Who

Ione, K'vre

What

Ione abandons her date for K'vre. Clutchmates don't kill each other.

References to adult activity, possibly mild language?

When

It is evening of the fourth day of the eleventh month of the sixteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

The Crescent, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 24 Apr 2019 07:00

 

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"Perhaps we should invite him over. He looks very lonely. And surely he would take his goldrider's side on the antics of an old brownrider."


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The Crescent

Designed to attract a higher spectrum of patrons, but accessible to a more modest crowd, the Crescent is a space to lounge, dine, or partake in an array of singers and performers. Retreat into a fluid space of curtains all of which are a deep navy blue, the color easy on the eyes after time out among the desert sun. Small hardwood tables stained deep red are circular and able to hold no more than four at once, though two larger settings are available upon the request and coin. Performers are screened in advance for their skill, a scant few will make it off the street and to the stage. Glowbaskets are regularly spaced, but few in overall number to keep the atmosphere perpetually dim, save for the main dais. The floor is native sandstone half-polished to provide both a little traction and luxury.


One thing is absolutely, entirely certain: K'vre sticks out in this place like a sore thumb. He wouldn't, of course, if he had a modicum of interest in true vanity; if his composition of physicality was at all like his composition of character. But the clean line of his jaw is obscured with that bristly beard-growth, and his hair still needs cut, and he's wearing dusty leathers that he probably wore on sweeps this morning. And he is sitting, alone, at one of those small hardwood tables, enjoying what appears to be the rarest of drinks at Igen - an iced one. He appears to be paying attention to tonight's performers, a trio with a folksy sound, the girl with her long hair unbound and the pair of boys on gitar and box-lute. It's a good night, with a good crowd, and not even out-of-place K'vre can change either fact.

In contrast, Ione looks as though she was born to be in a place like this. That long red hair is bound up in a knot atop her head, with delicate braids pinned to her scalp in twisting patterns before they wrap around the larger bun. Her full-length dress is of a soft blue, the fabric shifting with her every movement. It's truly fine craftsmanship, the sort befitting a woman of her means. She's there with a date, although her interest in the man appears to be swiftly waning, so much so that her gaze casts about the place in search of an exit strategy. It's in this search that she spots K'vre, and carefully excuses herself from her date for what she assures him is a very important conversation. She slides into the second seat at the table without asking, resting her arms on the table and greeting him with a bright, "I'll just be a moment, I promise."

K'vre slants his attention to his peacock-bright clutchsib and visibly rolls his eyes. It's just not a phenomenon that he can really control; in some things he must go with what his gut demands, and in this case, his gut demands EYE ROLLING. The brownrider kicks out his long legs before him, crossed at the ankles, and lifts his drink to his lips. One elbow hitches over the chairback adjacent to his shoulders. He becomes every bit the visible manifestation of insouciance. Definitely not an important conversation, here, with his casual air. "You're not drawing the line at making the Cantina's happy hour a bitter experience for me, then, and now you've gone to stalking me through to other locales?" He gestures with his drink at the rarified air around him.

If K'vre can roll his eyes about her presence, Ione can certainly roll her eyes about his commentary. Which she does, channeling her inner teenager with an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh. "Take a look around you, K'vre. If anyone is stalking in these surroundings, it's you." She waves a flippant hand to encompass the refined air of the place, before gesturing between herself and him. "Which one of us looks out of place here? It's not me. I'm just here for a little break from my date, so I don't end up using a wine bottle for the wrong purposes. I'll be gone before you know it, and you can go back to… whatever this is."

Oh look, it's just like old times. Teenaged Ione and… K'vre. "I'm enjoying a beer," he lifts his drink to indicate what he's speaking about, "In a very nice place with no company and no desire for company." A pointed look, slate-blue eyes a little tired (when don't they look tired?) as he looks past Ione. "I don't need to know where you're putting a wine bottle, Ione. Go back to your date. I'm sure he's better company than a man who seduces young girls." His voice isn't bitter AT ALL.

"And you don't have company, you have a momentary guest who's taking refuge from a terrible bore," Ione retorts, firing back the words almost immediately. She stares down that pointed look, shrugging slim shoulders in answer. If it were that easy to get rid of her, she would never have made it this far in life. "I don't think anyone ever said anything about seducing anyone, K'vre," she answers airily, ignoring his command to return to her table. "I don't think you're in a state to seduce anyone, frankly."

"Make up your mind, Ione," K'vre replies in a bland voice, flipping a callused hand. "You seem to have no problems with smearing my good name, to my face I might add, when it suits you. And then you insinuate that I'm a worthless bastard the next moment. Am I a lothlario or a sad slob? It seems to me that I cannot be both simultaneously." Seemingly tired with the conversation already, he lifts his beer to his lips and gazes back toward the musical talent. "Go back to your bore." Leave the adults alone is clear in his undertone. (Once a teenager, always a teenager.)

"Plenty her age are married, it's hardly smearing your good name to suggest you might be interested. I've found people really take offense when there's a note of truth to an accusation." Even though Ione rests her forearms on the edge of the table and leans forward, her posture is still proper. Her words are measured, in the unhurried manner of someone with nowhere else to be. "You're awfully dramatic, I have to say. I make a few bland comments, and you act as though the world is ending." She's not moving. "I would've thought someone as mature as you could handle a benign comment without throwing a temper tantrum."

A craggy eyebrow lifts to Ione. "I'm sorry, do you see a temper tantrum?" His beer sweeps expansively. "Shouting? Screaming? Throwing things?" The other eyebrow lifts to join its brother. "If you want to talk about temper tantrums, though…" his voice drifts off. Surely teenaged Ione had a few temper tantrums of her own. Or maybe he just eludes to something that isn't immediately within grasp. "You're the real mature one. Leaving your date to come over here and talk to an old man." He seems to take a real low-key enjoyment out of calling himself an old man in this circumstance. The bastard then has the gall to instigate eye contact with the Ione-date-bore and saluting him with his drink and an easy smile. "I think he misses you."

Ione snorts, an unladylike sound in the midst of a laugh. "I seem to recall you storming out, Kev. Did you forget that part?" Most of teenaged Ione's temper tantrums were reserved for Sa'mael — the exact reason she's so bent upon this particular topic. But their all-out rows must have been witnessed by others on occasion, so it's likely K'vre has some cause to lift his brows. If nothing else, Ione has a flair for the dramatic. "You're not old, first of all," she answers with a roll of her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. And he's AWFUL. I'd rather be over here arguing with you, that's how miserable I am." A hand goes to her heart, as some of that flair for drama surfaces. "I'm sure he does miss having a date with a goldrider, you're right."

"If he's worried about dating you because you're a goldrider, he definitely has his priorities screwed up," K'vre states with the perverse cheer of a man with his own particular sense of humor. It's not immediately evident if it's a compliment or a denigration, but it's surely one or the other. "Pardon my frankness, but you were being a bitch to me and I removed myself from your presence before it could go south," is his return to recounting their previous conversation from the Cantina, his voice measured. He gestures at a passing waitstaff for another beer, because he's classy like that, and then without a pause carries on to continue, "Perhaps we should invite him over. He looks very lonely. And surely he would take his goldrider's side on the antics of an old brownrider." K'vre starts to lift his hand, as if to beckon the man over, because he's an asshole, too.

"Why else would he be interested in dating me? He doesn't know me." Ione flips her hand back to gesture from her face down her body, before adding, "Obviously it could be to bed me, too, but either way it's a shallow interest." She seems content to accept his comment either way, untroubled by the possible insult. A shrug is offered first in answer, as she attempts to cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder toward her date, abandoning the act mid-motion when it becomes clear she can't pull it off. "I'm not afraid of a brawl. I'd rather that, than see someone dodging around an issue. I still remember how to hit a man with a bottle when the situation calls for it." Her lip curls reflexively in disgust at the mention of bringing the man over, holding up a hand to halt him. "He can describe the personalities of herdbeasts, do not bring him over here."

"This might be a newsflash to you," K'vre says, leaning forward abruptly as if to impart grand knowledge that Ione may not yet possess in her worldview, "But men ask women out on dates because they want to bed them. That's ninety-nine percent of all reasons." It's true. Men are pigs. K'vre is very well-connected with that part of him, except the angst and the bitter dislike of negative asperations cast upon his personal love life, nonexistent as it may be. He's turned that hand-raise into a full wave for someone past Ione's date, and there's a moment fumbling before the Bazaarite beyond tentatively waves back. K'vre's probably just accidentally proposed marriage to some Akzhan girl by this, and it's all Ione's fault. "Just because you think something is an issue or want to discuss it doesn't mean that person is obliged to give you the time of day, goldrider. Life doesn't work that way."

Cue another hard roll of her eyes. "Yes, I realize that," Ione declares with a little huff of annoyance. "But sometimes, when you've got a big, fancy knot, men also invite you out to dinner because they want to show off, and not because they're particularly interested in what's between your legs." She echoes his tone with her last words, as though it might actually be him who isn't in the know. She flops back in her seat, losing some of that perfect posture as she relaxes ever so slightly. Relief shows upon her features when he doesn't actually summon her date, even if it does mean his imminent engagement. It's worth it, K'vre. TRUST HER. "Of course they're not," she retorts, "but I also think it's fair to warn someone her age about the dangers of falling for damaged men. I never said you had ill intentions, but you can do more damage than you know even if you mean well."

In return for that, K'vre just shoots her a look. A Look, even. Translation: it's still what's between your legs, Ione. Showing off is just a prelude for the main event, after all. And then he's shaking his head again. "You keep talking about Khulan in a frame that doesn't exist. She's a sweet child, Ione. Child. She's probably young enough to be my daughter." Never stopped anyone before, really, but K'vre's emotionally challenged. Instead he toasts Ione again: "From one damaged person to another, cheers."

Ione shrugs, because what else is there to say? She's not everyone's type, surely. "I was called child plenty of times by the person who slept with me first, K'vre. Words mean very little in the end." She holds up a hand quickly to stop any sort of rejoinder on that point. "I'm not saying you will do anything, I'm just saying that vowing that someone is a child is a meaningless gesture." Because booze and feelings do funny things to a person, and too many people find damaged men alluring. She raises a nonexistent glass with a faint smile. "I'd drink to that."

"Faranth fuck that man," K'vre mutters, more to himself than to Ione; it sounds both annoyed and irritated that the man in question isn't here to take Ione in hand and keep the goldrider out of the brownrider's hair. "Maybe to you," is what he says, simply, regarding meaningless gestures. He has a new beer, and he lifts it to her in salute. And then he smiles, because he is Rhovvth's lifemate, and he rises to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, goldrider?" is his pleasant-questioned exit, and then he's going over to sit with Ione's erstwhile date. Surely it's not a question of quality of companion, and choice. Surely he's just taking the bullet for Ione to slip out while he has the man distracted. Surely.

"Which one?" Maybe the words weren't for her, but Ione can't resist tossing that dry question out there. There's probably more than one man who fits the bill. She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, not pressing any further on meaningless gestures. Her piece has been said, and she's satisfied. Her brow arches as K'vre gets to his feet, and then goes… there. What? If he's looking for better company, the joke's on him, but Ione decides to take this moment as a gift. Still, she can't quite resist stopping a woman on her way out, and murmuring something about K'vre's prowess in bed and how interested he was in her, before shoving the woman in the brownrider's direction. Playing wingman, or just being a pain in the ass? HARD TO SAY, but that's her parting present as she saunters out the door.

ugh ione
YW

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