At Th'fishcraft
Location: Aramia's Bar in Tillek
Time: Night on Day 21, Month 10, Turn 2
Players: R'vain, R'hal, T'ral, D'ven, Fenten (NPC), Triess (NPC), Ella (NPC), Aramia (NPC), Lyren (NPC) and other assorted barmaids and customers
Scene: R'vain takes a few boys for a fun night out. Too bad not everybody agrees with his idea of fun.
I love this bar and I love the people in it. Thank you so much to R'vain, T'ral, D'ven, and R'hal for bringing their carousing to Aramia's and letting me torment them with low-cut dresses and funny ales.
The night is crisp and biting outside, but within the bar there is a warm ambiance, literally and figuratively. To the right of the doorway is a long bar of cherry wood, stools situated in front and a trio of women behind it, taking orders and charming the crowd. The one on the right is short, brunette, round and creeping to middle age. She smiles as she pours an ale and slides it down. The one in the middle is tall and lean. Blonde hair is piled atop her head, green eyes have lines in the corners, and she is murmuring something to a wide-shouldered sailor that has his laughter and pounding his companion's shoulder. On the left is a woman of average height, black hair in a queue. She's uncorking a bottle of wine.
Beyond the bar are an assortment of tables, most with four chairs and a few with two. There are stairs that lead up to the second floor which vanishes into a hallway and an assortment of rooms. To the left, set into the wall, is a large fireplace, keeping the bar heated and better lit. The tables have a variety of men. Some drink. Some play cards. Some laugh. Some don't. Four women move through them, aprons tied around their hips, trays in hands. One has very curly brown hair piled high on her head. Another Is slight and blonde. A third is a brunette that curves in -just- the right places. A fourth is just shy of being tall, has short-cropped black hair, and is pulling a rag free from her apron to swat it at a smirking customer. There are other girls (four of them), too, that slide through the room. They wear fine and flattering gowns and hold no trays. They carry smiles and winks instead.
The dragons leave them nearby. Ruvoth is swift and supplicant about leading Yanith, especially, toward the seashore for sport in the waves. That leaves R'vain ready to get his little crowd off and into the bar. He tends especially to conversing with the one-A 'second, head bowed a bit to make up for difference in height as he makes a low aside. They can't all four of them get through that door at once-- but the Weyrlingmaster's not about to stand aside for D'ven and T'ral to go first. No; he's got to get R'hal through, and now. "Just a one with us, 'second, I promise it'll go down easy. Such good stuff here."
T'ral is hauling off his jacket as he follows behind the leading pair, shoulder to shoulder with D'ven -- they make up a pair of looming, broad-shouldered bodyguards as they follow. The least of the three dragons, and silent as ever, Darageth trails the others as his rider trails their riders. There's nothing hesitant about the big brownrider, though. He's grinning broadly, head up to look over the top of the crowd, taking in the patrons, the tables, the drinks, the girls.
Yanith's entirely happy to follow Ruvoth towards the seashore, though he sits and watches the waves for a bit before he actually enters the water. R'hal lets himself be ushered into the barroom, looking round curiously as he enters. Bar, booze, and bartenders don't provoke any particular reaction. Neither do the card-players: they're a commonplace in any living cavern. The girls, however certainly attract a glance, and then another glance. And then another glance, followed by a questioning look sent in the direction of R'vain. He considers for a moment, then comments, "Good views, you said. You weren't thinking of seascapes, were you?" It's not the sort of question that expects an answer. Then he smiles. "So, do you recommend the ale? Or should I be looking to the wine?"
Teraneth, for the moment, prefers to rest on the shore rather than entering the waves. D'ven follows along next to T'ral, his own grin wide as he glances around. His hands rub together for a brief moment. "It's been far too long since we've had a big outing." He murmurs, mostly for the benefit of the man next to him.
Behind the bar, the blonde, Aramia, lifts her gaze as four new arrivals come in. Green eyes dart over each face, and each knot, and then settle, calm and steady, on R'vain. There is nothing in that gaze other than a silent demand that he be aware. She's watching. Old incidents have been forgiven, surely. Forgotten? Never.
Others notice too. A few of the sailors playing cards look over. Some of the guards in the corner raise their brows. There is, in general, a slight dimming of conversation for a few minutes before things go back to the status quo. It's the girl with the swatting-rag that notices the new arrivals and flashes a grin. Plunking a tankard of ale down for a solitary man at one of the small tables, she saunters up to the quartet offering up another playful smile. "Hey, Red Reaches," the crop-haired girl chirps to the Weyrlingmaster. "Been a while and a day since you came around with friends. Gimme your orders and find a table, we'll get you squared away."
"What's your preference? They got somethin' here for every taste-- " R'vain's spotted, and fixed in Aramia's glare, he pauses a moment to respond with a raising of his chin and a glint of emerald eyes-- too proud to cause /her/ any heartache, he is! He recovers in a beat. "-- every taste, I tell you. You like ale, order ale. Wine, then wine. It'll be bar none, I guarantee it. Well, she does-- " He's about to point out the proprietress, but then there's the girl with the rag coming up. "Aw, Ella. On th'tables tonight? Shit." And the Weyrlingmaster holds up his paws palms-forward, the gesture of 'do-no-harm,' then drops one and tips the other over to pointpointpoint at his buddy here, good ol' R'hal, his buddy, yep. Have a good look. "Open me up with four good ales and four good wines, won't y'please?" He says 'please.' Mark the day. "We'll sort 'em out once they get there."
He says 'please'. T'ral shifts his gaze from his inspection of a nearby card game to the Weyrlingmaster, mouth quirking to a quick smile. There's a glance tipped sideways to D'ven. Note that? The big brownrider's taking in his surroundings in a slow, methodical way -- there are the bottles behind the bars, there's another card game, that man tips his hand forward to show off his cards, that one's bluffing, oops, there's a girl in a dress that's worthy of the name, there's the hearth, there's a table. "Got one," he observes, raising his voice loud enough to carry over the crowd, and angles sideways as a table comes free, a group of sailors rising to yield it.
"I'm more of an ale man; that'll be fine." R'hal's keeping his eyes open, but not looking at all uncomfortable. Indeed, he sounds quite positive as he observes, "Haven't sampled a new brew for - I can't think how long." He grins ruefully. "Guess I don't get to inns that often." His head turns sharply at T'ral's call, but he's still smiling. "Ah, well spotted!" He follows the other brownrider towards the hearth.
D'ven nods to his friend, this is apparently noted. He too is casing the joint, though his gaze is lingering longer on the various girls than anything else. "Sounds like a plan." He nods as R'vain orders, before following Tiv and R'hal across the room to slide into a chair.
Ella tsks softly and lets her shoulders rise and fall in a what-can-you-do gesture. "Sorry, Red. I can only dump beer over your head tonight. Come back tomorrow, you're hopin' for more." The small gesture towards R'hal earns the wingsecond another glance and that playful smile turns positively into a smirk. The table T'ral selects is noted and Ella says, "Four wines, four ales, one of 'em unusual. Tell you what. I'll have Fen bring 'em on over. She's not busy just now." Tucking her tray under her arm, Ella turns and makes her way to the bar to get the order in.
R'vain responds with a short sharp bark of a laugh. "Who's hopin', Ella?" The tease is more good-natured than serious, and as she goes off to make the order, the Weyrlingmaster turns out to follow the other men to the table acquired. "You were saying y'don't get out t'sample new brews too often, R'hal?" A little liberty there, with the 'second's name, while R'vain picks a chair and paws it out to sit. "Sounds a shame t'me. Don't it t'you, D'ven?"
T'ral's chair creaks a protest as he thumps down into it, jacket slung over the back of it. "They got a specialty here?" No 'sir', but no names either -- the junior of the two brownriders is feeling his way out, for all he's relaxed, wearing one of his broad, easy grins. "To drink, I mean." This, added as he turns his head to watch one of the girls in the dresses as she progresses across the room.
R'hal shrugs. "I head out with a few of the wing, sometimes. Mostly we go hunting, though. You know, bring something different back for the kitchens, that sort of thing." He unfastens his jacket and pulls his arms out of the sleeves, then swings it round and drapes it over the back of his chair before sitting down.
"You'd have t'ask," R'vain tells T'ral. "If you don't like what they bring, ask 'em t'bring more. Always works out pretty well f'me that way, see." He runs his tongue over his upper teeth and leans back into his chair, knees splayed, boots out wide beneath the table, indifferent to the foot space they dominate. "Now that sounds like a proper diversion," he tosses over at R'hal, just appreciative enough that if his word choice constitutes a jab it might not be wholly apparent.
D'ven opens his jacket most of the way down, but doesn't take it off. "Yeah, R'vain. Shame doesn't seem like the word. It's way more than a shame." As the conversation moves on, he returns to glancing slowly around the room for a few moments.
It's a few minutes before the order is filled, and the woman who returns is not Ella. It must be 'Fen'. She is slender, slight, and very pale. Her hair is so blonde it's nearly white and her eyes are big and refuse to settle in shade between blue and green. She's one of the four in a low-cut and fancy dress, this one a bluey-green to call more attention to those unusual eyes. The tray she carries over has four tankards, each a slightly different style, and four glasses of wine--two white and two red. "Hello there, boys." Fen's voice is soft and free-flowing. Melodious, one might say. There is something about her that's just...otherworldly, for all that she winks and flashes a very worldly smile. It's an aesthetic some like and some don't. "Now lessee...four chairs. Five folks. Hum." The tray is set down. R'hal is targeted. "Scoot a bit." And with that, well, the wingsecond's options become limited. He could: leave the chair, slide to the side, or find Fen in his lap. Because the girl is aiming to sit and it's R'hal (or his chair) that she's picked to sit on.
"Yessir." T'ral's decided what R'vain's to be called for the night, although it's delivered with a grin that's too familiar to constitute the polite respect the man would merit back at base. He has his mouth open to say more, but shuts it upon Fen's arrival, lifting two fingers to offer the woman a half-salute of greeting. And then, silence from the wingrider, as he leans forward to claim a tankard, lifting his brows to D'ven in a how-about-that? as Fen angles in for R'hal.
"A shame there's nowhere at High Reaches t'get an unusual brew," asides R'vain in an excessively pointed tone, pointing excessively at D'ven. Then his eyes raise to take in Fen, whose appeals he can't help a moment of appreciation for before the ales and the wines take priority. Maybe he knows what comes next; he's grinning like he might. But then, he grins like that a lot, with all those beautiful and unfairly perfect white teeth. He pushes forward from his seat and reaches for tankards and glasses, trying to divine for a moment by squinting which of the ales is R'hal's. Either he guesses or doesn't, but two tankards are left on the tray where the first wing's second (and Fen) have best access to them, and the others R'vain just puts out around the table before leaning back into his chair with one of the reds in hand. "Time t'start taste-testing," he notes, which would be a continuance of his remarks to T'ral, and this wouldn't in any good way explain why his eyes are on R'hal.
Fen is given an easy smile and a nod, before D'ven's eyes meet Tiv's. How about that indeed. "I can't think.." The bronzerider remarks lazily "Of many people who have the technically know-how to do the fancier, more unusual stuff. Not that hang around the Weyr, anyway." A smile plays across his face as he speaks, claiming a tankard and sipping it with obvious pleasure.
R'hal twitches an eyebrow slightly, but he is a serious and courteous man, when he's not tearing a strip off misbehaving wingriders. He stand up and makes an openhanded gesture towards the chair. "Please. Have a seat. I'll grab another one." Which he proceeds to do, placing it down next to one he's just vacated, though he's leaving a decent distance between the two. He picks up a tankard, raises it, and pronounces to all at the table, "Your good health!"
T'ral has a brief glance for the other brownrider that's not quite full of the respect his rank merits. Are you kidding? She was all... The wingrider lifts his tankard to R'vain in silent toast, then takes a long swallow, brows going up. "Good stuff," he approves, setting his mug down. Between R'vain stretching his legs out and T'ral leaning back in his chair, it seems the table of riders are set to take up as much room as they can. "Can be hard to find someone at the weyr who knows how to put a good drink together. D'ven knows a girl, I think. What's her name, man?"
Well. The best laid plans and all that. Fen's smile doesn't give away if she's disappointed or no, although she does lean forward as everyone starts reaching for ales and glasses. "Now hold on, grabbies, just hold on. You want to know what you're drinkin', or you like to be surprised?" She glances over at R'hal. "You, mister, don't seem the sort to like surprises. I'm Fenten. Fen, if you please. I'll cry, you use the whole name." She blinks once, utterly sincere at that last.
Meanwhile, that girl that T'ral peered over at is making her way across the room. Tall and lean. Tanned. Her hair is reddish-brown and her eyes are a light brown. She wears a dark wine-colored dress that brings out the color of her skin and the highlights in her hair. "Fen," she murmurs as she makes her way over, "Don't terrorize the new ones." It's T'ral, however, that gets the wink. And then D'ven is offered a slow and lazy smile.
"A'right, I'll drink t'that," R'vain allows, a little less thrilled than he might be, but willing enough to fake it with a lift of his glass and a swig in cadence with T'ral's. "Oh, it can be a challenge, a'right," he says to T'ral, and flicks a glance to D'ven, then back over to Fen for a widening of his grin to near-leering status. "Tell us, now we've tasted?" And wide-eyed he tosses a few blinks right back at her, though /her/ soulful eyebats weren't meant for /him./
R'hal smiles over the top of his tankard: Fen's spoken to him just as he was about to sample his beer. "Pleased to meet you, Fen. And this looks fine to me - brewed on the premises, is it?" He takes a sip anyway, then a longer pull, showing genuine pleasure as he comments, "That's excellent!" He drops back into the chair and sets the tankard down in front of him, the level of its contents now noticeably lower.
"I know lots of girls, Tiv." D'ven points out with a soft laugh. "But I think the one you mean would be Susannah. Ah yes, nothing she can't do when it comes to alcohol." He shakes his head as R'hal moves seats. "Surprises sound like the order of the night, I reckon, Fen." He comments, returning the newcomer's smile with a slow one of his own.
"That's it," T'ral agrees, lifting his tankard again. "Susannah. You ever introduced her to the Weyrlingmaster, man?" His grin switches over to R'vain then, for all -- like the man he addresses -- he's got half an eye on R'hal's progress with Fen. Or lack thereof. "That girl's got tricks'd make your eyes open wide, and she's awful generous." Maturity, thy name is. The brownrider's snickering as he turns a polite smile on the approaching brunette for a moment, then addresses himself to Fen. "Tell us what we're having, indeed," he agrees.
"I told you, R'hal-- something f'all tastes here." Already R'vain's his eyes are flicking through the crowd, looking for a tray. Eight drinks, four men, it's not nearly enough. Not for what's on his mind. But T'ral's saying something that has some impossibly obvious appeal and the Weyrlingmaster's attention retracts to the brownrider. "Oh, I've heard something'r'other about Susannah. Might've had a taste of her talents, ain't I, D'ven?" His chin comes up for a grin at the other bronzerider, and then he's burying a smirk as lascivious as all get-out in his wine, like whatever's funny almost is too much pressure for him not to give away with laughter.
"Oh yes, you most definitely have." D'ven replies with a grin, giving a nod to Tiv since by this point his question is quite well answered. He too takes a big gulp of his drink at about the same time as his fellow bronzerider, and when he lowers it his face has been schooled into a less strained expression.
"Please to meet me? I think the honor's all mine", Fen replies with a smile, curling herself more comfortably in her chair. Here to stay. "Looks like you boys like the taste. That one's a local, made up a ways from here. 'bout an hour. Except for yours, of course." Bat-bat-bat go the lashes for R'hal, and she lifts a finger to indicate his tankard. "That one's made right here, we save it special. Got all sorts of things on the premises you'd like." The newcomer gets a small smile, and another bat of the pale girl's lashes. "'m not scaring nobody, promise."
R'hal cocks an amused eyebrow at the Weyrlingmaster. "I don't scare easily," he grins, looking up at the other girl. but his attention's mostly on Fen, and turns right back to her as soon as he's spoken. "That's interesting. Do you brew other varieties, or do you buy them in?" He seems intrigued, and his eyes fix on those flapping eyelashes before dropping to the lips below. With a sudden movement, as if to free himself, he looks away and picks up his tankard again.
Triess moves around to lean so her hands rest lightly, one on T'ral's chair back and one on D'ven's. "You don't gotta do much, Fen," she notes easily, "to be scary. And boys..." there is a small frown, playful in its unhappiness, that is offered to each rider in turn, "It's awful bad manners to go praisin' a girl what isn't here in front of a pair what are. You tell 'em about the wines, Fen, or I gotta do it all?"
T'ral tilts his head back for a moment, giving up his amused spectatorship of the Fen and R'hal Show to glance up at Triess. "We're very brave," he informs the woman, straight-faced. "Comes of meeting Thread so often, risking life and limb, that sort of thing." His lips twitch, and he raises his tankard in greeting. "Where's your manners, D'ven? Offer the lady a drink, and ask her about the wines." That admonishment comes with a gleam in his brown eyes, and he leans back in his chair. Two shows at once, and a beer in hand. His cup runneth over.
"You're right, you're right. It's extremely bad manners." D'ven agrees with his own playful frown, this one for his own perceived misdeeds. "Please, have a drink. And as Tiv indicated, we'd love to hear about the wines. And if you bend your ear down to my lips, I'll let you in on a secret."
Fenten wrinkles her nose and pokes her tongue out at the other girl, Triess, before turning back to the beers and wines. "Hush, you. Right, wines. Well this one and this one," one red and one white are tapped, "are a mite sweet. The pale one's the sweetest," and R'hal is offered another smile, this one slow and lazy. "The red one," a glance to Triess, "sweet too. But tart. Imported. Exotic. And these two," the other wines are gestures, "dryer. Grapes are picked earlier. Which all do you boys prefer? Sweeter or less so? We got all sorts, here. Variety."
"Oh, Triess. I'm sorry." R'vain, apparently, knows this girl by name also, though she gets no special attention from him save the apology and the (ever-present) grin. "Offer her a place t'sit, D'ven," suggests the Weyrlingmaster, quietly (for him), and burns off another leering grin with a tip of his wineglass so that he can keep an eye on Fen, as if attending to her lecture about the liquor, without being obliged to answer her query just yet.
"We like brave souls," Triess laughs, brows lifting and eyes sparkling as the game begins. Fen is given a slight glance, mostly neutral. Warning, maybe? "I wouldn't mind a drink, and I like secrets. But first I need to know..." And as she slowly leans down to comply with D'ven's request, she whispers into T'ral's ear, "just how brave are you?" Her lips brush, quick and light, against the outer curl of his ear before she tips her head towards D'ven. "Whisper, sweet thing. I got all night to hear your murmurs."
R'hal seems to be relaxing as the chatter continues, though Triess's antics attract a slight frown before he answers Fen. "Well, I'm not much of a one for wine. I think I'll stick with this good ale." He adds tentatively, "But, if you'd like a glass of something?"
T'ral swallows, gaze lowering thoughtfully to his tankard for a moment. He inspects the contents, as though he might divine some wisdom from the dregs, as an Igenite might read the bottom of a tea cup. "D'ven, offer the lady a place to sit," he murmurs, echoing R'vain's instruction with a grin for the Weyrlingmaster. For Triess, there's only then a sidelong glance, and another of his easy grins. "Not so brave as D'ven here. He and his Teraneth are heroes. Saved a whole cothold from certain death about a seven ago. We couldn't hold him back, when there were innocents in danger." An old game between the Bendenites, this storytelling. "I'll try the red," he continues, setting aside the near empty tankard, and reaching forward for a glass.
"Sure an' there's something I'd like." Fen reaches a hand over to lightly brush R'hal's shoulder, but that hand moves on and is held out. What she's like to drink, it seems, is the ale that R'hal is currently holding.
D'ven does indeed whisper once Triess' ear comes down toward his lips. At first he's whispering actual words, low enough that they're only for her. Then the words change to soft, varied, breathing. The changes in it are deliberate, to cause a soft breeze to play across the sensitive parts of the ear. At Tiv's urging, he pulls back and moves along so that the lady can sit down, before looking embarrassed. "Oh, come on Tiv. You can't bring that up unless you're going to mention that time you and your Darageth flew around doing the job of rain that one long, hot, summer. If it wasn't for that pair, everyone would have starved."
"Oh, yes?" R'hal gives a dry chuckle, and even rolls his eyes, but he relinquishes the tankard of ale with a good grace, first taking another swig, then putting it on the table in front of the woman. He's heard something that interests him, though, and turns a curious stare on T'ral. "Rain?"
"R'hal. Show a little appreciation." R'vain's just here, it seems, to keep the men in line and flirt with the girls-- flirt, not ear-breathe or lap-offer or anything the kind. It suits his reputation a little strangely. He tosses up a paw to try to gain attention from one of the girls with trays, a request ready for another of the bar's most unusual and interesting ales, because hey, there's not a high enough booze-to-boys ratio here yet. Back to R'hal after that: "Fen's tryin' t'teach you somethin' about drinkin' that stuff. Pay attention."
Triess keeps her head tilted as D'ven whispers and a slow smile lifts and creeps across her face. It deepens when the words stop and the breathing continues, and the brunette lowers herself into a sit as the bronzerider scoots backwards. She settles on his knee, one arm looping lazily around his neck and the other hand sweeping up the glass of drier white wine. "Dragons can make it rain?" she asks lazily.
"Not precisely." D'ven replies, one arm sliding comfortably around Triess' waist as she settles. "But if they carry a big enough container, and tip it at the right time, then refill it...it's a lot of work, but that's Tiv for you. He always puts everything he's got into the job, and he's always ready to pitch in the moment he spots something that needs doing."
The story has begun, and T'ral is now obliged to carry it on. He does so with the obligatory deadpan, raising his wineglass untouched to toast the memory of his apocryphal rainmaking duty. "Oh yes, sir. Terrible drought in Benden just after we graduated weyrlinghood. D'ven and I got ourselves in all sorts, so we ended up on extra duty all the time. He's too good to me, to say I volunteered. My duty was rainmaking. Wasn't the dragon that did it." He's talking to Triess now, rather than R'hal, pausing for a mouthful of the wine to wet his throat. "That's very good stuff. Anyway, we strapped huge tubs of water underneath the dragons. I don't suppose you've seen it done here in Tillek. Plenty of rain."
"Fen's tryin' all right," Fenten murmurs with a small laugh as the tankard is plunked down in front of her. She shoots a glance towards the weyrlingmaster and mouths 'one more time, then...'. Then her hand lifts and cuts a quick horizontal motion across the air, at the level of her neck. She can only try for so long, before the night starts to get wasted. The tankard is lifted and she takes a small sip, setting it down again, between her and R'hal, as her tongue dart out to catch a bit of moisture lingering on her lips.
One of the girls with a tray and some very admirable curves swishes over. "Help you fellas out with drinks?"
R'hal is torn between the drought story and the girl at his side. His head shows his indecision in small sideways motions, with glances in both directions, until he's heard out the tale. "Can't say I recall us ever having to do that. One thing the Reaches aren't short of is rainfall." With an apologetic smile, he focuses on the woman. "So, what's there to learn about drinking ale?"
Even R'vain watches that lingering droplet on Fen's mouth for a moment before the words from the girl with the tray break him out of reverie. The Bendenites are telling their stories and R'hal's the birthday boy or whatever-- so the Weyrlingmaster straightens a bit and tips his glass toward the girl, grinning. "R'hal and Fen'd like another ale, most unheard-of and good one y'can find. He's a connoisseur." R'vain pronounces the word with his usual careless slips of tongue and clips of teeth, which is to say, naturally, as if it's part of his vocabulary. Here, it is. And it's also a little bit of a joke, if the flicker of ruddy brows is any indication.
D'ven lets R'vain take care of ordering new things, his attention on Triess and the age old ritual of tail-telling. R'hal is carefully ignored, though not impolitely. Maybe with less scrutiny on him, he'll feel more at ease. "So, come here often?" He asks the girl his arm is weaved around, turning the smile that seems stuck on his face on her before taking another gulp of drink.
"Mmm. Awful brave, yeah. Pourin' buckets of water all on cotholders' heads." Triess smirks as her hand creeps up, fingers lightly rubbing the back of D'ven's neck. The glass of wine is lifted to her lips and she takes a small sip. "Don't know what we'd do, without you in the skies. Dumpin' rain." Then at D'ven's question, she laughs. "Not often enough, if I've missed you around, sweet thing."
The girl with the tray, Lyren, nods once. "Somethin' unusual for our connoisseur. Surely, sir. That all?" It's an obligatory question, but Lyren doesn't wait for the answer. She just heads off to get the order, hips swishing, tray balanced on one hand.
"Snow, too," T'ral agrees, watching R'hal over the rim of his glass for a long moment, brows drawn together. Folks aren't supposed to /believe/ the tall tales. A quick shake of the brownrider's head clears away that brief surprise, and the two men who have drawn the girls' attention are left to their good luck -- T'ral leans forward to ease an elbow onto the table, addressing R'vain. "You're a local, sir," he grins, mock-accusing. "Or they've made you one."
A slightly more genuine smile from the pale woman at R'hal's question. "Well, there's all sorts of better ways t'enjoy ale than sloggin' it down it so. But I think with you, mister, we'd better start slow. Taste it, y'know? Stead of just gulpin'. small sips, let it sit in your mouth. Let the bubbles tickle. Wine ain't the only thing you can take your time over." The mug is lifted and Fen offers it out to him again.
R'vain flips a few fingers of one paw up in a wriggly wave, unnecessary, to indicate he needs nothing else-- for now-- for his tablemates or himself. With Lyren departed he tucks himself forward again, draining the rest of the wine he's got along the way so that he can surrender the glass to the table and reach for one of the others. "What!" Mock-surprise, meet mock-j'accuse. "I ain't no such. I'm a snake out've th'miner's tunnels, not out've th'boatholds, T'ral. Ain't never been a boy at Tillek." Grin, grin, grin; teeth, teeth, teeth. He puts both away just for a moment to get a sip of the new wine down. "I s'pose you /might/ say they've made me one, but you'd be bein' awful kind t'me t'say so..."
R'hal shoots a glance at T'ral and says rather curtly, "That's right. If your wingleader thinks you're good enough, he'll teach you how to throw snowballs at falling Thread. It's a local specialty." And if T'ral believes that... But it's all the attention the other brownrider's going to get, right now. "So," he tells Fen as he takes the mug back. "Small sips, is it? All right." He raises the tankard to his lips, tilts it gently, and sips. He pauses, then swallows, and then pronounces, "It's still good. But you know, a man could die of thirst, at that rate." There's something of a twinkle in his eye.
"Red here's a regular, if he ain't a local," Triess supplies as her fingers idly work a bit of hair at the nape of D'ven's neck. "An' so long as he minds his manners, he's welcome back. And when he don't, Ella wakes him up with a shower from a tankard, and that'll set him right." A small smirk, "so I suppose she's our rider, here. Dumpin' rain where it's needed."
Fen clasps her fingers together so she has a little shelf for her chin to rest on. She chuckles quietly. "Well c'mere thirsty, I can show you another way to drink ale that's a bit more fun. Course, you gotta inch a bit closer first. I don't bite. Promise." A slow smile, those wide eyes guileless. "Less you ask real nice."
"Surely sir, there's no higher praise," T'ral agrees with R'vain, easing back in his chair. To R'hal, he does not reply -- the man has something far more interesting than impudent wingriders to deal with, and this wingrider has no intention of distracting. Indeed, he's content with silence for now, inhaling the scent of his wine, then tipping a mouthful around his mouth in a way that hints at a passing familiarity with tasting. He'll drink, and spectate.
"Triess! Leave a man some mystery," growls R'vain sidelong, and even not his favorite, she has to know the nature of the Weyrlingmaster's grinning growls. He's harmless, chiding her with nothing but gruff fondness, the way he might a weyrling. She's just no weyrling, is all. A skate of his gaze checks on R'hal. Good, good. The ol' buddy's coming along nicely. "Ella's got no cause. Just lookin' for an excuse t'get me out of my shirts half th'time, you ask me." He slumps into his chair much the same way as T'ral does. He drinks a little bit more like a drinker, though.
Finally, Lyren returns with another tankard of ale set down in front of R'hal. "Here you go. Our oddest. Tastes a bit like pear and a bit like raspberries. But it ent sweet at all. Strangest one Aramia could think of what still tastes real good. Enjoy." A smile is flashed and Lyren sashays off again.
R'hal wasn't born yesterday, whatever his current companions may think, and right now he's getting that watched feeling. He thanks Lyren for the new beer, then tells Fen, "Raspberries? Well, that's different. Brewed with fruit in the barrel, is it?" He's now got a tankard in each hand, and the new beer is sipped in the same way as the first, experimentally, with mature consideration, but no elaborate swishing round the mouth. "Yes, that's certainly different." And that's a very noncommittal answer, but it's that drink that stays in his hand. The other's set on the table in reach of Fen - and there's no move to take up her suggestion of another interesting way to drink it.
"Well," Triess smirks equally fondly at the Weyrlingmaster, "What you and Ella do with your shirts certainly ain't any business of mine. Less you do it in the middle of th'bar a'course. Mystery's for girls, Red Reaches. Men get most everything else what's fun. We gotta keep a little somethin' just for us." She peers over at T'ral, brows lifting a little. "Hey Mister Rainmaker, you want me to call someone over for you? Wouldn't like to think you're sittin' there feelin' lonesome."
There's a card game starting up at the next table, and T'ral's attention has been caught. "There are worse fates," he observes to R'vain with a grin, slowly tilting his chair back until the front logs lift off the ground. He's looking over at those who're settling in for the game when Triess speaks, gaze lingering there thoughtfully for a moment before he turns his head to reply. "No thank you, ma'am. I got a someone at home, she suits me fine. I'll stick to a drink, maybe some of that." A nod indicates the game that's starting up.
R'vain casts another glance sideways, checking on R'hal. This checkup is less good. "Mmm," rumbles the Weyrlingmaster toward Triess, drawing his emerald gaze slowly from his buddy the first wing's 'second over to the woman on D'ven's knee. "We'll try an' keep ourselves restrained." When T'ral's done demurring R'vain leans over, chin up, to try to get an ear from Triess. An ear D'ven's not using, of course.
R'hal looks from T'ral to Triess, his expression becoming distinctly fixed in reaction to their interchange. It seems to make up his mind about something, though - like, whether this place is what he thinks it is, and the precise role in the proceedings to be played by the young ladies. He looks back at T'ral. "Cards? Maybe I'll join you." Or maybe not. He picks up the new drink and stands, smiling down at Fen. "Nice to meet you. Do finish that, if you'd like to." Rather than joining the game, though, he concentrates on working his way through the beer.
D'ven blinks a little, having fallen into a trancelike state from the attentions Triess is lavishing on the back of his neck. There's a pleasurable sound, and then actual speech. "I should come here more often. Wonderfully...relaxing."
Fen studies the mug and then gently pushes it away before she glances over at R'vain. "You're sweet to do for your friends, hon. But next time, maybe make sure they want some doin' for, and -then- call someone over." She tosses him a wink and scoots the chair back. She stands and drifts off into the crowd and over towards a table of sailors, one of whom pats his lap with a meaningful grin.
"Room for two more, lads?" T'ral's friendly hail comes with the air of a man used to insinuating himself into games of cards. He's already cracking his knuckles as he begins to swing his chair around. D'ven's hair is ruffled, and then his friend is turning away, leaning forward to tap on the table with a grin, as two of the players shuffle to make room. "Deal us in."
"You tense anywhere, sweet thing?" Triess murmurs softly into D'ven's ear, her eyes briefly watching R'hal and then Fen as they depart. "C'mon upstairs, I promise I can get you relaxed all over." Then she tips her head, allowing the Weyrlingmaster to murmur whatever he wishes to say. She'll wait til he does before standing and gesturing for D'ven to follow after.
But what R'vain would have murmured is, perhaps, nulled by this sudden dissolution. He straightens, so much so that he pulls right up out of his chair to toss a grin off at T'ral, then another at D'ven. Just as if he's perfectly pleased to have brought the one for cards and the other for-- other pleasures. For the third of his friends-- well. "R'hal, I'm goin t'see if I can get Ella t'spend her breaktime talkin’ t'me. I bet you I can. Want t'come on along and we'll get ourselves gone when your mug's dry?" He jerks his chin up and takes a glance over at T'ral. "They'll be good t'get back in time." And then, whether the first wing brownrider chooses to follow or not, R'vain prowls off toward the bar.
Time: Night on Day 21, Month 10, Turn 2
Players: R'vain, R'hal, T'ral, D'ven, Fenten (NPC), Triess (NPC), Ella (NPC), Aramia (NPC), Lyren (NPC) and other assorted barmaids and customers
Scene: R'vain takes a few boys for a fun night out. Too bad not everybody agrees with his idea of fun.
I love this bar and I love the people in it. Thank you so much to R'vain, T'ral, D'ven, and R'hal for bringing their carousing to Aramia's and letting me torment them with low-cut dresses and funny ales.
The night is crisp and biting outside, but within the bar there is a warm ambiance, literally and figuratively. To the right of the doorway is a long bar of cherry wood, stools situated in front and a trio of women behind it, taking orders and charming the crowd. The one on the right is short, brunette, round and creeping to middle age. She smiles as she pours an ale and slides it down. The one in the middle is tall and lean. Blonde hair is piled atop her head, green eyes have lines in the corners, and she is murmuring something to a wide-shouldered sailor that has his laughter and pounding his companion's shoulder. On the left is a woman of average height, black hair in a queue. She's uncorking a bottle of wine.
Beyond the bar are an assortment of tables, most with four chairs and a few with two. There are stairs that lead up to the second floor which vanishes into a hallway and an assortment of rooms. To the left, set into the wall, is a large fireplace, keeping the bar heated and better lit. The tables have a variety of men. Some drink. Some play cards. Some laugh. Some don't. Four women move through them, aprons tied around their hips, trays in hands. One has very curly brown hair piled high on her head. Another Is slight and blonde. A third is a brunette that curves in -just- the right places. A fourth is just shy of being tall, has short-cropped black hair, and is pulling a rag free from her apron to swat it at a smirking customer. There are other girls (four of them), too, that slide through the room. They wear fine and flattering gowns and hold no trays. They carry smiles and winks instead.
The dragons leave them nearby. Ruvoth is swift and supplicant about leading Yanith, especially, toward the seashore for sport in the waves. That leaves R'vain ready to get his little crowd off and into the bar. He tends especially to conversing with the one-A 'second, head bowed a bit to make up for difference in height as he makes a low aside. They can't all four of them get through that door at once-- but the Weyrlingmaster's not about to stand aside for D'ven and T'ral to go first. No; he's got to get R'hal through, and now. "Just a one with us, 'second, I promise it'll go down easy. Such good stuff here."
T'ral is hauling off his jacket as he follows behind the leading pair, shoulder to shoulder with D'ven -- they make up a pair of looming, broad-shouldered bodyguards as they follow. The least of the three dragons, and silent as ever, Darageth trails the others as his rider trails their riders. There's nothing hesitant about the big brownrider, though. He's grinning broadly, head up to look over the top of the crowd, taking in the patrons, the tables, the drinks, the girls.
Yanith's entirely happy to follow Ruvoth towards the seashore, though he sits and watches the waves for a bit before he actually enters the water. R'hal lets himself be ushered into the barroom, looking round curiously as he enters. Bar, booze, and bartenders don't provoke any particular reaction. Neither do the card-players: they're a commonplace in any living cavern. The girls, however certainly attract a glance, and then another glance. And then another glance, followed by a questioning look sent in the direction of R'vain. He considers for a moment, then comments, "Good views, you said. You weren't thinking of seascapes, were you?" It's not the sort of question that expects an answer. Then he smiles. "So, do you recommend the ale? Or should I be looking to the wine?"
Teraneth, for the moment, prefers to rest on the shore rather than entering the waves. D'ven follows along next to T'ral, his own grin wide as he glances around. His hands rub together for a brief moment. "It's been far too long since we've had a big outing." He murmurs, mostly for the benefit of the man next to him.
Behind the bar, the blonde, Aramia, lifts her gaze as four new arrivals come in. Green eyes dart over each face, and each knot, and then settle, calm and steady, on R'vain. There is nothing in that gaze other than a silent demand that he be aware. She's watching. Old incidents have been forgiven, surely. Forgotten? Never.
Others notice too. A few of the sailors playing cards look over. Some of the guards in the corner raise their brows. There is, in general, a slight dimming of conversation for a few minutes before things go back to the status quo. It's the girl with the swatting-rag that notices the new arrivals and flashes a grin. Plunking a tankard of ale down for a solitary man at one of the small tables, she saunters up to the quartet offering up another playful smile. "Hey, Red Reaches," the crop-haired girl chirps to the Weyrlingmaster. "Been a while and a day since you came around with friends. Gimme your orders and find a table, we'll get you squared away."
"What's your preference? They got somethin' here for every taste-- " R'vain's spotted, and fixed in Aramia's glare, he pauses a moment to respond with a raising of his chin and a glint of emerald eyes-- too proud to cause /her/ any heartache, he is! He recovers in a beat. "-- every taste, I tell you. You like ale, order ale. Wine, then wine. It'll be bar none, I guarantee it. Well, she does-- " He's about to point out the proprietress, but then there's the girl with the rag coming up. "Aw, Ella. On th'tables tonight? Shit." And the Weyrlingmaster holds up his paws palms-forward, the gesture of 'do-no-harm,' then drops one and tips the other over to pointpointpoint at his buddy here, good ol' R'hal, his buddy, yep. Have a good look. "Open me up with four good ales and four good wines, won't y'please?" He says 'please.' Mark the day. "We'll sort 'em out once they get there."
He says 'please'. T'ral shifts his gaze from his inspection of a nearby card game to the Weyrlingmaster, mouth quirking to a quick smile. There's a glance tipped sideways to D'ven. Note that? The big brownrider's taking in his surroundings in a slow, methodical way -- there are the bottles behind the bars, there's another card game, that man tips his hand forward to show off his cards, that one's bluffing, oops, there's a girl in a dress that's worthy of the name, there's the hearth, there's a table. "Got one," he observes, raising his voice loud enough to carry over the crowd, and angles sideways as a table comes free, a group of sailors rising to yield it.
"I'm more of an ale man; that'll be fine." R'hal's keeping his eyes open, but not looking at all uncomfortable. Indeed, he sounds quite positive as he observes, "Haven't sampled a new brew for - I can't think how long." He grins ruefully. "Guess I don't get to inns that often." His head turns sharply at T'ral's call, but he's still smiling. "Ah, well spotted!" He follows the other brownrider towards the hearth.
D'ven nods to his friend, this is apparently noted. He too is casing the joint, though his gaze is lingering longer on the various girls than anything else. "Sounds like a plan." He nods as R'vain orders, before following Tiv and R'hal across the room to slide into a chair.
Ella tsks softly and lets her shoulders rise and fall in a what-can-you-do gesture. "Sorry, Red. I can only dump beer over your head tonight. Come back tomorrow, you're hopin' for more." The small gesture towards R'hal earns the wingsecond another glance and that playful smile turns positively into a smirk. The table T'ral selects is noted and Ella says, "Four wines, four ales, one of 'em unusual. Tell you what. I'll have Fen bring 'em on over. She's not busy just now." Tucking her tray under her arm, Ella turns and makes her way to the bar to get the order in.
R'vain responds with a short sharp bark of a laugh. "Who's hopin', Ella?" The tease is more good-natured than serious, and as she goes off to make the order, the Weyrlingmaster turns out to follow the other men to the table acquired. "You were saying y'don't get out t'sample new brews too often, R'hal?" A little liberty there, with the 'second's name, while R'vain picks a chair and paws it out to sit. "Sounds a shame t'me. Don't it t'you, D'ven?"
T'ral's chair creaks a protest as he thumps down into it, jacket slung over the back of it. "They got a specialty here?" No 'sir', but no names either -- the junior of the two brownriders is feeling his way out, for all he's relaxed, wearing one of his broad, easy grins. "To drink, I mean." This, added as he turns his head to watch one of the girls in the dresses as she progresses across the room.
R'hal shrugs. "I head out with a few of the wing, sometimes. Mostly we go hunting, though. You know, bring something different back for the kitchens, that sort of thing." He unfastens his jacket and pulls his arms out of the sleeves, then swings it round and drapes it over the back of his chair before sitting down.
"You'd have t'ask," R'vain tells T'ral. "If you don't like what they bring, ask 'em t'bring more. Always works out pretty well f'me that way, see." He runs his tongue over his upper teeth and leans back into his chair, knees splayed, boots out wide beneath the table, indifferent to the foot space they dominate. "Now that sounds like a proper diversion," he tosses over at R'hal, just appreciative enough that if his word choice constitutes a jab it might not be wholly apparent.
D'ven opens his jacket most of the way down, but doesn't take it off. "Yeah, R'vain. Shame doesn't seem like the word. It's way more than a shame." As the conversation moves on, he returns to glancing slowly around the room for a few moments.
It's a few minutes before the order is filled, and the woman who returns is not Ella. It must be 'Fen'. She is slender, slight, and very pale. Her hair is so blonde it's nearly white and her eyes are big and refuse to settle in shade between blue and green. She's one of the four in a low-cut and fancy dress, this one a bluey-green to call more attention to those unusual eyes. The tray she carries over has four tankards, each a slightly different style, and four glasses of wine--two white and two red. "Hello there, boys." Fen's voice is soft and free-flowing. Melodious, one might say. There is something about her that's just...otherworldly, for all that she winks and flashes a very worldly smile. It's an aesthetic some like and some don't. "Now lessee...four chairs. Five folks. Hum." The tray is set down. R'hal is targeted. "Scoot a bit." And with that, well, the wingsecond's options become limited. He could: leave the chair, slide to the side, or find Fen in his lap. Because the girl is aiming to sit and it's R'hal (or his chair) that she's picked to sit on.
"Yessir." T'ral's decided what R'vain's to be called for the night, although it's delivered with a grin that's too familiar to constitute the polite respect the man would merit back at base. He has his mouth open to say more, but shuts it upon Fen's arrival, lifting two fingers to offer the woman a half-salute of greeting. And then, silence from the wingrider, as he leans forward to claim a tankard, lifting his brows to D'ven in a how-about-that? as Fen angles in for R'hal.
"A shame there's nowhere at High Reaches t'get an unusual brew," asides R'vain in an excessively pointed tone, pointing excessively at D'ven. Then his eyes raise to take in Fen, whose appeals he can't help a moment of appreciation for before the ales and the wines take priority. Maybe he knows what comes next; he's grinning like he might. But then, he grins like that a lot, with all those beautiful and unfairly perfect white teeth. He pushes forward from his seat and reaches for tankards and glasses, trying to divine for a moment by squinting which of the ales is R'hal's. Either he guesses or doesn't, but two tankards are left on the tray where the first wing's second (and Fen) have best access to them, and the others R'vain just puts out around the table before leaning back into his chair with one of the reds in hand. "Time t'start taste-testing," he notes, which would be a continuance of his remarks to T'ral, and this wouldn't in any good way explain why his eyes are on R'hal.
Fen is given an easy smile and a nod, before D'ven's eyes meet Tiv's. How about that indeed. "I can't think.." The bronzerider remarks lazily "Of many people who have the technically know-how to do the fancier, more unusual stuff. Not that hang around the Weyr, anyway." A smile plays across his face as he speaks, claiming a tankard and sipping it with obvious pleasure.
R'hal twitches an eyebrow slightly, but he is a serious and courteous man, when he's not tearing a strip off misbehaving wingriders. He stand up and makes an openhanded gesture towards the chair. "Please. Have a seat. I'll grab another one." Which he proceeds to do, placing it down next to one he's just vacated, though he's leaving a decent distance between the two. He picks up a tankard, raises it, and pronounces to all at the table, "Your good health!"
T'ral has a brief glance for the other brownrider that's not quite full of the respect his rank merits. Are you kidding? She was all... The wingrider lifts his tankard to R'vain in silent toast, then takes a long swallow, brows going up. "Good stuff," he approves, setting his mug down. Between R'vain stretching his legs out and T'ral leaning back in his chair, it seems the table of riders are set to take up as much room as they can. "Can be hard to find someone at the weyr who knows how to put a good drink together. D'ven knows a girl, I think. What's her name, man?"
Well. The best laid plans and all that. Fen's smile doesn't give away if she's disappointed or no, although she does lean forward as everyone starts reaching for ales and glasses. "Now hold on, grabbies, just hold on. You want to know what you're drinkin', or you like to be surprised?" She glances over at R'hal. "You, mister, don't seem the sort to like surprises. I'm Fenten. Fen, if you please. I'll cry, you use the whole name." She blinks once, utterly sincere at that last.
Meanwhile, that girl that T'ral peered over at is making her way across the room. Tall and lean. Tanned. Her hair is reddish-brown and her eyes are a light brown. She wears a dark wine-colored dress that brings out the color of her skin and the highlights in her hair. "Fen," she murmurs as she makes her way over, "Don't terrorize the new ones." It's T'ral, however, that gets the wink. And then D'ven is offered a slow and lazy smile.
"A'right, I'll drink t'that," R'vain allows, a little less thrilled than he might be, but willing enough to fake it with a lift of his glass and a swig in cadence with T'ral's. "Oh, it can be a challenge, a'right," he says to T'ral, and flicks a glance to D'ven, then back over to Fen for a widening of his grin to near-leering status. "Tell us, now we've tasted?" And wide-eyed he tosses a few blinks right back at her, though /her/ soulful eyebats weren't meant for /him./
R'hal smiles over the top of his tankard: Fen's spoken to him just as he was about to sample his beer. "Pleased to meet you, Fen. And this looks fine to me - brewed on the premises, is it?" He takes a sip anyway, then a longer pull, showing genuine pleasure as he comments, "That's excellent!" He drops back into the chair and sets the tankard down in front of him, the level of its contents now noticeably lower.
"I know lots of girls, Tiv." D'ven points out with a soft laugh. "But I think the one you mean would be Susannah. Ah yes, nothing she can't do when it comes to alcohol." He shakes his head as R'hal moves seats. "Surprises sound like the order of the night, I reckon, Fen." He comments, returning the newcomer's smile with a slow one of his own.
"That's it," T'ral agrees, lifting his tankard again. "Susannah. You ever introduced her to the Weyrlingmaster, man?" His grin switches over to R'vain then, for all -- like the man he addresses -- he's got half an eye on R'hal's progress with Fen. Or lack thereof. "That girl's got tricks'd make your eyes open wide, and she's awful generous." Maturity, thy name is. The brownrider's snickering as he turns a polite smile on the approaching brunette for a moment, then addresses himself to Fen. "Tell us what we're having, indeed," he agrees.
"I told you, R'hal-- something f'all tastes here." Already R'vain's his eyes are flicking through the crowd, looking for a tray. Eight drinks, four men, it's not nearly enough. Not for what's on his mind. But T'ral's saying something that has some impossibly obvious appeal and the Weyrlingmaster's attention retracts to the brownrider. "Oh, I've heard something'r'other about Susannah. Might've had a taste of her talents, ain't I, D'ven?" His chin comes up for a grin at the other bronzerider, and then he's burying a smirk as lascivious as all get-out in his wine, like whatever's funny almost is too much pressure for him not to give away with laughter.
"Oh yes, you most definitely have." D'ven replies with a grin, giving a nod to Tiv since by this point his question is quite well answered. He too takes a big gulp of his drink at about the same time as his fellow bronzerider, and when he lowers it his face has been schooled into a less strained expression.
"Please to meet me? I think the honor's all mine", Fen replies with a smile, curling herself more comfortably in her chair. Here to stay. "Looks like you boys like the taste. That one's a local, made up a ways from here. 'bout an hour. Except for yours, of course." Bat-bat-bat go the lashes for R'hal, and she lifts a finger to indicate his tankard. "That one's made right here, we save it special. Got all sorts of things on the premises you'd like." The newcomer gets a small smile, and another bat of the pale girl's lashes. "'m not scaring nobody, promise."
R'hal cocks an amused eyebrow at the Weyrlingmaster. "I don't scare easily," he grins, looking up at the other girl. but his attention's mostly on Fen, and turns right back to her as soon as he's spoken. "That's interesting. Do you brew other varieties, or do you buy them in?" He seems intrigued, and his eyes fix on those flapping eyelashes before dropping to the lips below. With a sudden movement, as if to free himself, he looks away and picks up his tankard again.
Triess moves around to lean so her hands rest lightly, one on T'ral's chair back and one on D'ven's. "You don't gotta do much, Fen," she notes easily, "to be scary. And boys..." there is a small frown, playful in its unhappiness, that is offered to each rider in turn, "It's awful bad manners to go praisin' a girl what isn't here in front of a pair what are. You tell 'em about the wines, Fen, or I gotta do it all?"
T'ral tilts his head back for a moment, giving up his amused spectatorship of the Fen and R'hal Show to glance up at Triess. "We're very brave," he informs the woman, straight-faced. "Comes of meeting Thread so often, risking life and limb, that sort of thing." His lips twitch, and he raises his tankard in greeting. "Where's your manners, D'ven? Offer the lady a drink, and ask her about the wines." That admonishment comes with a gleam in his brown eyes, and he leans back in his chair. Two shows at once, and a beer in hand. His cup runneth over.
"You're right, you're right. It's extremely bad manners." D'ven agrees with his own playful frown, this one for his own perceived misdeeds. "Please, have a drink. And as Tiv indicated, we'd love to hear about the wines. And if you bend your ear down to my lips, I'll let you in on a secret."
Fenten wrinkles her nose and pokes her tongue out at the other girl, Triess, before turning back to the beers and wines. "Hush, you. Right, wines. Well this one and this one," one red and one white are tapped, "are a mite sweet. The pale one's the sweetest," and R'hal is offered another smile, this one slow and lazy. "The red one," a glance to Triess, "sweet too. But tart. Imported. Exotic. And these two," the other wines are gestures, "dryer. Grapes are picked earlier. Which all do you boys prefer? Sweeter or less so? We got all sorts, here. Variety."
"Oh, Triess. I'm sorry." R'vain, apparently, knows this girl by name also, though she gets no special attention from him save the apology and the (ever-present) grin. "Offer her a place t'sit, D'ven," suggests the Weyrlingmaster, quietly (for him), and burns off another leering grin with a tip of his wineglass so that he can keep an eye on Fen, as if attending to her lecture about the liquor, without being obliged to answer her query just yet.
"We like brave souls," Triess laughs, brows lifting and eyes sparkling as the game begins. Fen is given a slight glance, mostly neutral. Warning, maybe? "I wouldn't mind a drink, and I like secrets. But first I need to know..." And as she slowly leans down to comply with D'ven's request, she whispers into T'ral's ear, "just how brave are you?" Her lips brush, quick and light, against the outer curl of his ear before she tips her head towards D'ven. "Whisper, sweet thing. I got all night to hear your murmurs."
R'hal seems to be relaxing as the chatter continues, though Triess's antics attract a slight frown before he answers Fen. "Well, I'm not much of a one for wine. I think I'll stick with this good ale." He adds tentatively, "But, if you'd like a glass of something?"
T'ral swallows, gaze lowering thoughtfully to his tankard for a moment. He inspects the contents, as though he might divine some wisdom from the dregs, as an Igenite might read the bottom of a tea cup. "D'ven, offer the lady a place to sit," he murmurs, echoing R'vain's instruction with a grin for the Weyrlingmaster. For Triess, there's only then a sidelong glance, and another of his easy grins. "Not so brave as D'ven here. He and his Teraneth are heroes. Saved a whole cothold from certain death about a seven ago. We couldn't hold him back, when there were innocents in danger." An old game between the Bendenites, this storytelling. "I'll try the red," he continues, setting aside the near empty tankard, and reaching forward for a glass.
"Sure an' there's something I'd like." Fen reaches a hand over to lightly brush R'hal's shoulder, but that hand moves on and is held out. What she's like to drink, it seems, is the ale that R'hal is currently holding.
D'ven does indeed whisper once Triess' ear comes down toward his lips. At first he's whispering actual words, low enough that they're only for her. Then the words change to soft, varied, breathing. The changes in it are deliberate, to cause a soft breeze to play across the sensitive parts of the ear. At Tiv's urging, he pulls back and moves along so that the lady can sit down, before looking embarrassed. "Oh, come on Tiv. You can't bring that up unless you're going to mention that time you and your Darageth flew around doing the job of rain that one long, hot, summer. If it wasn't for that pair, everyone would have starved."
"Oh, yes?" R'hal gives a dry chuckle, and even rolls his eyes, but he relinquishes the tankard of ale with a good grace, first taking another swig, then putting it on the table in front of the woman. He's heard something that interests him, though, and turns a curious stare on T'ral. "Rain?"
"R'hal. Show a little appreciation." R'vain's just here, it seems, to keep the men in line and flirt with the girls-- flirt, not ear-breathe or lap-offer or anything the kind. It suits his reputation a little strangely. He tosses up a paw to try to gain attention from one of the girls with trays, a request ready for another of the bar's most unusual and interesting ales, because hey, there's not a high enough booze-to-boys ratio here yet. Back to R'hal after that: "Fen's tryin' t'teach you somethin' about drinkin' that stuff. Pay attention."
Triess keeps her head tilted as D'ven whispers and a slow smile lifts and creeps across her face. It deepens when the words stop and the breathing continues, and the brunette lowers herself into a sit as the bronzerider scoots backwards. She settles on his knee, one arm looping lazily around his neck and the other hand sweeping up the glass of drier white wine. "Dragons can make it rain?" she asks lazily.
"Not precisely." D'ven replies, one arm sliding comfortably around Triess' waist as she settles. "But if they carry a big enough container, and tip it at the right time, then refill it...it's a lot of work, but that's Tiv for you. He always puts everything he's got into the job, and he's always ready to pitch in the moment he spots something that needs doing."
The story has begun, and T'ral is now obliged to carry it on. He does so with the obligatory deadpan, raising his wineglass untouched to toast the memory of his apocryphal rainmaking duty. "Oh yes, sir. Terrible drought in Benden just after we graduated weyrlinghood. D'ven and I got ourselves in all sorts, so we ended up on extra duty all the time. He's too good to me, to say I volunteered. My duty was rainmaking. Wasn't the dragon that did it." He's talking to Triess now, rather than R'hal, pausing for a mouthful of the wine to wet his throat. "That's very good stuff. Anyway, we strapped huge tubs of water underneath the dragons. I don't suppose you've seen it done here in Tillek. Plenty of rain."
"Fen's tryin' all right," Fenten murmurs with a small laugh as the tankard is plunked down in front of her. She shoots a glance towards the weyrlingmaster and mouths 'one more time, then...'. Then her hand lifts and cuts a quick horizontal motion across the air, at the level of her neck. She can only try for so long, before the night starts to get wasted. The tankard is lifted and she takes a small sip, setting it down again, between her and R'hal, as her tongue dart out to catch a bit of moisture lingering on her lips.
One of the girls with a tray and some very admirable curves swishes over. "Help you fellas out with drinks?"
R'hal is torn between the drought story and the girl at his side. His head shows his indecision in small sideways motions, with glances in both directions, until he's heard out the tale. "Can't say I recall us ever having to do that. One thing the Reaches aren't short of is rainfall." With an apologetic smile, he focuses on the woman. "So, what's there to learn about drinking ale?"
Even R'vain watches that lingering droplet on Fen's mouth for a moment before the words from the girl with the tray break him out of reverie. The Bendenites are telling their stories and R'hal's the birthday boy or whatever-- so the Weyrlingmaster straightens a bit and tips his glass toward the girl, grinning. "R'hal and Fen'd like another ale, most unheard-of and good one y'can find. He's a connoisseur." R'vain pronounces the word with his usual careless slips of tongue and clips of teeth, which is to say, naturally, as if it's part of his vocabulary. Here, it is. And it's also a little bit of a joke, if the flicker of ruddy brows is any indication.
D'ven lets R'vain take care of ordering new things, his attention on Triess and the age old ritual of tail-telling. R'hal is carefully ignored, though not impolitely. Maybe with less scrutiny on him, he'll feel more at ease. "So, come here often?" He asks the girl his arm is weaved around, turning the smile that seems stuck on his face on her before taking another gulp of drink.
"Mmm. Awful brave, yeah. Pourin' buckets of water all on cotholders' heads." Triess smirks as her hand creeps up, fingers lightly rubbing the back of D'ven's neck. The glass of wine is lifted to her lips and she takes a small sip. "Don't know what we'd do, without you in the skies. Dumpin' rain." Then at D'ven's question, she laughs. "Not often enough, if I've missed you around, sweet thing."
The girl with the tray, Lyren, nods once. "Somethin' unusual for our connoisseur. Surely, sir. That all?" It's an obligatory question, but Lyren doesn't wait for the answer. She just heads off to get the order, hips swishing, tray balanced on one hand.
"Snow, too," T'ral agrees, watching R'hal over the rim of his glass for a long moment, brows drawn together. Folks aren't supposed to /believe/ the tall tales. A quick shake of the brownrider's head clears away that brief surprise, and the two men who have drawn the girls' attention are left to their good luck -- T'ral leans forward to ease an elbow onto the table, addressing R'vain. "You're a local, sir," he grins, mock-accusing. "Or they've made you one."
A slightly more genuine smile from the pale woman at R'hal's question. "Well, there's all sorts of better ways t'enjoy ale than sloggin' it down it so. But I think with you, mister, we'd better start slow. Taste it, y'know? Stead of just gulpin'. small sips, let it sit in your mouth. Let the bubbles tickle. Wine ain't the only thing you can take your time over." The mug is lifted and Fen offers it out to him again.
R'vain flips a few fingers of one paw up in a wriggly wave, unnecessary, to indicate he needs nothing else-- for now-- for his tablemates or himself. With Lyren departed he tucks himself forward again, draining the rest of the wine he's got along the way so that he can surrender the glass to the table and reach for one of the others. "What!" Mock-surprise, meet mock-j'accuse. "I ain't no such. I'm a snake out've th'miner's tunnels, not out've th'boatholds, T'ral. Ain't never been a boy at Tillek." Grin, grin, grin; teeth, teeth, teeth. He puts both away just for a moment to get a sip of the new wine down. "I s'pose you /might/ say they've made me one, but you'd be bein' awful kind t'me t'say so..."
R'hal shoots a glance at T'ral and says rather curtly, "That's right. If your wingleader thinks you're good enough, he'll teach you how to throw snowballs at falling Thread. It's a local specialty." And if T'ral believes that... But it's all the attention the other brownrider's going to get, right now. "So," he tells Fen as he takes the mug back. "Small sips, is it? All right." He raises the tankard to his lips, tilts it gently, and sips. He pauses, then swallows, and then pronounces, "It's still good. But you know, a man could die of thirst, at that rate." There's something of a twinkle in his eye.
"Red here's a regular, if he ain't a local," Triess supplies as her fingers idly work a bit of hair at the nape of D'ven's neck. "An' so long as he minds his manners, he's welcome back. And when he don't, Ella wakes him up with a shower from a tankard, and that'll set him right." A small smirk, "so I suppose she's our rider, here. Dumpin' rain where it's needed."
Fen clasps her fingers together so she has a little shelf for her chin to rest on. She chuckles quietly. "Well c'mere thirsty, I can show you another way to drink ale that's a bit more fun. Course, you gotta inch a bit closer first. I don't bite. Promise." A slow smile, those wide eyes guileless. "Less you ask real nice."
"Surely sir, there's no higher praise," T'ral agrees with R'vain, easing back in his chair. To R'hal, he does not reply -- the man has something far more interesting than impudent wingriders to deal with, and this wingrider has no intention of distracting. Indeed, he's content with silence for now, inhaling the scent of his wine, then tipping a mouthful around his mouth in a way that hints at a passing familiarity with tasting. He'll drink, and spectate.
"Triess! Leave a man some mystery," growls R'vain sidelong, and even not his favorite, she has to know the nature of the Weyrlingmaster's grinning growls. He's harmless, chiding her with nothing but gruff fondness, the way he might a weyrling. She's just no weyrling, is all. A skate of his gaze checks on R'hal. Good, good. The ol' buddy's coming along nicely. "Ella's got no cause. Just lookin' for an excuse t'get me out of my shirts half th'time, you ask me." He slumps into his chair much the same way as T'ral does. He drinks a little bit more like a drinker, though.
Finally, Lyren returns with another tankard of ale set down in front of R'hal. "Here you go. Our oddest. Tastes a bit like pear and a bit like raspberries. But it ent sweet at all. Strangest one Aramia could think of what still tastes real good. Enjoy." A smile is flashed and Lyren sashays off again.
R'hal wasn't born yesterday, whatever his current companions may think, and right now he's getting that watched feeling. He thanks Lyren for the new beer, then tells Fen, "Raspberries? Well, that's different. Brewed with fruit in the barrel, is it?" He's now got a tankard in each hand, and the new beer is sipped in the same way as the first, experimentally, with mature consideration, but no elaborate swishing round the mouth. "Yes, that's certainly different." And that's a very noncommittal answer, but it's that drink that stays in his hand. The other's set on the table in reach of Fen - and there's no move to take up her suggestion of another interesting way to drink it.
"Well," Triess smirks equally fondly at the Weyrlingmaster, "What you and Ella do with your shirts certainly ain't any business of mine. Less you do it in the middle of th'bar a'course. Mystery's for girls, Red Reaches. Men get most everything else what's fun. We gotta keep a little somethin' just for us." She peers over at T'ral, brows lifting a little. "Hey Mister Rainmaker, you want me to call someone over for you? Wouldn't like to think you're sittin' there feelin' lonesome."
There's a card game starting up at the next table, and T'ral's attention has been caught. "There are worse fates," he observes to R'vain with a grin, slowly tilting his chair back until the front logs lift off the ground. He's looking over at those who're settling in for the game when Triess speaks, gaze lingering there thoughtfully for a moment before he turns his head to reply. "No thank you, ma'am. I got a someone at home, she suits me fine. I'll stick to a drink, maybe some of that." A nod indicates the game that's starting up.
R'vain casts another glance sideways, checking on R'hal. This checkup is less good. "Mmm," rumbles the Weyrlingmaster toward Triess, drawing his emerald gaze slowly from his buddy the first wing's 'second over to the woman on D'ven's knee. "We'll try an' keep ourselves restrained." When T'ral's done demurring R'vain leans over, chin up, to try to get an ear from Triess. An ear D'ven's not using, of course.
R'hal looks from T'ral to Triess, his expression becoming distinctly fixed in reaction to their interchange. It seems to make up his mind about something, though - like, whether this place is what he thinks it is, and the precise role in the proceedings to be played by the young ladies. He looks back at T'ral. "Cards? Maybe I'll join you." Or maybe not. He picks up the new drink and stands, smiling down at Fen. "Nice to meet you. Do finish that, if you'd like to." Rather than joining the game, though, he concentrates on working his way through the beer.
D'ven blinks a little, having fallen into a trancelike state from the attentions Triess is lavishing on the back of his neck. There's a pleasurable sound, and then actual speech. "I should come here more often. Wonderfully...relaxing."
Fen studies the mug and then gently pushes it away before she glances over at R'vain. "You're sweet to do for your friends, hon. But next time, maybe make sure they want some doin' for, and -then- call someone over." She tosses him a wink and scoots the chair back. She stands and drifts off into the crowd and over towards a table of sailors, one of whom pats his lap with a meaningful grin.
"Room for two more, lads?" T'ral's friendly hail comes with the air of a man used to insinuating himself into games of cards. He's already cracking his knuckles as he begins to swing his chair around. D'ven's hair is ruffled, and then his friend is turning away, leaning forward to tap on the table with a grin, as two of the players shuffle to make room. "Deal us in."
"You tense anywhere, sweet thing?" Triess murmurs softly into D'ven's ear, her eyes briefly watching R'hal and then Fen as they depart. "C'mon upstairs, I promise I can get you relaxed all over." Then she tips her head, allowing the Weyrlingmaster to murmur whatever he wishes to say. She'll wait til he does before standing and gesturing for D'ven to follow after.
But what R'vain would have murmured is, perhaps, nulled by this sudden dissolution. He straightens, so much so that he pulls right up out of his chair to toss a grin off at T'ral, then another at D'ven. Just as if he's perfectly pleased to have brought the one for cards and the other for-- other pleasures. For the third of his friends-- well. "R'hal, I'm goin t'see if I can get Ella t'spend her breaktime talkin’ t'me. I bet you I can. Want t'come on along and we'll get ourselves gone when your mug's dry?" He jerks his chin up and takes a glance over at T'ral. "They'll be good t'get back in time." And then, whether the first wing brownrider chooses to follow or not, R'vain prowls off toward the bar.