rint keeps his cards close to his chest, literally, but at least he does turn Azayalia's way with lifted brows that, upon recognizing her, become an amused, "Are you buying my drink?" It's not a costly one, his tastes haven't gotten that fine, but there's a kick. A glance for the outspoken neighbor, she tries not to flush. Azaylia is eager to answer F'rint, which ends up with an open mouth and a brain that isn't fast enough to produce words. Squeak. Closing it, she buys herself more time with a slow sip of her mug of spiked chocolate. She'll make an effort to be heard, voice remaining gentle despite it, "If I do, does that mean I can stay and talk?" Unable and not bothering to hide the upward note of hope in her tone. It entertains the older man enough, or maybe he's got sympathy for the girl who could be his granddaughter, that he says, "Why don't you buy in, instead." They can see what she's made of, or what her poker game is, which is about the same in this neck of the woods. "Shove over," this for the men on his one side, taller than he, younger than he, but in some ways indulgent for their older fellow: he uses his authority well, does F'rint, and doesn't press it too hard. Azaylia turns her head, a look that could be disapproval flicking across her face. Or perhaps she's wondering on how she can wriggle her way in? "Oh!" Any hesitance is banished by her manners, sweeping the skirts of her dress against her knees as she sits in the offered space. "H-how much? And I'll buy your drink, too." Since he is a man of simple tastes, and she's not very subtle in the art of buttering someone up. Setting her mug down her hands duck under the table to squeeze at the fabric in her lap, drying sweaty hands. "It was interesting shadowing your wing, uhm. With the rest of the weyrlings." To F'rint, and the other the riders, though they'll get nervous glances from beneath her brow at the most. The man with fighter's scars suggests a price that has very little to do with marks, his brother-in-arms goes for an option that's far too easy on her, and F'rint himself names a stake that's tailored to suit what he might think is her purse: enough to see whether she means business. She's already being dealt in, the greenrider having a practiced hand with the cards, and F'rint's answering mumble is somehow noncommittal. It's only further into the first hand, well after the drink's arrival, that he finally says, "Let's cut to the chase. What do you want? Wingsecond for your friend?" /Boy/ friend. There's no particular aspersion in it, more as though that's the sort of thing that girls like her approach old men like him about. Azaylia is no liar, at least. F'rint will get a new drink of his choice, honest face reflecting her thoughts on those various prices. Even the Wingleader's final say has her looking uncomfortable, holding up the game for a breath or two before setting the appropriate amount down. Too bad she's wincing as she does. Cards do little to soothe the sting of gambled marks on her fingertips, pokerface settling into an unsatisfying mask of confusion. Or perhaps very satisfying, to those betting against her. "What?" Startled squeak almost has her dropping her cards, pressing the stiff fan of them to her chest with wide eyes. "N-no. You haven't had a Wingsecond in... well you don't have one." A bit of trivia, as if she's done her research. "I... There's no Thread, sir, and you know Hraedhyth. You know she's a strong flier and the Weyrleaders said you had final say..." A glance at her hand, eyes glued there as she finally blurts, "I want to join Glacier, sir." She would ask him here, when it gets a chorus of, "She wants to join Glaaaaaa-cier," harmonizing with, "She wants to join us." "She likes us." "She doesn't want me to be wingsecond!" "She doesn't like you." "Nobody likes you." "Except us." "What do you mean, us?" around the table. At least most of the men seem to be distracted, though not all, and not the lone greenrider nor the pair of blueriders with short, matching haircuts. F'rint waits, examining his cards but then looking back at her with those shrewd brown eyes: how's she coping? Does she have more to say? Azaylia looks sufficiently baffled, meek glances traded in for wide stares that jump from rider to mouthy rider. "Oh, but I like everyone." Comes her quiet correction, all too easily drowned out by the rowdy banter. Fingers fidget, matching this card color with that as she tries to wait the noise out. It's then she realizes F'rint is watching her, spine suddenly straightening. "I have a lot of reasons, uhm, for why. Like, Hraedhyth likes this wing the most." As predicted. "And your drill requirements fit in with my usual duties. A-as a goldrider. I could have a spot on Avalanche, but I do think Glacier would be a better fit." She has begun to look increasingly uncomfortable the more she speaks, trying not to shrink beneath F'rint's gaze. "B-but it's your Wing, after all." So she'll stop talking and stare at her cards now. Eep. F'rint eventually looks around the table, unhurriedly, now that she's had her say. Parts of it are raucous while others, some overlapping, are inattentive. A few riders shrug and more than that have probably chipped in via dragon. But in the end, it is the old man's wing, and he leans over to tap at her cards without actually touching them. Unhurriedly, "Play your hand, girl, it's what you got. Suppose she didn't do half bad with us, better than most," and Azaylia's showed some gumption, hasn't she? After awhile, in the next hand, "S'pose we'll give it a go, for a season or so, if the boys don't lose all focus. If the Weyrleader's as right with that as you say." "O-oh!" So many possibilities as to the cause of that squeak, Azaylia slams her cards down onto the table, face up. Three of a kind, and it could be noted that the weyrling might just have been collecting the prettiest of the suits. She likely was. "Is..? Uhm. Here's my hand." She tries not to betray her limited knowledge of the game, stuttering smartly into silence. That is, until F'rint gives his answer. It's a tense moment, inhaling deeply after she fully understands what he's said, muscles coiling almost visibly. NO. No. One does not hug their Wingleader. Trembling with restraint, she turns back to her measly three of a kind with a breathless, "Yay." Her smile is big and beaming, a glance spared for F'rint, "Thank you, sir." She's the recipient of quite the array of long looks, some stares, some along the lines of Oh, Azaylia, some no doubt calculating odds for their own long game. With one of the blueriders handles the actual card-management, though, F'rint is freed to just look at Azaylia, and maybe sigh, and then look briefly wild-eyed at the prospect of an imminent... whatever she might have in mind. "We'll see if you say that in spring," he says gruffly, his cheeks a little red as though that beaming were giving him a sunburn already, though one he isn't exactly moving to get out of. It's back to the poker, then, trying to actually complete a game this time, with none of that complicated emotional stuff for the rest of the night. Azaylia is confused by their stares at first. Innocently, "...I did bad, didn't I?" Even so, her good humor will last several more hands. "We'll see." The young woman echoes F'rint, biting her lower lip to try and suppress that smile and failing. While her new wingmates take turns robbing the inexperienced new meat, Hraedhyth will take her victory laps outside. The gold's joyous bellows are nearly loud enough to be heard from within the Snowasis. In an hour or so the whole weyr will be caught up: two new bodies for Glacier! |
Comments
Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Thu, 20 Sep 2012 04:59:18 GMT.
Yay, Azaylia. Um... Enjoy?
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