Logs:Professional Alcoholism
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| RL Date: 3 April, 2013 |
| Who: Z'ian |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Tillek Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: Getting information at Tillek is a nasty, nasty business. Literally. |
| Where: Tillek Hold |
| When: Day 2, Month 6, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Braeden/Mentions, Carilee/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions, Edeline/Mentions, N'gan/Mentions, Tomaeran/Mentions |
| Storyteller: K'del/ST |
| The ubiquitous morning fog has begun to dissipate over Tillek, clearing away into a cool-but-pleasant summer morning. From the air, it's possible to see ships at port, over at the docks, and those already heading out to sea on the morning tide. There are the grapes, too, row after row of vine spreading outwards and inland, and then the collection of Hold buildings. The banners are up: Edeline and family are in residence, though that is certainly no surprise. Far below, the residents of Tillek go about their morning business. A 'Reaches dragon coming over Tillek would normally not be so unusual, but things have been strained since the hatching. So it might not be a surprise that the dragon doesn't come landing directly in the Hold proper. Instead Tsanth comes to ground in a patch of empty space, somewhere near to the docks. Z'ian dismounts and loses about eight layers of clothing and begins his winding trip through the outskirts. Dressed down casually, he might not even look like a rider straight off. There's no knot or wing badge to identify him. So once that dragon is far off in the distance, he should blend in amongst the rest of the locals. His path takes him on a winding path towards one of the local dockside bars and he seems comfortable enough in the route he's taking. Although Tsanth's landing is certainly noticed, by the time Z'ian makes it as far as the docks themselves, there's no one in a position to obviously connect the man to the dragon. Probably. The bars closest to the docks are on the seedier side of things, and relatively quiet given the time of day - still, there's at least one drunk passed out over a table, and a few more on their third-beer-of-the-day-at-least in a far corner. The bartender is polishing dirty glasses with an equally dirty cloth, sitting on a stool behind the bar with a proprietary gaze over his establishment. It's such a nice time of day to hang out in a relatively dank bar full of professional alcoholics. Z'ian enters the first one, heading to the counter and giving the room around him a quick glance. Dropping down onto one of the creaky stools, he drops his elbows down. The one he chooses is across from the bartender working out his dirty glass, dirty cloth routine. "Ale." He requests, his hand already fishing around into his pocket to pull out the mark pieces. For an added touch, probably deliberately timed to accompany Z'ian's request, the bartender lifts the glass in his hand up towards the dim, green glow-light, as if to inspect his handiwork. Yep: still dirty. And clearly, the perfect glass to fill with ale from the squeaky tap, to slide across towards Z'ian. He names his price (cheap, thankfully) in a voice thick with the low-class Tillekian burr, and then adds, "Y'want 'n egg in that?" Breakfast of champions! Z'ian has to be thinking that this is disgusting. But luckily, those feelings aren't spelled out across his face. Instead he tosses the mark pieces over to the bartender, glancing up at the dirty glass in that dim light. When the ale comes across to him, he leaves it out there. "Sure. Could use it." When the egg is dropped into his ale, then he'll pull it towards himself. "When does it pick up here?" The bartender laughs... well, maybe it's more like a grunt, albeit the friendly I'll-talk-to-anyone-and-seem-to-like-it kind. The mark pieces disappear pretty quickly, vanishing onto the man's person after he abandons his dishcloth. At least the egg seems relatively fresh, shell broken and contents dropped into the beer with the practiced gesture of one hand. It's probably better not to think about where the shell goes, afterwards, dropped somewhere behind the bar. Then, reaching for his whisky, the man says, "'bout lunchtime, generally. These here're the really dedicated customers, of course. Y'must be new. Not a sailor." An observation. Z'ian actually drinks that ale with the egg in without looking slightly nauseated by the texture. His eyes do follow where the shells go, though he keeps his mouth shut. Dragging his attention back over to the bartender, he rolls one of his shoulders and grins crookedly, "What gave me away, my skin not being hardened like old leather?" Taking a long draw from the glass of ale, he comments, "Lunchtime? The dockworkers don't waste their time around here." The floor: that's where the egg shells go. Awesome. "Something like that," confirms the man with a grin that shows crooked (and missing) teeth. "Dockworkers mostly prefer the Lift and Carry, down the way. Here, we get sailors'n'pirates." That's probably a joke. "Anyway, dockworkers'd be at the wharves by now, if they want a day's pay. No work, no pay, eh?" It gives the floor a nice gritty texture, it's probably harder to slip and fall in here! Z'ian watches the bartender over the top of his glass, grin still crooked. "Too clean shaven?" He guesses again, but it's half-hearted really. "Sailors'n'pirates. Anyone from the Red Gold come in this way?" The bronzerider asks casually before taking another long draw from his dirty filthy egg filled glass of ale. "You hear much news from the Hold down here? Or you just picking up gossip about whores and cabin boys?" "Certainly doesn't help," confirms the man, leaning back against the (dirty) wall behind him, beefy arms crossed in front of a beefy torso. "The Red Gold, eh? Gotta reason for wanting to know that one?" It could be cagey, except that he's so willing to talk, in general. "Sure, we hear a bit. Word comes both ways. Back'n'forth. Whores never have much to say, in my experience. Better uses for their mouths, eh?" Z'ian grins over the lip of the glass before knocking back some more beer. "I have a friend on there. They were supposed to be by in a port further west, but." Obviously they weren't there. "Figured maybe they hit Tillek. Not a tragedy if they've not been around." Is he cagey? The bronzerider doesn't notice or seem concerned if he has the answers or not. Could just be making conversation to pave way for other questions, maybe. "I've heard they talk more if you pay them to. But who wants to pay them anything extra, yeah?" He laughs in a conspiratorial fashion, gruff. "That group of bloods from the 'Reaches still here?" "Not seen 'em in months," is the barkeeper's answer to the position of the Red Gold, accompanied by a shake of his head. "Bet the dockmaster'd know." He reaches for his rag again, now, and another glass: time to resume 'cleaning', even as he's laughing, darkly mirthful, at Z'ian's joke. "Aye, they're still here. Funny, seeing him all Lord-like. Never used to be like that, that one. Well. Acted like it, maybe." "Maybe." Z'ian replies to that suggestion, his expression dubious. He swallows down the rest of that egg-beer concoction, rolling the bottom of the glass against the dirty countertop. "Amazing what a couple of turns an opportune marriage can do for a man." He remarks with an easy lift of his shoulders, smile turned crooked once again. "Any word on what they're doing meddling with Tillek? I heard they spent a good chunk of the winter hovering around the Weyr." "Heard he killed a girl, then ran here. Definitely spent a few turns here, once upon a time. Visitin' the Lady. Always thought that was strange. Guess we didn't know who he was, you know? And now..." And now he's the next best thing to a real, proper Lord. He examines the glass in his hand, albeit in a terribly cursory kind of way, then sets it down with a group of others that are, presumably, considered 'clean'. "Marriage, come high summer, apparently. His br-- no, cousin, and one of the step-daughters. Probably for the best; that kid seems to have pretensions of being named heir now the Weyr's stolen a second heir from us. She's not even Blood!" Not properly, anyway. Not Tillek. "I heard about that too. Doesn't seem murderers ever get brought to justice in these parts, does it?" Z'ian tsks and shakes his head. He doesn't ask for another drink, but he doesn't give up the empty glass either. He just continues to roll the bottom of it against the countertop. "Don't understand why they can't send the kid back. Like the weyr really needs that dragon? It's an interval." It's hard to tell how serious he actually is on that topic, but then he's moving right along. "Why else arrange a marriage like this if they're not trying to line up a new heir?" He doesn't need to ask for another drink-- the barkeep lifts a bottle of (awful) whisky, popping the cork, and waggles it enticingly in Z'ian's direction. Yes? Yes/yes? Silly question. "High Reaches' riders failed to save the Lady's son. We don't want their kind 'round here. He can't be Lord, that's for damn certain." Evidently, he's a monarchist, or what counts for one: there's definite affection in his tone when he speaks of Lady Edeline, though surely a man of this sort has never met her. "Brings the holds together, don't it? High Reaches and Tillek. Lord Braeden was fostered here too, of course. Guess that's how he and the exile knew each other, first. Don't see him so much, these days, but then--" He makes a lewd gesture, and smirks. Awful whiskey. It's not even time for lunch yet. Who are the career alcoholics here? Z'ian puts his empty glass forward. A silent yes to that silent question. "I don't blame you. I wouldn't want them around here either. Useless lot up there, they can't even take care of their own." He shakes his head again, latent disgust allowed to spread across his features. For that lewd gesture, he smirks first and then laughs harshly again. "What a surprise." Not really. "Summers not so far away for that union. So with two heirs lost, where does your Lady look next?" "'Course," and now, the barkeeper sounds thoughtfully reflective, pausing partway through the pouring of the whisky (though not so much that he lets the liquor spill over the bar, thankfully). "Lord Braeden was never much of a lady's man when he lived here, either. Maybe his new wife is too much woman for him." He sets the bottle down, and laughs, probably as much for the words he's already said as the ones he's about to say: "Maybe she ought to pick me, eh! There's always her daughter." He sounds... abruptly less thrilled at that. She is only a toddler. He lifts his own glass: cheers! Z'ian pulls the glass of whiskey (and beer plus egg residue) towards himself now. He brings the glass to his mouth, laughing before takes a generous swallow of that terrible, buring liquid. "Could be. Those Bloods don't have enough to worry about if you ask me." His mouth quirks to the side and he rests his knuckles under his chin. "Her daughter." He belatedly lifts his own glass to the bartender's. "I hear the murderer has a son." That's said as much to the other man as to himself, something thoughtful crossing his expression before he shakes it off. "Could unite our two Holds, one day," says the man, who apparently is unbothered by this possibility. Perhaps he's even excited, given the way he downs his whisky: it's almost like a salute. "Son and heir-- to nothing, for now, but who knows? Got to assume his kid'll be Lord Braeden's heir, eh? Mayhaps. But what do I know-- just an old bartender, mind. Repeating what I hear." "Could indeed." Z'ian agrees just then, downing the rest of his in one shot. He pushes the empty glass over to the bartender now and reaches into his pocket again, pulling out what one would assume would be the right amount of marks for that sort of drink. And little extra. "Those damn Holders are tricky bastards. And that one, he's not any different. Yeah?" The bronzerider's thoughts on matter could easily translate to: who the fuck really knows? Not them. "Thanks for the drinks. Not a bad place you have here." He compliments, a note of approval in his voice as he looks up at the dirty glasses. The barkeep? Not going to turn down any amount of marks. Z'ian's get pocketed without a blink - just a single nod of his head, and a lazy smile. "Right proud of it myself, no doubt of that. "Tricky as tricky can be. And that one more than most. Always wondered what he did down in this part of the Hold, man like that. Guess we'll never know. Be seein' you, mayhap." Or not. "I'd be proud too. Maybe I'll come in with my friend when I can find him again." There's wistful smile for that, like maybe there's possibility he won't. He slips off the barstool and tips the bartender a lazy salute with his two fingers. "I wouldn't count on that. A man's ghosts have a way of coming for him when you least expect them to. See you again sometime." Perhaps. Whatever it is, he's wandering out of the bar like he was never there at all. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Professional Alcoholism"Suireh (Satiet (talk)) left a comment on Thu, 04 Apr 2013 03:35:54 GMT.
What is there not to love about this log? THE MACHINATIONS! OGOD.
And now I have collective Ideas .
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Thu, 04 Apr 2013 05:11:18 GMT.
*plays snazzy jazzy spy music* Z'ian, sticking his pointy nose in international business.
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