Vesita better pay first.
RL Date: 8/28/08
IC Date: 8/5/17 --This got left on my computer at work over the long weekend. XD
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.
This early in the day, still mid-afternoon, the Snowasis is relatively empty. The room is quiet, cool, and scarcely populated except where a chesty girl in a low-cut bodice cleans cups behind the bar, and a pair of men lean on either side of that bar, engaged in low conversation. The older of the two stands at length, shakes his head, and departs toward the ledge-- leaving N'thei on the business side of the bar with a thoughtful frown as his only company.
Relatively empty proves ideal for one inspecting the cavern, then. The woman that strides in now takes in the sight -- eyes flitting from bar, to stools, to patrons, to hearth. And onward, before finally settling on that buxom dear. Calculating. Thoughtful. And she moves forward to place both hands, palm down, against the bar, and she speaks in a clear voice possibly intended to catch attention, "Be a doll, would you, and get me something. Anything. Your best of it, if you've any." Of the best, that is.
The girl blinks a few times in sudden surprise, her eyes widening, the polishing of the cup stilled before she sets herself into motion, shuffling around behind the bar. "Pay first." That comes not from the barmaid but the man standing around frowning, who settles a measuring look on this new face. N'thei slides down the bar at that, his elbows now caddy-corner from where Vesita parks herself.
Goodness me. What's this? The look Vesita spares across the bar a look towards that man, a wide-eyed look that's measured, feigned innocence. And before those dark eyes slide back towards the girl, the semblance vanishes, dismissed behind a curl of her lip. "Will not." Two words, to match his own. And further than that, nothing. For all her waiting tap-tap-tap of her fingers against the countertop, the expectant lift of her chin, he might as well not be there.
The barmaid, still wide-eyed with confusion, has the drink all set to be served. She even approaches Vesita with the mug in hand, sets it down on the bar-- only to have N'thei hook his finger around the handle and slide it down so it sits in front of him like it was meant for him all along. "Shame." His finers steeple the glass, his smile apologizes in a most insincere way. The girl goes scampering off in feigned business.
And Vesita reaches out to accept that mug, only to be intercepted by N'thei. This time, she doesn't bother to suppress the sneering expression that flickers across her features -- only shifts it, from that drink, on up, to his face. Slowly. Deliberate. As thought debating whether or not she could take him on. Finally, her lips part, and she says, leaning forward again, breathily, "Why, sir, I believe that's my drink." Perhaps, until other circumstances, the way she laces her finger through her hair, the way she looks at him might be considered coquettish. Were it not quite so clearly layered over scorn.
Five-foot-nine prooobably can't take on six-foot-four, but she's welcome to try! N'thei registers nothing in response to being sized up, just the steepled fingers and the patient but determined half-smile that stays firmly in place. "Pay for it." His mug-free hand drops to the bar, palm up, happy to accept payment should Vesita be so inclined. Under other circumstances, the way she laces her finger through her hair, the way she looks at him, he might respond; but this is money and liquor and there's no joking about either.
Affectation's not working. With a disgusted snort, Vesita straightens, smoothing her tunic down her front, balls a fist and digs it into a cocked hip instead. "Could be swill, for all I know, friend," that one word is dropped easily, emphasized only lightly as she leans in again, "And I'm not paying for something what that I don't want to drink." Give. Fingers splay, palm-up.
"Then you're not drinking it." N'thei will drink it instead, and look pretty happy about the fact. He has the pleasant audacity to tip the mug just faintly toward Vesita before he sets it to his lips, smacks them a little afterward while it goes down; yep, it definitely hit the spot for him. "House rules, miss. If I don't know your name, I'm not letting you start a tab." With a shrug, like the issue is out of his control.
She watches, training her eyes on that mug even after he's quaffed, and eyebrows creep every-so-slightly upward as that hand hanging in the air returns to the bartop, Vesita pushing her weight down on it almost automatically as she rolls forward from the balls of her feet. "House rules," she repeats, flatly. "Pretty poor establishment you've got, then." An observation passed perhaps not on that particular rule, but the situation -- and man, presumably barkeep -- in general.
Charmingly, aside from the scars and the meanness and the general sense that he'd probably break a person into pieces sooner than be pleasant to them, N'thei smiles down at Vesita; "Don't like the policy? Vote with your feet." Presumably the barkeep puts the drink, mostly full, on a shelf behind the bar to be finished at his leisure. "Or pay. Seems the easiest solution to me, but I've never been an uppity young girl, so can't vouch for what might be the easiest solution to you." Another of those big, helpless-seeming shrugs.
The smile's returned with an unresponsive stare: Vesita's face turned slightly up, emotionless. Only a flaring of her nostrils, a tightness to her jaw belies her aggravation. And then the movement is quick -- a hand searching in a pocket, mark piece slammed on the counter, though still held under her palm. "Give me," through clenched teeth, "A drink." She slides that mark forward, uncovering it. "And not that one." As one can never be so careful with such /clever/ men.
If N'thei is the bartender, he's not very useful at it. Instead, with an eye on the money, he beckons a hand to recall the attention of the pretty girly wiping down the tables. She comes flouncing back over, all smiles and oblivion, and pours out another mug identical to the first one. "Pay the girl," he directs pleasantly, eyes set to the mark still trapped under Vesita's fingers.
She does. Vesita picks up the mark peice, dangles it across N'thei's line of vision -- here, do you see? -- and pointedly presses it into the girl's hand. Coils her fingers around the handle of that mug before it, too, can be taken away. But she doesn't drink, instead lifting it close to examine the golden liquid. A show, then, of a lengthy inspection, a sniff at it, and finally, a draught. "Hmm." To N'thei? Likely not. Just... Hmm.
"Speak an ill word about it, miss. I dare you." N'thei smiles eagerly at the prospect while the barmaid goes to put the mark in the till. It's about then that the older man, the one that cut-and-run at the beginning of all this, returns with a bundle of copper piping under his arm and a determined scowl in place. "--I still think it's madness, mate, but let's see if genius and madness really do intersect," says the older fellow, deferring while the lever-portion of the bar is raised for his passage.
The mug's tilted, lifted as though to catch filtering light, and the amber liquid viewed again, leisurely. Vesita appears to take him at his word, nods distantly, and then speaks, drawling each word long and low, "Your clarity's nothing to scoff at. Good finish. How much malt are you using?" Dark eyes are wide, again with that mocking innocence, across the lip of her mug -- which is quickly enough dropped back to the bar as the second man returns, and those copper pipes are blandly eyed, with any curiosity to be seen lost behind another pull at her drink.
N'thei takes a step, halts-- they both halt, actually, with two sets of eyes suddenly hinged on Vesita. "Find out her name," N'thei begins, evidently one to be giving orders around here. The older man, namely F'rint, accepts his role with a simple nod; the pipes shift hand, now belonging to N'thei, who concludes, "And make plans for supper with her tomorrow or the day after." Pipes under one arm, he snags his mug with his free hand and ducks into the bar's backroom-- leaving Vesita to the much more tender mercies of F'rint to take down her name and make arrangements for dinner-with-the-Weyrleader.
Dinner with -- him? Vesita visibly recoils at the curt order, upper lip curling into that sneer once again. But who is she, stranger as she is, to deny him, Weyrleader knot and all? So she does, propping elbows on the counter, fluttering eyelashes up to F'rint. Vesita, sir, just little old Vesita. Who, me? No -- just came by, passing through. Dinner? Oh, yes. As long as it's free, why not?
Why-not; F'rint chuckles quietly at her laissez-faire reaction, a note of warning in his smile before he withdraws. Such a good lackey, he trails off in N'thei's wake, the door to that back-room closed: two men, back-room, whole bunch of copper tubes. Does anyone even /want/ to know?
IC Date: 8/5/17 --This got left on my computer at work over the long weekend. XD
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.
This early in the day, still mid-afternoon, the Snowasis is relatively empty. The room is quiet, cool, and scarcely populated except where a chesty girl in a low-cut bodice cleans cups behind the bar, and a pair of men lean on either side of that bar, engaged in low conversation. The older of the two stands at length, shakes his head, and departs toward the ledge-- leaving N'thei on the business side of the bar with a thoughtful frown as his only company.
Relatively empty proves ideal for one inspecting the cavern, then. The woman that strides in now takes in the sight -- eyes flitting from bar, to stools, to patrons, to hearth. And onward, before finally settling on that buxom dear. Calculating. Thoughtful. And she moves forward to place both hands, palm down, against the bar, and she speaks in a clear voice possibly intended to catch attention, "Be a doll, would you, and get me something. Anything. Your best of it, if you've any." Of the best, that is.
The girl blinks a few times in sudden surprise, her eyes widening, the polishing of the cup stilled before she sets herself into motion, shuffling around behind the bar. "Pay first." That comes not from the barmaid but the man standing around frowning, who settles a measuring look on this new face. N'thei slides down the bar at that, his elbows now caddy-corner from where Vesita parks herself.
Goodness me. What's this? The look Vesita spares across the bar a look towards that man, a wide-eyed look that's measured, feigned innocence. And before those dark eyes slide back towards the girl, the semblance vanishes, dismissed behind a curl of her lip. "Will not." Two words, to match his own. And further than that, nothing. For all her waiting tap-tap-tap of her fingers against the countertop, the expectant lift of her chin, he might as well not be there.
The barmaid, still wide-eyed with confusion, has the drink all set to be served. She even approaches Vesita with the mug in hand, sets it down on the bar-- only to have N'thei hook his finger around the handle and slide it down so it sits in front of him like it was meant for him all along. "Shame." His finers steeple the glass, his smile apologizes in a most insincere way. The girl goes scampering off in feigned business.
And Vesita reaches out to accept that mug, only to be intercepted by N'thei. This time, she doesn't bother to suppress the sneering expression that flickers across her features -- only shifts it, from that drink, on up, to his face. Slowly. Deliberate. As thought debating whether or not she could take him on. Finally, her lips part, and she says, leaning forward again, breathily, "Why, sir, I believe that's my drink." Perhaps, until other circumstances, the way she laces her finger through her hair, the way she looks at him might be considered coquettish. Were it not quite so clearly layered over scorn.
Five-foot-nine prooobably can't take on six-foot-four, but she's welcome to try! N'thei registers nothing in response to being sized up, just the steepled fingers and the patient but determined half-smile that stays firmly in place. "Pay for it." His mug-free hand drops to the bar, palm up, happy to accept payment should Vesita be so inclined. Under other circumstances, the way she laces her finger through her hair, the way she looks at him, he might respond; but this is money and liquor and there's no joking about either.
Affectation's not working. With a disgusted snort, Vesita straightens, smoothing her tunic down her front, balls a fist and digs it into a cocked hip instead. "Could be swill, for all I know, friend," that one word is dropped easily, emphasized only lightly as she leans in again, "And I'm not paying for something what that I don't want to drink." Give. Fingers splay, palm-up.
"Then you're not drinking it." N'thei will drink it instead, and look pretty happy about the fact. He has the pleasant audacity to tip the mug just faintly toward Vesita before he sets it to his lips, smacks them a little afterward while it goes down; yep, it definitely hit the spot for him. "House rules, miss. If I don't know your name, I'm not letting you start a tab." With a shrug, like the issue is out of his control.
She watches, training her eyes on that mug even after he's quaffed, and eyebrows creep every-so-slightly upward as that hand hanging in the air returns to the bartop, Vesita pushing her weight down on it almost automatically as she rolls forward from the balls of her feet. "House rules," she repeats, flatly. "Pretty poor establishment you've got, then." An observation passed perhaps not on that particular rule, but the situation -- and man, presumably barkeep -- in general.
Charmingly, aside from the scars and the meanness and the general sense that he'd probably break a person into pieces sooner than be pleasant to them, N'thei smiles down at Vesita; "Don't like the policy? Vote with your feet." Presumably the barkeep puts the drink, mostly full, on a shelf behind the bar to be finished at his leisure. "Or pay. Seems the easiest solution to me, but I've never been an uppity young girl, so can't vouch for what might be the easiest solution to you." Another of those big, helpless-seeming shrugs.
The smile's returned with an unresponsive stare: Vesita's face turned slightly up, emotionless. Only a flaring of her nostrils, a tightness to her jaw belies her aggravation. And then the movement is quick -- a hand searching in a pocket, mark piece slammed on the counter, though still held under her palm. "Give me," through clenched teeth, "A drink." She slides that mark forward, uncovering it. "And not that one." As one can never be so careful with such /clever/ men.
If N'thei is the bartender, he's not very useful at it. Instead, with an eye on the money, he beckons a hand to recall the attention of the pretty girly wiping down the tables. She comes flouncing back over, all smiles and oblivion, and pours out another mug identical to the first one. "Pay the girl," he directs pleasantly, eyes set to the mark still trapped under Vesita's fingers.
She does. Vesita picks up the mark peice, dangles it across N'thei's line of vision -- here, do you see? -- and pointedly presses it into the girl's hand. Coils her fingers around the handle of that mug before it, too, can be taken away. But she doesn't drink, instead lifting it close to examine the golden liquid. A show, then, of a lengthy inspection, a sniff at it, and finally, a draught. "Hmm." To N'thei? Likely not. Just... Hmm.
"Speak an ill word about it, miss. I dare you." N'thei smiles eagerly at the prospect while the barmaid goes to put the mark in the till. It's about then that the older man, the one that cut-and-run at the beginning of all this, returns with a bundle of copper piping under his arm and a determined scowl in place. "--I still think it's madness, mate, but let's see if genius and madness really do intersect," says the older fellow, deferring while the lever-portion of the bar is raised for his passage.
The mug's tilted, lifted as though to catch filtering light, and the amber liquid viewed again, leisurely. Vesita appears to take him at his word, nods distantly, and then speaks, drawling each word long and low, "Your clarity's nothing to scoff at. Good finish. How much malt are you using?" Dark eyes are wide, again with that mocking innocence, across the lip of her mug -- which is quickly enough dropped back to the bar as the second man returns, and those copper pipes are blandly eyed, with any curiosity to be seen lost behind another pull at her drink.
N'thei takes a step, halts-- they both halt, actually, with two sets of eyes suddenly hinged on Vesita. "Find out her name," N'thei begins, evidently one to be giving orders around here. The older man, namely F'rint, accepts his role with a simple nod; the pipes shift hand, now belonging to N'thei, who concludes, "And make plans for supper with her tomorrow or the day after." Pipes under one arm, he snags his mug with his free hand and ducks into the bar's backroom-- leaving Vesita to the much more tender mercies of F'rint to take down her name and make arrangements for dinner-with-the-Weyrleader.
Dinner with -- him? Vesita visibly recoils at the curt order, upper lip curling into that sneer once again. But who is she, stranger as she is, to deny him, Weyrleader knot and all? So she does, propping elbows on the counter, fluttering eyelashes up to F'rint. Vesita, sir, just little old Vesita. Who, me? No -- just came by, passing through. Dinner? Oh, yes. As long as it's free, why not?
Why-not; F'rint chuckles quietly at her laissez-faire reaction, a note of warning in his smile before he withdraws. Such a good lackey, he trails off in N'thei's wake, the door to that back-room closed: two men, back-room, whole bunch of copper tubes. Does anyone even /want/ to know?