Who

Sa'mael, Myziri, Cullen, Ione

What

Sam's drinking. Then Myziri's drinking. Then Cullen joins them, followed by Ione. It's a regular whiskey fest, and considering the participants, ends with the usual sorts of results.

There's drinking. And more drinking. Some minor language and maybe some almost-violence. But mostly there's drinking.

When

It is night of the twenty-eighth day of the third month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass. It is the twenty-eighth day of Autumn and 17 degrees. It's cold and dark out.

Where

Aperitif, Southern Barrier Hold

OOC Date 27 Feb 2016 08:00

 

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"Who's getting shit-faced."


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Aperitif

From the hotsprings without, this is a transformation to a completely different space, for here there is the feel of stepping onto an ice-shelf. Glass coats the long bar that circles around stone shelves displaying bottles of all sizes and colors, filled with alcohol of all kinds. Here there is no shortage of cold drinks, and off to one side is a portion of the floor laid out for the specific purpose of encouraging dancing and revelry. The furniture here is heavy and durable, made to withstand nights where perhaps just a little too much is imbibed.


A fancy bar is like any other bar: in that Sa'mael isn't really paying much attention to his environs more than he is to the whiskey he's getting from 'round mid-shelf. He's dressed in less-than-slacker clothing: white shirt (unbuttoned to show the undershirt beneath and the chain hung 'round his neck), dark pants and shiny dark boots. No knot, really, nor are there any leathers in sight. His hair looks as if he's run his fingers through and probably is about ready for a good washing given the way it's slicked back. "'Nother," he pushes his empty whiskey glass to the bartender, eyes focused down on the counter in front of him.

Myziri brings with her a breath of the cold air that makes Southern Barrier Hold the lovely place it is, unfastening her jacket as she heads into the bar. She's dressed for riding and her helmet and gloves are already divested as she makes her way to the bar; she's obviously been out and about on wing-related business, but now she's only got business with one of those bottles behind the bar; except she's not the only one with that idea, it seems. Sam is recognized immediately, of course - Myz's Sam Radar is in excellent working order. She beelines for his position, pulling her jacket off as she goes; she tosses that and her hat and gloves on an empty stool and grabs the one right next to the bronzerider. "I'll have what he's having." This for the bartender, of course. And then she just waits.

Sa'mael is peripherally aware of new arrivals in the same way as any alert man would be of those coming at his back. However, he's got an easy languidness to his bones that suggest a certain comfort in this place - or Southern as a whole? - that leaves him without the need to check. The Hold holds a certain bank of memories for him that luckily he's not overly attached to. "Myziri," he side-glances at her when she orders what he's getting and the bartender returns with twin whiskeys. It's a simple drink for a simple man. "Come to enjoy the cold, eh?" Textured baritone is patterned in a fabric of amusement and partial curiosity.

Myziri's fingers curl around her drink as it comes, and she takes that first drink with a sigh of true pleasure…"Ahh….I truly needed that." she murmurs, to no one in particular, savoring the burn for a moment before glancing over at the blond man and essaying a surprised look "Why Sam. Imagine finding you here…in a bar." Cheeky grin follows this little bit of witty repartee, "But to answer your question, I came to enjoy the booze. Had business in the area, figured it was as good a place as any." She looks around. "Much cleaner than some of the places I've been." She takes another sip, then swirls the amber liquid "You? "

"Heh, heh, heh." Sa'mael fairly wheezes humor at her surprised look. "I don't come here often. Shit's too expensive, but I had business," he ducks his head, dark little smile directed down to the bar before he tilts his head back and consumes the entire whiskey in one go. "… here. Figured I'd knock back a few - 'nother," the glass is pushed towards the bartender. "Clean but pricey." He'll agree to that, but perhaps a harder look is given the greenrider for last comment, brow ticking up slightly. "There's even places you can drag your body to when you're too shit-faced to care."

Myziri's laughs too, her amusement fairly rife now "Seems we're both busy people. Was your business more fun than mine?" is wondered. "I mean, is that code for meeting a bit of tail?" she teases. "Or was it wing related?" her own business, she's keeping mum about. And she drains her whiskey about as fast as Sam, pushing her own glass across the bar almost as he does "Me too." She indicates, nodding a bit "It is pricey, but I'm celebrating a bit, so I figure it's worth it. And, added benefit of not being at the Weyr. Where I spent waaaayy too much time the last three sevens." A lifetime! Brow raises though, at that last bit "Are there? And you know this how?" is queried. She and Sam are bellied up to the bar, both drinking mid-price whiskey.

Watch out, Cullen's loose in the Hold. He could lurk - for how little polish he puts into his heavy wind-roughened jacket with a ruff hood that makes him look like an angry wolverine (well, okay, that's kind of HIS FACE), if he had any decency maybe he SHOULD lurk - but NOPE. He sweeps the door open with an arm and strides right on in through the center of the portal like a BAD-TEMPERED LORD. Watch out, he's TAKING HIS CLOTHES OFF. Or well - his jacket. He rips out of it like he wants to kill it, biting into a sleeve and shrugging around gracelessly, heavy gloves already crammed under an armpit. Heading for the bar, he topples both elbows down on the counter alongside Sa'mael's non-Myziri side, "Who's getting shit-faced." Hi, he's apparently just… butting right in? Casually? Like he'd always been there?

"Mmmm," Sa'mael isn't going to be giving up his business anymore than she's about to relinquish hers. When the next round of whiskey returns, he takes up the glass and glances at Myziri. "Yeah," his baritone is textured, a little rough, "They got rooms down them stairs. Keep so nice and pristine and shit for all the visitors. S'pose I get to count as a visitor these days." A terrible smile, torn of a dark life, curves his lips in macabre mimicry for but a moment before he's once again whole-gulping that whiskey. "Ahhh, goes straight to the veins." This, see, is a good thing. "Celebrating what?" One brow raises and blue gaze settles on the greenrider. Cullen's arrival is noticed at first much the same way Myziri's was: peripherally. Until the man starts attacking his coat and this draws Sa'mael's attention in a way that pulls tension through the muscles wound 'round bone as Cullen draws closer. Anger is a kindred spirit, and perhaps that is why he snorts out a laugh, and eyeballs this strange creature. "Me, probably. Depends on whether or not Czhaevth is gonna be a little bitch about it." Sa'mael is casually dressed for such a fancy ass place as the Aperitif: white shirt unbuttoned to show the undershirt beneath, wherein an old gold chain encircles his neck, black trousers and black boots. Peeking out from the cuff of his long sleeve is a leather-and-metal-chain wristband that holds a simple silver medallion of some sort. Hard to see. His hair could be cleaner for the way it's been finger-combed and slicked back.

Myziri didn't really expect an actual answer to her teasing question, so that 'mmmm' serves to satisfy her curiosity, if she had any at all in the first place (well, she does but seriously - she knows not to push). "Well, that's good information to know, Sam. Thanks. Now I don't have to worry about flying back to the Weyr." If she plans to drink that much. Which she might, who knows? She watches the bronzerider toss his drink back with amusement, though, and just takes a deep drink of hers "I can see why it's so pricey for you." she murmurs. "Maybe you should just chug the bottle or something, Sam." She's wearing her riding leathers, sans the jacket - so now her top is just a simple blouse that matches Sam's white one in a more feminine style. She takes another drink of her own amber liquid "Well, not sure it's celebrating, exactly. I'm still not sure how I feel about it, after all." And she's likely about to tell him, except she's distracted by the commotion. A half-swivel brings the jacket-divesting activities into sight and a brow goes up as she watches Cullen head for the bar. "Him, probably, the way he's guzzling it down." This in response to the shit-face question, of course "Me, maybe. Depending on if I try to keep up with him."

Beneath his shucked jacket (which he COULD just fold over an arm, but instead wads into the crook of his elbow with a few hard thumps of the fist), Cullen isn't exposing much diamond beneath the rough. Coarse undyed tunic, thick leather braces around either wrist, heavy-shaped body, scarred nose. Save an incongruent gossamer-fine silver chain encircling his workman's neck, somehow managing to resist the existential tarnishing this man seems to otherwise inflict on his belongings. "Czhaevth," he repeats the name like he'd yanked it out of the air. Even if he's not actually looking at either of them, he seems to be smiling for their benefit, a thin wintry line, "You a rider?" He leans forward and looks AROUND dear Sa'mael's big old body to actually look at Myziri, "You a regular drinker or this the night?" The night to GET WREK'T. All three of them sit at the bar, Myziri, then Sa'mael, then Cullen. With the habit of wearing knots on jackets, they're all three technically without rank at the moment.

"I've slept in the bushes before," Sa'mael ain't too fine to not admit this. Perhaps the memory that comes along with it brings the rough humor before it's shaken away the way a feline shakes its head. "Nicer to get it in a glass," which is why another glass comes traipsing back his way. He tosses it back like a man dying of thirst. "What are you celebrating?" It's half-way patient this question, but Cullen's stealing his attention with the way he leans over to look at Myziri and yanking his dragons name out of the air. "Yeah. Southern. Jaguar wing. Czhaevth's my overly mouthy dragon who likes to make me do things I don't wanna." His smirk is for Cullen and his question to the greenrider, though he's already got a refill of his whiskey. For all that he's drinking, only a sparkle is put to his eyes and a flush to his cheeks. Definitely a man who drinks like a fish and shows little wear for it. (So far).

You know what sucks? Having a guard follow you everywhere. The Ice Hold being no exception, in spite of the fact that it has been declared safe by Renalde. But that constant shadow is made moderately better when he's sort of cute, and still green (and young) enough to be manipulated by young goldriders who have no intention of being trapped at the Weyr. And so Ione saunters her way into Apertif with her guard on her heels. She, too, has left her knot at the door (or somewhere — she looks a bit ruffled), but the guard following her like a puppydog ought to be some sort of indication of rank, at least. "Myziri," friendly, "Sa'mael," less friendly, "and someone I don't think I know." The latter returns to kinder tones, as the goldrider finds a spot on whichever seat happens to be empty near the three of them. She hails the bartender, and orders two drinks, the latter of which is shoved off onto her lightly protesting guard. He probably needs it.

"Regular drinker. But not as regular as him." Myziri's just full of lovely information, isn't she? She sends a whiskey-happy smile Cullen-ward as he leans around Sa'mael, lifting her glass to toast the newcomer "If you're planning on getting shit-faced, you're way behind, you know. I'm Myziri, green Sahizath's, Southern Lynx wing." Since they seem to be introducing themselves. So saying, she tosses her second drink back and pushes it across the bar - the bartender understands this universal signal, because he fills it back up. "As for what I'm celebrating, maybe" she continues on to Sam, "It seems that T'ral, in all of his wisdom," or lack of it, depending on who you ask "Decided to - Oh, hi Ione. Here, lemme move stuff so you can sit." She takes her things off the stool next to her and looks around, before tossing it on the stool next to the one next to her, so that the goldrider can sit but her guard can't. Nyah! "Come join us. You here to drink too?" That's right, she's forgotten to answer that question again. Oops.

"Do ya fine," low-murmured words not exactly common turn of phrase, but the way Cullen pantomimes tipping the brim of an invisible hat to the two seated riders, it's probably a greeting. "I've a shit face enough without, I'd warrant. Been long, since I've kept company with riders." He'd been watching Ione enter, or maybe watching her poor escort, and just faintly, the raucous energy about him settles, and he nods cautiously, "Cullen…" He eyes her guard again. Hazards, "Ma'am. Cullen of… well. Nowhere in particular."

Sa'mael squints at Myziri when she doesn't answer the question, but he's not one to chase people down for 'em either. Ione is rudely ignored (oh wait: he flips her his middle finger - or maybe it's the guard? It's hard to tell). "Rounds for everyone!" The bronzerider (though he didn't give his dragon's color because he's an asshole) includes the three of them in this statement: apparently he's not yet deep enough into his cups to reach his personal threshold where asshole turns to dick. "Cullen. Welcome to Southern if you're from nowhere. Be from fuckin' everywhere." Something dark lies within that statement, twisting with all the sharp teeth of barbed wire where razorblades sharpen the edges of his baritone. That's about when his whiskey is downed and he pushes it back for more. Entropy is bottled within the hellfire rage that churns beneath the skin, running hot beneath some fragile barrier that keeps Sa'mael contained, whiskey thinning Czhaevth's influence. "You a murderer? Cause we just had someone stabbed to death and it's be fuckin' sad if you were that guy." Maybe Sammy's starting to lose it.

"I'm here to be anywhere other than stuck in the Weyr. I hear congratulations are in order, Myziri," Ione comments as she claims that now-open seat. Seems someone is up on the gossip, at least. Her guard doesn't seem like the type who'd dare to take a seat without a great deal of prompting, luckily. He's currently staring down into his drink with a contemplative expression that weighs his desire to drink against the likelihood that he'll be sacked. The goldrider seems to note this, and twists in her seat to lean back and forcibly raise the hand with the glass in it to the man's lips. "Drink, it'll do you some good," she assures. "These two will keep me safe." Her thumb jerks in Myziri and Sa'mael's direction. Because they're going to be a ton of help when they're drunk. Cullen receives a smile without any of Sa'mael's apparent reservations regarding his status as a murderer. "Ione, Niatskivhiath's. Well met, Cullen. Please excuse Sa'mael." And just in case anyone thinks she missed Sam flipping her the bird, she leans over to whisper something to her guard, who hesitantly moves to stand riiiight over the bronzerider's shoulder.

"Well, shit, I'll drink to that!" Myziri wholeheartedly agreeds with Ione's statement "I just spent three bloody sevens stuck in that Weyr, and I can honestly say I'm spending as little time there as possible from now on." At least until she's had enough of traveling about. "Pull up a chair. Sam's buying, it seems." Yay! "That is, if he doesn't drink it all before we get some." She's teasing, of course, and the nudge she gives the bronzerider is one of camaraderie. Because she's already had three glasses; well, two and a half since she tosses back half the third one before her. "And thank you, Ione. I have to say, it was unexpected but I'm sort of pleased about it. I mean, Rocio and I make a pretty good team. How've you been? Other than busy and swaddled up like a babe with your nanny?" She's teasing about that last, so says the cheeky grin sent toward her gold-riding friend, so hopefully she won't be offended. "That's Cullen. We just met him. He's….a murderer?" Interested gaze is sent toward the stranger, as if she could divine whether he is or isn't just by looking at him. Look who's in the spotlight now!

"You've caught me out," Cullen deadpans low at Sa'mael, even if he's not LOOKING at him, because a drink has been placed in front of him that warrants FROWNING at, "Whatever betrayed me. Give me a moment to rally, I'll make a rousing last stand of it." Then tents fingers over the rim of the glass and… picks up. Holds to the light. He's turned in his seat to rest back against the bar edge, elbows draped off to either side in a sort of business-casual lounge that doesn't pay much respect to his seated neighbor - immune to spotlights, it would seem. A guard hovering over Sa'mael also means a guard hovering over HIM, and he's more than happy to make steady UNBLINKING eye contact with the poor fellow from beneath the down-turned shelf of his brow. A small prickle runs up the fine hairs of the back of his neck, when Sa'mael's voice grows rougher, "Been from fucking Everywhere, sir." Yeah, he's SIR'ing you, Sa'mael. The way another man might throw a potted plant. And carries on to low-murmur answers Ione, "Niatsk-" NOPE, he's not even going to try finishing that pronunciation, "…-that's one of Southern's golds, is it not?" He dips head, just briefly, towards her, "'m at your service. If you need fucking… murdering. It'd seem."

"Don't sir me. I ain't no sir." Sa'mael gives an overt and exaggerated shudder for even the mere idea. He's as far from the po-po as one can be, see! He stares hard at Cullen, but not in a way that's challenging, but in a way of finding a man of potentially similar like mind might eye this crazed creature. "Congratulations?" Once again, Sa'mael is drawn back to the two girls and fixes a squinted-eye look at the two of them, before shaking his head and holding up two fingers. "Don't get too happy, Myziri, only paying for one round. This shit's more marks than I squeeze out of the pittance I get for being a dragonrider." Woe is me - except, Sa'mael is not really at all effecting a truly woeful story. Not for the razor sharp smile and the way his eyes hint at some illicit marks-gain on the side. "'Nother!" Casually to his new friend - we'll use 'friend' loosely here - the man asks, "You see that hovering guard? Cause I sense that hovering guard and I'm feeling like maybe that spot might be bad for his health come soon." Whiskey glass is grasped and tipped to his lips, downy stubble getting a little wet when the glass slips.

There's an exaggerated sigh from Ione. "At least you're free now. I'm probably stuck like this until this damn mystery is solved." Ruh-roh. The goldrider doesn't seem to be suffering from an abundance of sentiment regarding what happened, but there's plenty that can be hidden behind those pale eyes. "I've heard you work hard, I'm not surprised," she offers to the greenrider, before giving a kind of hopeless shrug. "It's alright, other than that. At least this nanny isn't too hard on the eyes." She casts a glance over in her poor guard's direction, who's looking decidedly less cute under the withering weight of Cullen's stare. With the addition of Sa'mael's threat, well, the poor guy looks like he's about to piss himself. Ione clears her throat, and he stands up straight again. Right. Strong, protective guard, here. Totally not afraid of burly bronzeriders and intimidating strangers. With a bright smile, the goldrider focuses on Cullen once again. "She is, yes. And please feel free to take Sa'mael off of our hands. I've tried my hardest, but he's still here." Oh-so-sweet, this girl. She downs her first drink quickly, and calls for another (thanks, Sam!).

"True, true. Maybe they'll catch the murderer soon." Poor Ione. "Maybe he's sitting right at the bar with us." Not that she really believes it, of course. But he could be! She grins at the stranger amongst them, though, rather than attacking him with questions. "Best watch out, Cullen. That's a bad word in Sam's world." Myziri is still staring at the other man, fascinated - could they be in the presence of a murderer? But then the man ruins it all "Oh, pooh. And here I was gonna interrogate you. If you're going to admit it, what's the fun in that?" Besides, she's off the clock. Which cannot be said for that poor guard. "Ione, jeez..are you trying to ruin his good looks? You know what Sam's gonna do with him, you make him stand there much longer." Tsk is sent goldrider-ward "It's not nice to break your toys, you know." She grins suddenly "Besides, if he's broken, how can he…guard..your body?" Because he is cute. Just not as attractive to Myziri as certain blond bronzeriders who, with every drink she pours down her throat (she's on #4 now) is of course becoming more and more so while her resolutions become less and less important. "That's right, Sam." She states "Congratulations. You're drinking with one of Lynx wing's new wingseconds. Me and Rocio." Greenriders rock! She tosses back that fourth drink, then stares as Sa'mael dribbles. It would probably be a bad move to lick the whiskey off his stubble, right? But oh, man….She almost slams the glass on the bar, not even looking as she slides it toward the bartender - she's got her eye on that sheen of wetness, see. "Yeah..I work hard. I deserve it.." But oh, her mind is so not on work at the moment.

"I'd warrant thy Sam's world has a fair few 'bad words'." Aha, hit a nerve, Sa'mael? It's as though the bronzerider denying his 'sir'ing WARMS Cullen's crusty old heart, and his expansive personal space, rather than compete with Sa'mael's, seems instead to resolve into (rigid, measured, likely temporary) cooperation with the bronzerider's to address this guard-sized thorn in their mutual side. All… standing there dutifully and doing nothing. His shoulders have a sort of working-dog laziness; one that seems just as likely to leap into motion as it does… well, roll in some dirt. Chew some bones. "I see him well," he answers the bronzerider, lazy, so subtly graveyard cheerful, STILL not taking his eyes from the poor bastard as he takes an absentminded sip of his drink, "He worth it? Thy goldrider already seems inclined to barter thee." NOT that he seems opposed, finally turning (slightly more differential, lips settling closed over his teeth) back to Ione, "You'd need pay me. The road is no place for strays." Stray… dragonsriders?

Like an unstable element getting more and more out of control as electrons spin faster and collide, breaking down into combustable base elements, Sa'mael is slowly losing his shit. Not even Czhaevth can use the long arm of impression to influence his rider, compulsion riding weak in a link that Cullen would be all too familiar with as an echo of a dragon of old - but that is for another time. Except perhaps the moment Sa'mael slips (partially stumbles) off his stool and the grip of a dragon loosening his tendrils of influence can be felt in the heat that simmers beneath the skin. The rage that begs for a fight. And that poor guard is going to be it. Myziri's lusty thoughts are hard to discern beneath the ever blurring world, but he does catch what she puts down in terms of her promotion. "Part of the AUTH-orit-TAY, Myziri. Congratulations." A statement wielded like a whip - though he's raising his final glass (ostensibly in toast) and tips it back, consuming wholly the alcohol. Closing his eyes, he embraces that liquid fire as it churns the hellfire engine within. "Go fuck y'self Ione." Oh wait. "Except you can't." And that's when he turns to go, but not before attempting to slam his fist into the guard's face IF he's still there and IF Cullen doesn't help or hinder this move. He is unsteady by now and wearing a manic grin. If only he could flick those crusty flakes off Cullen's crusty old heart. That'd be fun. "Prob'ly not, but it'd feel damn fucking good." That or it's going to feel good to stumble off into the darkness. It's not going to feel good dealing with his pissed off dragon, but that's for later. Much later.

The snap of cloth, the sudden rattle of an empty bar stool clattering on its legs - the pivotal moment where Sa'mael's elbow pulls back to prepare for its swing, it'll find the bend of Cullen's own elbow abruptly linking into it, his other hand gripping the wrist above to keep it locked with flat-footed weight dug IN. Shorter than the bronzerider's massive height he may be, but there's a soft of grim-faced calm that looks, for one single moment, almost weary. Pained? Bored? Furious? His teeth are certainly visible, gritted neutrally as he digs in the balls of his feet and tries to haul-swing-SHOVE the bronzerider towards the door instead. And oh - he calmly FOLLOWS in whatever distance he gets, make no mistake, striding right along after Sa'mael hot on his heels… but just outside of swinging distance. With both hands up, palms out and open, "Outside. — Excuse this man, ladies." He seems to genuinely mean himself. Dragging his jacket off a bench.

"If only he were." Sitting at the bar, that is. Siiiigh. Ione slumps forward a little, chin in her hand for a moment. It's just long enough for her to take another awkward swig, before she sits up again. "Oh, I'm not worried about him," she tells the greenrider dismissively. "Sam knows I can make his life miserable if he hurts my guard." She doesn't even look at the bronzerider as she speaks. The fact that she can make his life miserable probably doesn't factor much into the equation of Sam + alcohol=trouble, but it doesn't seem to be of great concern. In a conspiratorial stage whisper, she adds, "He was guarding me pretty well earlier." Wink, wink, Myziri. With drink number two nearly finished, the goldrider is already calling for a third. She has quite a few to catch up on, after all. She leans around to look at Cullen, with a wobble that has her guard moving quickly to stabilize her. "I've got the marks, don't you worry." Aaaand then Sa'mael tries to throw that punch. Luckily Cullen catches it, as her guard seems not to have the reflexes to deflect such a thing. The young man takes a few steps back and away from the action, while Ione loudly swears, "Damnit, Sam!" She's halfway out of her seat with the words, clearly hankering to chase after the pair of them.

"Authority doesn't mean I'm not the same fun person, you know." This protested against Sam's accusation, because it's Myziri. "You know I don't take my wing duties into my personal life. Aren't I sitting here getting drunk and all?" Would somene in authority do that? Not that it matters that she's explaining all of this, of course, because Sam's already off his stool and staggering off. So now she's feeling grumpy, because she's got that stupid itch back and no way to scratch it. So she drains her glass and nods to Ione "Lucky! Here, let's have a drink on it." She turns to order two more, except then that whole try to punch the guard maneuver and sweep Sam out of the bar thing happens, to which Ione's jumping up to follow, and she blinks "What the fuck?" Didn't she say this would happen? Didn't she? "Is everyone abandoning me now?" is added plaintively - does this mean she's drinking alone?

Entropy: chaos has begun to stain the ground with proverbial fire as the bronzerider is caught and pushed forward by the strange man. Readying for a fight, the women bleed into the background - and hey, maybe they will start making out with each other (wait, is he going to leave that behind?). However, before he's fully pushed out of way, Sam does try to give up his marks in payment - which spills forth like a showering of currency from a piggy bank before he stumbles his ass out. Yelling. Incoherently. Already he tugs on that glossy, brassy flask gifted to him from the gentle Healer of his clutch: and he tips that to his lips just before he nearly slams into someone at the entrance to such a fancy place. Cullen on his heels? WELL FINE. "You better got MORE," is slurred off before he totally hobbles his way out.

FREE MONEY. Except that Cullen walks right over the marks without looking at them. He's a little busy right now keeps his eyes steadily GLUED on the bronzerider, like a matador trying to maneuver a bull. All… diversion, distance and distracting movements to keep his attention AWAY from all these fancy fine Holdfolk. He doesnt' say any further words, just walks forward, maybe circles around to draw him on like the world's ugliest sheepdog. Out, out and away into the night.

Ione just stands there for a minute, staring after the stranger and the yelling bronzerider. One hand comes up to pinch the bridge of her nose, and she takes a deep breath to restrain herself. "I'm going to fucking kill that man," she mutters under her breath in the tone of the long-suffering. Her guard looks thoroughly shaken, and so she ushers him to one of the newly emptied seats with orders for him to take another drink. Maybe two. There's another sidelong glance toward the door as it occurs to the goldrider that Cullen could, in fact, be the murderer, but she shakes that off as best she can. "Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere," she assures the greenrider as she slides back into her seat. "I'll find him and strangle him later." Is this a bad time to be making death threats? Probably. But she's here, she's going to be wasted very soon, and she's perfectly happy to be keeping the greenrider company. Oh, and she's putting up those marks Sam owes, just in case some greedy patrons snap them up first. Weyrwomanly duties, and all of that.

Head shakes sadly, and a sigh escapes as the two men disappear - but she does brighten a bit when Ione returns. "We don't need men anyway." Myziri says stoutly - even if she doesn't really mean it. She orders those drinks, one for her and one for Ione - and whether he meant to or not, Sam's likely paying for a few more for each of them with that money he spilled everywhere, so ha! "What is it with you two, anyway?" She eyes the goldrider over the newly delivered whiskey, downs half of it.

"No, we don't," Ione agrees, even as her guard sits one chair over from her nursing his drink. He's only necessary because Hannah says so, though. The young goldrider remains convinced that she'd be just fine in the face of a knife-wielding lunatic. "This time? Something Tiski shared, I think." There's a little smirk on her face as she totally blames the gold for whatever happened. "The rest of the time?" Slim shoulders lift in a shrug that speaks of unnamed things and the futility of the inevitable. Or maybe that's just the awkward shrug of the nearly drunk. "Anyway, tell me more about this Wingsecond thing…" And another round from the bartender, just to keep them flush in liquor. They're drunk, alive, and not stuck in the Weyr. What could be better?

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