Tolavin, Kaelige


Tolavin entertains the Cantina crowd late at night with lewd lyrics.


It is before very late night of the twenty-fifth day of the eighth month of the fourteenth turn of the 12th pass.


Dustbowl Cantina, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 04 Aug 2018 07:00


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"The best stories always do go untold."


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.

Midnight's been and gone, but the weather is hot, the night sky is clear, and while booze continues to flow at the Dustbowl Cantina, the revelery will continue! The crowd in the place is smaller, having lost a number as they reach their limit and stagger off into the night. Of those remaining, there are a few couple: one enjoying each other's company in a more discreet corner, another dancing drunkenly in the middle of the room. Various raucous groups - mostly men - are sat around, joining in raucously to the current song, an upbeat number with particularly bawdy lyrics, detailing a lovers' quest to win over his lady. Tolavin provides this entertainment, looking rather worse for wear with shining eyes and flushed cheeks; he even seems a little unsteady on his seat, though his fingers are sure over the strings of his gitar. His voice is loud, and also betrays that he's had more than a few drinks, but the words are clear enough.

A few patrons of the Cantina pass unsteadily into the Central Bazaar's perpetual glow, swaying in one another's arms as if the companionship will bare them escape from the edges of shadow that keep the outer alleys. Past that group peppered in drunken grins and slurred chatter filters a young man clad in darks. With a hood raised that covers his head, his shoulders slightly rounded to keep his head tilted down, he sidesteps the last of the group with a liquid manner unsupportive of being too lost to the bottom of the glass. He's in no rush, this shadow-swallowed lad, his stride oriented but hesitated by the lyrics that seem to catch his attention. Kaelige lifts his light eyes, a stark contrast against the scruff of his features and cloak-like outfit he's warded in despite the heat persisting through the night hours. A slow sly grin pulls across that expression, all too soon lost as a hand raises to readjust his hood and obscure general view of it. He comes to seat himself nearer the harper than necessary given the volume, but the table nearby Tolavin had recently been left, and it awards him an all too easy assessment of the other- and the lover's quest. "Send 'im another." Kaelige sits oddly in the chair, close to the front of it, leaning forwards with elbows on his knees as if just as much ready to leave as to stay. He'd beckoned the bartender with a tip of his head, ordering nothing for himself, yet a gin to be delivered to the harper upon the song's closure.

The song reaches its conclusion - an innuendo-laden recounting of the triumph of the woman finally accepting the lover, and their night of union. With a broad grin, Tolavin draws out the final notes, riffing on them unnecessarily. He just can't help himself when people are enjoying the music - and the fact he's had more than a few drinks helps. And hel-lo, there's another one being brought to him! Did he order it? He doesn't remember, but he's certainly not complaining! "Many thanks!" The harper cries happily, taking the glass and lifting it in a general toast to the people around. Not that many notice - there are more orders of drinks to get in, and a few people have left to relieve themselves somewhere while there's a lull. So it is that Tolavin's slightly unfocused eyes fall on Kaelige, noting the man's close proximity. "Hello! Have you a request?" Voice loud, in high spirits (and other sorts of spirits, too), Tolavin takes a good drink of his gin, eyes widening at the taste. Did he order this?

For too long of a time, Kaelige just watches. It would be easy to assume he's fallen asleep, for his posture is relaxed in that oddly readied poise, and all too still. However, idly do dirty-nailed fingers pick at the thread-worn edges of his fingerless gloves. Mechanically, rhythmically. A rhythm that doesn't meet Tolavin's beat, per se, but steady nonetheless. The young man isn't all that worried about anyone noticing such a thing, for whatever eyes aren't already blurred by alcohol's favor, are staring at the bottom of a glass trying to get there. For a heartbeat or two, Kaelige doesn't respond, but then lifts a hand to scratch the scruff of his face- thinking. "A man doesn't always want to build a Hold to get a lass." He drawls, dismissively amused of the quest previously detailed, "What about a night of fun without a day after- You've anything of that? Or have you only heartsick romance." The subtle prod is hopeful of a retort, or perhaps the pluck of a challenge for his own entertainment. That is what he paused for, afterall.

Any pause before the answer is unnoticed by Tolavin; the mystery drink in his hand is too distracting. He finishes the rest of the glass, and looks for a moment like he's considering simply tossing the empty glass aside. The remaining sensible part of his brain reminds him that he'd probably like to come back here again, and he settles for leaning unsteadily over to the table near Kaelige to set the glass there. Straightening, clutching his gitar for a moment as he regains his position, the request comes and Tolavin's eyes blink slowly as he rifles through the mental collection of songs. "Oh. OH! I can do the one about the Lord's woman?" Ah, the particularly naughty one about a Lord showing a minor Hold woman a good time before he leaves her in the morning! "Y'heard that one before?"

Kaelige sniffs at something Tolavin says, though the retort is short, clipped, and either annoyed or humored- it's a fine, greyed line and brings about a chilly edge to the light gaze now visible as he watches the harper more directly. But the grin isn't gone, still there as crooked and engaged as the rest of him more or less seems to be. "Why not." He answers, arms spread, palms up as if that idea is as good as any, a huffed chuckled intermingled in his reply, "Although… Don't give me some runnershit about a wealthy single bastard with lasses lined out his bed chambers, hopeful for a perfect story ending." Kael sits back, drawing a boot onto the seat with him, even more oddly postured in his place. He speaks slow enough that he's clearly familiar with conversing with drunkards at all sorts of levels. "Rather, tell me he's already a Lady waiting for him during his night of disastrous pleasure."

Tolavin's grin is ever-present, the slightly vacant of a man who's now definitely had too much to drink. "Oh, he's a wife back home," he explains as he starts to pick out the first few notes, fingers slipping momentarily over the strings until he shakes his head, trying to gather himself. "A pretty little thing unaware of her husband's dalliances." Now he's more sure on hios instrument he throws himself into the song rather too enthusiastically; the general crowd in the bar are less enthusiastic, more distracted by getting in some final drinks before the bar closes. Or before a fight happens and people get chucked out - there's the beginnings of a disagreement over who's taking a woman home, and Tolavin lifts his voice to be heard over the first strains of the argument. This one's less innuendo and more outright rudeness, about the unattractive Lord using his power to take the holder woman. Tolavin sways in his seat as he plays and - well, shouts would be a more apt description that sings as he tries to keep himself audible. Even though Kaelige is right there beside him.

Whatever had tugged a string in him before, whatever ruffled a feather or two vying to evoke some sort of subdued response, is relaxed at that answer. Perhaps having a drink in him would do him some good, though that doesn't seem to be his goal tonight. A mug is eventually delivered, but the contents don't seem consistent with alcohol, as steam curls over the lip of it. "Much more… tolerable." This, in regards to the song. While the lyrics string together a story the hooded young man had requested, his focus does drift to those getting a rise out of each other, but he loses interest when identities don't prove useful and the scenario doesn't yet wander closer to their corner. "And plausible." The last is added amidst the song somewhere, after some verse that he finds particularly.. acceptable. "I don't particularly like music." This comes nigh conversational when the singing- or shouting- might subside, said off-handedly as if a after thought, as if it wouldn't come oddly in the face of the fact he'd just requested a song. "But I like your.. ah.. muse, so to speak." Dark, crude smile stretched the shadowed lines of his face, though his head has tipped down again to look at his gloves, to pick at them, to think. "Is much of your inspiration first hand?"

It's a shorter song, this one. You probably wouldn't want it to last too long, given the lewdness. When the Lord returns to his pitiable wife, sneering and smug, the song comes to an end. Tolavin wavers, then turns his gitar so it's slung across his back. Seems like he's done with performing for the night, either through his own inebriation, or the fact that the audience - save Kaelige - are losing interest. He gives a cheery, satisfied smile at the man's compliment, such as it is. "I can do the stuff the Hall wants me to play, but this stuff is way more fun, y'know?" His volume is still louder than it needs to be - no doubt he'll have a sore throat (and a sore head) tomorrow. Kaelige's next question is answered after only a brief pause to pull an answer out of his foggy brain, a broad, sly smile on Tolavin's ruddy face. "Ah, I wouldn't tell tales of my own lovers. Doesn't seem gentlemanly to do that." Other pairings are, apparently, fair game.

Whatever problem in volume there is, even if Kaelige minds, he says nothing. He's watching again, though, now that the conversation is two-way, one eye evident, the other lost behind drifts of dark hair. "Aye." Agreement without condition. But no further curiosity comes as to association with the Hall or his disposition at this Weyr. Instead, "The best stories always do go untold." It's a statement which feigns a hand of disappointment and a sigh as he returns that boot the floor, a glance bid over a shoulder before being returned. A couple of men have arrived, but they don't go further than table and stools nearest the entryway. "Perhaps someday, when you shake that off." The 'gentlemanly' responsibility, that is. "You don't seem too terrible at weaving your words. I'm sure you can find a way to give us a tale or two from ones long past." 'Long past' being relative of course. They're how old? There's another glance over his shoulder before he decides to rise, the mug of before going untouched, left where it'd been set. "A drink on me next time if I get something even better." Personal, that is, or closer to it. Worth it? It's really not that high of a price, though the way Kael lingers there stands to reason the offer could get a little fatter. "Until then." Seems those guys are waiting on him, their intermittent looks becoming longer after a few minutes, impatience grown.

"Damn straight," Tolavin beams, eyes glazed not just thanks to drink, but also in reminiscence of sexual adventures of the past. He accepts Kaelige's compliment with a low bob of his head, wobbling in his seat; at least his drunken mind is focused on the positives being thrown his way, rather than the implications of dropping other facets of his personality. "'til then!" He touches a hand to his temple as if saluting, enthusiastic at the idea of more drinks with this interesting new acquaintance. Then he manages to get to his feet, and weaving off in the vague direction of the nearest latrine, taking a path that keeps him clear of the pair now starting to throw punches over the woman being argued over. "'scuse me," is the last thing heard from Tolavin before he disappears out into the night.

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