Log: She's being watched...
IC: Winter - Day 3, month 1, turn 23 of Interval 10.
RL: 2010.06.21
A stranger in town turns up at the Lucky Seven and targets Raveki.
The Lucky Seven, Ista Weyr(#700RJ)
The main, double doors that lead in to the tavern are, as a rule, left open, leading into the wide main room of the tavern. Directly across from the entrance, stretched across the long back wall, stands the focus of the room, indeed the entire building; the bar is made of a deep, red-brown wood and polished to a heady shine and behind it shelves stand with rows of clean glasses and tankards of all sizes and shapes. To the left of the bar is a staircase that allows access to a mundane upper story, a single hall lined with modest rooms for rent, and to the right is an arched doorway leading to a darker gaming room. But most of the action happens out in the middle, in among the haphazardly arranged tables and their allotted chairs. Though there are a few feminine touches draped around, a sage green curtain here or a coral red tablecloth there, when the tall room is filled with people there is no mistaking the testosterone-driven atmosphere of the place.
Contents:
Obvious exits:
Out
Raveki has been working the bar a bit less the last seven or so, but tonight she's back at the post, filling glasses and chatting with customers with an easy smile. The bar is far from full but there's a low hum of conversation, and at least half of the stools stretched out in front of the brunette are full. She mixes something with a long-handled spoon, then takes a sip for herself before leaning across to deposit it in front of a brownrider with a wink.
Dusty is not commonly a word associated with either Ista, or her inhabitants. The dark-haired man with the six foot frame that’s just shadowed the Seven’s doorway, the exception to the rule. Dusting hat against thigh a moment is afforded steel blue eyes time to adjust to the interior gloom before making his way over to the bar in a gait of contained decisiveness. Taking up seating at the far end of the bar, where he is afforded decent enough view of the majority of the area, the inhabitants are each given cursory inspection.
The Seven doesn't have all that much in the way of 'commonly associated', as she can boast clients from the far reaches of Pern... albeit few and not as frequent as the more usual Istans. It is enough that none of the drink cradling men take a second look, but Raveki knows her place and she knows her clientele and so she does. It's just the barest flick of dark eyes and darker lashes, heel to head and lingering across the span of those steps. Then her smile is light and welcoming, all business if flirtation and liquor can be considered business. "Hey there darlin, can I get you a drink?" Hipshot, the spare curve leaning in to her side of the bar, she tips her head and tries to catch those steel blue eyes.
Done with his perusal of the room, Breitan flicks out a lazy corner of a smile that lacks any true warmth for dark flirtatious eyes. “Whisky double, no ice,” the southern drawl not hard to miss even for the clipped words. His hat set carefully to the left of him, an elbow hitches up onto the counter, hand dangling loosely from its end as Raveki is given an unfettered trawl of eyes, “Been workin’ here long?” Hard features denying the friendly intent those words might otherwise have alluded to.
Raveki's gaze drifts to that hat, clings there for a moment, and then is drawn away and onto bottles instead. "You willing to pay for good stuff? I don't carry anything that isn't decent but..." she trails off, turning with a bottle in each hand and one dark brow cocked. Waiting this way she looks him over with eyes that are blatantly assessing, matching up features with drawled words. "Long enough to run the place," is her answer both vague and maybe just a little pointed.
Hoisting a dusty boot heel onto the spar of the bar stool alongside, Breitan’s body goes into relaxed pose, any indication to this being a ruse held only in the alert snap of light eyes, “Willin’ and able darlin’.” At least this time, the grin he hands over has warmth to it, even if it is that of red blooded male appreciating dark and sultry woman. The mark bit that gets laid on the counter speaking to his choice being for the better quality booze. Putting two and two together, his hand twitches as if to move in harper-like gesture to his chest but never quite makes it, “Bein’ served by the madam herself. I musta done somethin’ right, somewhere.” Cocky assumption.
The marks are scooped away with a single graceful motion of one palm, and in that same gesture they disappear without a trace. She splashes a generous amount into a heavy, squat glass and places it neatly where the marks just were, then settles to lean back against the liquor shelves behind the bar. "Sure ya did," she agrees with a little smirk of her own, just a bit too harsh to be truly flirtacious. "You wandered in when I happen to be behind the bar, so you got good timing." She replaces the bottle with a little twist of her shoulders and a reach of slender arm, dark eyes flitting to him out of the corner of her lashes. "It just means you get offered the good whiskey, and that you have a better chance at your choice of girls, since I'm not competition."
Like oil off of water, so the comment on timing rolls right off of him in a slick, dark spill, Breitan's mouth twitching minutely as the glass is taken up and set to mouth. Throat wetted down, the rasp of dust still clings to his tone and easy drawl, "Ain't got but one girl I'm interested in, darlin'." Setting the whisky down another rake of steel eyes drops over each of the girls on duty in turn and settling back to Raveki, "Words has it this is the kind of place," cue the dark smirking curl of mouth, "one would normally expect to find her. Perhaps she's not workin' tonight." Prompt is handed out in conjunction with the upward sweep of dark enquiring brow, "Name's Bailey?"
Raveki doesn't seem inclined to force the issue of turning this drinking client into the sort that enjoys the other fare she offers. He did, after all, pick the better whiskey already. So instead she just listens to his words with interest flickering in the depths of her eyes until he finishes. "Well sugar, she isn't one of my girls that I know for sure. And if there were any other women plying my sort of trade around here," she lifts one slim finger, "I'd know about it," a second finger, "and it wouldn't be going on too long." Pushing off of the shelving she takes the single step that brings her from the back of the serving area to the front, dropping an elbow to the bartop and shifting her weight into it. "You sure she's at Ista? If you'll be here a few days I could ask around for you."
Deadpan the mask Breitan holds up to the madam for the negative response given. Sipping at his whisky steel eyes snare to the movement of her traversing from back to front of bar. With the movement coming from hips first and then transferring to legs and upper body, he unfolds from his earlier lounge as the glass is once again set down with a definitive sound. Broad shoulders shift beneath the worn black leather jacket in dismissive gesture, “Seems to me, that a woman runnin’ an establishment such as yours, is goin’ to be well in the knowin’ of any and all women plyin’ their wares around here.” Taking up the whiskey a last healthy swallow bobs his adam’s apple and empties the glass, “Ain’t got no time for games, lady. I got a message for her.” The hand that had draped loosely across his lap now sinks into a side pocket of his jacket and extracts a small cloth wrapped bundle, small enough to fit in a palm. Putting it to the counter and sliding it over toward Raveki with a single push of finger, “You give this to her and tell her she’s bein’ watched.” He’ll not wait around for agreement for the task so arrogantly handed over to the madam as evidenced by the thunk of heeled boots to floor, heedless of the striking resemblance between himself and the woman he quests for.
Raveki has a skill for motionlessness when it suits her, like the small skittering animals that are too often prey for larger things. She just remains in her languidly lounging posture and watches him unfold, listens to his speak, and then eyes the package that slides across the counter. Her only motion is the free hand slipping out to scoop the cloth-wrapped item off the bar, and she shows no sign of surprise at the weight and smoothness when she might have been expecting something like a note. Instead it just disappears wherever the marks went, and she slowly straightens. No comment about giving Bailey the item or the message, but she does say in a low and flat tone that is all steel and ice, "I do this, you and yours keep out of my bar, unless you're coming as customers." Like she might be able to make some kind of deal with this kind of man. And then she's shaking her head and padding across to her other customers, though in the midst of a soft mutter something like, 'doesn't reach this far' and a mirthless snort might be caught.
Pulled up to his full height, one hand ruffles through dark hair and the other follows it to clamp the hat back into place. Tugging on the front of the brim, a menacing grin presses out as he dips his upper torso in the semblance of a mocking bow, “Ma’am.” No further words for the tall, leanly built madam as she leaves him appreciating the sight of her departing rear. Hands set to pockets and mouth to a tuneless melody as long strides carry Breitan back out of the inn and into the light of day. Anyone edging passed him to enter will see only the smug countenance of one presuming himself safe in the knowledge of a job well done.
RL: 2010.06.21
A stranger in town turns up at the Lucky Seven and targets Raveki.
The Lucky Seven, Ista Weyr(#700RJ)
The main, double doors that lead in to the tavern are, as a rule, left open, leading into the wide main room of the tavern. Directly across from the entrance, stretched across the long back wall, stands the focus of the room, indeed the entire building; the bar is made of a deep, red-brown wood and polished to a heady shine and behind it shelves stand with rows of clean glasses and tankards of all sizes and shapes. To the left of the bar is a staircase that allows access to a mundane upper story, a single hall lined with modest rooms for rent, and to the right is an arched doorway leading to a darker gaming room. But most of the action happens out in the middle, in among the haphazardly arranged tables and their allotted chairs. Though there are a few feminine touches draped around, a sage green curtain here or a coral red tablecloth there, when the tall room is filled with people there is no mistaking the testosterone-driven atmosphere of the place.
Contents:
Obvious exits:
Out
Raveki has been working the bar a bit less the last seven or so, but tonight she's back at the post, filling glasses and chatting with customers with an easy smile. The bar is far from full but there's a low hum of conversation, and at least half of the stools stretched out in front of the brunette are full. She mixes something with a long-handled spoon, then takes a sip for herself before leaning across to deposit it in front of a brownrider with a wink.
Dusty is not commonly a word associated with either Ista, or her inhabitants. The dark-haired man with the six foot frame that’s just shadowed the Seven’s doorway, the exception to the rule. Dusting hat against thigh a moment is afforded steel blue eyes time to adjust to the interior gloom before making his way over to the bar in a gait of contained decisiveness. Taking up seating at the far end of the bar, where he is afforded decent enough view of the majority of the area, the inhabitants are each given cursory inspection.
The Seven doesn't have all that much in the way of 'commonly associated', as she can boast clients from the far reaches of Pern... albeit few and not as frequent as the more usual Istans. It is enough that none of the drink cradling men take a second look, but Raveki knows her place and she knows her clientele and so she does. It's just the barest flick of dark eyes and darker lashes, heel to head and lingering across the span of those steps. Then her smile is light and welcoming, all business if flirtation and liquor can be considered business. "Hey there darlin, can I get you a drink?" Hipshot, the spare curve leaning in to her side of the bar, she tips her head and tries to catch those steel blue eyes.
Done with his perusal of the room, Breitan flicks out a lazy corner of a smile that lacks any true warmth for dark flirtatious eyes. “Whisky double, no ice,” the southern drawl not hard to miss even for the clipped words. His hat set carefully to the left of him, an elbow hitches up onto the counter, hand dangling loosely from its end as Raveki is given an unfettered trawl of eyes, “Been workin’ here long?” Hard features denying the friendly intent those words might otherwise have alluded to.
Raveki's gaze drifts to that hat, clings there for a moment, and then is drawn away and onto bottles instead. "You willing to pay for good stuff? I don't carry anything that isn't decent but..." she trails off, turning with a bottle in each hand and one dark brow cocked. Waiting this way she looks him over with eyes that are blatantly assessing, matching up features with drawled words. "Long enough to run the place," is her answer both vague and maybe just a little pointed.
Hoisting a dusty boot heel onto the spar of the bar stool alongside, Breitan’s body goes into relaxed pose, any indication to this being a ruse held only in the alert snap of light eyes, “Willin’ and able darlin’.” At least this time, the grin he hands over has warmth to it, even if it is that of red blooded male appreciating dark and sultry woman. The mark bit that gets laid on the counter speaking to his choice being for the better quality booze. Putting two and two together, his hand twitches as if to move in harper-like gesture to his chest but never quite makes it, “Bein’ served by the madam herself. I musta done somethin’ right, somewhere.” Cocky assumption.
The marks are scooped away with a single graceful motion of one palm, and in that same gesture they disappear without a trace. She splashes a generous amount into a heavy, squat glass and places it neatly where the marks just were, then settles to lean back against the liquor shelves behind the bar. "Sure ya did," she agrees with a little smirk of her own, just a bit too harsh to be truly flirtacious. "You wandered in when I happen to be behind the bar, so you got good timing." She replaces the bottle with a little twist of her shoulders and a reach of slender arm, dark eyes flitting to him out of the corner of her lashes. "It just means you get offered the good whiskey, and that you have a better chance at your choice of girls, since I'm not competition."
Like oil off of water, so the comment on timing rolls right off of him in a slick, dark spill, Breitan's mouth twitching minutely as the glass is taken up and set to mouth. Throat wetted down, the rasp of dust still clings to his tone and easy drawl, "Ain't got but one girl I'm interested in, darlin'." Setting the whisky down another rake of steel eyes drops over each of the girls on duty in turn and settling back to Raveki, "Words has it this is the kind of place," cue the dark smirking curl of mouth, "one would normally expect to find her. Perhaps she's not workin' tonight." Prompt is handed out in conjunction with the upward sweep of dark enquiring brow, "Name's Bailey?"
Raveki doesn't seem inclined to force the issue of turning this drinking client into the sort that enjoys the other fare she offers. He did, after all, pick the better whiskey already. So instead she just listens to his words with interest flickering in the depths of her eyes until he finishes. "Well sugar, she isn't one of my girls that I know for sure. And if there were any other women plying my sort of trade around here," she lifts one slim finger, "I'd know about it," a second finger, "and it wouldn't be going on too long." Pushing off of the shelving she takes the single step that brings her from the back of the serving area to the front, dropping an elbow to the bartop and shifting her weight into it. "You sure she's at Ista? If you'll be here a few days I could ask around for you."
Deadpan the mask Breitan holds up to the madam for the negative response given. Sipping at his whisky steel eyes snare to the movement of her traversing from back to front of bar. With the movement coming from hips first and then transferring to legs and upper body, he unfolds from his earlier lounge as the glass is once again set down with a definitive sound. Broad shoulders shift beneath the worn black leather jacket in dismissive gesture, “Seems to me, that a woman runnin’ an establishment such as yours, is goin’ to be well in the knowin’ of any and all women plyin’ their wares around here.” Taking up the whiskey a last healthy swallow bobs his adam’s apple and empties the glass, “Ain’t got no time for games, lady. I got a message for her.” The hand that had draped loosely across his lap now sinks into a side pocket of his jacket and extracts a small cloth wrapped bundle, small enough to fit in a palm. Putting it to the counter and sliding it over toward Raveki with a single push of finger, “You give this to her and tell her she’s bein’ watched.” He’ll not wait around for agreement for the task so arrogantly handed over to the madam as evidenced by the thunk of heeled boots to floor, heedless of the striking resemblance between himself and the woman he quests for.
Raveki has a skill for motionlessness when it suits her, like the small skittering animals that are too often prey for larger things. She just remains in her languidly lounging posture and watches him unfold, listens to his speak, and then eyes the package that slides across the counter. Her only motion is the free hand slipping out to scoop the cloth-wrapped item off the bar, and she shows no sign of surprise at the weight and smoothness when she might have been expecting something like a note. Instead it just disappears wherever the marks went, and she slowly straightens. No comment about giving Bailey the item or the message, but she does say in a low and flat tone that is all steel and ice, "I do this, you and yours keep out of my bar, unless you're coming as customers." Like she might be able to make some kind of deal with this kind of man. And then she's shaking her head and padding across to her other customers, though in the midst of a soft mutter something like, 'doesn't reach this far' and a mirthless snort might be caught.
Pulled up to his full height, one hand ruffles through dark hair and the other follows it to clamp the hat back into place. Tugging on the front of the brim, a menacing grin presses out as he dips his upper torso in the semblance of a mocking bow, “Ma’am.” No further words for the tall, leanly built madam as she leaves him appreciating the sight of her departing rear. Hands set to pockets and mouth to a tuneless melody as long strides carry Breitan back out of the inn and into the light of day. Anyone edging passed him to enter will see only the smug countenance of one presuming himself safe in the knowledge of a job well done.