Logs:Investigating
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| RL Date: 9 March, 2009 |
| Who: Anvori, Tiriana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Tiriana does some. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 2, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'thei/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions |
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| What night at High Reaches isn't complete without a drink or two at the Snowasis, and tonight, there are clusters of riders from the various other Weyrs taking up several of the tables, some chatting, others playing cards, but all of them making merry and spending lots. From Anvori's station behind the bar, he has a clear view above the tops of heads, of the colors of Benden and Igen that decorate shoulders. But there are other bartenders to cater to the needs of the rest of the bar, Anvori has, however, claimed the dubious honor of speaking to and mixing up drinks for the counter customers themselves. And look at that, at a bar made up of mostly couples or trios of mostly cute women and some questionable men, there's one lone seat left, the single seat divider between groups, that has a bunch of coats draped over it. Tiriana is a frequent visitor, prone to hanging around the bar at least for a few minutes almost every night. Tonight, she's just arriving, glancing over the bar patrons before she spies that one seat, cluttered though it may be. She doesn't let that deter her, though, and marches up, picks up the coats, and shoves them on the man in the next seat so she can sit down. For several moments he just stares, as do the other owners of those coats, but Tiriana pays no heed and the man's not brave enough to shove them back, so they more or less get passed back out while Tiriana is ignoring the commotion and waving for Anvori. Aware of this, of Tiriana's possible, eventual visit at nights, it wouldn't be entirely out of the question to theorize that Anvori's been waiting, his patience masked behind the jovial chatter and the flattering winks he gives all those pretty girls. It could even be said he's encouraged the piling of coats and winter gear on that one lone stool, to keep it so occupied that no one else might have the audacity to move it. That would a truly heinous and calculating thing to do. /Truly/, and far too devious for a man that's the Weyrwoman's brother. As it stands, when the junior weyrwoman does arrive, he feigns preoccupation with a trio of lovely women at the corner, accepting their flirting in only the most gracious way a man such as he can -- by flirting back and giving free drinks to them while reaching out to tweak the blonde's cheek. Then, and only then, does Anvori make a casual saunter back to the center. That center where Tiriana now sits, ignoring the requests of others for refills to give his purported boss his brilliant smile and undivided attention. "What'll it be, miss?" "I hope," Tiriana says, with a tip of her head toward those flirty girls, "they're paying. Something strong." She's not in a picky mood, which seems a bad sign. "Are you busy?" Because the cloud of patrons hovering at the bar aren't enough clue. "You should take a break or something. I mean, I bet you've been working hard all night, right? And you've earned a break. They can handle it for a bit." A wave of her hand indicates the other bartenders, though she doesn't look away at them. Those hazel eyes twinkle and an easier smile finds deep brackets in the corners of his mouth. Two hands come to rest on his side of the counter, where all his various drinks and mixers lie, and into those hands, pressed along his straight-held arms, he leans, head tilting so he might spare Tiriana a wink, "S'long as someone's paying, girls like that don't have to." It's unspoken, it's not even -quite- there in his intonation, but there could be the slightest sliver of, 'but you're not one of them' layered in his easy banter. But then, he's moving again, drawing back from his lean and concocting something to suit Tiriana's apparent mood: strong and definitely not smooth. "If m'lady thinks I've earned a break, then her wishes will be granted." The drink, in its low glass is set noisily in front of the goldrider. "What'll it be?" This time, he doesn't refer to a drink. His comments draw a twitch of a smirk to Tiriana's mouth, but no more than that; she pulls the glass closer instead and takes a drink. Then, though she's just arrived, she slides off the stool and throws her own coat across it to hold the spot this time. "Have to ask you something," she says, and shoots a glance at the neighbors in pointed, if not subtle, fashion. Her destination's not far, just one of those secluded little corners off to the side; and if it's not much quieter there, then at least there aren't all those people hanging right over their shoulders. It'd be so easy not to humor her, and the thought flies fleeting in the glitter of his hazel eyes. But she's off so quickly that there's no time left to tease and shortly Anvori, after a few words to one of the other bartenders, joins her. "I imagine I'll need this," is the explanation of the glass he's brought with him, the amber-filled glass lifted so Tiriana might catch the scent of a fine, fruit brandy. "Yes," is his answer. "I've been waiting for you to come to your senses." Tiriana blinks, startled by that answer--not what she expected. Her brows knit together, and she hesitates: now that the time's come to say her piece, she doesn't seem quite so eager to do it. Instead, suspiciously, she checks, "Come to my senses about what?" Because there really are so many possible answers to that. He merely smiles. If she'll play coy to his tease, he'll affect seriousness. In that corner, he braces one long arm and hand against the wall, leaned there so he might drink from the glass held in his other. Ostensibly, it warrants them some privacy, this illusion of a tryst, and Anvori allows a moment's more silence to pass before his head chin tips downward and his tenor lowers to shatter his joke, to soothe her suspicions, "You wanted to ask me something." Glancing about the room in the intervel, Tiriana breathes out a sigh, and finally nods. "Yeah. Yes, I did," she says. "What's wrong with her?" Biting her lip, she turns back to him. The surprise he affects is not an affectation, the twinkle of his eyes extinguishing in favor of plain curiosity, backed by a quizzical comment, "What's wrong with who?" Anvori even quits leaning, righting himself slowly as his chin jerks away in what ends up being a funny look to the goldrider. "What?" Tiriana is confused now herself, and stares at Anvori. "What were we just talking about?" she demands, impatience coloring her voice now that he's decided to play /this/ game. Sincerity is lost on her. "Your sister, of course. The Weyrwoman. What's wrong with her?" Just talking about? "You. Me. Tonight. Your cherry." Even in this moment of confusion, his tease returns though without the full weight of his glittering eyes or flirtations leans, and he takes this break in tension to steal a drink from his glass. It's in the middle of this sip that his sister becomes the new subject of conversation and it takes all his composure not to spit up such precious liquor. "My sister?" Suddenly sharp, Anvori looks down upon Tiriana. "I haven't been to see her in a week, two maybe? She's been-," a beat, "Busy." So she says. Men, says Tiriana's disgusted snort. She's got an important question and all he can think about is that cherry? She shakes her head, dismisses it, and moves on without a pause. "/You/ don't even know? What kind of brother /are/ you?" she accuses, voice rising somewhat before she seems to realize and shoots another look at the various other bar-goers around. "She's--she's not right. After Fort she asked me to take her back out to Teonath." That she's disgusted, at one point in this evening, might have brought merriment to his expression; that his outrageous tease might be taken so seriously and who knows where they might have ended up had more serious matters not arisen. The fact that his brotherly responsibility for a sister who is 'not right' might be brought into question. It takes Anvori long moments to let this sink in, and more particularly that this news is coming from Tiriana. And at the mention of Teonath, his good-looking features pinch, sharp and displeased. "If she's not right. I'd know," he says more curtly now, adopting a tone far more typical and suited to Satiet, "And if she's not right, I highly doubt she'd appreciate your speculation as to her state of being." "Well, duh," Tiriana huffs, glowering as he shoots her suspicions down so neatly. "Of course she wouldn't. That's why I'm not asking her; I'm asking you." Her mouth twists up into a scowl, and she kicks at the floor. "Don't know who else /to/ ask. I can't ask her, N'thei--N'thei just won't, and everybody else..." She lifts her shoulders. Anvori changes tunes quite quickly, the intensity of his attention to Tiriana all the more obviously distracted now. He sips from his glass but fails to taste it; the sweet brandy tipped back more like water than liquor. When it's done, the the remnant drops left in an otherwise empty glass, he stands there. It's a thoughtful silence, one that pieces together what the woman before him says, the slightest piqued attention for her mention of the Weyrleader's notice of this as well, as well as his own memories. And while Tiriana earned a rebuke for her speculation, he can't help but to note aloud, tenor slow, uncertain, "She recalled me from Tillek." And Tiriana waits, her lips tight and brow furrowed, for him to come to that conclusion. "And she asked me to walk her out. And she's skinny and, and... I don't know. But something, it's not right," she finishes. He earns a hopeful look in the end, though. "So... are you going to go talk to her now?" "Always been skinny," is all Anvori says in return. He doesn't answer Tiriana's question, instead sparing the woman a sidelong once over, that at any time might be a little more leer, a little less absentminded. Or fishing. He's fishing for something from Tiriana he's unable to articulate -- a something that doesn't manifest itself, and so he's on his way back to his work. "Would've been nicer if this'd been about your cherry, you know." But from the knit of his brow, and the lackluster way in which he steps around Tiriana: yes, most likely yes, he'll go talk to her. "Wouldn't it just?" Tiriana actually agrees, with a wry twist of her lips. But as he steps around her, she moves, too, hounding his steps all the way back to the bar. "So you'll do it? That's a yes?" she demands; body language has never, after all, been her forte. Well, isn't that too bad? "No." But it's such an un-Anvori-like no. So curt, so abrupt. He pushes past her and moves back to the bar, and should she remain at that seat she's so saved with her coat (that no one's touched), he won't pay her much more attention tonight. Tiriana glares at him, and she mutters under her breath, "Bastard." But she's not staying now; her errand accomplished, she snatches up her coat again and stalks back out of doors, pulling it on as she goes. |
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