The Full Wineglass
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication. ~Lord Byron
Gabrion is drunk. And aren't conversations so much more fascinatingly random, when you're drunk? This one touches on weather, degrees of drunkenness, and the personalities of dragons.
OOC Date: October 22, 2009
IC Date: Day 5, month 1, turn 21
Who: C'sel, Gabrion
Where: Living Cavern
Of middling height and build, C'sel conveys a sense of calm serenity and reserve in the way that he holds himself. Dark brown hair cut regulation short tends to spike and fade out to a paler hue in the sun, above a face composed of engaging features. Bright blue eyes slant slightly downward at the corners, deep-set under the sparse wings of lightly arched brows. Down-tilted, his nose has a distinct flair through the nostrils, the tip's shape a near match to the definite divide in his upper lip. A full mouth is balanced by a strong jaw, neatly squared with a small cleft in the chin.
Favoring more conservative colors and cuts of clothing, C'sel tends towards the practical in his dress, suiting his choices to the activities and occasions of the day. Always impeccable in appearance, in terms of neatness, his wardrobe tends towards the drab except for a few items that are more colorful, blues and grays with dark orange accents. Otherwise white linen shirts, neatly tailored, sturdy canvas or wherhide pants and streamlined jackets make up his day-to-day wear. The knot of an assistant weyrlingmaster at High Reaches Weyr loops his shoulder.
It's edging toward late evening, and while a handful of people are still eating their dinners, most of the people in the living cavern have turned to entertainments such as card games, or just visiting over wine or klah. Gabrion is sitting off by himself at a smaller table in the corner, watching people through half-lidded eyes. His sleepy look and lassitude and the vacant smile on his face suggest together that he doesn't particularly need a(nother?) full glass of wine, but there's one sitting on the table in front of him anyway. He's toying with a well-buttered slice of bread in one hand, but dinner dishes, if he had any, have been cleared away.
Quiet footfalls mark C'sel's passage: dining late this evening. The brownrider carries a neatly arranged, full plate and a glass of water. Blue eyes go to the young man's glass, up to his face and brows arch faintly. "Are you --- well?" he asks the infirmary aide in an undertone, perhaps assuming Gabrion is in his cups given his relative youth and the fullness of the glass.
It would certainly appear that way. Gabrion's head snaps up and he blinks a few times at C'sel, trying to place him. After a long pause he says slowly, "Oh. Sure, yeah. I'm fine! How are you?" The smile he offers is a little too bright and cheery. He reaches for the glass carefully to take another sip of wine.
Snowdrift, says C'sel's badge, brownrider says his knot. Nothing special? And yet he continues to regard Gabrion with silent solemnity, the too-bright of that smile, the cheery tone. "I am very well thank you," C'sel replies politely and shifts his focus back to that glass once more, but he doesn't ask about it, just nods towards the chair across the way. "Do you mind if I -- join you?"
"I guess?" Gabrion is dubious, or maybe just puzzled as to why a Snowdrift brownrider would want to sit with him. "Did your wingmates all ditch you and go out partying or something?" he asks - not the friendliest of invitations - but he does nod to the empty chair across from him.
"No," is C'sel's succinct reply as he sets his plate down and draws out the chair, sits down, picks up cutlery and starts to cut into his food neatly. "It's past the general hour for eating," he points out and sets his knife down, spears a bite of meat, tuber and green bean with his fork. "And my weyrmate is on evening sweeps." Pause. "I am C'sel. Well met." His free hand is extended across the table, politely.
Gabrion uses a palm on the table to steady himself as he stands up to shake hands with C'sel. "Gabe. Gabrion actually, that's my real name, but." He shrugs as he sits back down with a thump. "Everyone calls me Gabe. So. Uh. Did you have sweeps too?" he asks. It's something to talk about, and potentially slightly more interesting than the weather.
"Gabrion. Well met." Apparently C'sel ... isn't really into nicknames with people he's just met. "No, I do not have sweeps this evening," the brownrider responds in the negative and considers the young man for a moment. "Do you drink wine often?" is perhaps an odd question to be asking on the tails of that but then the brownrider puts the bite of food in his mouth, chews meticulously.
Gabrion squints at C'sel. "Sometimes, I guess?" he answers, and shrugs. "How come?" he asks, nibbling at his buttered bread. He's not very meticulous about his chewing, though at least he keeps his mouth shut.
"You -- looked a little ..." his hand waggles back and forth. "Under the influence," C'sel notes and eyes the less-than-neat chewing for a moment, looks down at his own plate and puts together another bite. "I believe that you are relatively new to the Weyr?"
"I just came /back/," Gabrion says with a heavy emphasis on the last word. "But I was born here. So. Not really new." His chin juts out a little, defensive. "I'm not drunk either."
"Ah. I have only been here just over a turn myself," C'sel says mildly. "Though I was -- born at Nabol." He tucks that bite of dinner into his mouth. He chews just as carefully this time, blue eyes right on Gabrion's face. "I did not say drunk," he points out. "There are -- many stages before one gets to drunk."
"Well. Then I'm one of those other ones," Gabrion declares; he's not going to claim that he isn't drinking, after all, as he takes another sip of his wine. "Nabol, huh? Did you like it there?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on an empty chair beside him.
"Perhaps ... tipsy," C'sel suggests after a moment's thought. The question draws a very faint frown to his face, though generally, his expressions haven't shifted much the entire time he's been sitting there. "I enjoyed helping with the beasts at Nabol. It was not a bad place to grow up," he says eventually. "I left to apprentice at Keroon, then impressed at Igen. I -- have been used to the desert for some time."
"So then you came to the weyr that's the exact opposite of a desert," Gabe observes with a snort of amusement. "Nice. Well, it's good here. I mean, it snows and all," understatement of the turn, "but I think I'd drop dead if we had to deal with the kind of heat they get in Igen. I went there once with my dad, and whoo! I thought I was going to sweat myself into a limp rag."
"Adjusting to the ... water. In the air. Has been -- difficult," C'sel replies between bites of food. "Corvinth, my brown, is in love with the seven spindles."
"What, rain?" Gabe squints at C'sel again, seriously entertaining the notion that his desert upbringing has so deprived him that he doesn't know the word for rain. His mouth twitches as he tries not to laugh.
"No. Just ... in the air. It feels ... different," C'sel says slowly. "Humidity. Not precipitation." Not really a vocabulary issue apparently.
"Oh." Now Gabrion feels stupid. He covers it by backtracking to a previous point in the conversation: "Corvinth's a nice name for a dragon."
The food on C'sel's plate is just about gone, but the brownrider pauses to reach for his glass, sips from it and regards Gabrion for long moments over the rim. Finally the glass is set down. "Yes. He is -- a very interesting brown. Have you spoken much to riders about dragons?"
"Well, my parents at least. Sometimes other folks. How come?" Gabrion asks again, though he does seem interested in how exactly it is that Corvinth is interesting. He takes an injudiciously large gulp of his wine and watches and listens to C'sel.
"What do you think that most dragons are like?" C'sel asks instead, taking another drink from his glass, then taking a moment to finish off his meal and sets the plate aside with fork and knife set neatly atop it.
"Well, they're all different, aren't they?" Gabe says with another of those shrugs of his. "Ma's green is kind of... sweet and mannerly and uptight like a holder girl, and Dad's blue is more, I dunno, hyper and bouncy like a little kid." He smirks. "An extra big little kid. But it's kind of hard to get to know dragons if they aren't yours or your ma or dad's. I mean, because mainly they just kind of lay there and do that thing where they open one eye and /look/ at you in that weird way."
The brownrider listens. His face doesn't really move much. He just ... listens. With his gaze fixed on the young man. "Yes." Finally. "They are all different." C'sel reaches for his glass, takes a swallow before going on. "Corvinth is ... clever. Sly. Very independent."
"Huh. Yeah?" Gabe says, leaning forward with elbows on the table. "Funny. Most people's dragons aren't independent. I mean, they don't like, go off and do stuff without their riders or anything like that."
"Corvinth does. Often." C'sel tilts his head. "He's up on the spindles right now. Looking up at the moons." His focus returns to the table. "We do not ... always see eye to eye."
"Wooooow." Gabrion's eyes go wide; he's impressed. "Like, you have /arguments/? With your dragon? Well, I guess Dad does sometimes but more like - eh. I dunno. I guess you could." He wrinkles up his nose. "Do you wish you had a dragon more like you? Or less, um, argue-y?"
"Yes. Frequently," C'sel states clearly. "And there are others of similar temperament. I help with the weyrlings," he explains further. "When there are weyrlings." Pause. "No. I would not change Corvinth."
"Huh," Gabe says thoughtfully. "I guess if I had a dragon I'd want one that didn't argue back. Or at least, not with me. He could argue with other folks if he wanted."
"We balance. As do most riders with their dragons," C'sel offers over quietly, picks up his glass and drains it, then reaches for his empty plate. His gaze rests pointedly on the lad's wine. "Be careful," he says simply, and pushes back his chair, rises. "It can -- catch you by surprise." He nods once as he aims to depart. "Thank you for your company. Have a good night Gabrion."
Gabrion lifts his wineglass by way of farewell. "Goodnight, brownrider," he says cheerfully, and politely. "Hope you and Corvinth have a nice evening."
Pausing before he steps away with his dishes, C'sel nods again. "He says thank you and that he believes that we will both be having a good evening in our own ways. He wishes you enjoyment of your drink." Pause. "Well. Actually he said: "Sink that wine, boy-o!"" The brownrider hesitates for a moment and clears his throat. "This is what I mean. By interesting." Very seriously. Very sagely. And then he turns and walks away to dispose of dishes and head back out into the cold night.
Gabrion is drunk. And aren't conversations so much more fascinatingly random, when you're drunk? This one touches on weather, degrees of drunkenness, and the personalities of dragons.
OOC Date: October 22, 2009
IC Date: Day 5, month 1, turn 21
Who: C'sel, Gabrion
Where: Living Cavern
Of middling height and build, C'sel conveys a sense of calm serenity and reserve in the way that he holds himself. Dark brown hair cut regulation short tends to spike and fade out to a paler hue in the sun, above a face composed of engaging features. Bright blue eyes slant slightly downward at the corners, deep-set under the sparse wings of lightly arched brows. Down-tilted, his nose has a distinct flair through the nostrils, the tip's shape a near match to the definite divide in his upper lip. A full mouth is balanced by a strong jaw, neatly squared with a small cleft in the chin.
Favoring more conservative colors and cuts of clothing, C'sel tends towards the practical in his dress, suiting his choices to the activities and occasions of the day. Always impeccable in appearance, in terms of neatness, his wardrobe tends towards the drab except for a few items that are more colorful, blues and grays with dark orange accents. Otherwise white linen shirts, neatly tailored, sturdy canvas or wherhide pants and streamlined jackets make up his day-to-day wear. The knot of an assistant weyrlingmaster at High Reaches Weyr loops his shoulder.
It's edging toward late evening, and while a handful of people are still eating their dinners, most of the people in the living cavern have turned to entertainments such as card games, or just visiting over wine or klah. Gabrion is sitting off by himself at a smaller table in the corner, watching people through half-lidded eyes. His sleepy look and lassitude and the vacant smile on his face suggest together that he doesn't particularly need a(nother?) full glass of wine, but there's one sitting on the table in front of him anyway. He's toying with a well-buttered slice of bread in one hand, but dinner dishes, if he had any, have been cleared away.
Quiet footfalls mark C'sel's passage: dining late this evening. The brownrider carries a neatly arranged, full plate and a glass of water. Blue eyes go to the young man's glass, up to his face and brows arch faintly. "Are you --- well?" he asks the infirmary aide in an undertone, perhaps assuming Gabrion is in his cups given his relative youth and the fullness of the glass.
It would certainly appear that way. Gabrion's head snaps up and he blinks a few times at C'sel, trying to place him. After a long pause he says slowly, "Oh. Sure, yeah. I'm fine! How are you?" The smile he offers is a little too bright and cheery. He reaches for the glass carefully to take another sip of wine.
Snowdrift, says C'sel's badge, brownrider says his knot. Nothing special? And yet he continues to regard Gabrion with silent solemnity, the too-bright of that smile, the cheery tone. "I am very well thank you," C'sel replies politely and shifts his focus back to that glass once more, but he doesn't ask about it, just nods towards the chair across the way. "Do you mind if I -- join you?"
"I guess?" Gabrion is dubious, or maybe just puzzled as to why a Snowdrift brownrider would want to sit with him. "Did your wingmates all ditch you and go out partying or something?" he asks - not the friendliest of invitations - but he does nod to the empty chair across from him.
"No," is C'sel's succinct reply as he sets his plate down and draws out the chair, sits down, picks up cutlery and starts to cut into his food neatly. "It's past the general hour for eating," he points out and sets his knife down, spears a bite of meat, tuber and green bean with his fork. "And my weyrmate is on evening sweeps." Pause. "I am C'sel. Well met." His free hand is extended across the table, politely.
Gabrion uses a palm on the table to steady himself as he stands up to shake hands with C'sel. "Gabe. Gabrion actually, that's my real name, but." He shrugs as he sits back down with a thump. "Everyone calls me Gabe. So. Uh. Did you have sweeps too?" he asks. It's something to talk about, and potentially slightly more interesting than the weather.
"Gabrion. Well met." Apparently C'sel ... isn't really into nicknames with people he's just met. "No, I do not have sweeps this evening," the brownrider responds in the negative and considers the young man for a moment. "Do you drink wine often?" is perhaps an odd question to be asking on the tails of that but then the brownrider puts the bite of food in his mouth, chews meticulously.
Gabrion squints at C'sel. "Sometimes, I guess?" he answers, and shrugs. "How come?" he asks, nibbling at his buttered bread. He's not very meticulous about his chewing, though at least he keeps his mouth shut.
"You -- looked a little ..." his hand waggles back and forth. "Under the influence," C'sel notes and eyes the less-than-neat chewing for a moment, looks down at his own plate and puts together another bite. "I believe that you are relatively new to the Weyr?"
"I just came /back/," Gabrion says with a heavy emphasis on the last word. "But I was born here. So. Not really new." His chin juts out a little, defensive. "I'm not drunk either."
"Ah. I have only been here just over a turn myself," C'sel says mildly. "Though I was -- born at Nabol." He tucks that bite of dinner into his mouth. He chews just as carefully this time, blue eyes right on Gabrion's face. "I did not say drunk," he points out. "There are -- many stages before one gets to drunk."
"Well. Then I'm one of those other ones," Gabrion declares; he's not going to claim that he isn't drinking, after all, as he takes another sip of his wine. "Nabol, huh? Did you like it there?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on an empty chair beside him.
"Perhaps ... tipsy," C'sel suggests after a moment's thought. The question draws a very faint frown to his face, though generally, his expressions haven't shifted much the entire time he's been sitting there. "I enjoyed helping with the beasts at Nabol. It was not a bad place to grow up," he says eventually. "I left to apprentice at Keroon, then impressed at Igen. I -- have been used to the desert for some time."
"So then you came to the weyr that's the exact opposite of a desert," Gabe observes with a snort of amusement. "Nice. Well, it's good here. I mean, it snows and all," understatement of the turn, "but I think I'd drop dead if we had to deal with the kind of heat they get in Igen. I went there once with my dad, and whoo! I thought I was going to sweat myself into a limp rag."
"Adjusting to the ... water. In the air. Has been -- difficult," C'sel replies between bites of food. "Corvinth, my brown, is in love with the seven spindles."
"What, rain?" Gabe squints at C'sel again, seriously entertaining the notion that his desert upbringing has so deprived him that he doesn't know the word for rain. His mouth twitches as he tries not to laugh.
"No. Just ... in the air. It feels ... different," C'sel says slowly. "Humidity. Not precipitation." Not really a vocabulary issue apparently.
"Oh." Now Gabrion feels stupid. He covers it by backtracking to a previous point in the conversation: "Corvinth's a nice name for a dragon."
The food on C'sel's plate is just about gone, but the brownrider pauses to reach for his glass, sips from it and regards Gabrion for long moments over the rim. Finally the glass is set down. "Yes. He is -- a very interesting brown. Have you spoken much to riders about dragons?"
"Well, my parents at least. Sometimes other folks. How come?" Gabrion asks again, though he does seem interested in how exactly it is that Corvinth is interesting. He takes an injudiciously large gulp of his wine and watches and listens to C'sel.
"What do you think that most dragons are like?" C'sel asks instead, taking another drink from his glass, then taking a moment to finish off his meal and sets the plate aside with fork and knife set neatly atop it.
"Well, they're all different, aren't they?" Gabe says with another of those shrugs of his. "Ma's green is kind of... sweet and mannerly and uptight like a holder girl, and Dad's blue is more, I dunno, hyper and bouncy like a little kid." He smirks. "An extra big little kid. But it's kind of hard to get to know dragons if they aren't yours or your ma or dad's. I mean, because mainly they just kind of lay there and do that thing where they open one eye and /look/ at you in that weird way."
The brownrider listens. His face doesn't really move much. He just ... listens. With his gaze fixed on the young man. "Yes." Finally. "They are all different." C'sel reaches for his glass, takes a swallow before going on. "Corvinth is ... clever. Sly. Very independent."
"Huh. Yeah?" Gabe says, leaning forward with elbows on the table. "Funny. Most people's dragons aren't independent. I mean, they don't like, go off and do stuff without their riders or anything like that."
"Corvinth does. Often." C'sel tilts his head. "He's up on the spindles right now. Looking up at the moons." His focus returns to the table. "We do not ... always see eye to eye."
"Wooooow." Gabrion's eyes go wide; he's impressed. "Like, you have /arguments/? With your dragon? Well, I guess Dad does sometimes but more like - eh. I dunno. I guess you could." He wrinkles up his nose. "Do you wish you had a dragon more like you? Or less, um, argue-y?"
"Yes. Frequently," C'sel states clearly. "And there are others of similar temperament. I help with the weyrlings," he explains further. "When there are weyrlings." Pause. "No. I would not change Corvinth."
"Huh," Gabe says thoughtfully. "I guess if I had a dragon I'd want one that didn't argue back. Or at least, not with me. He could argue with other folks if he wanted."
"We balance. As do most riders with their dragons," C'sel offers over quietly, picks up his glass and drains it, then reaches for his empty plate. His gaze rests pointedly on the lad's wine. "Be careful," he says simply, and pushes back his chair, rises. "It can -- catch you by surprise." He nods once as he aims to depart. "Thank you for your company. Have a good night Gabrion."
Gabrion lifts his wineglass by way of farewell. "Goodnight, brownrider," he says cheerfully, and politely. "Hope you and Corvinth have a nice evening."
Pausing before he steps away with his dishes, C'sel nods again. "He says thank you and that he believes that we will both be having a good evening in our own ways. He wishes you enjoyment of your drink." Pause. "Well. Actually he said: "Sink that wine, boy-o!"" The brownrider hesitates for a moment and clears his throat. "This is what I mean. By interesting." Very seriously. Very sagely. And then he turns and walks away to dispose of dishes and head back out into the cold night.