Logs:Hands To Yourself
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 11 December, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, V'ret, P'tras |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The best rule is to keep your hands to yourself.. or not. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 7, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions, Mielline/Mentions, Drex/Mentions |
   |
| The evening is well advanced at this point, the Snowasis busy, and V'ret is trying heroically to get used to sitting on the wrong side of the bar. Maybe he ought to be here with friends, but on this particular evening, his company is only the occasional attention of the bartender. Which is not to say he's sitting in sullen silence. Instead, they seem to be having a conversation which is punctuated by periods where the other party is hastily trying to fill drinks. Playing catch-up, it seems. In between, the weyrling is left alone with his glass, which is empty, but he's not made any move to fix that fact. Crafters aren't generally known for their fun after-work antics or anything, and that's probably why P'tras got in on Hailstorm's cards when he showed up at the Snowasis some time ago. He's had a good few drinks by now, but it's unclear whether that has anything to do with his cheering when he throws down his cards and stands up, hands in the air like he's some sort of amazing talent with an incredible lack of humility. "Woooo! Suck on that, ladies." He reaches over to pick up his marks, a half-smoked cigar and the pair of very impractical panties that made up the pool. "Calm down, I'll buy your next round." And so, panties pulled over his head to be worn like a necklace, P'tras makes his way over to the bar to pull V'ret's friend away to fill an order for the table's drinks. But he takes his first, and settles down. No more cards for him tonight, apparently. Soft, rose velvet and tiny, detailed ribbons are the hallmarks of the impeccably-tailored dress Farideh shows up in at Snowasis, looking less pale and unwell, and more like her fresh-faced self from months past. She's on the arm of some poor schmuck -- a bluerider in Tundra -- and chatting amicably about who-knows-what, until the outburst from that table over there (the one with the panties) draws their attentions for very different reasons. While the blonde-haired rider excuses himself and wends his way to the table, the goldrider follows at a much more sedate pace, after the panty-winner; it leads her right to.. V'ret. "V'ret," she says, in greeting, when she's standing right behind him, but she's staring at P'tras like he's an oddity in a show. "Man, I'm pretty sure that's not how you're supposed to wear those." V'ret might have had a moment's disappointment on his face at the loss of his presumably-friend, but it's fleeting. Hazards of the job. He has to know them, right? Instead, seize on the things that are near. Right behind him, though, he lacks eyes. The familiar voice has his shoulders straightening instantly. "Weyrwoman. Uh. Hi?" Maybe the attempt to reconcile the two people nearest has given his brain a bit of trouble. It's been overworked of late. The Tundra greenrider glances over at the greeting to the weyrling, and lifts his glass to the woman staring at him. It's not every day a man like P'tras has the attention of a woman like Farideh, even if only for a short while. "Do you want my drink?" he blurts out very unsmoothly. Then, "I can guy you-- Ha! Guy. I can buy you your own, I mean. Not that you can't get your own. You make way more than I do." With wide green eyes and a nervous laugh, he looks at V'ret. Sweet Faranth, save him from himself. Please. "I already have a pair on," does not probably convey what he intended to convey. Whilst unashamedly ogling the greenrider, Farideh might intentionally bump her arm into V'ret's shoulder, or it could be an accident. "It is very strange how I keep running into you of all people," the goldrider tells the weyrling, dropping her eyes briefly from P'tras to glance at V'ret. There's more to be said, unequivocally more behind the words already spoken, but.. "Yes?" Her eyebrows lift in mild surprise as her head turns, eyes lifting to P'tras again. "You're welcome to..?" she responds, pausing in lieu of his name, which turns into a narrowing of her eyes. "It's a bar, Farideh," V'ret points out, very reasonably, gesturing with his empty glass, sounding--not drunk. Perhaps a little more relaxed than usual. "I used to practically live here." Though not recently, but never mind. "Not that I know why you'd come here, since--" This bit, he turns to P'tras. "She's got a better stash in her weyr, unless she's finished it off since last I saw, anyway, she's got a better stash in her weyr," that isn't repetitive at all, "than this place does, pretty sure." "Yes?" P'tras sounds confused. Maybe he doesn't hear yes very often? "Yes!" Then he looks at V'ret, then at Farideh, then at V'ret. "Wait. Are you two--? Shit. I'm sorry. Here, you can have this," says the greenrider as he sets his drink down in front of V'ret, then turns toward the counter to flail a hand in the bartender's direction. "Help! I need a drink for the weyrwoman and another for her lover." When he turns back, he's adding that half-smoked cigar in front of V'ret, too. Peace-offerings! "Sorry, I didn't know. I'm drunk. I thought you were bigger." Then he starts to turn away, except he bumps into the big guy coming up behind him to get a drink of his own. Okay, he'll just stay here. A censorious look is given to V'ret, complete with a furrowed brow and disapproving frown; greenriders have to be the weyrling's saviors at this point, because it's the former's antics that pull Farideh's focus to him. "Excuse me? Him?" Her cheeks go red at the same time that she makes a sound that's part laugh, part frustration. "No. Why are you--" She tilts her head, watching, with growing concern, the drunk P'tras, call the bartender and try to escape, only to be foiled. "Are you very drunk?" "Shh, relax." V'ret, currently trying to live on whatever allowance they actually give weyrlings for entertainment purposes, has reason to be grateful for the free drink, however it arrives. He just has to calm Farideh down. It could happen, right? "The gift runners and the looking in the mouth?" The eyebrows are imploring. The rest of V'ret, of course, is busy availing himself of the drink, even if this bit of good fortune is fleeting. "He's had a good night and is feeling incredibly generous, we shouldn't insult his hospitality." "I don't know. I felt okay until I stood up." And that was at least minutes ago by this point. P'tras squints at V'ret, leaning in closer like he can't see him quite well enough-- nope, a little too close once he loses his balance and reaches a hand out to catch himself with a yelp. It braces against V'ret, and stays there while his other hand tries to grab the weyrling's face. "Why not? He looks okay," he says, squishing V'ret's face forward so his lips pucker up. And then P'tras is letting go and re-bracing himself against the bar to give Farideh a very serious (drunk) look. "He seems nice. He doesn't even smell weird." What more could a woman possibly want in a man? One hand flies to Farideh's mouth to try to cover up the laughter that comes when the greenrider starts squishing up V'ret's face. "Don't-- you'll bruise him, and then, he won't be of any use to anyone," she says, barely keeping a straight face. "What? V'ret is good looking in that classical way, I suppose, but-- he's a weyrling, and more importantly, he's V'ret." That should close the case, as it were. "I think we should get him a water-- bartender?" Hand up in the air, she bounces up on her tippy-toes to be seen, because, Faranth, you're all fucking tall. The weyrling is remarkably good-natured about this manhandling, though he quickly gets his hands on P'tras', to dislodge them and place them back safely on the bar. Then he rubs his mouth, like it needs some help remembering what shape it's supposed to be. "Those? Those are your reasons?" He gives Farideh an incredulous look. But then distracted by practical concerns and giving the greenrider a look-over. Apparently, his formerly-professional judgment agrees. "Hold on, I'll get it." Because it's busy, and it's not like he doesn't know where everything is, or like giving away water is likely to get anyone in trouble, and more importantly V'ret has had at least enough to drink to make taking the matter into his own hands seem like a good plan. But not enough to have trouble find his way behind the bar. The greenrider makes a rude sound, pushing air out through his lips. "I'm fiiine." That's what drunk people say, but P'tras is perhaps too drunk to realize that right now. "They get their weyrs soon, anyway. There's this one that-- one of the guys I work with has an eye on her, if you know what I mean." Everyone probably does. He's not being very subtle. "Don't worry, Verret. Even if she won't sleep with you, lots of other people will." P'tras leans harder against the counter, absently lifting the thin bit that goes around the hip of the panties to his mouth like someone might chew in a piece of hair or a necklace. Farideh looks relieved when the weyrling offers to handle the water situation, but not so much that she refrains from stealing his seat once he's gone. "I suppose I should say it's because of Drex, but regardless, you're still-- you." She settles in on her pilfered stool, skirts smoothed by diligent fingers, and cants her head towards P'tras, who earns a bemused stare from the brunette. "They're not like weyrs. You can't just call dibs on a weyrling," she adds, conversationally. "You shouldn't-- oh, don't," aghast, about his panty-munching. Returning with a glass of water, V'ret agrees, if not entirely happily: "Yes, of course I'm still me. Now, drink, you'll feel a full fifty percent less dead later." Shifting attention in between to push the glass into P'tras' hands. Not a hundred percent; he's realistic. "Which one is that? There's more than a few pretty girls." In contrast, he seems to not consider the greenrider's new bad habit to be worth saying anything about. "You can be ready to try getting in their pants, though, can't you? I'm sure they're all getting fevered. Ones who haven't been getting it on anyway, anyway." P'tras is also realistic. He gives Farideh a strange look, though, like he has no idea what's gotten into her, even though he has to talk around the fabric. "Thanks," is not actually very enthusiastic. "Does it matter? I-- he'll probably ask all of them, anyway. You know how it goes." Completely off topic, he reaches out to try feeling the fabric of Farideh's dress between his fingers. "Your dress is pretty." "You can. It just seems weird to say it, like you're-- he's-- hunting prey. Next, you'll tell me bronzeriders don't have dirty thoughts about me only when I'm proddy," Farideh replies, wry, with half a smile. Moments later, her smile falters, and her eyes flick from P'tras, to his hand on her dress, up to V'ret, and back to P'tras. "Thank you. It's a little something from Lemos. I've never been partial to pink, but sometimes the time is right." Where's that bartender? Now, she needs a drink. "Wait. Wait." V'ret has his borrowed drink, here, and now that he's getting back to it, he's frowning. "Do you mean to say you think bronzeriders only think you're attractive when you're proddy?" Brow furrowed, clearly he isn't following that line of thought. "Anyway, that's how it is. Men and women. Men do the chasing and women like being chased. Just like dragons. Right?" Surely P'tras is going to back him up on this, says the look cast in that direction. "I'm pretty sure bronzeriders have dirty thoughts all the time," P'tras says unhelpfully. It distracts him away from feeling up Farideh's dress, though, and he looks at V'ret uncertainly. "Sure. Men like chasing. Women like being chased. Put up with it, at least. But, you know, I'd like being chased sometimes, too, I think." He has to imagine it because it probably never happens. "Not just when Ri's feeling bothered." He glances at Farideh's dress again, chewing on those panties, but he keeps his hands to himself this time. Men! Cue Farideh rolling her eyes. "I know. I was being sarcastic. Big, shiny dragons and big egos go hand in hand." She settles her gaze on the bartender -- distracted from the weyrling and the panty-chewing greenrider while she orders something to drink -- and crosses her arms over her chest snugly. "I doubt every woman likes being chased. Women like-- like Irianke. Do you really think she likes it? I can't imagine it. Or Mielline. Or Taikrin. Or--" Her voice trails off as she gives it some thought. There's a bit of a smirk, now. Real amusement. "But you're not denying that you like it," V'ret points out to Farideh, and it's downright triumphant. It's not a personal thing. It's just a being-right thing, obviously. Only slightly tempered by the odd look that P'tras gets for that last. So unhelpful. "I'm not saying there aren't some people who're..." What's a non-offensive word? "Different." If only he could say it less like that's a bad thing. "I'm just saying it's a perfectly natural state of affairs." "They're all old," is P'tras' take on the women Farideh mentions. "No one even wants to chase them. No one who isn't old, too. And you get weird when you're old. Like, your stuff doesn't work anymore." He takes a drink, but furrows his brows at V'ret while he does that. When he's done, he's had enough time to come up with, "Are you calling me different?" "I never said that I liked it. I don't think I like it. Drex has never--" This conversation should have probably never come to fruition, because now she's thinking and having all these thoughts. "You called him different," Farideh accuses V'ret, merrily, but that's due to her drink arriving then; alcohol puts a smile on everyone's face. "It's been such a lovely chat," she begins, already sliding back off the stool, "but I should go. You," to P'tras, "should have some water and a nap." Right through when Farideh cuts herself off, V'ret is following her words with avid attention. But, foiled. "Well, look, you're just the sort of exception who proves the rule," he has to defend himself, hastily. "Anyway, you see? Women. Start things and don't finish them." Somehow. "Have a nice evening. And if he didn't, well, maybe he should be trying harder." V'ret raises his glass to her parting, but he doesn't, say, actually volunteer to tell Drex this himself, at this stage. "I'm not different." P'tras may be drunk, chewing on panties he won in a card game, but he's pretty sure of that. He seems both disappointed and relieved that Farideh is starting an exit, glancing at his water and then at her. "Fine, ma. I'll get right on it." As an aside to V'ret, one that probably could've waited until the weyrwoman actually left, "If she didn't want to be chased, she wouldn't be wearing a dress that looks hard to get out of." Then, as if he's suddenly thought of the meaning of life, "Do you think she's not wearing knickers under there?" Both weyrling and greenrider get glances, which are ephemeral at best, but one of P'tras' comments has the brunette cutting him eyes; not the good kind. "No," is her farewell -- and parting gift? -- before she flits off to wherever it is goldriders who aren't allowed to ride a dragon go. (Please fill in with what I missed after I left, kthnx! :D) |
Leave A Comment