Who

V'dean, Dione

What

A bluerider walks into a bar… and chatting ensues.

When

It is late night of the nineteenth day of the sixth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Tipsy Kitten, Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

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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.


Timor: 1_m5.jpg Belior: 1_m8.jpg

Evening. Late evening, with the crowd thinned and off to bed, and the autumn rain falling steadily, enough to soak a person through. The Kitten's almost empty, with a single flame-haired bartender behind the marble counter and only a few patrons remaining, clearly unwillling to carry on out into said rain. Off in the corner there's a restful tune from a non-Harper, something plucked out idly on a banjo, and the scent of the late-evening meal lures with the promise of something hot and lovely.

From the autumn rain, in comes a figure. His parka's used to the rain, water beaded and streaming off of the oiled surface. Weariness draws along his feaures, lines tense and distant. He smiles, though, with the ease of habit as he saunters in past the swinging door towards the familiar stretch of bar. The fine white clad elbow slings easily up onto the bar as V'dean claims a stool, pale eyes sliding to find the lone flame haired woman behind the counter. He's alomost patient, brows lofted in expectation and thumb running along the bristles of his lower lip as he dodges a glance towards the non-harper.

The door has no screech so that Dione would be warned of another customer. Rather it's the sound of booted footsteps and the smell of the rain in hair and on parka that attracts her attention. She sways closer with a warm smile, apparently wide-awake despite the late hour, and settles in front of V'dean, hands resting idly on the bar. "Good evening," is said in an accent that flirts with Nerat. "What'll y'be having tonight then? Whiskey man? Rum, brandy?" Notedly she doesn't offer a glass of milk; that's reserved for Q'fex. "Some vittles too?"

"Mule," V'dean requests, his smile pulling to the side. "Clear and strong, with a shot of beer." His lopsided smile lingers as he sinks onto the stool pulled out by the hook of his ankle. Broad shoulders sink into the prop of his forearms across the bar, grey-green eyes steady upon the bartender. "Good evening," is offered, thus, belatedly. And as if to validate it, his attention dodges over his shoulder towards the scant assembley of patrons. "You come down here recently?" he wonders idly as his attention wanders back with a slide to the Neratian-accented girl.

There's an arching of Dione's eyebrows and a slight, approving nod before she leans down to get the ingredients. Her hands work steadily as she watches the man curiously. "Just, yes. A bit under a month and a half, so y'be forgiving me if I don't know everyone's names just yet. Dione." Her name, apparently. "Don't be worryin' about the thin crowd, I've not poisoned them with newness yet." The mixed drink appears in a tall glass, complete with the side-shot of beer he asked for. "It might kick - y'be warned, hm? What's your name then?" True to her word, the drink is strong; he requested it, after all.

"Mmm," the bluerider hums. His hand sling out casually to claim the served up glass. Pale eyes flick, assessing, over the redhead — his smile twitching up slightly at the edge. "Glad to hear," he drolls before taking a sip. There's no wince for the strength, merely a slow run of tongue tip over the rim of his mouth. "V'dean," is offered after he swallows. "Dione," brings a blossoming of a broader smile. "How have I not run into you?" Eyebrows tick as his smile slides. "How have you found Southern?"

"See, there was this ship, and it sailed for a long time…" Dione chooses to lean on the bar, ignoring her earlier busy-work. "Y'could say I grew bored with Nerat and desired to … broaden my horizon." Two paired fingers pull apart at that, and a grin bestowed on him in-between. "I'm guessing y'be busy fighting Thread and not drinking. Y'gonna be coming 'round more often then?" One hand lifts to support her chin, and misty-mint eyes flick over the Kitten's other inhabitants, making sure they're still sorted. The tune turns melancholy, hillfolk in origin. "Handsome man like you, why are you in here drinking and not making someone's heart happy out there?"

"A ship." Up go brows, skew goes smirk. "Well," pale eyes drop to his glass as liquid swirls before V'dean quaffs. "There are some horizons here." Glass rattles as he lets it back to the marble of the bar. The smirk remains. "Something like that," comes out dry, despite the lubrication of his throat. But the bluerider's smile is undaunted as grey green eyes lift back to Dione. As for handsome, there's only a slight loft to the arch of one brow for the flattery. "I was thirsty," is his innocent answer.

Dione has to acknowledge that last with a glinting smile even as she scrapes the quaffed-from glass back, fingers twitching towards bottles. "Another?" A second glass appears beside his. "Best time of the evening, this, to become thirsty. Not too many people shouting and going on to disturb a person slaking their thirst. There's red wine stew up in the back, if y'be wanting anything." She smiles at him as she waits. "Y'know what hits me most? The weather here. I'm told this is winter, and so far I'm laughin' at that notion. Some of the people too, the hillfolk? Strange."

Fingers scritch along the bristles of his jawline. "Sure," another. Grey green eyes follow Dione closely. "Stew?" Incredulousness sketches across the man's features. And as for the winter — "It doesn't sound like the wet is much of a shock," is his sly reply to the Neratian's observations. "No snow," is his own comparison of winter. And yet — "have many of the hillfolk come around here?" There's a note of genuine sounding curiosity coloring his voice as he balances his glass before smirking lips, pale liquid swirling faintling before disappearing down his throat.

"Hm? No, I like the wet." The girl pauses, mixes, whilst deep in thought. "With the way they're moving them in on account of the Thread, yes," she finally says, creating something much more fruity-looking for herself. "Space is a bit tight, I'm given to understanding, but everyone is budging up, and a lot of them are going to the holds as well. Sevreni knows 'em better, she'll be able to tell you where they are, specifically. Here in general? Barring the odd one that wants to trade a stack of furs for one of us and their drinks starting to appear, t'only way y'can tell them from regular folks is that dreadful thick tongue they have, and t'clothes."

It brings a deeper smile from the rider, this first revelation, as his gaze hangs on the girl. But Thread brings a quirk of his expression and drops his gaze away to his glass. "I suppose," is idle agreement paired with her latter statements, given with a slide of his attention to the sparse population of the bar besides himself. Maybe V'dean is looking for stacks of those furs. "Furs in Southern," is an idly dry comment about the mountain man's exchange for booze. A titch of his head preceeds the toss-back of his drink. "Hope you have good trade lines to the north," is the bluerider's comment with a stiff smile as he eases out of his stool and back to balance upon his feet.

Dione watches him as he slowly surges to his feet. "I didn't actually take him up on his offer," she says quietly, impishly. Her displeasure at being traded for was quite clearly made. "But yes, I believe that Sevreni has her ways of getting things traded, even though the ban's lifted now and ships are around again." She drains the last of her drink before one smallish hand is stretched out over the bar towards V'dean. "Pleased t'be emeting you, V'dean. Don't be a stranger, alright?"

"So you're a smart one," V'dean narrows a wink as he rummages in a pocket. Harper stamped fraction marks appear upon the bar in payment for the drinks. They drop quietly, leaving his mitt free for accepting the hand offered across the bar. "The pleasure's mine," he sparkles a toothy smile for the bartender. "Nice wrist you have," he comments with a turn of their joined hands, though his gaze travels from Dione's extended hand to roam over the woman behind the bar. The clasp of his fingers lingers as his smile twitches. "Have a good night." For himself, he'll slip away with a run of fingers through his forelock as he turns to make his way from the bar.

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