Who

Dione, Kultir, Rhydian, S'yn

What

It's a brother's responsibility to ensure his siblings are suitably corrupted, and it seems that that time has come for this youth on the cusp of adulthood to be introduced to the land of vice and temptation!

When

It is late night of the thirteenth day of the eighth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

The Tipsy Kitten, Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

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The Tipsy Kitten

Here there be drunkards: a marble bar and the gorgeous array of colored bottles behind it would be enough to draw them in, but more yet lures those to enjoy the recreation the Kitten has to offer. Windows allow light to naturally illuminate the first floor of the tavern in the daytime, while green-tinted glows shine after nightfall. A door behind the bar leads to the tiny kitchen, while a stairway leads above to the rooms available for rent. Among the hubbub and the ruckus, a calamity of tables scatter through the open space, plenty enough for dragonpoker tournaments on restday eve.


There's always a peculiar ambiance to the Kitten late at night, right around the time the midnight hours roll over. Earlier in the night you get the social drinkers, the eaters, the more 'genteel' crowd. Later, around this time, the hard drinkers have settled in, there are a couple of dice games going, and at least one noisy dragonpoker tournament. There's a ton of conversation and few seats left, and the girls behind the bar are busy. Tonight, rather ironically, there are way less riders than normal, given most are still recuperating and came by earlier for their own bottles of liquid comfort; conversely, there are more hillfolk who, having heard of the fight on amateur poetry night, came in their droves in the hope of another happening. Outside, though it's late, the rain is drumming down in sheets, in whole buckets; inside it's warm and well-lit, with more than one rush-woven mat at the door to catch mud and run-off water.

You've gotta lose your virginity sometime, right? It seems for one young bronzerider that tonight's that night, at least as far as taverns go and The Tipsy Kitten in particular. The door pushes open to permit a rain-slicked S'yn ingress into the warm, inviting walls of the cozy — if noisy — establishment, the rush of wind and rain his wake as he steps into the building for the first time. His oiled rain-cloak sheets off water onto the rush mats beneath, his boots wiped off on the same in habit to prevent himself from tracking in the black earth that coats so much of Southern Weyr's niche, though now much of it is mud due to the ongoing rains that plague the tropical winter. Pushing back the generous hood of his bronzed-brown cloak reveals a face that is still rather youthful despite his man-height, the amber eyes keen as they soak in the environment. There is a measure of awe and wonder in his expression that breaks any illusion of him being full grown, a leftover remnant of boyish curiosity flickering in those inquisitive depths. He isn't entirely gobsmacked, but he's certainly fascinated, and that makes the youth linger unseasonably long in the pathway in and out of the establishment, no doubt in the way of other patrons, something even his bronzerider knot isn't apt to shelter him from.

Kultir enters the Kitten and flips the hood of his rain-cloak back from his damp, sandy hair and grins at the noisy ambiance since he hasn't been in quite this late before. "Hey, looks like we're here on a good night." He pauses at the door for a short time as the rain drips off his cloak onto the rush mats beneath his somewhat muddy boots. Glancing at the slightly shorter, younger man beside him, he chuckles as the youth soaks in the sights and claps him gently on the shoulder. "Come on, Sy, let's find a seat and get out of people's way before your jaw hits the floor, eh?" Steering the younger man forward, he pushes he door closed behind them and weaves his way through the crowds to a table off to one side of the tavern. To one side is a rather boisterous dice game while on the other is full of hillmen, though the young tracker isn't quite sure what they are up to right now. One can never tell with hillmen, can one?

By no means an unfamiliar sight in the Kitten, seeing Rhydian in at this time is less common; typically, he's out chasing storms, measuring the copious rain that's been falling of late, or doing other Starcraftly things that probably only he understands the value of. Right now, though, he's in the midst of that boisterous dice game with a group of Weyrfolk, and, by the sounds of it, he's just lost, too — the Crafter adds to the noise of the tavern with a frustrated groan as he stands up, shakes his head, and slaps the back of one opponent good-naturedly before meandering through the crowd to the bar. He whistles at a 'tender to get her attention, wiggling his empty tumbler so she knows what to bring him before coming all the way over to take his order.

The hillfolk are up to … hillfolky things, namely a game of their own and a jeering round of conversation thick enough to confuse the ear. Behind the bar, Dione's bar-dar is pinging; she catches the sight of the empty tumbler being waved in their direction before the sight of the other two impinge on her, and a smile curls. Tossing Rhydian a thumbsup, she makes work of getting a new tumbler, a bottle that looks as if it was distilled in some 'snake-infested hollow and pours in a healthy dram — the man pays his bills on time, so why not? The tray is delayed a bit, for the addition of two tall, gently wisping glasses, into which she crumbles something before making her way over. After that it's the 'tender-dance, curving her body this way and that through the crowd to avoid elbows, fiddly fur bits and outstretched legs. "Here you go, Rhydian… enjoy. Bad luck with the dice? Sh'ro not coming in tonight?" The two glasses of mulled wine, spiced to perfection, is placed before Kultir and S'yn; the former earns a lazy wink and the latter an affectionate head-ruffle. "Aiming to corrupt our young man here, Kultir?"

"This is a good night?" S'yn tries to wrap his head around that one, the din and barely controlled chaos of the patrons a little too jangly to be comfortable to the youth, particularly in such cloistered confines. The teenager does pick his jaw up — figuratively speaking — and moves with the guided motions of the elder companion he calls brother to that somewhat sheltered side of the din. The rain-cloak is peeled off to be slung over the back of his chair, the young rider settling in with his front facing the door at least partway — and old habit he seems to have picked up from somewhere — even as his amber eyes soak in the sights and eardrums the din with a little more than slightly wide-eyed wonder. Still, after a few moments of gawking he finds his hair being ruffled even as a glass is placed before him, the unexpected affection having a decidedly feminine lilt to it that leads him to looking up to meet Dione's mirthful gaze. Her assertion of the tracker's intent makes him color slightly, though the discoloring of his cheeks is largely hidden by the garish ambience of the glows lining the walls. "It's his sacred duty, right? S'what he keeps telling me anyway." He shifts to stretch his legs out comfortably, the fresh coat of numbweed on his score at least temporarily easing the twinging ache.

Kultir unclasps his cloak and lets it fall back off his shoulders over the back of his chair as he sits, glancing from one side to the other. "Yeah, it's busy so there must be something going on." He laughs softly as his 'little brother' looks a little wide-eyed and gaping at their surroundings. Glancing up at the familiar voice, he smiles as the mulled wine is set before him and nods. "Thank you, Dione. Of course … he's my little brother. Gotta take care of him and introduce him to the good things in life." After a moment, he bites his lip and stops her from leaving right away with a brush of his hand. "Hey … I need to apologize. I saw Iaxryth at the Infirmary and got worried for Sy, I was tired and hurting … it's not a great excuse but I didn't mean to ignore you when you came by the Infirmary. And I need to thank you too, I haven't been groundcrew leader before and kind of forgot the courtesies for after Fall. You did a good job." He glances up to her face and smiles hesitantly, hoping she will at least understand if not forgive him.

Rhydian accepts his drink with a nod of thanks and a smile — it's halfway to his lips when Dione mentions a certain greenrider. His cheeks blush redly and he quickly takes a hearty sip of the strong liquor, clearing his throat once he's swallowed it down. "Sh'ro is… I, um, don't know where he is. Er… should I — should I know?" Has he been seen that often with the man for such assumptions to be so easily made? The Starcrafter ruffles a hand through his hair — the scruffy curls left loose for a change, long enough at the moment to brush his shoulders, and he squints at Dione… then at the younger men beside him. Kultir, at least, is recognized. "Hey. Hi. How's it going?" S'yn, unfamiliar as he is, gets a nod and a raise of his bitchfire-filled glass. "Rider."

Dione's too busy not to forgive anyone, and responds with a quick bop to the top of Kultir's head. "Apology accepted. We were all a bit out of sorts, I guess; I was so tired it would just have been a hello in any case. I did a so-so job." At least she didn't spray his foot. "Take care of S'yn, and…" There's a quick whisper to the man's ear before she straightens to smile at the other two. "It's a lively enough night for it, S'yn, so enjoy your mulled wine." Rhydian's blush is smiled at kindly, but nothing more said about the matter, merely a shoulder lifted. "I'll keep an eye out for a better table for you three, if you don't mind sitting together. I think one of the corner tables' drinkers are about to pass out if nothing else." With a quick, cheery wave, she scoots back to her assigned post, and a bellowed order for a line-up of mixed drinks.

The tracker's assertion that there must be something going on gets a mere grunt of acknowledgement, S'yn attempting to seem a little manly perhaps. The mulled wine proves to be an adequate source of covering up his minor embarrassment, the youth still not quite sure how one should act in such an establishment, so he takes a moment to lift his glass for a swallow. The spices and citrus tickle his senses and the warmth of it seems to linger even after he swallows and it settles cozily in his belly, eliciting a more relaxed sigh as his shoulders release some tension. The Starcrafter at the bar isn't recognized, but there has been courtesy extended so the bronzerider feels obligated to return it, lifting his chalice in salute of Rhydian with a friendly smile. "Starcrafter." A former Smith himself — even if just an Apprentice — the Lynx rider feels a small kinship there, even if just a tenuous one, so he brings the glass back to his chest by way of introduction, even if it may not be heard of the din. "S'yn." Dione's conspiratorial whisper to Kultir draws raised eyebrows as his focus comes back to the little sphere of happenings right about him, momentarily blocking out the cacophony of the dice game beside them. "I don't bite, but he might." Thumb is jabbed at Kultir with a wry grin. "Too much time spent in the wilds, this one."

Kultir chuckles as she bops his head and nods slightly. "Thanks and we were. Hey, you didn't burn anyone or anything you weren't supposed to so that's a good job." As she bends to whisper in his ear, he laughs softly and nods. "Oh, all right … if you insist." His amber eyes sparkle with amusement as he lifts his wine to take a long drink of the warm liquid. As he hears a greeting, he cranes his head over his shoulder and grins at Rhydian. "Rhydian. Hey, going okay. Come join us, huh?" He waves at one of the free seats before turning back to the younger man and nudges his friend's shoulder. "This scrap is S'yn, bronze Iaxryth's rider … my little brother, sorta. Sy … Rhydian." The tracker snorts softly and shakes his head at the accusation of spending too much time in the wilds.

Rhydian's glass is raised in farewell to Dione when she leaves the three guys to their drinks, and Rhyd settles against the back of a chair now that he's been introduced. "S'yn. Pleasure. Ah, regards to Iaxryth." He's a little squiffy already given the strength of what he's drinking, and the journeyman winks to the younger rider with playful cheeriness. "Kultir's, ah, not so bad, from what I've seen of him - are you, hey, man?" The Starcrafter peers over the top of his glass at the tracker, before taking a sip of the potent beverage. "Isn't it, ah, kinda late for you two to be in here?"

"Oh, I'm a scrap now, am I?" The tone bubbles over with mirth rather than ire, the amber eyes sparkling odd hues in the garish glow-light as the young rider takes the ribbing in stride, playfully reaching over to the track with one of his long arms to lightly punch the elder teen in the flank. S'yn glances toward Kultir with a curiously raised eyebrow now that the bartender has sashayed away, dying to know what the woman said now that she's safely ensconced behind the bar once more — never risk the wroth of a woman you can avoid, after all — and so he leans on one elbow to be heard without having to raise his voice overmuch. "What on earth did she tell you?" Once the Starcrafter settles in at their table he pushes himself upright again to exercise some common — that is to say, sober — courtesy to their newcomer. "Our thanks," is the habitual reply, though the youth really loathes formality. He quickly determines that can go right out the window with the rather sloshed manner Rhydian is engaging them, which earns a grin. "I'm on light duty due to injury," he admits with some chagrin, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck in an unconscious gesture of nervousness. "S'far as this lout goes," his head jerks toward his adopted sibling, "I dunno."

"Well, you're so skinny and tall … just a scrap." Kultir grins and oofs softly at the punch in the ribs even if it doesn't hurt. Taking a long drink of his mulled wine, he nods slightly to Rhydian. "Glad someone knows me … though I figured my brother would at least know that I'm not so bad." At the question of it being late, he shrugs slightly and heaves a soft sigh. "Ahh … got a bit singed last Fall so I'm not quite up to doing my usual stuff. And the rain rather makes it a bit miserable too so till I heal and it stops raining, I'm kind of Weyrbound." The younger man gets a raised eyebrow and a snicker, his eyes sparkling with mischief before he actually answers. "She just told me to keep you off the 'hard stuff'. Guess I can't corrupt you as thoroughly as I'd planned."

If he's off the hard stuff, then S'yn won't be having any of what Rhydian's currently enjoying. The Journeyman leans, sips from his drink, and watches the interaction between the two younger guys with a bemused smile; he's far too old to take part in such things… isn't he? "Li'l scrap," he says with playful teasing, winking at the young bronzerider. "You both got tagged in that, ah, Threadfall, huh?" That one, that ended with so many injuries. "Guess I was, er, lucky that I was out on a ship then." He raises his glass to the two, in a solemn cheers. "To protecting Pern, and to… uh, to… first blood? And, er, first drinks… right?"

There's some time that passes before Dione makes her way over to the table again, this time with a jug of golden ale in hand, and four mugs pinched between arm and chest. "Ah, to t'toast part of the evening, eh?" she says of Rhydian's. "S'yn, Kultir, Rhydian, t'table cleared up," she continues, nodding over to one of the far corners. Sure enough, there's a small table right in the corner, not so in the press of things and more suited to conversation if that's their aim for the evening. She even leads the way over, stepping carefully hither and yon, and scoots the ale and mugs down on the table before gesturing them towards the chairs. "I'll bring some dice and cards as well, seeing as there's corruption planned, and my lunch break is in half a candlemark; if you give me your orders now, it'll just about be right when I'm done, and I can have lunch — dinner — midnight snack with you."

For half a moment it looks like the rider might actually take offense to what he takes as an assertion that he doesn't know the man he calls brother all that well, mouth opening and preparing to insert foot before it clamps shut as S'yn seems to realize just a hair's breadth from stupidity that he's being teased. The wine suddenly occupies a great deal of his attention as he takes a couple of good swallows, the cup held to his lips for longer than truly necessary to give the ruffled feathers a chance to smooth before he rejoins the conversation in better humor. The Starcrafter's applied moniker earns a wrinkled nose and a dry snort. "You'd be amazed at how much damage a scrap can do." It's hard to tell if he's teasing or being serious at first, though he cracks a lopsided smile after a moment and raises his glass in answer to the salute. "To all of the above and then some." The said he takes another swig of the wine before the cup lowers and he snorts derisively at the coddling. "If you really want to have something hard I still have that bottle at my weyr. I'm not too keen on a hangover though." He may have never had one but he's heard enough tales and seen enough misery to know he doesn't want it. When Dione passes back by and offers the less noisy spot he's eager to take her up on it, the boisterous chaos a bit much for his eardrums and makes him wonder how people handle it when drunk. "C'mon." Whether they follow or not the bronzerider snatches up cup and cloak to follow the bartender's wake over, relocating into the most corner seat possible so he can watch the door after his belongings and his body are settled once more. "I had supper but…" Amber eyes turn shifty. "I'd love some dessert."

Kultir nods slightly with a rueful expression toward Rhydian though he lifts his mug to the toast. "Yeah, guess you could say that … some numbwit flamed too close to me and too far from the burrow. Not really first blood but close enough." Glancing up at Dione's reappearance, he nods as he spots the empty table in the quieter corner and stands to snag his cloak and follow the woman and his young friend. Glancing back at Rhydian, he chuckles at the less than sober man. "You gonna make it without falling over, man? Come on, it'll be quieter back there." Moving gracefully despite his size, the young tracker gets to the table and tosses his cloak over one of the chairs before nodding gratefully for the ale. "Hmm … got any of that fried whitefish and tubers back there? Oh … and those little balls of that sweet cheesecake the cook fries up? I've been craving that for a while now." Despite the tropical local he now calls home, the young man still craves some of the heavier foods of the northern continent that he hasn't tasted in a good long time.

Rhydian's not that drunk! Just pleasantly buzzed, and he rolls his eyes at Kultir as they all get up to move along to the table pointed out by Dione. "Tsh. I'm barely tipsy." He prods the young tracker's shoulder, nudging him along after the others. "Burger," he says to Dione, after a moment's thought once he's sat down, opposite S'yn. "Fried tubers. Lots of fried onions. Er… bacon and, um, cheese, too, and… huh. Another bitchfire." He's not working tonight, and the man is therefore celebrating. "And some of those, er, cheesecakey things Kully mentioned." They sound good. "And," another and, "your company." That comes with a big, cheesy smile — and a waggle of his eyebrows as he sips from his drink. He settles more comfortably, then leans forward towards the young rider. "So what damage can a little scrap do, S'yn?"

Orders, orders, and and and.. "Wow, how are you going to get all that in?" Dione teases as the last of the orders come in from Rhydian. "One unspecified dessert, whitefish and tubers, two cheesecake ball desserts, burger with fried everything, and another bitchfire. Y'all enjoy the ale, that is on me." The implication being that when they finished eating, they might owe her for the food at least. She scoots off again, flame-bright hair bobbing like a beacon as she neatly sidesteps a hand moving for her backside, and another trying to tug at her sleeve and spill her into a lap. Occupational hazards, right? One last dodge and she skims over the bar, dropping down neatly on the other side to greet a girl that just came in.

Settling in comfortably with elbows propped up on the table, S'yn laces his fingers under his jaw to rest his cranium comfortably as he awaits the relocation of his companions. The fried cheesecake balls sound uncannily bad for you, which to him means they must be exceptionally tasty. "Oooh, that sounds wonderful." Tongue darts out over his lips in a gesture of anticipation, amber eyes looking toward the bartender with another request. "Maybe one of those lava klah cakes too?" The dark cake with the sweet, gooey center sounds like a one-way trip to blissville for the youth right now. Besides, the calories will get put to good use. The half-lit stream of requests from the Starcrafter earns a little snort of laughter, something he quickly hides behind his silver cup as he takes a long drink of the mulled beverage, feeling that warmth radiating outward from his belly to fill his veins and dispel the lingering chill of the winter rains from his hide. He watches the bartender depart and hopes she heard his request, though he sloshes the few remaining swallows of wine in his chalice as he considers how to answer Rhydian's inquiry before he offers the older man a wry smirk. "Since I'm a narrower target I'm more apt to dodge my opponent's strikes and more apt to land my own." He shrugs. "But Iax can tell you a lot more about agility; particularly aerial agility."

"Thanks, Dione." Kultir offers as the woman moves away, not terribly hungry since he'd already had a good supper but just feeling a little munchy right now. Taking another long drink of his wine, he sighs as he swirls the last couple swallows in the bottom of the mug. "Hmm … if I still have room, I might have to try that. Oh, but those cheesecake balls … those are decadent and rather addictive." His eyes turn toward Rhydian as he chuckles and shrugs. "You might want to be careful … I haven't had a chance to see him in action but he looks like he could take care of himself, young and skinny as he is." Relaxing back in his chair, he stretches his long legs out under the table though he's careful not to kick his tablemates and sighs happily, glad to be able to just be here and enjoy the evening without having to worry about the next day. "So, Rhydian? Haven't seen you for a while … how's things going?"

"I know aaaall about aerial agility." Not really, but given the number of storms Rhydian's ridden adragonback through he's got some idea of it. "Have you been to Igen's Pit? The, ah, fighting ring there? Probably not the, um, best idea now there's, ah, Thread and all, but y'know, I bet you could put yourself in against a, um, featherweight your age. I'd, ah, I'd back you." He stays leaning forward when Kultir stretches, shifting his legs out of the tracker's way. "Y'know what, man? Things're, ah, they're good. Winter's here," as opposed to merely coming, "and there's plenty to do, though, uh, seems dragons like to, haha, mess with my, um, measurement-taking when I try and do it in the, uh, the… uh… out there." He jerks his thumb towards the door, and the Weyr beyond. "In the bowl. Hah. That's the word."

When next someone arrives at the table, it's Dione with her arms laden with plates and plates of food. One lava cake, two cheesecake thingies, the burger, the whitefish… well, it's all there, and she's groaning as if a burden's on her arms as she stops at the table. There's even a salad, likely hers. "Quick, someone help me before this lot topples to the ground," she insists, and holds still until her arms are free enough that she can flop down on a chair. "Wait… what? S'yn's going to the Pit?" There's a look for Kultir, a 'this-wasn't-on-the-innocent-corruption menu!' and a repressive stare at both S'yn and Rhydian. "Why would he want to go to a skeezy place like Igen? I mean, it's all sand up your backside and crime and people scheming… although. I have heard that their materials are top-notch, but we have as good here, and I wager they're all pissed off at us anyway, what with their queen being stuck here. Hey, S'yn, budge up a bit or I'm going to be in your lap here."

S'yn chuckles dryly at the half-vote of confidence he earns from the tracker. "You know something else that's long and narrow can takes care of itself? A rapier." Touché? Or too soon? The last couple swallows of his wine are downed before the gray cup of set aside in favor of pulling his mug of ale close enough to be out of the way once he's ready for it. The mention of Igen's pit earns a headshake, the youth having heard quite a few deal about the fighting ring but never having even been to Igen. "Haven't been, certainly not going until my leg heals." Because why take your first match with a handicap like that? The intoxicated babbling of the Starcrafter sort of zones the teenager out for a few heartbeats before Dione is suddenly there and asking for help. Being a chivalrous sort of fellow he's on his feet — never mind his injury — and assisting her with the overladen tray and lowering it safely to the sturdier tabletop. "Phew," he breathes as he takes in all the items bogging down that beaten nickel surface. "Thanks, Di." Oh, look, a nickname. "You should have waved me down. I'd have come to help." As in before she was struggling through the crowds to get it to their table. Still, the good memory of the lad has him distributing plates to the appropriate partakers and soon he's settling down to salivate over his lava cake. "Mmm…" Salivation soon turns to partaking, the boy picking up a fork and cutting into the sugar dusted confection to let that molten filling leak out and mopping some up with the moist, slightly bitter cake before shoving that morsel into his mouth. "Oh, Faraf." Clearly it's that good.

Kultir reaches out to help Dione unburden herself of the plates she's carrying all by herself and shakes his head a bit vehemently at that look. "Wasn't my idea! I've seen the Pit … Sy's got no business going there, not till he's put on a bit more weight at least." Though there is a bit of speculation in his expression as soon as he's got plates situated in front of the others so that Dione can join them at the table. He chuckles softly as he glances at Rhydian and shakes his head. "He'd not fare too well even in the featherweight division … those boys are cheaters anyway, I mean … all's fair in the Pit but some of the things they get up to are just a bit too … underhanded." He settles back down and glances at the younger man as he takes that first bite and chuckles at the look of bliss on the youth's face. Draining his wine that has now cooled, he pours out some of that golden ale to go with his fish and tubers but takes a moment to pop one of the cheesecake bites into his mouth to savor the sweet, oozing goodness with a nearly equal expression of bliss on his face. "Mmm … just as good as I remember."

Oh, food. Rhydian's eyes light up when Dione approaches, and he's about to get up to help with S'yn beats him to it. "You could, uh, come as a spectator one day, kid. See what it's like, yeah? It's not as bad as they're saying it is." He winks across at the young bronzerider, scooting his chair over to make more room on his side for Dione. There's a burger with his name on it right there in front of him, and the journeyman eyes it enthusiastically. "Have you, ah, been to Bitra, Dione, Kultir? Either of you? That's, ah, that's not so bad, even if folks say it's — well. It's Bitra, you know what the, ah, what they say." His knife is drawn from its belt-sheath, and he cuts the burger in two before squashing one hand into a more manageable height — manageable enough to stuff into his mouth, anyway.

Dione smiles at S'yn and Kultir as they help her, massaging her arms for a second. The salad is indeed for her, as it's the only thing she drags closer for the moment. "Di?" A chuckle, and a shoulder's lift — she doesn't mind it so much. "I work here, remember? You don't, so sit, relax and enjoy your first time in the Kitten." One hand slips into her pants' pockets, emerging with a set of dice and a pack of cards. They get snuggled in the midst of the food for a moment. "You know," she says to Kultir, spearing a piece of leafy green, "I bet he won't be this gangly for much longer. I'll bet you a good credit in the next five Turns he's going to get a pair of shoulders to match the rest of the length, and a good bit of muscle from those sacks the riders throw around." Reaching over the table, she pulls the tumbler of bitchfire back out of reach of enthusiastic elbows, grinning at Rhydian. "I haven't been; mostly I've been along the seaside ports, but never deeper inland. Well, very deep. Where's the nastiest place you've been then, so I know not to go?"

Dione's assertion that he should be kicking back earns a shrug from the youth, though he opts not to argue with the woman. That first decadent bite is chewed and swallowed as S'yn lets the conversation float around him, still listening intently even if his mouth is deliciously occupied. Once that orifice is free again he's quick to insert himself back into the discussion, however: "Maybe…" he muses in response to the barkeep's theory. "If I can ever stop sprouting upward." Indeed the poor kid has taken to getting his clothing with too long legs that are being let down as he adds inches to his height in random spurts. He's seen how well muscled some of his peers get but as of yet his own have stayed lanky and wiry rather than bulky, but since they get the job done he isn't apt to complain. Rhydian's inquiry into possible visits to Bitra earns a headshake. "Never been, can't say I've ever planned on going. No real reason to." Never mind that it's next to Telgar, his homeland. "I s'pose I'll visit Igen someday, even if just to watch." He's not entirely sure of the appeal of watching people get crunched up, but perhaps he might learn something to make the trip worth while. Dipping out of the conversation for a minute he snags the small keg and fills his mug halfway before closing the tap and seeing it back down where everyone can reach it, shifting his legs to be a bit more comfortable and not press his trous so much on his scored thigh. "I'd guess I'm the only one who's been to Telgar." Amber eyes shift around the table, inquisitive of his companions.

Kultir chuckles at Dione's comments and nods as he takes a bite of the crunchy whitefish and savors the flavor. "Hmm … no bet there. Next couple Turns will make a world of difference. Figure he'll be a match for me once he gets his growth, if not taller since he's still sprouting." Looking over the condiments on the table, he snags a bottle of malted vinegar and shakes it liberally over both fish and tubers before he dips into the salt to sprinkle that too. That one word, Bitra, causes a shiver to roll down the tracker's spine as he looks sharply at the Starcrafter before he can stop the wary expression. Taking a hasty swallow of his ale, he shrugs slightly. "Yeah, been there … some of it's just as bad as what they say too." He raises an eyebrow at Dione's question and chuckles softly. Nope, not going to offer any of the nasty places he's been, it just wouldn't be fair to his friends. At his young friend's assertion that he's the only one to have been to Telgar, he shakes his head with a rueful chuckle. "Nope, been there too. Keroon, Bitra, Lemos, Telgar, Ista, Igen … and now Southern Weyr." Shrugging slightly, he tucks into his food with a smile to the younger man.

Rhydian's bitchfire tumbler is empty, and he holds it out with a puppydog-pleading look at Dione to see if he can get her to refill it. Pretty please, sweetner and all? "The worst place that I've been? Huh." That requires a little thinking. "Definitely not Telgar," he says in response to S'yn's comment that he's the only one who's been there. Rhyd winks at the kid, then grins at Kultir. "I may have beaten you on the, ah, travelling front. Worst place? Two Ton Hold, up Crom way. Nastiest place? Uh… probably, ah, hrm. Guess I've got to say, um… Land's End Port. That's, ah, near Tillek. I got assigned to a ship there and, well, um… it wasn't nice."

Dione gives the Starcrafter a stern look, a 'this is the last one' look, but obligingly fills the tumbler again in between bites of salad. "Nastiest place I've ever been is this flyspeck hold down Lemos way — this one man had a small hold to himself, one wife and five, um, other women, and a passel of kids that looked a lot like him. Nasty-ass man; glad my sailing mates insisted I stay on the ship. Other'n that, not really many nasty places. Best place? Probably here or Ista. I love beaches and the humidity. One day, somewhere near the end of the turn, I want a little beachfront shack near Ista, sell tropical drinks… y'know. The Rowdy Shipfish, almost like the Kitten." Her voice fades to a gentle note as she considers the far-off dream, unworried about the stack of marks it'll take her to get there. "P'haps I can hire y'three to help there? Courier duty, an' repairs, an' crafty things."

"My Da was pretty tall." Then again everyone's father is huge when you're five Turns old. "But I doubt I'll get taller than you, Kul." It isn't something S'yn would ever dream of, since he regards the older teen as someone to look up to, not down at. When the tracker asserts that list of places he's been the young rider's fingers snap in disappointment, though he takes it with good humor. "Shells, Kul. Here I am the rider and son of a traveler, and you've somehow been more places than me." Never mind that the boy is still fairly young, all things told. The places Rhydian elaborates on are noted as the bronzerider takes bites of that bitter-sweet dessert and the odd swallow of ale — the mixture surprisingly palatable — as he simply listens, giving Dione her far due of his ear as well. The woman's dream of opening her own establishment earns a smile, the youth able to relate as he recalls the pride his father took in his own business, even if it was truly just a one man show. "Sure, Di, you get it up and running and when I'm not risking life and limb to burn Thread from the skies I'll help courier folks and supplies." Amber eyes twinkle, partly joking but also partly genuine, presuming it ever actually happens.

Kultir grins at Rhydian and cocks a shoulder upward in a half-shrug. "I hadn't planned on being that well travelled, just sorta happened. Can't say as I've been a lot of really bad places …" Not that he's willing to talk about at least. "But it was pretty nasty on that ship when I was coming down here. Filthy, smelly, crowded … not my favorite sort of place." Not for the man more used to be outdoors where it's clean and open, even when he's in the hot, humid, covered in grime jungle. Listening to Dione's dream and the offer of being hired on, he raises an eyebrow as he actually gives it a bit of thought. "I don't know, Dione … Kalea might have something to say about that, if we're still together come the time it happens. Don't know if she'd be willing to go back north." His little brother gets a grin and a fist-nudge to the shoulder. "Never say never, little brother. You're not even fifteen yet and still growing up more than out. I might get another finger-width or two but not likely." He swallows a long draft of the ale to wash down his last mouthfuls and chuckles. "Being a rider now, you'll get to visit the other Weyrs now so you'll out-travel me soon enough, I'm sure."

"I love Ista. Ah… hurricane season. It's awesome." Rhydian beams toothily, giving a toss of his head to get his scruffy curls out of his eyes. "I'd pop by between visits. Ista's often one of my, ah, research locations. Ista, Keroon plains, Nerat, uh… here. And, um, there are plenty of ships from there that, ah, hire me as a navigator, too. I'm on one going back up that way in two days' time." And he gives Kultir a look to say he knows exactly what he means about ships. "This one's only a merchant vessel, minimal crew, not many passengers, thank Faranth. I, uh, hate them crowded." After a sip of bitchfire, Rhyd cocks his head at Kultir. "Um, hey, ah, how did your weyrmate like that mural?"

Polishing off her salad, the bartender begins to rearrange the empty plates, stacking them enough to give her a little empty space. "I've seen a good place for it too, just a day's hop or so from most important locations, so I was thinking of…" Her ehad tilts as a girl at the bar calls her name, and she straightens with a muttered imprecation. "Moment," she promises the others. "You lot go ahead and swap tall sea stories, I'll be right back." With that she's up and away again, prudently taking the bottle of bitchfire with her.

S'yn's own memories of boating down from Nerat are more pleasant it seems, for the assertion of the tracker's own seafaring makes his onyx brows knit together in a faint expression of consternation and puzzlement. "It wasn't so bad on the way down from Nerat," he muses idly as he rolls his mug heel about on the tabletop before taking a swig, not privy to the reasons why his foster-father was able to net them comfortable passage. The rich cake is almost gone as well, though every bite has been savored to the fullest. A soft snort meets Kultir's assertion of height, but he doesn't dismiss it outright, for the logic is sound enough after all. Dione's up and moving to clear the way just as he finishes the last of his calorie-laden dish and he stacks his now empty plate atop the pile she's gathering before the bartender is being dragged away by duty. "'Fraid I don't have many to swap." Indeed he's only been by sea once and after that ended up Impressing, so a voyage by sea isn't likely for the bronzerider anymore. The mention of a mural draws a curious quirk of a single eyebrow, those golden orbs focusing between Starcrafter and brother in obvious inquiry. "Mural?"

Kultir feels a bit of relief at the change in subject matter and grins at the Starcrafter. "She loved it. Was rather surprised that I had it done for her and was quite thrilled to see the Seven Spires again, even in a picture. Rya likes it too and wants to go see it in person … so to speak." He lifts his mug to take a long swallow as he slowly savors the little dessert bites, wanting to make them last. At his young friend's comment about his own voyage from Nerat, he heaves a soft sigh and gives a wry look at the youth. "Hmm, probably the difference between you getting on as a passenger versus me sneaking aboard as a stow-away. Didn't have the marks for passage but was kinda itching to get down here." Leaning forward, he pours himself another ale before taking a long swallow that drains his mug about halfway.

"Kully and I did a bit of a trade. Couple furs for a, uh, big starscape on his 'mate's weyrwall," Rhydian explains to S'yn. "Still reckon I got the better end of the, ah, deal…" He winks at Kultir, before taking another sip from his drink. Then… "Faranth, you stowed away all the trip down here? Shiiit," which sounds more like sheee-yit, "I, ah, would've stayed where I was until I could get passage — or, er, bartered passage or something. Captains always want another hand on deck. Ah… damn, man. That's… wow." Something Rhydian can't properly imagine. He shakes his head, the bitchfire starting to really get to him now as he loosens up more. "So where've you been, then, li'l… what'd he, ah, call you earlier? Not strip. Not little strip. Li'l… er…"

It turns out that Dione's needed not to help with mixing drinks, but to persuade two hillfolk hags from extemporising bad poetry at the top of their lungs. Set to music, naturally, because what this situation needs would be two bad sopranos singing sloppy tunes at the top of their lungs: "And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread… and clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head! But what thy dulled spirits hath dismayed, that never thou dost sport along the gla-aaaade?" The beauty of it is not in the way that the two singers go looking for notes, but the very, awfully suggestive way one of them strokes her husband's head, making it clear that the runner they're singing about is anything but an animal, or rather a very particular one. The poor bartender's ears are red as well, especially as she gets a faceful of the hand gestures the crowd are making with the song — an old favourite, evidently.

The amended information makes S'yn grimace in sympathy, agreeing with Rhydian's assessment. "Ouch. I guess it would." The cheesecake balls get peered at, the youth curious enough to consider trying one despite having already had dinner and dessert, not to mention drinks. He'll put it somewhere! Amber eyes widen at the mural description, brightening with curiosity. "Oooh, I wanna see it. D'ya think Kalea would let me drop by?" He hasn't had more than passing encounters with the fellow wingrider during drills and what not, burying himself in work more often than not, much to his belated chagrin. Another swig of that golden ale is swallowed, the alcohol giving the youth a mild but pleasant buzz that finally has him warm instead of warding off the sodden chill from outside. Eyes go out of focus briefly as he checks on his lifemate, finding the coppery beast slumbering in shelter, much to his relief, so he turns back to present company in time to hear the Starcrafter trying to recall that term of so-called endearment. "Scrap," he supplies with a helpful snort. "Sorry mate, I'm not striping for you anytime soon." Or ever, more as like. The strains of music — if they can be called that — do fall upon the young rider's ears and earn eyebrows up to his hair-line before he shakes his head and opts for the best course of action: ignoring it. So instead, he actually answers the Journeyman's question: "I was born in Telgar, been to Keroon, Nerat, Southern Weyr…" He trails off and thinks, trying to figure out if he's been anywhere else of note. "S'pose that's it, mostly. Bit of Lemos when I was young, I think."

Snorting softly at the assertion he stowed away all the time he was on the trip south, Kultir shakes his head as a blush colors his cheek. "No … I didn't make it more than three days from port before I got caught. It was just too crowded and I'd picked a rather … poor spot to hide in. I'd never been on a ship before, how was I supposed to know that people would actually choose to visit the bilges when they heard odd sounds?" Laughing softly, he nods a greeting at the returning bartender though an eyebrow rises at the reddened face as she sits back down. "Sure, Sy. I don't see why you couldn't come see it. I'm sure Kalea would enjoy seeing you again … outside of wingduties at least." His small basket is pushed toward the younger man in offer when he notes that curious look. The music tickles his ears and the little of the bawdy words of the song, a slight twitch of his lips can't be stopped as his eyes glitter at the not-quite-respectable humor.

"Scrap! Scrap. Li'l scrap. That's, ah, haha — it's cute. Little scrap." Little scrap who's actually taller than Rhydian, but that's a point he's ignoring for now. He's buffer. That's all that matters. "You," the Starcrafter wiggles a finger at the youngest amongst them, "need to travel more. Ah — getcher dragon, and go, um, somewhere. Explore Pern. It's pretty. There's lots of storms." Which excites him, by the sounds of it. "And, keep your clothes on. I don't want to see you strip. Who said anything about that? Pfffft." He waves his hand dismissively, looking over to where Dione's engaging with the wildfolk. From the way he grins, it would seem he knows the words to what they're singing — and he begins bawling them out in time, beating the rhythm on their table. When there's a break in the words, he looks from rider to tracker: "You guys don't know this one?" He sings another line, fluffing the words a little in his drunken haze.

"Okay, that's it!" Dione calls out above the noise as the singing starts up from another quarter as well. "That was the last round! Get out of here, everyone!" Despite the way most of the drinkers start groaning, she has an amazingly penetrative voice, and starts shooing people out in the light drizzle that's all that remains of the thunderstorm of earlier. "Out! Out, and if your friends can't walk for themselves, carry them!" Within fifteen minutes, there's only one source of singing left, and she stomps back to the table, delicate face puffed with irritation. "You," she declares to Rhydian. "Shut up, you're not old enough to know what those words mean." Even grannies wouldn't be old enough. "You!" That to Kultir, "Help him back to his rooms, or he's going to slip and drown on the way there." Or accompany him on his bootycall. "You!" That to S'yn. "This is what happens when people drink way too much. Try not to get drunk enough to sing. Ever. Scoot, and give Iaxryth my greetings."

"I'd enjoy seeing her too." The young bronzerider has made far too little time for friends as of late. Rhydian's admonishment that S'yn needs to travel more earns a dry chuckle even as he plucks one of the offered cheesecake balls from Kultir's basket and pops it into his mouth. The rich and creamy flavor and texture occupies his mouth for a few moments even as he contemplates a retort. "Storms are well and good until you dislocate a wingjoint." He's heard tales, after all. Discretion is determined to be the better part of valor when it comes to discoursing on who mentioned stripping, the youngest male of the bunch opting to nosh on the second half of his shared dessert. The bronzerider can't help the widening of his amber eyes as the Starcrafter begins bawling out the bawdy words, even though technically they are less than intelligible to the youth. He's not completely innocent, after all. Still, when admonishments start getting handed out by the barkeep he's quite ready to move, despite his scored limb. Lips twitch as he tries to restrain the amused smirk that wants to play across them even as he pushes his chair back and rises to reclaim his cloak, slinging it about his shoulders. "Yes'm," he assures her with a bob of his head even as fingers work the throat clasp. "Thank you for your hospitality." Fingers dip into a markspouch as his waist to toss out what should be adequate to cover at least his and Kultir's tab along with a tip before he offers a half bow as he slips past Dione and back out into the still dreary night, hood obscuring his face once more.

As Dione's voice rises above the din of the hillfolk's bawdy song, Kultir's baritone laughter can be clearly heard as he rocks back in his chair. He winks at Rhydian, his eyes shining with amusement since he does know that song but he's not going to dare try to sing along … at least not where S'yn can hear it. The young tracker's guffaws fall to silence though he almost snorts his ale as he tries to finish that mug and laugh at the same time. "Okay, okay, Dione. We'll go. Put the wine and food on my tab. Rhydian's bitchfire is his problem since I didn't get any." Snagging most of the marks the youngest tossed out for payment, he slips them back into S'yn's hand with the exception of a nice tip. "My treat, little brother." Shoving to his feet, he slings his cloak on before he reaches down to help the Starcrafter to his feet. He'll help the man out but if he's got a bootycall, that's his own lookout since Kul's got his own waiting at home for him. "See you, Dione. Come on, Rhyd … let's go pour you into bed."

"Juuuust as well I have no wings to dislocate then, huh?" Rhydian laughs across at S'yn, just as Dione gets to them and… "Oh." That's a bit of a dampener on his fun. "Hey. Ah. I'm ah, I'm older'n you. And it's not even er, not even, um… not…" He scratches at his head, watching the last of the bar's other patrons file out. "Huh. Can't be, um, closing time. No. Pfft." Not happy with that, he frowns up at the fun-killer, fingers clutched around his glass. Kultir's assistance is brushed off; he can get to his feet on his own, thank you. Only just. Up he gets, downing the last of his drink, and handing the empty over to Dione. "On my tab," he says woozily, squinting down at her — standing up seems to drive home juuust how much he's drunk. "Not going to my bed," he replies to Kultir, looping an arm around the taller man's shoulders to lean on him. "Hey, strippy!" That's you, S'yn. "You wanna ask your Icksyryth to, uh, pass a message onta some— some—" yawn "—someone for me? Gotta getta pickup for a bit of— bit of…" And bang. He's out. Good luck catching him, Kultir.

"Bye, S'yn!" Dione's smile beams at the size of the tip, and she's just about scooped it up when Rhydian gets stroppy. One eyebrow arches, and her hands settle on her hips as he dictates what'll be — tough luck, buddy — and she's just about laughing at the idea of him being to take any more when he passes out. Just irritated enough not to help, she steps aside to let Kultir catch him. Or not, as the case might be. "Figures." Might be a pretty bit of muscle, but no one can handle that much bitch fire and stand. "You want me to call S'yn back, or will you be able to carry him back? If not, just leave him here, I'll get one of the bouncers to carry him out as soon as they're back from putting the hags to bed."

Kultir is chuckling at Rhydian's drunken insistence that it can't be closing time and puts an arm around the man's waist as that arm is slung over his shoulder to help steady the Starcrafter. Glancing up, he sees S'yn disappearing and shakes his head just as the man slumps. "Oof! Shells, Rhyd. Naw, I got him. I'll go dump him in the Nighthearth for someone to take off to his quarters since I don't know where it is." Leaning down, he levers the man up into an over the shoulder carry and jounces him a bit to balance as if he was carrying a gutted carcass. "Thanks for the food and drinks, Dione. Good night." Carefully maneuvering himself and his burden out the door, he sighs heavily at the thought of the trudge back to the Weyr and wishes he'd been able to get his hood up again. "Ah well … you're gonna owe me for this one, Rhyds."

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