Who

Mayte, Threvobek

What

A Weyrling can buy a guy a drink, right? Mayte does anyway.

When

It is evening of the thirteenth day of the eleventh month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr Dustbowl Cantina

OOC Date

 

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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.


The evening wind passes over Igen as if intent to scour it from the map, so most people are hidden in their weyrs and residencies, their plan to staying out of the way of the sand-and-wind effect. Ergo it is a little less busy in the Dustbowl Cantina tonight, which only goes so far - the tables are still mostly full but at the bar, there's a bit of elbow room around one shorter woman who wears what seems to be regular Igen colours. She's on a seat, and watching out over the crowd, a rather large glass of wine in hand from which she takes the occasional sip. She might be glaring a little. That might be what the crease between her eyebrows is.

It's been an ordinary day of labor for Threvobek who has left the stables and dirty clothes behind but the scent of it still lingers mixed with the artificial musk at his throat— bazaar bargain, what can he say. He's alone but an empty glass across the circular table he's currently renting meant Rev entertained someone recently. Content with his company much of the time, the native's gaze gets more lead as it trots the room, each patron's face a pause in his hazel-eyed gait. Mayte is spotted third to last. Heeled back, his glance comes around again. Unreadable, but not standoffish.

Maybe that little crease is Mayte trying to decide what the smell is, on top of the regular musk of Dustbowl Cantina goers. Whichever; she's in the middle of a sip of wine when she catches Threvobek's eye for a brief moment. She eyes him curiously for a second as the wineglass is lowered, and then she turns away. Long sip of wine, and then Mayte raises her finger to catch the bartender's attention, a little more quickly than usual. Whatever conversation passes between the young woman and the bartender is lost in the hubbub of the room, but sooner or later, while Mayte's back is still turned to the room and the scene, a waitress will sally forth with a glass of whatever the worker was drinking before, and deposit it before him. She won't even tell him who ordered it for him if he presses.

Threvobek relaxes the angles of his legs under the table, toes of his boots extending under a circular shadow. That fine perpetual sand on the floor's surface grates nicely underfoot, Igen white noise. As tension eases off his knees, he's faced with extended relaxation: another round! Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not the surly Keroonian ponies, Rev adopts it like it was his own. No grilling the maid, just a delighted boyish grin cut short because he's drinking. And now enjoying.

Mayte is still sipping away at her wine. Mmm, the good stuff. In fact, it takes a few minutes for her to look over her shoulder at her latest vi-beneficiary, turning to give him a stink-eye that might only be rivaled by the scent of surly Keroonian ponies. When he looks up again, she'll tip her glass at him, but the black-haired woman doesn't move but for to swivel on her seat and watch the young man. No, no, take your time. Mayte will just sit and watch, and drink over here. And if that fails, she'll crook her finger at him in the 'c'mere' motion.

As a male of simple taste Threvobek savors the watery froth on his lip like it was distilled brandy. For a moment the view of his entire table is overlapped by bazaar merchants impoverished by a day's sandstorm and Very Vocal about it. The iron skillet vendor, however, broke even and then some. Rev seems lost in that crowd but does manifest by Mayte's side, drink in hand (but reduced by half). "You didn't happen to see the beast who left this, did you?" Segany did owe him a sympathy drink.

Finally! Mayte eyes the table where Threvobek was… and huffs. Go figure. She's even turning around to grouse back to the bartender, "I'll take a double," so the bartender has to reach down to pull out the Big-Ass Wine Glass and starts filling it with a bottle… And then Mayte isn't quite startled, but looks over sharply at Threvobek before she grins: "Uh huh." That's all she says. And then takes a sip of wine, but in case there's confusion, she adds, "I know who."

Since all the bar stools have butts on them, Threvobek plants himself between the young woman and the neighbor to her left. He gave up a spot of rest, true, but this view is better. The stablehand, as a perceived wedge, gradually puts physical pressure on the man next to him, older but the same size. Rev is polite about it, even says excuse me, but really wants the stool and the terriory that comes with it. Forearms come to the counter and he brings his shoulders in for a slouch and greater occupation of volume. The man on the left flexes away, mildly annoyed. The teen seems not to notice, responding to the weyrling with blunt syllables, "he a guard about yay?" A hand is positioned to some correlation of 6'0 height as he watches Mayte's order grow exponentially. "That'll spoil your supper."

"Mmm, nope," Mayte replies, almost maddeningly. She watches Threvobok wedge himself in and drains the last of her fist glass of wine. As for her goldfish bowl of wine? Mayte takes that up and ahhs after a sip. "Already ate. This is just filling in the cracks betwee," she explains. A moment to savour and then, "So. You new around here?" A toss of her head to indicate beyond the walls of the Cantina, "I don't think I've seen you around before…" An innocent blink at an obvious ploy for a name.

"Rev, weyrwoman," comes the near interjection and engaging smile. Someone's trying too a bit too hard to make this a winning introduction. "Stable worker and I've been here all my days so where have -you- been?" He shifts all his weight to one leg and that is the straw that breaks the man on the left, he gives up his seat and Threvobek immediately hops into the tiny tract of bar. He could have forced, persuaded, or charmed his way to it but the best win is bloodless, wordless submission. Or the guy was getting sick of having a rump level to his face. "I saw your Impression, and everyone elses, congratulations."

'Rev' gets a long look and a grin to go with it, "Rev. S'funny, I liked working in the stables." A shrug and a wave with a free hand: "Before I was a Candidate, I was a Vintner, so over at the Corks and Works store." Thataways. And now that Threvobek is roughly at the same eye-height as Mayte, she rubs at the back of her neck a little. "Thanks," she says and then takes a big siiiip. "Sorta strange to think I've been away from this," handwave again, "for over a Turn." Anyways! Mayte blinks almost owlishly, and asks, "So. Rev. Any big news in the Stables? Up and coming runners? Caprines growing and eating everything they can? Rhiscorath says thanks for the tasty herdbeasts, by the way."

Threvobek keeps his right arm down to his lap to open his body language while the opposite hand warms the last of the beer. "Oh, so this is just a soak for you then," eyes indicating the globe of wine not yet with acceptance. Eyelids kindly warm from his three beers, Rev has the glow of an alcohol sated man. He's still got to be up and able in the morning. "The runners here don't even win au jus." He, like some, have eaten runnerbeast. "I work more closely with herdbeast and they're barely good enough for eating." Frustration marbled with an unwillingness to show it thins out his smile. "But they poop all the same."

"It was," Mayte admits, "But I'm still getting back into it. A Turn and some away's a long time without anything to drink, y'know." Artfully ignoring the comment on runners, Mayte is instead happy to expound the virtues of herdbeast flavour to her dragon's favour: "Well, Rhiscorath says they're tasty enough, and it took long enough to chop 'em up when she was still a baby, so." A carnivorous baby, that is. Perhaps the wine is starting to hit Mayte a little, because she's smiling a bit more widely, "So how did you get into stable-boy-ing?" New verbs: Mayte makes 'em.

Threvobek refrains the request from the barkeep to refill his drink, hand rising just slightly for emphasis. "Sorry, guess I don't know you well enough to be talking about defecation." His nonchalance has a momentarilty awkward stripe rebuffed with a low key laugh. "…shells, I don't even have your name. I'm really losing here." The barkeep, while taking Threvobek's empty glass, indicates it was Mayte who forwarded it. Then it really feels like failure: a -girl- buying him a drink. "Thank you for th'beer." He times to a patron's walk-by, muffling its importance. "I didn't want an apprenticeship and the stable master didn't want someone worthless. We were made for each other." Surging background noise— someone's cheating at dice— keeps the teen from elaborating.

Maybe Mayte likes it that way: she certainly grins and doesn't let on for a moment longer. In fact, she has time for a dark look at the bartender - traitor - before she lifts her own glass, with only a bit of difficulty: "Mayte. Of Rhiscorath's." The glass gets a large slug taken from it and the noise in the background has the Weyrling turning to glare a little misdirectedly. Anyways: "You're welcome for the beer. Looked like you needed a good… other drink. And, y'know, fresh face and stuff." So very eloquent.

Threvobek's warm eyelids have spells where they're looking droopy. This cannot be tolerated. The stablehand takes a big breath like it's a prelude to a burp but keeps it captive for a while. Then he exhales. "I'm turning in. Pace yourself," getting to his feet, Rev points at Mayte's wine terrine. "I owe you one, weyrwoman, so I'll start saving up." Or mortgage his pitchfork. Flicking some of his hair back, Rev departs not before shielding his mouth with a rag.

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