Logs:Unmanned
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| RL Date: 29 December, 2015 |
| Who: Jo, Kh'tyr |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A bluerider and a brownrider meet in a bar and banter. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions, Mirinda/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions, Olivya/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Crudeness. Also, Kh'tyr is an overreaching asshole who doesn't want to eat his words and beg Olivya for a job (which is to say all of this is purely IC). Throw rocks at him. |
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>---< Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr(#555RJ) >----------------------------------<
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.
It's a busy night in the Snowasis. A few wings are together, engaged in activities like cards and dart games while weyrfolks mingle around with drinks and flirtacions combined. Decked in dark leather, Jo is at the bar with her hip leaning against it as if she's waiting on her drink. Her dark gaze don't settle on any one section of the bar, seeming to take in the full atmosphere of Snowasis activity. Kh'tyr almost never fails to look like he rolled out of someone else's bed and tonight is no different. His shirt is half-tucked in under the brown riding jacket that is serviceable but has probably been in use for at least a decade. His hair flops this way and that with little more rhyme or reason than there seems to be to his appearance in Snowasis, what with his total lack of knot where there's a wear pattern from turns of wearing one dutifully. "Do you mind?" is asked carelessly even as the brownrider slips into place beside the dark leather clad wingsecond. It's a good tactic as drink getting goes, when the bartender comes with hers, he can ask for his. The bartender arrives right when Kh'tyr does, and Jo shifts to look back at him and give him a bit of space as a round of shots appear before her. She turns to gesture to someone in the crowd, then gestures towards the round of shots on the large plate before passing over payment. "Your turn to buy tonight, huh?" the male bartender comments to her, to which the wingsecond gives him one of those exasperated-but-not-really-so looks as she remains at the bar. "I owe'em," is all she answers verbally, passing a look towards the new arrival beside her and his worn riding leathers. The bartender looks to Kh'tyr now, too with an air of expectation. "Lose a bet, wingsecond?" Kh'tyr asks conversationally, as if he were invited to their private conversation, placing subtle emphasis on Jo's title, even as he looks to the bartender, studying him briefly, "Bottom-shelf Igen firewater, double," he requests, without a please, but not rudely. At the title, Jo eyes the shoulderknot sitting on her shoulder with a slight frown before murmuring, "I knew I forgot to do somethin'...." The bartender nods to Kh'tyr's request and heads off with a look towards Jo, and she in turn eyes the newcomer now with her gaze flicking briefly over his threads. "I hardly lose anythin' darlin'," is her answer to that as someone (the girl sports the same sort of wingknot Jo has on without the rank) arrives to take the shots back to the designated table. "It's just my turn to buy the rounds for my wing. 'Less ya wanna buy'em for me," she adds, since he's placed himself into her business witha slight smirk on her face. Kh'tyr wiggles his eyebrows, looking askance at the bluerider at her murmur. He watches the girl come and go, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the bartop without any apparent conscious notice. His answer comes without pause, without thought, "Please. Do I look like I can afford you, let alone you and your entire wing? I did say bottom shelf, didn't I?" In one, he double-checks his bluerider, genuinely, with the bluerider and highlights his brokeness. "Now, if you'd like to buy for me, I'm a cheap date and I only get handsy after--" he makes a show of thinking about that, brown eyes on the bluerider in a way that might be entirely for show, even leaning to brazenly check out her ass, "two drinks. Normally five." Call it the Jo discount. "If ya couldn' afford any shelf in place," Jo counters, "then ya'd be outside at one of those dives instead of here. There's cheaper places to get yer booze." She snorts on the rest of what he says, the bartender arriving with Kh'tyr's drink. She waits until the tender moves on before she states, "I don' buy for strangers, stranger. I like my marks to work for me. Like buyin' a greenrider a drink, knowin' they'll put out later. Yer ain' from around here." The last is an observation, and one can believe that she's casually checking him out just as much as he does her as she grabs a nearby glass of something amber in color. "Ah!" Kh'tyr holds up a single finger to make the point, "It's all about location." Then he frowns, perhaps correcting, "Or proximity." One or the other. Possibly both. He fishes through two pockets before producing marks to pay for his drink. "It happens that here is the only place I know any living goldriders, and that's apparently the sort of thing that gets otherwise well-qualified people the jobs that they want." So obviously a double of Igen's roughest will make any job interview he might have or boldly be seeking go much better. "Goldriders," Jo echoes that, a pique of interest as she takes a drink. "Now I don' see no fancy knot," she notes, her gaze falling where one could be. "I don' see anythin' on ya that would tie ya to the Weyr. What sorta job yer qualified for that they need seein' to? Lookin' to be one of their boytoys?" It's an open tease, but the serious curiosity if veiled there as well. "No you don't," see a knot and what a very excellent point Jo raises, the brownrider's tone says. Kh'tyr lifts his drink and knocks it back in a pair of swallows, shivering and shaking in the wake of it. He leans then a little toward Jo, manner conspiratorial, "Fort's new Weyrwoman has given the Weyrlingmaster's knot to her boytoy greenriding girl," if he's going to gossip, he might as well spread all the rumors at once. "Or maybe she's the Weyrleader's boytoy greenriding girl," he waves his hand like it's one of those and it doesn't really matter which. "Unfortunately, the goldrider I've come to see quite unmanned me in my tender youth and I've never quite recovered enough to be boytoy material. Still, an unmanning must be worth something as a professional bargaining chip, mustn't it?" The way he grins at her and wiggles a thick brow speaks of more than a drop of madness. Perhaps he just has nothing to lose. Jo's brow lifts as she listens, the rim of her glass lingering close to her lips through it all. Towards the end there's low laughter from her along with a, "'N ya think ya were destined to be Weyrlin'master, so ya came all the way here," she states to all that, seeming amused by something Kh'tyr says. The looks she's sending him is of the 'you? Weyrlingmaster?' variety, but nothing gets voiced. Rather, "Sucks to be you, darlin'," she notes now, briskly. "We already got one of those here. Ya'd have to fight Quinlys for the role'n she's had it for turns. Which weyrwoman ya were an unmanned boytoy to?" "Destined-" Kh'tyr almost laughs, but his tone clearly makes mock of the word, "Faranth, no, but do I think I could fight Quinlys and win?" He exaggeratedly leans a little from side to side, using his hand's grip on it to keep him steady on his feet. Who can say? the gesture asks. "Tell me, Wingsecond, do you always judge a book by its cover?" That's lower, somehow provocative. "And rumor has it that Quinlys was stupid enough to do Irianke a bad turn when she first arrived, and my bad turn was done turns and turns ago, so perhaps she's forgiven and forgotten," even he doesn't believe that, "but I might stand half a chance. If a man doesn't ask, a man doesn't get." Not even an unmanned man. "Really, did you think any of your other goldriders were around in my tender youth?" He might think she's too kind for that. "Have ya seen Quinlys?" Jo puts to him, facing Kh'tyr fully now. "She's a beast. I doubt ya can take her." Even still, that smile grows. As to his question of judging, there's a roll of one shoulder before she answers back, "I judge whoever prefers to call me by my rank rather than anythin' else, Fort. Even more still." Her tone's at least a little playful at that as she drinks and keeps him in her sights. Her expression doesn't change upon hearing which weyrwoman he means, the bluerider setting the glass down and stating, "'N how did Irianke un-man ya that she would replace her with you? Lemme buy ya 'nother," she gestures towards his glass now before signaling for the bartender. The last question gets a non-chalant shrug and a simple, "Weyrs are weird." "Weyrs are weird," Kh'tyr agrees, "But turns are very straight forward. One, then the next, on and on from there. Passes and Intervals start to get a little weird but my lifetime exists only in one, so." One can dismiss the more complex orderings of time. "Not that I'd ever refuse a free drink, she-who-would-rather-be-called...?" He gives a little pause for for her to answer if she'd like to, "but you might be a little premature; I might not put out. Unless you think I've earned the drink already," he feigns for her a look of innocence that sits ill with his experienced features. Still, he must mean putting out about Irianke for he doesn't answer that, saying instead, "I've seen Quinlys," a pause, "from a distance," like a stalker, "but I'll give you that redheads are always dangerous. It was a redhead that led me to Fort, stole me away from Igen with not more than a look and a murmur of mysteries." He sighs, almost wistfully. "What can I say, I never seem to have very much to lose in life." Then, now-- it doesn't seem to matter when. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Smartass," Jo drawls to his answer, smirking. "Name's Jo," she gives then before the bartender arrives and she tells her, "Refresh his'n mine. It's on me. Are ya lookin' to put out? I could just be buyin' to keep ya talkin'," she notes, wry. "'N anyway," she goes on to add as she drains her glass, "if ya got nothin' to lose, then ya should have nothin' to hide either. I'm startin' to think yer just pullin' one over me, just to get free drinks." The very drink that arrive a moment later for them both that she's tosses a mark at. "Anyone nowadays can walk on in here'n claim they know our Weyrwoman." "Unmanned men are rarely worth taking to bed," Kh'tyr holds up a hand so that a single oh so limp index finger can dangle just far enough free of the curled rest to make a point. It's like a come off where one might normally expect a come on, particularly given his earlier handsiness-to-drink-ratio accounting. "Tell me, Jo," he lets her name pop a little, fun on his tongue, the way he says it, "do you go 'round telling every stranger every intimate thing you might've known or learned in your--" he squints at her, assessing a moment, and then guesses, "29 turns?" Still, he throws her a bone: "We Impressed together," Irianke and he. It might be the payment for the drink he reaches for readily. "You might've sprung for mid shelf." He grumbles into the glass before he drinks, slower this time. "Too old to get it up, ya mean?" Jo takes his words at that, watching the bartender as he moves about. "Really sucks to be ya. I don'," she answers now his question, turning to look at him with that lopsided grin. "But I ain' runnin' 'round here admittin' ya got some connection to our Weyrwoman, either. Makes us Reachians suspicious. Ya could be out to kill her for all I know." But he does manage to answer her and give her something, and it help to slake some of her curiosity. Well, enough to state, "Impressed? Interestin'. Ya sure she'll even remember ya, then, stranger? I'm sure that's been a long time ago. If ya tell me more, I might spring for the mid shelf." She is practical, this one. "Ancient," Kh'tyr confirms, blithely unconcerned, but he'll lift his glass to agree just how much it sucks to be him, limp dick or no. "Well, you Reachians have a great deal more of that kind of thing than anywhere I've ever been, so perhaps you can be forgiven for your paranoia. "There was a time I wanted to, surely. That woman has a way of inspiring passions." Rage being one of those. "I expect she'll remember. I'm a memorable sort of fellow." He adds, "Kh'tyr," in case she needs to remember him. "What do you want to know? What dear Irianke was like as a young goldrider? What her favorite subjects were in her lessons? The grand and extensive list of every man who fell over their feet punch drunk in love with her?" "What can I say? We're a hardy lot'n suspicious of outsiders," Jo has no apology for Reachian paranoia, though it could be a tease at this point. There's evena soft snort given on Irianke inspiring passions, her answer oddly sober: "Ya ain' lyin' there, 'least." Pause. "Kh'tyr," she echoes his name with a slow nod of her head before taking a leisurely drink. "Lemmee guess, Kh'tyr. Bronzerider? Brown? Yer too sure of yerself'n yer ego to be anythin' else. What I wanna know," she goes on to say, "not that anythin' of that would be not useful, but....my earlier question." She steps to him, half-filled glass in hand as she looks over his facial features before meeting his gaze. "Answer it'n a mid shelf drink is yers." "I was sure of myself and my ego long before Mograith," Kh'tyr tells her with cavalier dismissal. "Brown," he'll give her that one for free. Over the top of his glass he'll ask with innocently lifted brows, "Which earlier question?" Presumably the one he didn't answer, but he might not, now, remember which that was. "Brown," Jo echoes that answer, seeming satisfied. "I would've thought bronze. Mograith, is it?" And that earlier question? "How did our Weyrwoman unmanned ya that ya would think to replace our Weyrlin'master?" "How very colorist of you," Kh'tyr replies with no hint as to whether or not that's a compliment or not. He finishes off the last of this free drink and leans a little more toward her, "I'm afraid I can't." He seems sorry for not getting that third drink. "The question is flawed." There's a pause, and he murmurs, quietly, "Besides, I'd not rob you or her of the chance to see each other's faces," he then suddenly affects Jo's accent with exceptional skill, "if'n y'were t'ask her 'bout me, darlin'." Shaking her head, "Not at all," Jo disagrees, seeming to revel in their banter. Head tilts a bit to the side when Kh'tyr answers the last, a 'tsking' sound of her tongue clicking against her teeth possibly heard in response. "Disappointin'," she says to that as she looks away, settling against the bar counter once more. "If only she'n I were on speakin' terms." Looking at the brownrider from Fort once more, "Looks like yer secret's safe this day," she says, not sounding that disappointed. "Good luck with all that, though, darlin'. Ya likely might need it in regards to her." She drains her glass and sets it down. "No doubt," comes with a measure of certainty but humor, too. Kh'tyr leans back, looking at the bluerider, "Look me up, if you're in the area. If I ever get a job again," which certainly having Mograith will help him to at some point, "I'll return the favor." That has him setting the empty glass down on the counter and moving to slip away, giving her a devilish smirk and a tongue-in-cheek, "Wingsecond," as parting shot before he's heading for the bowl. "If I'm in the area," Jo returns, stepping away from the bar. "Perhaps ya should charm that new Weyrwoman of yers, hm? Fort." She nods him off with that, watching Kh'tyr leave before she herself finally makes it over to her wing's table - just in time to order another round of shots. |
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