Linny, F'dan


A Nowtime High Reachian transfer meets an Oldertime former High Reachian Weyrwoman. Take a wild guess how it goes. Hint: badly.
(Warning: language & sexual content (non-explicit))


It is evening of the seventh day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Dustbowl Cantina, Igen Weyr

OOC Date




Dustbowl Cantina

To enter the Dustbowl Cantina is to descend: the heart of the ancient tavern lies half underground, at the foot of ancient steps, insulated from summer heat and winter cold by the volcanic rock surrounding it. A windowless place well-lit by glows, it is homey, even cozy, with a certain bijou charm - but for the deep gouges worn in wooden table and solid stone, some clearly lingering evidence of boisterous brawling. The wall behind the well-polished bar, though, remains free from scars or graffiti, as does the door into the small kitchen, and the stairwell up into the owner's quarters: the barkeep and his staff reign, and they guard their territory well. After all, only a fool angers the source of the booze.

Raucous laughter of the female variety can be heard echoing around the Cantina, and potentially even out of the door, belonging to that of the petite goldrider sitting at the bar all by herself, talking with the barkeep that night. With a rueful shake of her head, Linny tosses the rest of her whiskey back, only wincing slightly as she swallows the burn down, before pushing the empty glass forward for a refill. While she waits, there’s the occasional glance around, nodding to those who might meet her eyes and salute her, but for the most part, she keeps to herself. Which is surprising, given what she’s wearing. A dress, despite the cold winter temperatures of Igen, if it can be called that. Just low cut enough to be decent for public, it hugs her curves, showing off ample cleavage, before the hem shows off a good amount of leg, just enough, again, to be decent, but if one were to look close enough when she uncrosses her legs to recross them the other way, they could see the color of her underpants….if she was wearing any.

Even in winter, it's disgracefully hot in this Faranth-forsaken place. F'dan has been at Igen before on diplomatic duty and if he didn't like it then, he likes it even less now. A shameful run-down Weyr in the back of nowhere – they should have known they were betting against a Bitran by settling here. Of course, this isn't made any easier by knowing that this is going to be home. Soft weather, he thinks to himself, makes soft men. Men he’s going to have to lead. Shards, he needs a drink.

Leaving Kadanth in the bowl he follows a greenrider's direction down to the Cantina, swinging his heavy 'Reaches leather jacket off his shoulders as he takes the stairs down. A drink will sort him out, and then he can find someone to drop off this sharding note from J'llor – and fuck J'llor – before heading back home. The bar looks promising – it's not a Weyr bar without evidence of fighting – but more promising than that is the small woman sitting at it. F'dan might be in a bad mood, but he's rarely in a mood bad enough to pass up the chance with an attractive woman of loose morals. He comes up behind the woman, unable to see her knot if she's wearing one (though very able, from this angle, to see her breasts), and slings his jacket over the chair beside her. “Do you mind?” His smile is warm and easy, and if there's a predatory look there it's mostly—mostly—hidden.

“Please,” Linny purrs out as a hand gestures to that seat already claimed by his jacket, smiling sweetly up at him, though she’s temporarily distracted by the arrival of her drink. A murmured ‘thank you’ to the barkeep, who appears upset that the goldrider’s attention will now be elsewhere instead of listening attentively to his stories. There is, in fact, a knot on her shoulder, the one out of his view, and as always as of late, she wears a glove on her left hand- black today, to match the color of her dress, though she keeps that hand mostly out of sight, an embarrassment, a painful reminder, something she doesn’t want to have to talk about. And so it’s the right hand that waves the barkeep back, since women showing their breasts can always get drinks at the bar, before it gestures to the man next to her. “Get him a drink, will you, dear?” Then, up to F’dan, “What’re you drinking, love?”

“Thanks,” F'dan says, sliding gracefully into the chair, his thigh accidentally brushing hers. He takes a quick glance over the woman as she's distracted: F'dan has seen Oldtimers before, but he's never been close enough to have a drink with one. Up close the dresses are even shorter and the accent is even stronger – close to something he's heard but not quite right. He's fairly sure this one is a whore (though it's hard to tell with them): he's never met a woman drinking alone in public who wasn't a working girl. And drinking whiskey, at that. The ordering doesn't disconcert him in the slightest: he's done this dance a million times before. She'll order, he'll pay, and then he can pay some more, later, if he wants. “I'll have another of the same,” he says with a nod to the barkeep before sitting. He flicks a grin at Linny, so sure she's a whore he simply doesn't check her knot yet. “Strong for this time of the night, isn't it? Must have been a tough day.”

“No, fairly typical day,” replies Linny as she tilts her head from side to side, mentally replaying the events of the day. “Typical being busy, of course.” And so if he thinks she’s a whore, he should be mighty impressed and excited about the opportunity awaiting him. A busy whore is a good whore. “I usually drink whiskey, actually. My drink of choice. Unless it’s at some sort of gather or formal dinner, then, of course, I have to drink wine and be all polite.” Those dark eyes of hers roll before landing back on F’dan with a little smirk, as she lifts her whiskey glass up in the air for a toast. However, she’ll let him be the Big Man and decide what, exactly, they are going to toast to.

F'dan takes a moment to consider whether a busy whore is good, cheap, or both, but his face remains impassive. He doesn't know what sort of whore goes to formal dinners. Then again, she is gorgeous. He shouldn't be considering this: he has things to do. But it's shaping up to be one of the worse days of his life, and fuck it if he won't do what he wants. It'll be fun, and Faranth knows he needs some of that. He nods to the barkeep as his glass is pushed towards him, taking it and raising it to Linny's. “To my birthday,” he says, his straight face holding for a beat before he breaks into a grin. “I'm not kidding. Thirty-two turns today and I'm stuck in Igen.” He laughs. “Worse things have happened, right? Cheers.” A click of his glass against hers and he drops his head back and downs it in one. Man means business.

It’s hard for Linny to decide which of those things to address first after the clink of their glasses together, eyes wide as she watches him down the whiskey as a shot. That’s first on the list. “Damn, man.” But that’s all she has to say about that, because to her, whiskey is to be sipped…if only because she’s not man enough to be able to shoot it without gagging. But also, it’s a waste to shoot the good stuff. And Linny only drinks The Good Stuff. “Aww, don’t say it like that. Stuck in Igen. Igen’s not so bad.” But then, because she only then realized she didn’t check for a knot or anything on him- “Where are you from?” Since he obviously isn’t from Igen.

F'dan has had a lot more than that to drink in his life, and he has more than enough muscle to soak it up. He curls his lip at the taste, but beyond that it doesn't seem to faze him: he grins at Linny and indicates to the barkeep for another, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs with unthinking confidence to take up one-and-a-half times the space that he needs to. His undertunic is rucked up slightly over his leathers, revealing a sliver of toned stomach and a trail of dark hair down from his belly button to his low-slung pants. Unfortunately, as much as this position broadcasts his status, it also puts him at exactly the wrong angle to see her knot. “'Reaches.” He snorts. “Not for long though – getting transferred over. Stat. Still,” and his eyes briefly sweep over her, not leering but not subtle either, “might not be as bad as I thought with girls like you working here.”

A weyrwoman works, right? At least that’s how Linny interprets it, which is why dark eyes go wide and she reaches a hand, the right one, over to give him a playful little swat on the arm. “No kidding! Me too! Well, kind of. I was born at Ista, but I impressed at High Reaches. Oldtime, though.” She lets that sink in for a moment as she pauses to take a sip of her whiskey, but with it swallowed, wincing only slightly, she gets right back into the excitement. “Yeah, I was a junior there for…Faranth. Fifteen Turns? Something like that. A long time.” The goldrider keeps rambling, so excited to talk to someone from her former home that any looks from F’dan might be overlooked, especially as she stares off into the distance, glimpsing into the past. “I can’t go back there now. Too many memories. But I miss it. I miss it every day. Every damn day.” But with that little speech over, Linny turns those excited eyes back on him, smile plastered in place. “Well, welcome to Igen. We’re happy to have you.”

Linny's swat of his arm makes her breasts move under her thin dress, and the movement sets a thread of more insistent lust winding through F'dan's belly. Fuck, she's gorgeous, and she's definitely up for it. Maybe it will even be a freebie. He could just be getting really excited about this when Linny's actual words sink in: Impressed, so she's a female chromatic rider, which is distasteful. And then… junior. Junior as in goldrider. As in Weyrwoman. Oh Faranth's fucking shells. F'dan is on his feet before he's even thought about it, raising a salute the way he would to a 'Reaches Weyrwoman and desperately trying to calculate how much of a bollocking he's going to get. “Ma'am! I didn't realize.” Oh shards he is dead.

Aaaaand Linny just stares at him like he suddenly grew a second head, that of a runner, but just for a flash of a second before she’s waving a hand, wrinkling up her forehead as she sighs. “Oh, stop it. You don’t need to do any of…that.” The waving hand gesturing to the salute before it moves to indicate his seat. “Sit. Please. I shouldn’t have even worn this fucking thing,” she comments as she flicks her knot, and in a fluid motion, her hand goes to pick up her whiskey again for another sip. Conversation previously picked up as if it’s no big deal. Because it’s not. “How is High Reaches nowadays? Still as beautiful as ever? Still cold as fuck?” To her, Igen’s winter has nothing on those Reachian winters. Case in point, she’d never wear a dress like she is currently if she was still at High Reaches. Because she’d die before she could get back to her weyr. A frozen, if but beautiful, statue in the middle of the bowl.

“You shouldn't be here,” F'dan says firmly, not sitting. She must just be confused. “Listen, do you want me to escort you back to your weyr? Thank Faranth I found you.” He takes a look at the other patrons of the bar. Look at these people, they could be thinking of anything. And when he looks back to Linny, his eyes stay wide. That dress, that drink, the goldrider sitting here on her own like a common whore – are these Oldtimers animals? No wonder Igen's discipline has gone to crap since they arrived (granted, it was already low). But he still can't work out what to make of this event with just how foreign it is, so F’dan doesn't reach for her to forcibly escort her back. He's rankless here, a guest, and she's one of them.

“What are you talking about?” It’s so laughable that despite being thoroughly confused, Linny can’t help but emit a little snort as she stares up at him, lips slowly spreading back in a smile, even while her forehead wrinkles pensively before her expression falls into something more seductive, darker. “You can escort me back to my weyr, but let’s finish these drinks first, huh?” Her head tilts to the side to indicate their whiskeys, even while her own is lifted to her lips, but given the current change of events, she’s not sipping anymore- she takes two big swallows before putting it back down. Almost gone, such a shame. What’s not a shame is that Lin then flicks her gaze back up to F’dan, all while she still sits there in cocky confidence. Getting under a Nowtimer’s skin can be fun.

F'dan has been handling a seventy-odd-foot dragon since he was in his mid-teens. He's seen Kadanth's clutches on the sands and fought Thread and slept with a literally unthinkable number of whores and easy women all the way across Pern. But this… this randy green of a goldrider is simply beyond his comprehension. He looks around again, surprised that no one else has punched him for effectively asking the Junior Weyrwoman her price, before tentatively easing himself back into his chair. He looks from his drink to Linny to his drink again before having a very large mouthful. Shards. Not sure what else to do, he holds out a hand to her. Whores don't deserve introductions, but Weyrwomen do. “F'dan, son of F’sal,” he says warily, “Wingleader and rider of bronze Kadanth.”

He’s sitting- better. But damn he gave parentage and everything. Well, he’s definitely not getting that out of her, since he would have no idea who she’s talking about anyway. “Linny, rider of gold Kaelidyth, formerly of High Reaches Weyr, now Igen Weyr.” With that hand shake done, the woman wastes no time in finishing her whiskey, pushing the glass forward for yet another refill. Her third, at least, with the potential of it being her fourth or even her fifth. A hand reaches up to push back thick hair out of her face, waves falling neatly across her exposed breasts like no big deal, as brown eyes stay focused on the bronzerider. “So, F’dan. Still think Igen is still so bad?” Because surely, meeting her, has to make it seem better, right?

“Well met,” F'dan says with a polite nod. At least the man hasn't lost his manners. Linney may not have asked F'dan to order for her, but he does so easily and without thinking, finishing his own drink before catching the barkeep's eye and indicating the two empty glasses. Another two of those, then. The night is rolling on, and F'dan is remembering what he's heard about the Igen Junior Weyrwoman – which was a lot, mostly pornographic, almost entirely offensive. He doubts it was true about the Oldtimers having orgies in the Bowl, but looking at how she dresses one can't be sure. “It's not like home, that's for sure,” he says diplomatically in response to her question, taking his refilled glass with a nod of thanks to the barkeep. “Are Oldtimer goldriders often out alone at night?” The mind boggles.

“I’m thirty four Turns old. I’m allowed out whenever I damn well please,” replies Linny in that sugary sweet diplomatic tone of hers- the one that could insult a person and have them taking it as a compliment before they are any the wiser. “I can’t speak for Sadaiya, but- no, actually, I can. She doesn’t drink, so it’s usually just me here.” A simple shrug and then the goldrider is tossing that hair back behind her shoulders. It tickles her breasts too much. But then she’s backtracking, “You’ll get used to it. It wouldn’t be necessarily my first choice of a Weyr to be at, because honestly, High Reaches was more my home than Ista ever was, but the people seem nice enough. Just give it a chance. Or get in a fight and get transferred again.” Linny shrugs easily, as if the choices are just that easy.

F'dan is doing a great job of keeping his face impassive, but on the inside he's feeling vindicated. This is the downfall of Igen: Oldtimers with their loose morals and slack discipline. No wonder the Weyr can't unite properly – they can hardly respect their figurehead if she's out drinking alone like a hooker every night. He can't imagine how W'rin let it get this far – the bronzerider always seemed like a 'Reaches rider at heart. F'dan has more work ahead of him than he thought. But the thoughts pass without anger, just curiosity and a distinct lack of respect, and as F'dan settles back into his chair again he looks at Linny in a way he wouldn't look at a Nowtimer goldrider. “It wasn't a fight that got me here, if that's what you mean,” he says after another mouthful of whiskey. “Weyrleader J’llor wants to offer 'Reaches riders to boost Igen's ranks. I'd come to talk to W'rin about whether he approves.”

“No, I just mean you got transferred here. So get transferred again.” With her right hand, Linny shrugs before it goes to lift her whiskey to her lips for a quick drink before she’s swallowing fast so she can add, “Oh, I’m sure W’rin will approve. We need more riders, especially after the last couple of Falls.” The goldrider’s face noticeably changes, eyebrows drawing together as she stares off at something, causing her face to grow more and more pensive, before it’s wiped away in an instant, back to looking at F’dan with a smirk and that mischievous glimmer in her eyes. Because Linny’s no dummy, and he’s not the first Nowtimer to come up to her in the bar, so she’s got his number, and it delights her to no end. “You don’t like me, do you?” she murmurs as she sets her right elbow on the bartop, putting her head in her hand as she keeps her eyes locked on the bronzerider.

“Like you?” F'dan laughs, having another mouthful of whiskey before he speaks again. “A Weyr does not run on liking, Weyrwoman.” The idea seems to amuse him and he grins, leaning his own forearm against the bar so that he's twisted towards her and leaning in, slightly closer than is polite. He's warm at the edges now with liquor and Linny's a beautiful woman, and as he shifts one of his legs moves just between hers – not pressing, not between her thighs, just his knee between hers. It's a test, more than anything, of what an Oldtimer goldrider will allow. “And anyhow, we hardly know each other.”

Linny seems to not even notice him shifting his knee in between her legs, aside from feeling fabric brush against her bare skin, but she certainly doesn’t push him away or slap him for his boldness. With her head still in her right hand, her gloved left hand makes a rare appearance to make a wide curricular gesture around his face before returning, safely and carefully, to her lap. “Yeah, but I can tell, you don’t like me. You don’t approve. You don’t think women like me should me out in bars, and certainly not drinking by themselves. Trust me, I’ve heard it dozens of times before, and I don’t give a fuck.” And there, in his face, is a wide, proud smile. “Because you may not like me, but you like me.” There’s a knowing nod, like he should know what she means, or at the very least, she knows what she means.

F'dan tilts his head, allowing that point to pass. “You have me there, Weyrwoman,” he says steadily. If she were a Nowtimer woman, she'd be in big trouble for speaking to a man like that. As it is – well, she's a shameful excuse for a Weyrwoman, but she's interesting. He reaches for his glass again slowly, taking a long mouthful as if he has all the time in the world and watching her as he does it. His Adam's apple moves as he swallows, and a little bead of sweat that's gathered on his neck – it is hot in here in 'Reaches garb – drips down to the collar of his tunic. She's attractive, certainly, and he might like her mouth on a whore – but he'd like it better if her Kaelidyth weren't his potential golden ticket. Still, there's time to tame her. A lot of time. “I'm sure that every man likes you,” he says, outside not betraying all this thinking he's doing. “You need them to respect you.” He pauses, swirls his whiskey slightly, looking down at the movement of the liquid. “Unless of course,” pause, and he looks up at her, suddenly very intent, “that’s not what Oldtimers want.”

“Do you think I sit in meetings like this?” Linny asks as she leans back, gesturing up and down the length of her body, allowing him a good long, unobstructed look at it. “I’m not a complete idiot, F’dan. I dress appropriately when it’s necessary, but I like this dress.” It shows off her best assets- all of them. “I don’t need every man to respect me. I need Weyrleaders and Holders to respect me, but just some random bluerider?” Face scrunches up as she shrugs to show her impassiveness to that thought. “I live my life how I like it, and if someone else doesn’t like it, well, it’s not their life, right?” The goldrider shifts, then, pressing her legs a little tighter against his knee, perhaps even shifting a little so his knee is a little deeper in between. “But if you want, next time I see you, I’ll be dressed more appropriately and I certainly won’t be in a bar, drinking by myself,” she replies in a mocking tone, like a scolded child who’s telling their parent just what they want to hear.

If Linny is going to offer her body up like that, F'dan certainly isn't saying no: he takes another mouthful of whiskey as his eyes trail down slowly over her breasts, stomach, thighs before going back to her face. She's infuriating – he doesn't understand why W'rin doesn't have her disciplined. That doesn't change the fact that her body is making his ache, or that she would be a very, very interesting conquest to tell his wingmates about. Imagine being able to say he took the Junior Weyrwoman of Igen before even moving in. “It doesn't matter what you wear to a meeting if your blueriders are sitting down here and thinking of fucking you every night,” he says, matter-of-factly. He had thought for a moment that Linny not liking him made having her less likely – but from the way she's moving he doubts that. The drunker F'dan gets, the more erotic the idea of bedding this slut of a goldrider is. It's exotic. “How do you expect them to respect you and follow you when you're in that dress —” he pinches some of the fabric by her knee to demonstrate it, fingers grazing her skin – “and all they can think of,” pause, and he slowly shifts his leg, this time definitely on purpose, sliding it up between her thighs, “is fucking you?”

Linny, Igen’s Welcome Wagon- come get a ride. (They can figure out the slogan later.) But she’s a pro at this, giving no outward clues what other effects him touching her may be having on her, because on the outside, she’s cool. Chill. Completely calm, with eyes unwavering on the bronzerider, one corner of her lips curled up into a coy smile. “Someone has to be the girl the rest of the Weyr beats off to. The one men envision when they go home to fuck their boring old weyrmates. Might as well be me.” Or at least that’s her philosophy on it. “Being a goldrider isn’t easy, and anyone who says it is is a shitty goldrider. But if you can make it fun, make it not so monotonous, well…” she trails off before shoulder shrug gently. “I handle diplomacy for the Weyr during the day, and I do a damn good job at it. At night, I like to sit here in a dress and drink whiskey. I’m not hurting anybody.” She’s just giving them something great to look at while they drink, too. It’s a SERVICE she’s doing for the Weyr.

F’dan feels like he’s getting back into his stride on this: he felt like he did okay with Linny when she was a whore, had a major dip in his game when she suddenly became a Weyrwoman, but now she’s a Weyrwoman who doesn’t want to be respected — well, it’s new to find that in a Goldrider, but it’s a type of woman he’s used to. Sure it’s novel to be doing this in front of a packed bar — but new and exciting, too. And F’dan likes new and exciting, after having had every whore in ‘Reaches what feels like a hundred times over. He shifts in his seat slightly, canting his hips, and it’s too obvious what’s happening in his leathers for the movement to be intended as subtle. His drink is finished, again. “And what about me?” he asks, low now, his fingertips feeling their way gently under the hem of her dress and brushing her leg just slightly, out of the view of everyone else. “What if I don’t want to go home alone and beat off to the thought of you?”

“Well, then I’d say you’re lucky, because you have the chance to come home with me and experience the real thing.” Which is so much better than beating off. Angling herself away from the view of the rest of the patrons in the bar, Linny spreads her legs a little wider, perhaps flashing him a view of what awaits him in her weyr. No panties. Instant access. Eyebrows lift as she awaits F’dan’s reaction, since surely he’ll have one, index finger on her right hand running around the rim of her half filled (or half empty?) whiskey glass. However, within an instant, her legs shut, forcing him out from between there, turning herself away from him, not even looking at him anymore as she picks up her glass. “But! You wouldn’t be interested. Goldriders aren’t meant for one night stands. You should respect me.” Throwing his words back in his face as she leisurely sips her whiskey? Totally.

The majority of F’dan’s reaction takes place between his legs, a fact which is becoming rapidly more obvious (and uncomfortable) in his tight leathers. The sight of her like that with her legs spread sends a sickening lurch through his stomach, desire so intense it’s almost unpleasant. Faranth, if he doesn’t fuck her now — but just as his fingers are sliding up her leg and towards her inner thigh Linny pulls back, blocks him out. He makes a low noise, far beneath the conversation that is still going on, somehow, in other parts of the bar — a deep growling rumble that’s echoed, up in the Bowl, by Kadanth. “That ship’s sailed,” he says, his voice harsher than before, lust fraying its edges. He’s not begging, though: he clenches his fist and forces himself to turn back to the bar himself, ordering another whiskey (no smile for the barkeep this time) and drinking too much of it in a gulp. “I thought you didn’t need me to respect you though? Or at least, you don’t need me to like you to…” And then he relays an image via Kadanth and Kaelidyth, if his bronze can find her awake: a very, very inappropriate image of what exactly he wants to do to her on this bar, right now.

Oh, the image gets relayed, and it’s obvious when, since Linny’s smirk grows by leaps and bounds. Enjoying torturing him far too much. But she doesn’t just give the milk away completely free; he has to work for it a little bit. Making the situation even harder for him, the goldrider leans forward, edging herself on the stool, to press her lips against his ear, allowing her scent to wash over him. Jasmine and amber mixed together in an alluring, sensual, and exotic dance, all while lips and hot breath tickle his ear. “Don’t you wonder what I taste like?” Eyebrows are already arched as she comes back to sit proper in her seat, keeping her eyes on him as she picks up her whiskey glass, quickly downing it, wincing deeply, before signaling to the barkeep that she needs the tab. “Unless you want another drink?” But she has other things in mind, other places she needs to be. Other places he needs to be.

F’dan’s eyes drop closed for a moment as she leads close to him, and he takes a deep breath of the smell of her. He wants to brush back her hair and lick and bite over her neck, down her body. Some or all of these images may be going via Kadanth — he can’t tell any more, doesn’t care either. As she signals for the bill he reaches out fast, his hand gripping her tiny wrist easily, holding hard without being painful. If she flinches, he’ll let go — even like this he’s sensitive to that. He has no desire to bed an unwilling partner. Being wanted, that’s what does it for him: taking a woman and picking her apart and leaving her desperate for more. “That’s mine,” he says firmly, because he may indulge in this craziness but he’s not entirely bereft of his senses, and the tab is his. He turns forward and catches the barkeep’s eye, and in the second before the man arrives says, not looking at her, “and then you’re mine.”

There’s no flinching or anything of the like as he grabs her wrist, it’s taken in stride as she steadily meets his gaze, easily shrugging. If he wants to pay, he’s more than welcome to. Though she does wrangle her wrist back from him, if only to drop it to his lap to feel the tension in the crook of his leathers, giving it a firm squeeze as she leans forward to press lips to his ear again. “You know, F’dan, that’s the thing. I don’t belong to anyone.” The words, if boring, sound seductive coming whispered from Linny’s mouth. “And I’m also not as stupid as you think I am.” With a final tight squeeze of him through his pants, the goldrider quickly hops down off of the stool and heads towards the door, right hand tossed up in the air as she doesn’t look back. “Thanks for the drinks!” Yes, she totally just suckered him in for paying her tab for the evening. Oldtimers, FTW.

F’dan lets out a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush, bringing his fist down on the bar with force. Thankfully the bar has withstood much worse than that, and the ‘keep doesn’t seem fazed now he’s been paid in full. F’dan takes a deep breath and slumps forward, elbows on the bar and hands running through his hair as he bends forward. For fuck’s sake. That fucking smug bitch. Internally he swears to Kadanth that come Thread or high water they are going to catch that gold —

« Yes, » Kadanth responds, calm as ever. « But for now, we aren’t flying anywhere. You are far too deep in your cups for ::between::. »

F’dan rolls his eyes. “Sweet shards of Faranth’s egg…” he groans. Well, there’s nothing to be done then but to wait for tomorrow, and W’rin, and until then find some corner of this blasted Weyr to sober up in. But first… he eyes another woman at the far end of the bar, this time unmistakably a whore. She’s not as beautiful as the Weyrwoman, but she’ll do.

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