Logs:Trouble in Paradise
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| RL Date: 4 July, 2016 |
| Who: T'gar, Castivan |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Southern Area |
| Type: Log |
| What: T'gar offers an escape route, Castivan gets himself into trouble. |
| Where: The Cove Tavern, Southern Contenent |
| When: It is a winter dusk, of day 2, month 2, turn 41 of Interval 10 |
| OOC Notes: Feel free to edit as needed. |
From a distance, the place doesn't look like much. The path from the harbor snakes through the jungle until at last opening wide to the glittering white sands and open waters. The sloping shapes of the sandstone cliffs reach above the jungle canopy, and in the face, the main entrance to the tavern gapes wide; granting its patrons a clear view of the water just a stone's throw away. Oil fueled torches to light the interior, a faint haze added to their golden light. casting shadows on the battle-scarred tables and chairs where rough looking patrons gather to drink or gamble. A raised platform in one corner serves as a fight ring when the occasion calls for it and alternately a stage for the musicians who play on occasion. The long bar at the back and kitchens are always bustling, the smell of liquor and greasy food lending to the smoky atmosphere. Raucous laughter and the smell of cheap beer hang heavy in the air, echoing off the cavern walls. Already the Tavern is filling up quickly with rough looking characters from all walks of life filling the tables to drink, gamble or fuck away the day's wages. Among them, a young trader sits, a leggy brunette perched happily in his lap, one arm snagged about her waist while he holds his cards in the other hand. Blue eyes focused on the task at hand, there's a crooked slant on his mouth as he stares down his tablemates. "You ain't got shit. Call." The cards are laid down, and he curses as a man built like a watch wher reveals a Royal flush, scraping his marks up across the table. "Guess tonight just isn't your lucky night kid." Of course, belonging to this rough sort of crowd is none other than T'gar. With riding leathers being the only thing to hint at him being a dragonrider, the bronzerider shoulders his way in to get a lay of the tavern. His destination? The bar - where he can get something to drink while he works the crowd over with his scrutiny. It almost seems as though he is looking for someone. "Just one more hand." Castivan murmurs, the woman in his lap vacating her seat and heading to the bar. His eyes track her, noting the newcomer in the process before looking back to the men at the table. "You sure kid?" The man grins sharklike. T'gar has already ordered his drink as he leans back on an elbow, casually perusing the crowd about him. It seems as though whoever he's waiting for must not have arrived, for the urgency in his hunt seems to have gone from his eyes. "Haven't seen Narcia lately," the bar tender on duty returns to him with a comment, handing over a mug of something amber-colored. "Don't tell me she's been shacking up with that man I saw her leave with that night." - "You're right," Rat is easy to answer him, nodding in thanks for the drink before bringing it to his lips. Something makes him stop though, adding, "Wasn't he a trader? I believe he was. She's always had a thing for the roaming sort." There's the casual study of the table where Castivan is. "I can't exactly return to the caravan empty handed." The Kiev trader remarks, fingers drumming the table. "One more hand." Rubbing the palms of his hands on his trousers, Castivan smirks. "Deal me in." A glance is exchanged between the dealer and a few of the other players, and the cards get dealt out one by one. Scooping up his cards, the smirk fades and his eyes narrow. "Thought so." He mutters hand snapping across the table to grab the dealer's wrist revealing the cards hidden there. "So you assholes gonna give my marks back?" "You would know more than me," the bartender is telling T'gar with a grin, his own gaze grazing over the table where Castivan is. This good-natured smile was starting slip - as if he knew something was about to go down. T'gar shakes his own head as he drinks, catching where the bartender was looking and follows his gaze over towards the table. After a moment, "Trouble?" he asks low enough for only the bartender to hear, to which the other man grunts before answering back, "Could be." In retrospect, Castivan should have expected the impact to his jaw at the very least he thought as he tried to figure out why he was suddenly looking at the ceiling. In the process the table flipped, and crashed into another. If the place wasn't as packed it might not have made a difference, but in a matter of moments fists started flying, and Castivan found himself rolling away to avoid having his head stomped in. The fists start flying and T'gar's leaning back on his stool, seeming content in staying out of it with his mug of ale. "HEY!!" the bartender's shouting, slapping the white washing rag over one shoulder as he starts to make his way from behind the counter. "I told you turds that fighting goes outside! OUTSIDE! Fists OUTSIDE!! Can't nobody read...." Apparently there's a crudely carved sign posted outside the tavern. Either way, the bronzerider's chuckling to himself as he watches the table erupt - the card table that started it all. "Pretty sure these guys never had much in the way of harper lessons Moe." Castivan calls to the bar tender, scrambling to his feet just in time to avoid getting kicked. If the Kiev trader snags the bag of marks that landed nearby in the process, well maybe nobody will notice. Except that big and ugly does; "You really got a death wish, don't you kid." But Castivan, is already ducking through the crowd toward the entrance, his path sending him in the direction of the bar in the process, and if he accidentally bumps into anyone in the process of making his escape, well. Moe is already infront of the counter now, and this time he has a smooth wooden stick in his hand. "My old fucking' granny could read that!" he tosses back at Castivan, glaring through the throwing fists. "Or I can always offer the short version with this!" Yeah, this being the wooden pole he has in hand. As for who Castivan bumps into? Well, T'gar was in the process of downing his mug when it suddenly goes flying out of his hand. What he sees instead is Castivan's face in the bump. He looks momentarily annoyed as the ale gets all over his riding jacket, looking very much like he's about the join the fray in knocking the young man down. "Didn't anyone ever teach you how to exit a brawl better?" he tosses at Castivan instead, leaning pass him to pluck the wash rag from Moe's shoulder. "Well I did try waltzing out once." Cas manages glancing back over his shoulder, "Problem is I'm pretty sure those three over there aren't alone." Shifting to where T'gar's now in the path. "Stupid and ugly it's a winning combination," He calls as a taunt fueling the drunken rage of his pursuers even more. "50/50 split man if you want to help keep me from getting dead in the next thirty minutes." He calls to T'gar before bounding in the direction of the exit, stumbling over tables and people as he goes. "Then instead of waltzing," with heavy emphasis on the latter from T'gar as he wipes his jacket down, "and going right out into another fight, try the back? If you're nice enough to Moe." The taunting is not helping, either, and the bronzerider shakes his head at Castivan when he goads his pursuers. He's still shaking his head at the offer and the young man heads on passed him snorting as Moe sidles up with one of the pursuers in hands and calls out, "Hey, that boy hasn't even paid for those drinks! That 50/50 better be the split for what he owes me!" - "Typical," Rat grunts as he slaps the washrag on the countertop. "Hey, Rat! Get that boy!" the bartender is being insistent and even said Rat's returned look is not working. "Fine," he relents, pushing back his stool and heading on out after Castivan in not much hurry at all. He doesn't get the chance to explain that getting them out of the bar for Moe was the entire point. The whole fists outside thing. Granted might have been more effective if Cas had any sense of grace at all. Instead he lands himself outside with at least one of the pursuers hot on his heels and backed up against the cliff face. "Come on now, I'm not the one who was pulling a hustle man, that was all you guys." Trying to figure out a way out of the situation he'd backed himself into. T'gar follows the wild and merry chase outside until he spies Castivan trapped. There's the same wooden pole in his hand that he twirls while he whistles - likely having gotten it from Moe - his steps heavy but slow as he approaches the pursuer from behind. He could be aiming for a sneak attack, except - "You know," he says, his Bitran accent a strong one, "I thought I saw you mother in there just now, heading towards the back with one of your friends." He's aiming it at the man pursuing Castivan, and it's likely meant to be a sting. "How about you go on in there and take care of it while I have a chat with my new friend here?" He nods to Castivan. Cas isn't entirely sure he wants to be T'gar's new friend, since the guy's got the stick and all. But since for the moment he seems to be on the Kiev trader's side he's not going to complain. Ugly turns planning to swing, at least until he see's the stick in T'gar's hands. Realizing that he's outnumbered two to one he spits into the sand. "This ain't over kid. Not by a long shot." He calls to Castivan as he's headed back into the bar, either to go back to drinking or get reinforcements. Cas curses under his breath, "I suppose I can hope he forgets after the bender, but I imagine He'll come looking for me soon enough." Still true to his work Cas fishes out a handful of marks stuffing them into the pouch at his belt before tossing the pouch containing the remainder at T'gar. "What I promised, and Moe's money for the drinks." He comments scrubbing his face as he glances nervously back at the bar. T'gar snorts at the ugly man's parting shot towards Castivan, watching him leave as he casually hefts the makeshift weapon. To Castivan's comment, and the offer of marks, the bronzerider gives him a look before catching the tossed pouch. "Moe can wait," is his comment on the man getting his money back. "I can't. It's going to take me a seven a get the smell of ale out of my jacket. This should compensate enough. You'll just have to owe Moe for the rest." The thief has a smile, at least, and he's good-natured in gesturing out away from the bar before saying, "Looks like you need an escape plan. I can provide that. Free of charge." Since he's charging for everything else, it seems. "Doesn't really seem like I have all that many options, does it?" The trader frowns, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. Shouts from inside the bar however add to the sense of urgency, "What's this plan of yours?" "No, it doesn't," T'gar readily agrees with the young man's first question. The shouts doesn't seem to bother him - after all, he's not the one in trouble - so once Castivan asks, there's a light shrug and a, "Well, I've got a dragon. What better plan is there? I can drop you off at the Weyr in the Reaches where I'm at. What you do with your freedom from that point on is up to you, but....were I you, I would probably lay low under the skirts of a Weyr for awhile until this blows over." Castivan frowns, scrubbing at his chin. "I don't really see how I have any choice but to take you up on your offer." A muttered curse slips under his breath. "I'm going to regret this aren't I?" Looking himself over once as though considering what other options he might have had available. "You always have a choice," Rat lets him know, taking the start of a languid journey back towards his waiting dragon farther away. He seems to expect the other to follow. "Some choices just happens to be smarter than others." Pause. "In any case," he continues to say as he heads off toward Asaroth, "at least this regret, you'll live to see another day." |
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