Xanthee, Nasrin


Nasrin toasts Xanthee after a successful Fall.



It is noon of the seventh day of the eighth month of the fifteenth turn of the 12th pass.


Dustbowl Cantina

OOC Date 26 Nov 2018 05:00


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"Is this what it's like to be a goldrider? People just buy you drinks wherever you go?"


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.

It's the day after a Fall and Igen largely made it out with bragging rights and all dragonhide intact. Members of most of the fighting wings are enjoying libations in the Cantina, coinciding with a shipment of Keroon ale- who knew? Nasrin, not often party material unless the lower caverns is involved, is oddly enough present at a table in butterscotch-colored riding leathers. Multiple someones have purchased a drink in her name and the three glasses form a triangle the weyrwoman oft rearranges. She is still working on the first. There's laughter, someone with a reed flute who either needs better lessons or is too inebriated to bother with breath control.

In one corner, a couple of tables are pulled together and surrounded by a group of senior weyrlings obviously celebrating another successful Fall. And maybe most relieved of this fact is Xanthee, who, with her Weyrling Wingleader knot, is lounging back into her seat with a smirk on her lips as a weyrling bluerider stands on his chair and re-enacts a particularly close call. The chair wobbles a little as he ducks out of the way of the imagined killer Thread, which is getting bigger with each retelling. Several pitchers of ale dot the table, most getting pretty low. Downing the last of her pint, Xan gets to her feet with a soft groan. "My round right, guys?" she asks before getting an overwhelming assent that sets her to giggling and putting her hands up defensively. So she wanders to the bar and puts in her order for a couple more pitchers for her wingmates.

Nasrin has angled one ear to better catch the off-note melody, humming along when she thinks she has the song pegged. "You sing any, weyrwoman?" A member of Whirlwind asks, seated none too far away. Nasrin's head levels back and she shakes her head, the bun centered in the back of her head securely motionless. "I can harmonize the little stuff," no operettas here, "and the rest I'll leave to professionals." That seems to satisfy the bluerider as he smiles and goes back to a discussion on wind speed. With no need for drinks, but some distance, Nasrin spots a figure at the bar and times an arrival precisely with Xanthee's. "Are the Thread clumps at your table as big as dragon muzzles or dragon wings?" Exaggeration always being rife with re-told stories.

Leaning her elbows against the bar as she waits for the order, Xanthee doesn't see Nasrin come up to her. Tilting her head to look at the weyrwoman, she knocks off a more casual than usual salute, a little tick of a couple fingers to her temple. Her smile spread as she chuckles with a shake of her head, "To hear him speak, it was the worse clump of Thread ever encountered by any rider in the history of Pern," she says with a jerk of her head back towards the weyrling contingent. "And came so close as to singe the fuzz on his cheek no less. But then, we don't have a lot to compare it to just yet of course."

Maybe not a hierarchical need but a social one, Nasrin saluting the weyrling wingleader in return, her hand falling in a rounded arc past her face. "Well of course, they all are," Nasrin's reply as easy as dandelion seeds catching wind. She guides a look back over some heads to where the weyrlings are entrenched. Nas reserves for herself and Xanthee a private grin, a falconer watching hand-hatched birds catch their first kills. "Rajakhelath told me there were no weyrlings longer than a candlemark in the infirmary yesterday?" Matching human credence to draconic.

Xanthee smiles back at that private grin followed by a quick bob ofher head, "Yep, that's right. I think everyone is so hyper vigilant with these first few full Falls we've flown, but I have no problem with that to be completely honest." Because the alternative is really not even worth thinking about, and is something she doesn't wish to have to think about during her tenure leading the weyrling wing. With a wave of her fingers in the direction of the bartender filling her pitchers, she indicates he should deliver him to the table before turning back her attention to Nasrin. "There weren't really any serious injuries though were there? In the other wings, I haven't heard of any."

Gestures to the bartender she is here only to take up space, still clinging to the half-full glass of pale ale like a prop of belonging. "No serious casualties worth mentioning, it's a most welcome respite. It was one of those textbook cases as the weyrlingmasters sometimes like to put it. Hmm," sniffing at the air above Xanthee's left shoulder. "And I can't detect more than a passing scent of firestone." Drumming her fingers on the counter, "now that I think is pure luck."

"Indeed, but even so, the weyrlingmasters definitely like to stress how dangerous it is to get too comfortable after a particularly successful fall," Xanthee relates with a snort as she runs her fingers through raven locks, sniffing a bit in reaction to Nasrin's last comment, "Really? Oh good, I was afraid I had just gotten used to it and Mal was too polite to say anything. I guess all that work I did in the Laundries as a Candidate came in handy when it comes to getting my gear clean."

"Lady Nasrin, a drink for you." The bartender with sullen eyes but a counter grin places a fourth in front of the goldrider. "From the Weyrsecond." With either Th'bek or S'tol to thank (or curse), Nasrin briefly searches the room for either, comes up empty, and thanks the bartender. There's no way she'll consume them all, it'll be a miracle if she finishes the first, now quite warm. "It is dangerous, but there's nothing like the sense you're invincible for a little while." It's a golden opportunity to sip the golden ale almost molding in her cup. "What's Liowyth's whole take on it all? Does she toe the line any?"

Xanthee watches as the drink is delivered to the weyrwoman with a sly smile, raising a brow in her direction, "Is this what it's like to be a goldrider? People just buy you drinks wherever you go?" she asks teasingly, half-knowing the answer already after over her time acting as Nasrin's assistant. "Invincible…Yeah…" the greenling muses softly with a bit of a sigh, "Maybe when I'm not responsible for all my clutchmates… Right now, I'm so focused on doing everything right, and then analysing what I did to make sure it was right, that I don't have time in my day to feel invincible." Her chuckle is used to try and lighten the mood a little bit but it falls flat.

As her stomach and tongue start to turn on her, Nasrin passes the untouched drink off to Xanthee. "If you can tell which Weyrsecond this is from, there's another in it for ye." She's gotten down to the last 1/3 of the glass but retires it back to the bartender with a slight regret for waste. "It's only because I'm scarce to impromptu celebrations such as these," she speaks with her hands, fingers sprung and flicking at the room. "They think drinks are bread crumbs that may lead me back. So I rearrange my glasses so often to make it look like they're at least handled. Or I pretend to have bought them for someone else, that's always popular." A smirk, and then a friendly hand reaches the weyrling's shoulder, knot and all, to squeeze it in solidarity. "Their trust in you isn't misplaced, Xanthee. Now, I go back to babysit my cups for a little longer. I can tell F'zaid has a good story to tell me. Don't be a stranger!" As someone passes between them, Nasrin's sure to make the message clear.

Xanthee takes the offered drink with no qualms whatsoever and slips it between her hands with a thankful bob of her head, "I will make sure it doesn't go to waste." Smiling up at the squeeze to her shoulder, her cheeks pink up bashfully, "Thanks ma'am. I won't be. I hear we eventually get some free time so I'm looking forward to catching up on old acquaintances." With a final wave in parting, she picks up her free drink and makes her way back to the table with her fellow weyrlings.

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