Logs:Being Frank
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| RL Date: 13 June, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Irianke and R'hin are frank with each other, but probably still not friends. |
| Where: Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area |
| When: Day 25, Month 13, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions |
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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. It's been snowing steadily here throughout the day, though eased off in the afternoon enough to allow the more game to travel. This ramshackle tavern isn't much to look at, but it's a welcome stop between Weyr and Hold, housing a variety of visitors either waiting out the night or traveling here from nearby holdings. The barmaid looks bored and half asleep, there's a half-hearted game of dice going on at one of the tables, though the grumblings make it seem like the game might not last that much longer. Over by the back, a familiarly tall figure is slumped down, half a pitcher of beer and two empty glasses on the table. R'hin's eyeing the gamblers with that kind of middle-distant gaze that suggests he's not really paying attention to them. Through the grapevine is how Irianke susses out R'hin's location, and with that in mind, her attire is meant to blend in as much as anyone in riding leathers can, than stand out. It means plain and worn, serviceable leathers and her hair pinned up and out of her face. It means her distinct dragon is a sort walk away, long enough for the bite of outside's cold to redden her cheeks and set a shiver to her athletic, dragonriding frame. The door opens, letting in a whirl of snowflakes, shutting behind her as she stamps her boots twice and looks around, pausing at that tall figure. She takes her time, pulling off her gloves and flexing her cold fingers in rapid motions for warmth, shaking loose the flakes from her hair, and wiping the damp drops from her lashes and face, all the while watching R'hin from across the tavern. If Leiventh's presence can be detected, it's hidden under the swirl of cold, wintry winds, camouflaged in his natural habitat, still enough to make his presence little felt unless the Reachian queen seeks him out. The new entrant, naturally, gets the attention of most everyone in the tavern -- with not much else to entertain them, staring at the new visitor earns at least a few minutes distraction, the chortling and exchanging of elbows at the dicer's table leaving little mistake as to the type of exchange going on there. The barmaid is stirred awake by the cold wind, but is soon enough back to nearly falling asleep. There's a change in R'hin's expression, but marginal; a tightening, briefly, his slouching posture adjusting only enough to stretch his legs out onto the chair opposite him. It doesn't mean there aren't other chairs to be taken, certainly, so the gesture is perhaps oddly futile. Her mouth presses together, most of her lips tucked inward, and what appears is thin in a seeming grimace. But it's Irianke's eyes, expressive now, that take in R'hin's demeanor, the shifts, the tightens, and ultimately the slouch and extension of his leg that claims the seat, that seem bemused. The puzzlement spreads from her gray-blue eyes to her shoulders, rolling them forward in a mirrored slouch, but then suddenly straightens as if aware of what she's doing in a split second of thought that snaps her glance to the dice table, a ever-so flirtatiously mocking look sent their way, that starts her steps towards the back. But first, she plucks a chair from the gamers with a, "You're not using this one are you?" and drags it noisily towards the back. "Whatever you distill in your cellar, neat," she calls to the barmaid on her way over, punctuating the order with a drop of the chair by Savannah's wingleader. "Hi." The gamblers, at first, look pleased with both the woman's approach, chortling amongst themselves. "A price for that one, eh," one of them snorts as she takes the chair, the others shrugging and going back to the game. The barmaid looks kind of -- befuddled by Irianke's request, frowning down at her stock, which doesn't seem that varied other than the barrels of beer. With a shrug, she slips off her stool and searches for a dusty bottle, cleaning it with a just-as-dusty rag, before splashing whatever it is into a glass. "Brewed from the finest--" the barmaid's spiel as she sets the glass down is broken by the wave of R'hin's hand -- or more accurately, the coin tossed in her direction along with the wave, tucking it somewhere into her bosom and scuttling back towards the bar. Gallantly, if begrudgingly, "Have a seat," comes the Wingleader's mutter as he reaches for the half-full pitcher to refill his own glass. Moonshine. Rotgut. Anything but ale or beer. Irianke doesn't pay attention to the dust-state of either the bottle or the rag, but the glass she's about to drink from gets a cursory glance when she lifts it. A lip stain is wiped away with her thumb and index fringer. For all she's dragged a chair over, she doesn't sit. "No. You've been avoiding me and I want to know why. Left me to the fucking wolves and all that dramatic stuff." She could be joking, there's certainly humor in her voice, and after that spiel, she sits, legs straddling the chair as she leans forward against the back, tipping it to graze the table's edge. "Did you imagine me some sort of champion for you?" R'hin snorts, though similarly doesn't deny her accusation. "The protector out of some sort of harper's tale? I read once, this story some little candidate wrote about me and conveniently left for me to find, when I was Weyrleader. That I rode in on my very big dragon to save her from some nameless evil -- Leiventh enjoyed that part -- and there was some fuckery that involved flying amongst the spires of the Weyr, and her orgasming at each turn around the spire -- Leiventh liked that less well." He doesn't go to the effort, either, of bending his head to study her expression, instead taking a long draught from his glass. Nearby, there's some argument from the gamblers, though the bronzerider's eyes don't stray in that direction, either. Instead, he's watching the barmaid 'clean' the bartop with that same, dusty rag. Only once she's seated herself does he turn gaze towards her, familiar amusement in pale gaze. "If you can't handle K'del and the girl, you're hardly worth the effort." The story is accompanied by one hand lifted, fingers and thumb 'talking' to him, the ceiling, anyone nearby. Then he continues, and Irianke's expression suddenly sharpens, as does her voice. "Before then." The joking disappears and she's still sitting there, front legs of the chair off the ground and her hands now folded over the chair back against the table. "Long before then, and then when everything changed, not even a hello. But, if that's how you feel, we'll drink to that too." Whatever evil is in her cup is tipped back, eliciting a choked look, all scrunched and trying to be stalwart, but no actual sound. She can hold that back, but not control her expression. "Blah blah blah. It's good to see you still alive? Blah blah. Sarcastic response back. Blah blah. Wounded hurt feelings. Blah. Blah." The last blah thumps her hand against the table. "With all the niceties out of the way. How are you feeling today?" It's the before that gets R'hin's attention, with a betraying flicker of brows upwards. "I was too busy getting fucked in Igen to help," and while there's that customary flippancy in the words, as ever there's likely a grain of truth to the ocean of distraction. He doesn't drink when she does, but instead purses his lips, his beer untouched. Speaking of niceties: "Irianke," a beat, while heat rises in the timbre of his voice. "You don't need my help. And you certainly don't need a hello from me. Why the fuck are you here?" "I'm sure I can decide for myself what I need from you, as much as you can decide whether you'll give it to me or not," responds Irianke, a certain uncharacteristic coolness entering her typically warmer vocal timbre. "Why the fuck are you being a presumptuous ass?" She turns the question on him, the seat dropping back as she does. Her gaze never deviates from R'hin, the stone-blue of them fixed to her long time acquaintance. It doesn't flicker to that barmaid, to the dice table, nor to the opening door as another person enters and claims a seat near the front. "Why, Irianke. I've always been a presumptuous ass. It's just," R'hin vaguely waves at her glass, "You've normally had enough of these not to notice." His gaze strays towards the newest visitor, a brief frown tugging his lips, gaze never reverting back towards his table companion, by no coincidence. "Is that so?" Irianke studies the glass, the only time her gaze deviates from R'hin. Then, she looks back again to find him staring at the man who entered, his fur cloak caked with snow atop ice. His hair windblown and a roughened redness to the skin on his face, speaking of a journey only half-exposed to the elements. "Then is it your duty to ply me with more drink so I'm pleasantly unaware of your social ineptitude or is it time to drop the charade of oh so mysterious man and come down to my, lowly Igen level and be frank with each other? I have all night, unless, of course, you decide to say fuck it and walk out the door, but I won't guarantee I won't seek you out again." She came, it would seem, to find him, though the answer isn't uttered so explicitly. And, despite his words, R'hin seems affronted at her suggestion, a hint of heat in his voice, though without the intensity of gaze to match it: "Plying you with drink in a place like this would imply I have no regard for the well-being of your stomach, nor indeed your chances of seeing straight tomorrow." With a snort, as the Wingleader's gaze strays from the new arrival towards the dicers, to the barmaid -- but never far -- "I'd tip your drink out onto the floor, but I'm afraid it would scar the wood." He drains the rest of his drink, like perhaps he plans to walk out -- considers it -- but after a moment, refills his glass, slouching back into his chair, in seeming accession to her wishes. Despite the reluctance of his body language, there's nevertheless a gleam to pale gaze when it finally finds Irianke again. "Hello, and what can I do for a lowly Igenite?" "Plus," replies Irianke, "It's already gone. Down the hatch. Feeling it burn holes through my gut just like it was intended to do. Besides, we wouldn't want you to have to play the chivalrous dragonrider. I don't intend to orgasm flying around the spires." Finally, after all that, the Igen woman flashes a smile, briefly at R'hin, but ultimately to the rest of the room as she takes it all in once more, from this angle. "We were almost friends once. What happened?" This question is directed to him, but spoken to the dice table, a curious tilt of her head taking in the game there, narrowing onto one man in particular, possibly the one who spoke of prices. "No? Shame," muses R'hin, gaze going upward. "I mean the logistics alone could be interesting. You'd have to get a special harness made, so that you wouldn't... fall out during those tight turns." But it is not such speculations that hold his interest. When her gaze travels, his does too, to the visitor, to the barmaid that's started half-heartedly flirting with him, presumably on the hope of receiving a tip after she sets a dusty glass in front of him. What happened. The question makes his jaw tighten, briefly. "People die. Goldriders die. Friends die. I've had enough of that for the time being. My days of crawling into a hole and pulling it after me might be past, but I'd sooner not start digging the hole in preparation for the next time. You should play," he says, deliberately casually, fingers flicking towards the gamblers. "Shame a few poor travellers, leave them with memories of a pretty Igenite and her ingratiating smile." "It'd hardly be fair. I've been playing dice even before I was born. Least that's what my da probably hoped for." Irianke dismisses them with a shake of her head, though can't help the glance stolen to consider that one man longer. "Easy marks aren't any fun. Not at all." Her gaze draws back and the smile is no longer there, replaced with a flash of irritation and a roll of her eyes. "Do you envision a hermit's life then to be a better alternative to death?" "Fair, smeagh. How often do you get to sneak out of the Weyr and play the part of wayward, weary traveller? We both know it isn't about the marks." R'hin, for his part, appears to be enjoying his beer, or at least making a good show of it. A slight snort, and a shake of his head. "Hardly. Does this look like the hermit's life?" he says, spreading his hands, pale eyes amused all of a sudden. "I've plenty to keep me busy, though -- I may chance an appearance at Turnover. For a while, at any rate. I'd ask you to save a dance, but I'm sure you and K'del will be busy with your Weyrleaderly duties." He says that wish such relish, too. She shares nothing of her plans with K'del, or the Weyrleaderly-ness of them, but asks, "If you show, save a dance for me." A little less lightheartedly, spoken with her eyes latched onto his, wherever his might be looking, "Everyone dies. I might die tonight, you might die tomorrow. We might outlive everyone. But weariness with death shouldn't mean you... whatever it is you're doing, because sitting alone here looking morose isn't much of an upgrade from digging your own grave. Traders are bred of hardier stuff than that. You make the best of the time you have and hope it isn't accidentally or deliberately shortened." Irianke reaches to inspect her empty glass and then rethinks whatever she was thinking and sets it down again. "I think I might vomit." The flicker of pale eyes towards hers isn't confirmation, but they do linger there for a moment in silence. "What I'm doing," R'hin counters, then, with a lifted hand, "Is waiting." For whom isn't specified; perhaps the owner of the other empty glass at his table? The man at the bar? He regards her, seemingly impassively, at her latter statement. By no coincidence, Irianke's queen will become aware of the sudden rush of cold, wintry air, reminiscent of High Reaches, and yet somehow encompassing the angular bronze's thoughts all at once. A touch, a presence, no more. A beat passes: "Through the kitchen door, and to the left. It's not much of a lavatory, but it's out of the cold." "Imaginary friends don't count," retorts the goldrider, even though her jaw looks decidedly green, and she's standing up and making an attempt at dignified, but not quite, way as directed by R'hin. She's gone a while, presumably vomiting the bile she ingested before. And when she comes back, the table is empty, as is the pitcher, though both glasses there have an inch or so of beer left in them. The Wingleader is gone, as is the visitor at the bar, though the gamblers are still in the corner, verballing sparring over the latest rolls. The barmaid's nearly asleep again, dusty rag serving as a makeshift pillow in her hand, elbow resting on the bar. Looking a little worse for wear, but amused nonetheless at the departure, Irianke says, "Figures," and then goes to join the dicers and run them out of only some of their marks before returning home. That she doesn't take them for all their marks is, perhaps, why one of the gamblers winks at her as she's leaving and tells her to come back any time, to the chortling of his fellows. |
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