Who

Sevreni, Prymelia, Rhydian with cameo by Allash

What

Prymelia visits a favorite haunt, reconnects with Sevreni, meets a Starcrafter and gets bitchslapped by a White Mountain

When

It is midmorning of the fourth day of the sixth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, The Tipsy Kitten

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.


The autumn rain has become nigh-constant the last seven or so; with the Weyr as crowded as it is by the hillfolk being flown in for safety, there's more than one that the smell of wet fur can't be dodged. The Tipsy Kitten's proprietress, on the other hand, is making an absolute bundle off both them and the riders, and has subtly started to introduce something brewed in a still in the jungle to her menu of liquid delicacies as well. The upshot is that the place is almost packed even given the early hour, with a lot of booming business being done in the form of grubby marks, trade goods and the occasional early poker tournament. The owner hersellf, shadowy, too-lithe, is at one end of the bar appraising the quality of a pile of furs. In front of her, a hatchet-faced hillwoman, looking as surly as she can be.

Recently arrived back in Southern, the sudden influx of wild things passing as hillfolk has been somewhat of an adjustment for one intrepid young trader. The ‘wild things’ belong out there where she trades with them, not in here crowding her favorite watering hole. So rude! Looking somewhat like an soggy and unhappy feline and trying to shoulder her way passed a hulking mass of a mountain man, Prymelia gets accidentally elbowed in the boobs for her efforts. “Hey! Watch it you big oooaaaffff….uck, what did your ma feed you on? Rocks and grubs?” Just as said oaf turns a threatening glower down onto the willowy redhead, a gap opens up in the throng and she darts through, almost skidding into the bar counter. “Whiskey straight up, if you would.”

Liquid, dark eyes lift to stare at Prymelia, warming fractionally. "Prymelia. Welcome home." She eyes the young woman up and down once; shadow-straight she steps sideways, takes down two glasses and pops each hole-side up. Into one goes a shot of whiskey. Into the other goes another liquid, this one clear and smelling very vaguely of fruit. "Those Igenites don't know a good thing when they see it." Surely Prymelia's heard variations on that since she's been back. "Taste that, tell me what you think." Cold, slightly sticky, with a hefty punch: one of the new drinks on the sub-rosa menu, not strong enough to quite kill a whole brain in one go, but certainly not a lightweight's drink either.

If Sevreni weren’t behind the counter…Oh who are we kidding!? “Sevi!!” Prymelia squeaks and all but launches her upper half over the counter to grab the Kitten’s proprietor in a clumsy hug. “Oh I’ve MISSED you! Provider of all things liquid and good!” Because the booze lady is important, yo! Releasing the poor woman so that she can you know, actually pour the requested drink, the redhead steals a chair from a squat and bald little man that had stood to stretch his legs. You snooze, you lose, bud! “Igen was…interesting. Met some really nice people.” And then she blinks as the two glasses are put in front of her followed shortly by a sly smile. “Is this gonna knock me on my ass and put my skirt over my head?” Prymelia asks immediately lifting the new concoction.

Sevrenit is as body as ever in a hug; some people joke about her needing some fattening up. One hand pats idly at Prymelia's shoulder, pinching in once to return the hug. Her laugh, low and brief, tickles through the air, drawing some looks. It's not a gesture that happens often. "Not unless you've lost all your alcohol tolerance, Prymelia, and if that happened I know who to blame, that stupid no-drinking Candidate rule. Just… sip." Her profile turns to her, and her eyes narrow at the two barmaids to her left. Hop to, ladies. "When you're done, I'd like your opinion on some furs I've been getting in trade. Hillfolk don't take to marks, apparently; I have to know I'm getting my money's worth." She's a fair haggler herself, more than fair, but Prymelia was born to this kind of thing.

As cautioned, a sip is taken and the fruity flavor rolled about on her tongue with a happy sigh exhaled as the underlying kick slips down her throat and burns into her belly. “Now this,” the glass is waggled back and forth, “I can work with. How much of it do you have spare?” And just like that Prymelia slips right back into trader mode, pulling it about her like a comfortable shawl. “Furs?” An elegant brow arches at Sevreni, “Sure. I can take a look. But you’ll get the best prices for them up North.”

There's a slight shake of her head. "Not to trade to you. I'm unfamiliar with the quality despite my ties to the hillfolk, so I'd like to know before I trade it to the Crafters." One hand's fingers tap on the marble top. "The renewed ties between Seacrafters here and north have opened up some interesting avenues and closed others." Translation: she can no longer charge through the nose for rare Northern vintages that fell off the poop deck, as it were, but the increased ease of getting them offsets that."

The autumn rain has become nigh-constant the last seven or so; with the Weyr as crowded as it is by the hillfolk being flown in for safety, there's more than one that the smell of wet fur can't be dodged. The Tipsy Kitten's proprietress, on the other hand, is making an absolute bundle off both them and the riders, and has subtly started to introduce something brewed in a still in the jungle to her menu of liquid delicacies as well. The upshot is that the place is almost packed even given the early hour, with a lot of booming business being done in the form of grubby marks, trade goods and the occasional early poker tournament. The owner hersellf, shadowy, too-lithe, is at one end of the bar chatting to Prymelia, one hand on a pile of furs.

Rain is Rhydian's element. The Kitten is his favourite non-storming haunt. These two things should make him look at least somewhat perky, but the Starcrafter looks rough as he pushes through into the bar, brushing wet hair back from his forehead and scratching at a cheek covered in several days of beard. Along he bustles to the bar, finding an empty spot towards the end where the two ladies are. Onto a chair he plonks, reeking of the sea and ships, waggling a hand to capture someone's attention, so that he can be brought his favourite day-cap sleep treatment: a tumbler of whisky.

Amusement spills in a short laugh. “Not to me, no. I don’t have any way to get them up north. Not any more.” A drop of eyes for that and then a more adventurous sampling of the fruity brew. “What do you call this?” As for the trade shipping routes now opening up between the north and the south, Prymelia wrinkles her nose and gives a little moue of disappointment. “ It works both for and against the likes of us,” she agrees and strokes a hand across the soft nap of the furs. “These,” the top three, “are beautiful,” but these, “the bottom two, “might work for collars or cuffs? Your best bet would be to ask a tanner, or one of the Weyr’s hunters such as Kultir.” There might have been more added but the arrival of one scruffy looking seacrafter (?) draws the redhead’s attention sideways. “You look like you could use this more than me,” she states and nudges her freshly poured tumbler of whiskey his way.

The scent of ship-reek matches oddly with the scent of hill-reek, combining to a nose-wrinkling odour. "Rhydian," Sevreni greets quietly, taking her hand off the furs for a second. Up comes another glass, and a healthy slug of whiskey's poured in, to replace the one Prymelia pushed over. "You look like hell. On the house." The whiskey bottle disappears, and the furs are swept off the counter with a nod to Prymelia. "Figured he was trying to short me… Maise! Five drinks credit for now." Down the bar one of the bartenders nod and starts pouring for the hillman that bartered. "It doesn't have a name yet. I've got a few, if you're quiet-like and given to experiment. I've only named the roughest." Dark eyes flick to the starcrafter, wordlessly inviting him into the trial as well.

Not just one, but /two/ drinks pushed at him brings a flicker of a grin to Rhydian's plush mouth. He gently nudges Prymelia's back to her in favour of the one poured specifically for him, nodding thankfully at Sevreni as he curls his fingers around the glass to draw it across the countertop towards him. There's no time or words wasted as he lifts it up and necks a half-measure down in one, finally looking a little more relaxed as he leans against the bar with a content sigh. "U-" He stops, having to clear the frog out of his throat before he can continue properly; "Um… name what? What, ah, experiment?"

A quick smile greets the return of her whiskey and Prymelia swaps it out with the experimental glass of clear fruit scented brew Sevreni has set before her earlier. “Kicks like a runner.” She warns Rhydian and then lends the Kitten’s proprietor a husky chuckle for being quiet-like. “Darn. And here was I just about to hike up my skirts and go dancing along the counter top singing out a name for it.” Grin. “You should hold a competition to name it. Winner gets a crate of it.”

"The winner wouldn't survive a crate of it," Sevreni explains very drily. "I'm trying to keep it under wraps for now, but some sort of competition…" The idea strikes her fancy; before the poor test bunnies have time to renege she ducks down beneath the bar. Several moments later she appears, three small flasks in her hand. Four tiny glasses eventuate as well. "This," she says, is what you're sipping now - a clear bottle is set aside. The remaining two pairs are filled, two of them with a dark, treacly drink, and the other with something clear. "The clear is White Mountain — be careful. The other is as yet unnamed. The first is unnamed as well." The dark, should it be tasted, is a stronger, spicier, richer rum, full-bodied, almost the equivalent of a mulled rum.

"Oh." An alcohol experiment. Rhydian watches the pouring curiously, looking from glasses to Sevreni to Prymelia. "I'm, ah, Rhydian. By the way." He holds his slightly damp hand out to her, grinning enough to cause dimples in the scruffy beard on his cheeks. "I, um, just brought a ship over from Nerat." Which would explain the sea-stink. "They've brought booze. Lots." As he talks he eyes up the glasses, picking, eventually, the darker drink. A delicate sniff is given before he raises it to his lips, taking a perhaps surprisingly dainty sip - a taster before knocking the rest down far too fast to truly appreciate it.

“The winner would trade two thirds of the crate,” Prymelia returns with a saucy little smirk as she suggests that she would of course be said winner. Curiosity strikes when the three flasks appear and a further two drinks in total contrast to each other are poured. “Well met, Rhydian. Prymelia.” That’s her and not some weird name she’s just suggested for one of the drinks. “Seacrafter?” Enquired as she takes up the one named White Mountain. Much like Rhydian had, she gives it a sniff, eyes Sevreni suspiciously and tilting the glass the older woman’s way in a salute, mutters ‘Tits up’ and slings it back. Bad move. Bad, bad, BAD move! The stuff has barely hit her tongue and started to slip down her throat and she’s thrown into the mother of all coughing fits.

Sevreni's profile turns slightly more squarely to Rhydian, gaze curious. "Sounds like my order arrived. Good news. Thank you, Rhydian." See, the free whiskey was a good idea. The dark drink is too — stronger than the first, but smooth on the tongue and wonderful down the throat. Her lips pinch as Prymelia does… an incredibly stupid thing. "Lost all your marbles up there in Igen?" she taunts idly. "You should know better than that, girl. It's the kind of drink that they give to mountaineers and Really Stupid Macho idiots. Don't breathe immediately afterwards." Don't walk immediately afterwards as well, or think, or do anything involving not lying down.

"Starcrafter," Rhydian corrects with a smile. "Ah - navigator, for the past few days." Up comes his hand, mimicking a ship cresting waves. "I swear, my, ahaha, my legs haven't stopped wobbling yet." Which could be why he's clinging to the bar with one hand to help prop himself up. Prymelia's coughing fit gets a concerned press of teeth into his bottom lip, and he holds his hand out towards her in a halfway-there gesture of comforting. "Oh! Oh dear. Are you alright?" He looks to Sevreni, giving a little shrug of his shoulders as he says one simple, suggestive word: "Bitch." His grin grows. "Um… you should call it Bitch."

Don’t immediately breathe. Right. Wrong! Like a fish flopping on the beach, Prymelia gasps for breath, eyes streaming and freckled cheeks instantly flushing. “White…Mountain…?” She wheezes, making a grab for her whiskey. “More like…” A slender hand flaps in Rhydian’s general direction. “What he said.” And down goes the whiskey, chasing the potent brew to create a veritable storm in the trader’s belly. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she croaks and lists dangerously in the poor Starcrafter’s direction.

Allash ducks through the swinging door, shaking like a canine and stamping boots at to shed water safely at the entrance. Are patrons sprinkiled, likely. But those late-comers who had to sit by the door, they'll know to stake out their tables earlier next time! The guardsman shrugs out of the rainslick black oilskin and folds it under an arm, sidling up to the bar eyeing the new hooch and the coughing fits it seems to have induced with wary suspicion. He smacks the bartop with a loud crack and a wolfish grin, "Sevreni, let me see permits for that jungle juice!" He notes Rhydian, "Starcrafter," he ducks his head in a nod of greeting, "You returned safely from Winter seas and this is your next move?" He raises a brow, giving his head a single wry shake, "Quite a thrill-seeker." He rocks back at Prymelia's teetering rise, moving quickly, snagging a rag from the bartop. It's totally clean, right? In time?

"Bitch." Sevreni nods thoughtfully, impressed with the name. Her face tilts to the ceiling to consider the appeal of that; when she looks down again Prymelia's snarfing her whiskey down right after; the action makes her press her eyes shut and pinch her nose. "Maise!" she calls out. "Get me a bucket." Said bucket is handed over to Rhydian just in case the trader truly gets sick. "Shards. Have you eaten anything today, or did Igen just snip your drinking balls?" Harsh, yes, but caring as she shoots Allash a Look. "Shhh," she mutters crankily. "We're still undergoing testing here, don't call it that kind of stupid name." Nevertheless, a rag is shoved over, indeed clean.

"Mmm… nothing so mundane, eh, Sevreni?" He grins pursing his lips, riffing off of Rhydian's suggestion and the easy-to-surmise effects it's having on Prymelia. "Maybe Bitchfire?" His eyes go up to the rafters pondering other names. He makes as if to pat Prymelia, a look of concern knitting his brow briefly, but she's got all the help she needs between Rhydian, Maise and Sevreni. The guardsman looks at Sevreni, "Expect those brats who nicked your keg to be here shortly," he shakes his head ruefully, he lowers his voice conspiratorially, "I told 'em they're all yours. They're positively gray with fear." He grins. "Try not to leave any scars?" He nods at the Starcrafter and with a last worried look at the wheezing trader heads to the door and the rains and - woo - foot patrols in the rain!

Teeter-totter-Prymelia sways dangerously one way and then the next, kept upright only due to the white-knuckled grip she has on the edge of the bar. Far, far away she can hear the words ‘bucket’ and ‘snipped drinking balls’. Once her stomach lurches, twice it does so and the redhead goes ashen and then….She inhales a shuddering breath and pulling a dry smirk together, flips Sevreni the bird for her comment while batting at the bucket on offer. “I’m fine. It’s all good.” Another few breaths and color slowly returns. She even goes so far as to offer the scruffy jawed newcomer a wobbly grin. “That,” she stabs a finger at the glass she’d all but inhaled, “is some goooood shit!” Spoken through a husky creaky sort of strangulation of vocal chords. “Starcrafter.” Yup, she picked that up through the bitchslap the White Mountain had handed her. “Trader. Recently returned from Igen.” And now she’s looking suspiciously perky with hazel eyes a-glitter and cheeks a lovely rosy hue.

Sevreni's lips quirk; the smile that appears is small and wry. "Bitchfire. I'll add it to the list." Wtih the bucket batted away she tucks it under the counter, grin slightly lethal. "Kiss kiss," she announces dryly. "Get you gone out of my bar, trader. I'll come by tomorrow morning with a few interesting items that's been piling up since your departure." A slash of teeth show. "If you're up and about." She leans closer to whisper something, makes a highly interesting hand-gesture to go with it and nods to Rhydian, satisfied.

You overhear Sevreni mutter, "… you do now is go and find … - … … … … years … than … … … … him how … … are, …" to Prymelia.

Hot, hotter, hottest. Phewee!! Bright eyes, twitchy-twitchy, the whispered suggestion Sevreni delivers pulls an entirely wicked curl to pretty lips. “And this is why I missed you!” She tells the older woman, carefully slips from the bar stool and blowing her kiss gives Rhydian a little wiggle of fingers and sashays on out of the Kitten with a sway to hips that speaks of carnal intent!!

Heads up, Southern. Prymelia’s back in town and she’s got some catching up to do!!

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