Who

Pash, F'kan, Z'bor

What

Drinking in the Kitten, who can come up with the best story?

backdated

When

It is afternoon of the thirteenth day of the sixth month of the fifteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Tipsy Kitten, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 08 Nov 2018 05:00

 

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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 Tipsy Kitten! Pash has finally find himself some time away from ship and lady to visit the fine drinking establishments of Southern Weyr. No table for the Holder boy, no, he has himself bellyed up to the bar to banter with the vintners who work at the place. Or the normal workers, whoever really. A tankard sits just about empty in his hands, then its contents is sent down his throat like he is trying to douse a fire. "THEN! Then the mainsail ripped, and the lines ripped and the boom swung and thunked me into the chest, RIGHT INTO THE DRINK!"

Heeding Amani's warning about Southern's sole queen possibly taking to the skies soon, F'kan has been volunteering for long sweeps outside of the Weyr as a means to keep his brown from dogging Zymuraith's every step. Quaverilth has been begrudgingly doing his duty, but as soon as the return, he once more seeks out the gold's company if she will allow it. After returning from such a sweep, F'kan first stopped by his weyr for dry clothes, sandy blond hair still wet from the winter storms they had to deal with this afternoon. Good thing he had recently moved into a shipweyr with his weyrmate, because when he's done, Quav is no where to be found. Making his way to the Kitten after leaving anote for Devana to join him if she wants to, F'kan swings open the door to the drinking establishment and strides inside. The choice between table and bar is easy when he hears a tale being told. Once there, he leans up against the bar and orders himself an ale while listening.

GASPS! From the crowd, who seem to enjoy hearing such a tale. "The ocean was cold and dark, except when lightning ripped across the sky. CRASH! BOOM! Fwooosh!" Pash adds very poorly made sound effects to his story and waves his tankard towards a serving 'wench'. Who takes it to refill it. "I could hear my crew shouting, the slap of ropes smacking into the water and I reached for them. Then the ocean lifted me up until I could see my suddenly small looking crew waving to me until I was swallowed whole again by the sea." Down sounding, the story turned /tragic/. But less tragic now that Pash can drink down some more ale. "I fought a never ending battle that night with nature."

The Tipsy Kitten is a favorite haunt of Z'bor's and after a hard day's work, he's ready to let loose. To The Kitten he goes, free of any responsibilities this night, including his offspring, who are both with extended family this evening. In the door he comes, his jacket finding its way to a hook while his hand moves its way through his hair. Striding up to a bar seat, he knocks on the bar, getting the barkeep's attention before ordering. "Whiskey. You know what kind." Smiling the barkeep brings up a bottle of red liquid and a shot glass. "Enjoy wingleader." Z'bor gives the man a mock salute, pats for the bottle and straddles the seat before pouring a shot. It goes down with a satisfying burn and it is now thean turns to observe the venue and its occupants. F'kan is recognized and given a wave before yet another shot is consumed. How many can go down? Z'bor aims to find out.

F'kan smirks into his ale as he listens to Pash's tale. Having grown up at Black Rock Sea Hold, the brownrider has some experience with ships and the ways the sea and there may be a snicker under his breath for the way that Pash is recounting the story of his adventure. When the Serval Wingleader joins them at the bar, his bright blue gaze turns towards him and he nods in the universal guy sign language for "Hey." He eyes the whiskey being knocked back and can't help a chuckle, "Stressful day?" he guesses even as he takes a quaff of his ale. Not being able to resist a little goad, he calls out to Pash, "So how did you make it to shore?" Because since Pash is standing right there, this story can't have too bad an ending right.

"All night, my only friend was the the splintered and bouyant banister from my ship. I clutched heartily to her as the sea did its level best to rock me into a never ending sleep." Pash stands up from his stool and lifts his mug high and outwards, rocking it back and forth so that some seeps over. A pantomime of himself at sea. Eventually the storm broke and my strength began to fail me. I used my belt to fasten myself to the beam and hoped for the best." A long drawn in sigh and the man looks skyward, a hand lofting to fan at his face. "But then, a tanned beauty appeared in my vision, backlit by the morning sun and the welcome sound of seagulls. A wildling lady, of crafty ways, vibrant eyes and tender care. Backed by a sharper wit. She pressed water to my lips and stared longingly into my eyes, the man of her dreams."

Z'bor chuckles. "No, just long, and I'm ready to relax. Cheers." Down goes another shot. The greenrider, having been raised a sailor, is amused by the stranger's tale, unsure if he believes half of it or not. But it is amusing.

Ok, now F'kan is trying hard not to laugh as the man finishes his tale. The talk of a wildling lady though does make him start a moment. If Devana had found a man at sea, surely she would have told him. But then, the man said tanned beauty, and Devana is fair. Cocking his head to give Pash a long look over, he finally asks, "This wildling lady, did you at least get a name?" He ask with feigned interest and a waggle of his brows. It had better not have been Devana. Trying to push that thought out of his mind, he turns back to the greenrider with a chuckle in return, "I see, dealing with some of those myself, on top of Quaverilth obsessing with Zymuraith and how shiny she might be getting." He grumbles a little more than he meant to.

Pash is definitely good looking enough to steal from F'kan. The blonde bimbo-man with the..dreamy…eyes. Ahem. Pash is happy to take questions from the crowd, holding a hand aloft while he sips from what was once portrayed as the stormy sea but now is very much ale for his tum-tum. Mmm. All of it down and he settles the tankard behind him. "Her name is Farrah, fair-ah, and she was very much so. Curly hair and striking eyes. She told me I was an idiot and flutter her eyelashes at me." The tankard waggles back towards an employee fetchingly, please fill me!

It's Z'bor's turn to laugh and shake his head, another shot going down smoothly. Damn that feels nice. "Makes me damn glad I ride a green." And that's all hell say about that. Pash is eyed, maybe a bit too closely. He's pretty. "A gold can be distracting when she begins to glow, I don't envy your lifemate's distraction." F'kan's grumbling is also amusing.

If it's a pretty-boy contest that Pash wants, F'kan will give it to him. His own sandy blond hair and dimples at the corners of his genrous mouth. Bright blue eyes that are now narrowing on the Holder man briefly but exhales sharply when he hears the name of the wildling lady. "Ah. Farrah. She's my weyrmate's cousin. Only met her once and didn't make the best impression, unfortunately. Full of fire that one. But then, all wildling women are." He adds with a suggestive hike of his brows before he downs the rest of his pint and pushes the empty glass towards the barkeep for a refill. "And a bottle of fire whiskey to share with my very lucky friend here." Nodding in Pash's direction, he turns back to Z'bor with a sigh, "Why do you think I'm here drinking. Quav hasn't caught himself a gold yet, and Zymuraith…" he shakes his head, leaving his thought unfinished.

"Oh? Is…Amani's Gold will be going up soon?" Pash seemed unready for this bit of news. And he lifts his ale back up to drink heavily from it again, eyes looking between F'kan and Z'bor. Studying. Studying F'kan in particular. Then he reaches a hand out towards the man. "I am Pash, second son of the holder of Island River Hold. I assume you two are dragon riders then?"

Z'bor checks off a salute to Pash instead of offering another sort of greeting, like shaking hands. "Aye, Dragonriders." Z'bor flicks the weyrleader's knot upon his shoulder before returning to his whiskey. Pash's reaction to Zymuraith's rising catches the man's attention however. Why would the son of a holder care about a gold flight?

"Aye, I have it from Amani it should be soon. Not that I need her to tell me with the way Quaverilth is mooning over her every chance he gets." F'kan replies with reget as the barkeep brings a bottle of firewiskety, opens it and brings out two shot glasses one for F'kan and one for Pash, filling each to the brim. Looking down at the offered hand, F'kan takes it and squeeeezes into a firm handshake, "F'kan, brown Quaverilth's. Lynx Wingrider and occasionally Assistant Weyrlingmaster." Finally releasing his hand, he reachest for the shot glass one closest to him. He raises it to Pash before throwing it back, not a twitch of his face betraying how the strong liquor burns on the way down. Eyes locked onto the Holder's son, the brownrider reaches for the bottle for a refill.

Well. This is a bar, and they are drinking. So Pash's tankard settles upon the table beside the shot and that hat lofts it upwards and downwards. To let the burn hang in his throat, then warm up his chest. "Thats good whiskey. A pleasure, riders. Do you have any of your own stories to tell?" Fingertips twitch towards the tankard, but he doesn't loft it to quench the burn. Not yet.

Oh my. Is it tense in here? Maybe. Z'bor just chuckles. "Z'bor, rider of green Ozriath, Serval Wingleader." He turns in his bar stool to watch the exchange between F'kan and the holder's son. Z'bor has plenty of stories to tell, but doesn't seem inclined to tell any of them….yet.

F'kan downs his second shot without a second thought, putting it down with a little clink back on the bar. Scoffing at Pash's question, he sideeyes Z'bor before responding, "You mean besides risking our hides and those of our dragons against Thread? Nah. Lead a pretty boring life, mate." His sarcasm is followed by an incredulous chuckle as he goes for his third shot. Pash better keep up if he doesn't want to fall behind. He shoot a clear 'do you believe this guy?' look towards the greenriding Wingleader before picking up the shot glass again and slamming it down between low snickers.

Pash warms up to F'kan and his bit of a brutish manner. Because a challenge is something Pash knows how to take up against someone. A smirk, a grin, a smug look. A shotglass for each hand, and they get upended immediately following the other, then turned over to settle upon the table between them. "Thread is a deadly thing, but frequent and commonplace. It doesn't make for good stories." Then the man lifts the bottle to pour over the other shotglasses still face up. Because they might as well get them all ready. "Have you ever wondered it meant to be truly alive? To tug at the furtherest you could reach of Life and see if it would all tumble down atop of you?"

Z'bor gives F'kan an 'I know, right?' kind of look and pours his own drink and downs it. "I'd have to kindly disagree, thread makes for some rather /interesting/ stories if you care to listen." Z'bor has more than a few, and looks like it with the scars on his forehead and the thin threadscar that's wrapped around his left wrist, one of his more recent acquisitions. "And the lady sea is no different, which you seemingly know already, though I doubt you know the half of it in truth." Seasoned man of the sea over here. Z'bor's words are a slight challenge in themselves, a way of saying prove thyself without actually saying it.

"Commonplace?" F'kan scoffs with a shake of his head as he picks up his next shot and holds it aloft briefly before tossing it back. Z'bor's disagreement is nodded along to in agreement. Suddenly though, it's like a lightbulb goes off, a very rare occurance in this particular brownrider, and he chuckles with a roguish look in his eyes. "Ok. I have one." The brownrider replies as he leans brawny arms on the table top as one corner of his lips lifts in a crooked smirk. "Me and a wingmate. Training out in the Jungle, with our lifemates nearby. Doing some hand to hand defense work with knives. It was pouring rain, about this time of year." Pausing for dramatic effect, he lets his fingers play over the rim of his next shot. "So we are really getting into it, not going for blood, but using edged blades. It's a good thing that our lifemates were with us though, since we were too busy to notice the three fully grown felines sneaking up on us from the trees." Taking up the next shot, he downs with with a slight twitch and a hiss as his head swims briefly from his rapid consumption of alcohol.

Pash follows along with F'kan, to take that shot, and then one more to crest his lead. But he could take another and Pash won't budge. A story about the jungle itself, the vast untamed wilderness that has had his imagination and mind gripped. Now so does F'kan. "The jungles of the Southern Continent are very deadly. Truly the only worth place for a man to find his edge." The story agrees with Pash and his elbow settles upon table, to hold his chin as he listens to F'kan's tale. PLENTY have turned an ear to this table now.
Z'bor must leave the floor to F'kan at this point, silently cheering the man on. Z'bor will just sit her quietly drinking and listening for the moment.

"Very deadly for those who are unfamiliar with dealing with it's dangers" F'kan replies with an appraising look of the Holder's son, seemingly weighing the man's chance's of survival. With a shrug of shoulders, another shot is downed before he continues his tale, hands held in front of him to add to the storytelling. "So We try to make it to our dragons but just as we get there, they attack! One on each of us, no sign of the third. Quaverilth got a get of clawmarks down his haunch before he threw the one attacking him against a tree. The other was now turned on D'ex and all I had was my belt knife in my hand." Dramatic pause as he gaze roams the crowd to make sure he has everyone's full attention. "So without even thinking about it, I pulled back and let my blade fly." With a loud THWACK, he brings his hand down hard on the table top. "It hits! Right in the beast's shoulder and enough to distract it so my wingmate's blue could dispatch it." Taking his next shot, there's a bit of a wobble in his grip, before he smacks his lips in satisfaction. "Then we hauled ass out of there before the third one decided to make an appearance." Sitting back in his chair, he crosses his arms over broad chest.

Only a /minor/ lurch at F'kan's hand thumping to the table. Something was definitely coming. "Valiant. The best stories are always the ones in which you live. To seeing the face of nature's fury and to drinking to it later." Pash pours more shots, they are UP there now, aren't they? In drinks. Perhaps a song should be sung that might slow them. Or give them something to be drunken about. "Jungle, mists and fog both hide the dangers both of nature and man." Their shot taken, at least by Pash before the man speaks again. "We had been harangued by two fast vessels who flew no flags. Only through deft manuevering and the gift of the winds were we able to keep ahead of them. Until the showers, and the fog rolled in. All of my men were pressed to railings, looking and listening for oncoming ships. Fog so thick we needed message relayers for hand signals from midship to the wheel."

And so the night went on, with more drinking and more stories, until the wee hours of the night when everyone left to find their own beds…or others'.

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