Logs:Fayre Talks a Lot
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 2 September, 2008 |
| Who: Fayre, Oysric, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 20, Month 8, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| 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. Working. N'thei's working tonight, not just ogling the waitstaff. A set of instructions open on the empty end of the bar, the part not packed with people-- of course, if he wasn't taking up one end of the bar, the other end wouldn't be so packed, but who's going to point that out to him? Drinks, merriment, the usual fare go on around him while he frowns at the instructions and holds a pipe-wrench in one hand and a pipe in the other. The simplest concepts elude him. Oysric was in the garden patio ledge, but now he's in the Snowasis apparently, moving fluidly from one place to the next with a mug in his right hand. Empty, by the looks of it, or he wouldn't be holding it all willy-nilly like that. He looks to the bar, making a slow sweep of the situation. He tries not to make it noticable, but by all rights the double-take he does is as such as he notes the Weyrleader working. "Don't you have people to do that for you?" Oys asks, sidling up to the man. He cants his head to the side as his eyes flicker from the pipe to the wrench. Psh, patio ledge. Potted plants and uncomfortable seats. In here is where it's at! --N'thei glances up toward the sound of a voice directed at him specifically, his eyes shifted upward while his chin stays down to make it easier to resume trying to sort out the plans for whatever-it-is that are unfolded in front of him. "Volunteering?" As an excuse for his ineptitude, the plans are hardly simple in design. "You think a stablehand would know better?" Oysric asks N'thei, brows twitching upwards at the question. He shrugs and pushes his sleeves up a bit and kneels down to look at the work at hand. "What're you actually doing?" Apparently he is volunteering. N'thei asks after a snort, "Than a bronzerider? I think there's a good chance." He drops the bit of copper, the wrench on top of the instructions, bracketing the well-worn hide so it stays down neatly at the edges. What-exactly-he's-doing is standing there right now; what he's trying to do, evidently, is build a still. "Got a friend, more like a friend of my father," Oys offers. "... who helped work on one of these turns back. Nabol, if I remember." The stablehand puts his mug on the bar or wherever he can, really, at this point. All the better to be able to use both hands. "Think you're screwing it wrong..." he explains, pointing out the flaw by using the visual aid of the instructions. "... here." Beat. "Bigger pipe goes... there." More gesturing ensues toward the visual aid. Fayre heads in from the patio ledge. Fayre has arrived. N'thei coughs briefly into his fist and repeats, none-too-subtly, "Screwing it wrong." Ah, nursery-room humor never dies. But he pays close-enough attention to what Oysric's trying to explain, the two of them at one end of the bar-- the other end being extra-busy since they've commandeered a good stretch-- going over what look like fairly elaborate plans for something-or-another, probably involving the bit of copper pipe and the wrench nearby. "All this effort for booze," he adds over a sigh, eyes cast down the bar where people drink without concern for the hard work involved. Oysric smirks once at N'thei, dryly replying back to him: "Thought you might like that." He's kneeling now, gesturing to instructions written on hide. Or rather, he was. Now he's got a pipe in hand. "Hand me the wrench?" he asks the bronzerider. "Think I know how to fix this bit, here." And then, finally, to N'thei: "Could be worse. Could be in my brother's Weyr, where the bar's partly closed and under construction." Fayre comes tromping in from the patio ledge, her footfalls particularly exaggerated as if she just assumes High Reaches Weyr requires such, even when there's no snow to shake off from her boots. She abruptly stops near the entrance, making the flow of traffic have to weave around her while she peers around this unfamiliar bar and takes in the sights. With a long suffering sigh she mutters under her breath, "The shardin' construction better be worth it. Gotta come all the way to 'Reaches..." She grumbles all the way to the bar, where she's confronted with a new challenge--to go to the crowded side, or the side where it looks like people are doing something important. After overhearing Oysric's last words, she makes her decision and scoots over that way. "Oy! You talkin' 'bout my Weyr? Either way, Ista's duties to ya." "Bar probably didn't agree with your brother's sensibilities about how a Weyr should be run, damn idiot." N'thei keeps talking despite the fact that Fayre's come in, despite the fact that she must be recognizable as an Istan. "No, we're talking about your Weyrleader." He makes the distinction with a meticulously polite smile that looks about as out-of-place as-- well, an Istan in a Reachian bar. One look to N'thei, then back to Fayre, then once more to N'thei where he asks: "Why do people always seem to misprounce my name?" There's a long suffering sigh, telling Fayre: "It's /Oysric/." Pronounced like OZ-rick. Or at least, that's the way it sounds when he says it. To N'thei, the stablehand smirks, seemingly accepting of N'thei's talking. There's the sound of metal on metal as he continues his apparent volunteer hours with the Weyrleader and his project by the bar. This Istan is desperate for a bar, even if it has to be Reachian one! "Right. My /Weyr/leader. Which would mean my /Weyr/, wouldn't it?" Fayre counters with a huff, her arms crossing to add to the harumph effect. "Er...and I'm /Fayre/." She also accentuates her name, though she doesn't seem to know why, exactly, she's doing it other than to copy Oysric. "Nice to meet you." The words are kind, but the tone of her voice doesn't quite match the warm sentiments. "What do ya drink 'round...these...parts?" "Are you actually," N'thei begins with slow amusement blooming first in his expression, then his voice. Of course, his amusement still seems ominous in its way, but he settles an elbow on the bar, content to let Oysric do the work for him, and watches Fayre with a mild-seeming smile. "Trying to get uppity about /your/ Weyr at /my/ Weyr." Question; demand; it all comes out sounding the same from him. The what-do-you-drink is left for someone else to answer. Maybe Oysric? "Your /Weyr/leader," Oysric repeats, adding the inflection like Fayre. "My /brother/." He looks over his shoulder from the clanging, telling Fayre: "In High Reaches, it doesn't matter -what- we drink, it's -how much-." He actually gives both N'thei and Fayre a grin at that, and then it's back to doing the work he seems to have in control now. "Hey, hey. I'm just here to get a drink! Not start a brawl or someodd." Fayre explains hastily, her shoulders begin to shoot up and tighten with tension. "I just thought you were talkin' 'bout Ista. And you sorta were, weren'tcha?" Finally the kin relationship between Oysric and A'son clicks. "Oh! He's your /brother/? Neato." There's the smallest of pauses before Fayre barrels ahead, "Got any good dirt on him? Siblings always have dirt on each other!" So she just came here to drink, not to brawl, that doesn't mean N'thei has to be nice, does it? "If we were, or sorta-were, wouldn't that have made it our conversation." Unsaid-- and not /her/ conversation? The issue of dirt-on-A'son has his eyebrows climbing silently, has his attention suddenly returned to the best laid plans. "You came here to get a drink and not start a brawl?" Oysric asks, dry. "Where do you think you are?" To Fayre's dawning realization and subsequent questions, the stablehand merely rolls his eyes and returns to the project at hand. No need to even humour the woman /or/ the Weyrleader on the matter of stories of his brother. "I'm at the Snowasis...ain't I?" Fayre asks, very obviously not getting it. Her gaze flicks over to all those tempting bottles of alcohol, all of them so wonderfully clean. "It's nice not to have sawdust everywhere, y'know? Was drinkin' a fruit mixture the other day and wham! Sawdust in my mouth. Can ya imagine getting a splinter from that? Eck." Her request for gossip is handily forgotten, as she's now busy babbling. She suddenly looks N'thei over and comments, "You're tall. Didn't know." No comment regarding sawdust, and the one he has about his height probably ought to have been skipped too; "You run your mouth a lot. Didn't know." N'thei's fingernail scrapes down the hide, digs a groove in where he must mean to pick up later, lifts when he does to frown across the bar at Fayre. "Don't just stare. Order." He glances, long-suffering, at Oysric before moving away like he'll play bartender tonight. "Maybe that Kip of yours will make a drink just for you, more sawdust than booze," Oysric answers. "And name it something clever." To Fayre's last statement and N'thei's subsequent response, comes the stablehand's snicker, thankfully masked by the clang of more metal-on-metal action. Another snicker, thankfully masked yet again by the clang of metal as he sees N'thei's look. Fayre isn't the least bit offended by the Weyrleader's returning remark; rather, she seems quite pleased, judging by the wide grin that forms on her face. "Oh! Yeah, I get that a lot. But I figure it's better to chat with folks than stare coldly at them or whatever. Y'know, make them feel welcome. And Ista's hot, right? So my personality should be warm! And 'Reaches is cold, so..." The goldrider trails off and coughs lightly, not-so-subtly changing the topic."Er, what do you suggest, Weyrleader?" She shoots Oysric an unhappy frown and grimaces. She's unusually short when she answers, "No." "See." N'thei shakes his head, deeply disappointed. "That's the problem I have with your Sandbar. Clever names for drinks why?" Says the man standing in the Snowasis-- the mother of all clever names. But then he turns to Fayre, frowns; "Suggest you order something, and I don't particularly care what it is so long as you can pay for it." Arms crossed, he waits. Impatiently. Oysric grins briefly at hearing Fayre's short answer. Apparently he's favorable to short answers as opposed to the longer ones. One last metal clang. "Looks good, N'thei," Oys calls out. "Should be working now." The stablehand stands up now, leaving whatever project he'd been working on before to study Fayre more closely at his full height. "In case it didn't sink in with all the talking, I'm Oysric," he offers to Fayre. He looks at his hand, greased as it is from the wrenching and such and reluctantly wipes it on his pants, cleaning his hand but getting his clothes dirty. There's a sound at the back of his throat as he notes stains already there from kneeling. But with his hand clean he lifts it to shake Fayre's hand, amiable-like. N'thei gets a sidelong look and a laugh. Then, in openly amused tone: "If you weren't the Weyrleader and enormously tall, I'd kiss you." Was that mug he'd been drinking full of hard liquor? Fayre only now peers curiously at what is causing all this clanging. She's no expert on metal and tubing, though, so the 'rider goes back to ignoring whatever all that is. "Erm. Can I just have...water?" She asks meekly, giving N'thei a pitiful--and somewhat suspicious--look. "I can, ah, still pay you for water. If ya want." She happily shakes Oysric's hand, not the least put off by whatever grease and dirt has gotten caked onto his skin. "And if you missed my name, it's Fayre. Junior weyrwoman from Ista." Her eyebrows shoot skywards and her glance flicks between the two. "Woah, wha-? I didn't know you swung that way, N'thei." "Neither did I," with a sideways look at Oysric, who better steer clear now because N'thei's masculinity is unimpeachable and staying that way. Water, which costs nothing, annoys the bronzerider as much as anything, and he pours a glass that splashes on to the bar before it gets shoved accusingly across at Fayre, Junior weyrwoman from Ista. His "Thanks" to Oysric is absent, his distraction returned while he turns to the mess of now-connected pipes with a renewed frown. "... Water," Oysric dryly repeats. "What an adventurous choice... Fayre." He uses her name because apparently he didn't pay attention the first time, so the second time it is said it sinks in. He looks back to the mess of now-connected pipes, turning his back to Fayre for the moment. "What now?" Oys asks N'thei. Apparently he doesn't need any thanks because he's not looking for any. He smirks once at Fayre and N'thei's one-two dialogue on N'thei's impeachable masculinity. "Was meaning to be funny," he tosses out to the pair of riders. Just in case his own masculinity was in question. Fayre turns pale as she watches the unhappy pouring and ensuing splash. Her right hand sneaks forward to grab the glass, while her left arm hastens to mop the water up with her sleeve. "Um, well, I just don't know what y'guys have! Y'said yourself, we got lots of funny cute names for our drinks back home. So how do I know what you call yours?" She meekly sips at her water, making loud slurping noises as she does so--probably out of nervousness more than anything. "Oh. Okay." She eyes N'thei and takes a big gulp of her water to work up the bravery to comment, "'cause, um, you sure don't seem to like me too much. And I'm a woman. And you like Oysric. And he...ain't a woman." Let's get one thing straight here; "Don't like Oysric either. Tolerate his presence because he doesn't talk too much and seems to get a decent amount of work done." Like this evening, leaving N'thei to collect the now-functional pipes with one hand and wad up the instructions and the wrench with the other. Grave and sudden with a twitch after the slurping-- "I have to leave now." A nod to Fayre, baleful eyes, a nod to Oysric, very bland, and he pushes into the bar's back-room, where clanging and cursing ensues almost immediately. |
Leave A Comment