Who

Cha'el Erissa

What

Cha'el finds Erissa upset and on a mission to get drunk.

When

It is late night of the tenth day of the second month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Oasis Inn, outside Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Oasis Inn

Tucked into a small fold of foothills along the road leading from the Weyr to the Central Pass, this inn truly is just what its name implies - an oasis for travelers coming from either direction. Stabling and board are available - though the boarding comes at a price, since there isn't much of it. The most well known part of the Inn is the tavern - a rustic bar built of solid skybroom and furnished in dark, oiled wood, leather, metal, and glass. Though well used and sometimes abused, the furniture is also well cared for and maintained, and the food and drink draw many a rider in alongside the travelers. The decor is eclectic, consisting in hangings, rugs, carvings, and other things from every region of Pern, bestowed upon the owner in barter for lodging. The atmosphere isn't one of a dive; it's cozier than that, though there is just a touch of harmless shady to be found - particularly in the evenings.


This time of night Erissa should be comfortably secured in her weyr for the evening, perhaps in some cozy nightclothes doing some light reading amidst the mound of colorful pillows on her wide bed and with a warm mug of klah nearby. Should be. But she's not. Instead she's cornered herself in a remote inn where alcohol is plentiful and prying eyes are few. The low lighting of the inn's interior suits her mood, the heavy shadows wrapping her in their dismal cloak as she sits sidelong on a bench in a far corner of the room, the table beside her decked with only one large pitcher, a mug, and a small pouch. Eyes closed and head tipped back, the bluerider could be sleeping if not for the occasional movement of one arm that brings the mug to her lips.

Sometimes, being the Weyrsecond has its advantages, such as tracking down the location of a certain blue for there are not many dragons that will refuse Sikorth when enquiries are made. Thus it is that the determined rider with the fancy knot, finds his way into the Oasis Inn, his gaze sweeping the interior with purpose the moment he steps through the doors. Given that Erissa has hidden herself away it takes a few moments but once spotted, Cha'el's path angles determinedly in her direction. Coming to a halt, hands pocket, eyes narrow and lips twitch. "They fumigating your weyr for sand mites or something?" He drawls of her pose of apparent sleep.

Having already rebuffed several hopeful drunks and admirers, Erissa assumes she's about to do it again when the sounds of booted approach stop at her table. Just as lips part to deliver a cutting remark sure to cut the balls off the wannabe intruder a voice that she knows all too well yanks her up short. Pale lashes rise and for just a second a frown starts to shape pretty features, but then it's gone and is replaced by a wry smile. "Of course." That said to the brownrider's presence, not his suggestion, but she doesn't clarify or change position. Casually sprawled with long legs out-stretched and ankles crossed, she has one arm on the table holding her mug while the other lays in her lap.

Whether or not he catches the actual intention of Erissa's comment, that frown and wry smile clues the Weyrsecond in at least part of the way. The mug and pitcher are eyes and then without so much as a by-your-leave, Cha'el slides onto the opposite bench. "So what are we celebrating this time?" Dry. No sooner are the words out of his mouth and he sighs audibly. "Sorry. That was uncalled for and not why I'm here."

Though her gaze tracks his movements Erissa doesn’t comment, quite unlike her usual bubbly or flirtatious self. Lifting her mug she takes a long drink, sighing as it burns it’s way down her throat. Nothing like hardy home-made ale to take the lining off your stomach. Her movements have a slight sway to them, as if the pitcher on the table might not be her first. Setting her mug down a bit harder than necessary she tips her head to the side looking to the brownrider directly. “No, don’t apologize. You’re right. You were right then and you’re right now, as always.” The occasion she refers to doesn’t need clarification, not between the two of them, and as usual memory white-washes the brownrider’s actions that night. “Why celebrate? We’re all just gonna die eventually, riders sooner than most thanks to thread.” Tapping her mug against the side of the pitcher she urges, “Drink up! I paid the waitress to keep it coming.”

It's the lack of bubbly flirtatiousness that raises a red flag with Cha'el more than anything else and dark brows dip toward a frown when his apology is waved off. "No, I wasn't," he negates of the occasion she so vaguely refers to. "I jumped to conclusions when I shouldn't have. And for that, I'm sorry." For that? In other words there's something he's not sorry about? Left at the way side given suspicion as to the level of Erissa's sobriety. "Don't drink ale." The brownrider reminds and flicks a gesture in the air to call a barmaid over. Once he's placed an order for rum, his gaze returns to the blonde rider. "What's got you so cheerful tonight?" Sardonic yet no less intent on getting to the root of her dour mood.

“Yes, you were,” Erissa insists, tone a little snappier than it should be. “Golds are dead already and threadfall just started. How bad is it going to get before it’s over?” His ordering a change of beverage irks her even though he’s improving the selection so she lifts her mug and purposely drains what little is left of the dark liquid inside. Setting it down with a hiss from parted lips she tips her head back again, the downturned glows playing off the nearly white highlights of her hair. At his question she huffs a short laugh and counters with a wave of one hand. “What’s got you so curious all of a sudden?”

With Cha'el having been referencing a different part of their interaction before Erissa had gone storming off the last time they'd met, he's left blinking at her first response. "Uh" Confusion, thy name is, Cha'el. With silence stretching out when the barmaid delivers his rum and 'one for the lady' as ordered, the brownrider shifts uncomfortably in his seating. "Despite what you might think, I still consider you a friend, Erissa. And I was twat the other night. So I wanted to say sorry." Leaning forward, forearms draped over the tabletop he curls his glass into a hand and levels an intent look onto the bluerider. "W'rin's grounded our golds." He notes quietly in case she hadn't heard. "They'll be safe from Thread."

Considering the state of Erissa’s foggy mental facilities Cha’el is likely to get a lot more confused before the conversation is done. Latching onto what she wants to hear, as usual, she draws up a smile and reaches over to pat one of his forearms. “Of course you do. I’m always here for you, Chay.” But then he mentions golds and her expression sours, lightly tanned features sinking further into shadow as she tilts her head and allows uneven layers of tousled hair to slip forward. “That doesn’t help Vienn,” she murmurs before snatching up the newly delivered rum and taking a too-quick swig. The result is no surprise, as she immediately chokes and coughs, taking deep breaths to replace the air that just evaporated from her lungs.

As often as he's shrugged off Erissa's offer to be there for him, this time, the look he sends her shows hints of his being very close to the edge of caving. Thankfully though, she mentions the one name that drags him swiftly away from that precipice. A frown creases his features and he shoots her a look for the coughing fit that quickly follows having downed her rum too quickly. "They're keeping the good stuff nowadays," he drawls, the faint smirk that appeared sloughing off again. "Shit. I'm sorry, Rissa. I didn't even think how Vienn" words trail off and he'll reach for her hand across the table if he can, wrapping slender fingers and palm into his larger paw. For a few moments he simply sits there like that, staring at the rum he hasn't touched yet. "I guess this is where the harpers will write songs about those born to die." Dark humor and probably way out of line.

If Erissa was holding on to any anger at Cha’el from their argument it’s snow-balled by the softening of his expression, however slight, and the way he tucks her hand in his. Shaking her head slightly she starts to dismiss his apology. She’s not prone to talking about her origins at High Reaches so why would he have thought of the connection? As usual she mentally makes excuses to shade his actions a rosier hue. Unfortunately the strength of the ale/rum mixture coursing through her system is having a ping-pong affect on both her thinking and emotions and his attempt at humor strikes an ill chord. Jerking her hand away from his she snaps, “The harpers are full of bullshit. No one is born to die.”

Given that he doesn't much like people prying into his past or private life, so Cha'el returns the favor and generally holds to the same and so knows very little about Erissa's life before she'd arrived in Ista. The moment the bluerider yanks her hand away, he realizes his error, displayed in the frown of brow and lips. But he doesn't backtrack instead he arches a brow. "We're all born to die, sweetheart. Some of us are just gonna go out in a bang of glory." Or at least that's what he tells himself at night so that he can sleep. Mr Optimistic? A drink of his rum and then a carefully couched question. "How well did you know, Vienn?"

“A bang of glory?” Erissa echoes, finely writ features scrunching into an expression of disbelief. “I doubt Vienn would have called it that.” Sitting up sharply, the bluerider swings her boots to the floor and crosses her arms along the edge of the table, shadows again lending their aid as she tilts her head down and to one side. Memories she’d meant to sift with the aid of a drunken fog and quiet privacy refuse to stay buried just because Cha’el has arrived. His question directly accesses some of them and Erissa immediately jerks back mentally. Grabbing her newest mug she takes another hefty drink of the rum, slender shoulders hunching from the sharp bite of the alcohol as it slams into her stomach. Dark blue eyes, shaded with stormy grays, finally rise across the table as she asks, “Why are you asking me so many questions? Stop being so nosy!”

"I'd rather die fighting than go out with a whimper," Cha'el returns, holding fast to his statement. Narrowing his focus on Erissa from over the top of his glass as she abruptly changes her position, the brownrider exhales a hiss of appreciation for the afterburn of the potent brew. Cradling his glass between both hands, attention drops to the slow swirl of liquid within as he rolls it from one palm to another. At the bluerider's biting return to the question asked, his gaze jerks upward. "Why are you being such a bitch?" He returns, regrets the snap and changes tack with a sigh. "I'm just trying to be nice," Cha'el mutters, "to try and understand how you're hurting right now." Lips compress within the neat frame of beard. "You're not the only one shitting yourself, you know. But the way I figure it, we've got one of two choices. One," a finger lifts away from the glass, "we wallow in fear and mourning and see our end quicker for lack of focus. Or two, we live this life with everything we've got for as long as we've got it." A pause in which his jaw tightens with determination, "I choose the second option."

Truthfully, Erissa couldn’t agree more with his viewpoint. A fighting spirit and feisty demeanor are what’s gotten her this far despite rough odds. That much, at least, zaps through rum-enhanced anger to find a mutual foothold. However, his brief lapse of judgment in snapping back at her earns a fine scowl, pale brows dipping sharply. This whole conversation goes against her natural grain, such deep introspection not something she cares to engage in for exactly this reason. Circumstances being what they are though, she trips down a slippery slope of liquor-slick honesty. “Then why do you keep running away?”

The pair of former Istans are probably far more alike than either one would be comfortable to admit. Why lay fragile honesty on the ground where it could be stomped on when you can come out swinging and defend it instead? Having delivered Cha'el's Viewpoint On Life, the brownrider snaps a tight look onto Erissa when she nails a particularly tricky subject to his chest. "I don't run away," he grates out and fits her with a narrowed look. "I transferred. Big difference." Uh huh. "And I could ask the same of you." There a challenging smirk appears as he lobs the ball back into her court.

“Ha!” Erissa leans a bit further on the table before picking up her mug. “Hardly different. Just means you got official approval to run away.” Down goes more rum, followed by a gut reaction impossible to smother. Breathing deeply as she recovers she sits up straighter and sets her shoulders, attempting to assume a defensive posture despite a rum fed sway. “I was offered a transfer,” she informs him with a haughty lift of chin. “And I followed you.” Which is oh-so much better if one ignores the ‘stalker’ connotation. Her delivery is somewhat spoiled when she suddenly hiccups through the frown that’s settled on pretty features.

Bearded features tighten with Cha’el pinning Erissa with a long, LONG look when she calls him out. Instead of slinging another terse retort at her, he busies himself with finishing his drink and lifting a hand for another. “He offered you a transfer to fuck with me,” the brownrider growls forgetting that he’s meant to be ignoring the bluerider’s barbs. Instead when the new round of drinks are delivered, he quickly takes his up and throws a healthy mouthful of rum down his throat. Rendered speechless by the assault on his senses, the Weyrsecond falls into brooding silence. Soon broken. “You followed me!?” Aghast now that she’s finally admitted to having done so. “Why?” Stiff.

“You don’t know that,” Erissa counters, one hand swinging in the air in an exaggerated gesture. The rum sloshes in the mug in her other hand, coming close to topping the rim. The poor man is completely oblivious to how much he needs her! Instincts kick in and resort to her usual method of avoiding deep emotions, even more pronounced thanks to the added motivation of too much rich alcohol. Sliding off the bench she moves around to his side and slips in beside him with such quick ease that she’s there before he can barely blink, leaning heavily into his side. Movements smooth and sultry she lifts one hand to brush his ear, fingertips lightly draping along the curve of his neck. Tipping her head at an angle, the wayward fall of nearly white bangs veils one eye to frame her face, lovely features softened by the shadows. “Cha’el, I care about you. I always have. I want to help you.” Full lips move as if to say more but don’t for a moment, then, “Don’t you remember how good it was? How good we were together?”

When Erissa joins him on the bench, trapping him between the wall of the booth and her slender frame that is all to well remembered naked, Cha'el almost visibly stiffens. Tossing his drink down his throat, then shuddering at the hefty burn that follows, he slides a tight look onto the pretty woman leaned up against him. How good they were together? Cha'el remembers drunk. A whole lot of drunk. And so that's what he latches onto. "You're drunk, Rissa." More observation than it is accusation. "We should probably get you home before you're too far gone to keep yourself upright on Dano." Spoken in a kinder tone as he too does a neat detour around tricky subjects.

Erissa is good at that trapping thing, having learned quickly once maturity had melted awkward teenage gangliness into generous feminine curves just how effective they could be in getting what she wanted. Cha’el included. At first anyway. When he’d been hurting and grasping for something to latch onto. But then he’d withdrawn and the fact that he’d resisted her since only made her try harder. When he suggests going home she instantly frowns, pale brows knitting close behind the fall of those bangs, and slaps one fist on the table. “NO!” she barks loudly. “I’m not going anywhere.” Leaning forward she reaches for her mug. And she isn't nearly drunk enough yet to have forgotten what she came here to forget. “I’m not done with my rum and there’s still marks in my pouch.” A few patrons glance their way, the waitress pausing in drying some pitchers with a towel.

Cha'el winces at that pound of fist to table and finds himself suppressing a sigh. Sober Erissa is one tough and determined cookie. Drunk Erissa is an unknown quantity. At a quick mental exchange with Sikorth, asking him to relay to Danorath that they, the brown pair, would more than likely have to take his rider home, the Weyrsecond settles in. "Listen if you want to drop by there," the Reaches, "I'll be happy to go along with you." He offers.

“What? Go back there?” Erissa huffs and shakes her head. “That’s the last thing I want to do.” Lifting the retrieved mug she takes a long drink, sets it down, and turns to curl an arm around Cha’el’s as the hit of the liquor sends a shiver through her. “There’s nothing there for me.” Her chin drops along with her voice, dark blue gaze on the mug as if she plans on downing the rest of it shortly.

"Aye," Cha'el confirms on what he'd meant, shifting in an uncommon display so that Erissa can slip in against his side. Just friends, right? Yeeeeah. He can do that. Hopefully. "Sometimes facing your past helps smooth the future." Spoken like a harper but not something he's applied to his own life yet. "Closure." The brownrider goes on to add, lifting his glass to sip at rather than chug from it.

Erissa is instantly slipping into the space he opens, tucking her shoulder under his arm and curling into his chest. As high as her temper spiked at his mention of leaving it dives equally low as her cheek sets to the firm muscle of his shoulder. “I don’t need closure,” she murmurs. “I just need to keep moving forward.” Surprisingly insightful for how fogged her brain is, the statement has the ring of something she’s said often.

Cha'el is silent, the warm press of her slighter frame curled in against his side soothing his own ghosts as its done before. "Aye," he remarks on moving forward and tilts a short smile her way. "Some call it running away," pointed the lift of brows, "while others call it moving forward." Smirk.

Reaching for her mug again Erissa lifts it in salute, saying, “To moving forward,” and takes a long drink all while barely moving within her comfy niche. It’s a miracle she doesn’t spill any on Cha’el, actually. Well-toned muscle tenses across her shoulders after she swallows, a soft hiss slipping from her lips. Then the mug lowers, still wrapped in her hand when it rests on his thigh. As much as the alcohol helps her get through those dark memories of her birthplace, being with Cha’el provides the perfect distraction from having to think of them at all. Her mind draws up a memory from her recent visit to his weyr; a night that didn’t end well but had included one very heated moment. Lifting her chin she looks at his profile for a moment, savoring handsome features. Pale lashes hood the gray-shadowed blues of her gaze as she coaxes in silken entreaty, “Kiss me, Chay.”

Comfortable enough with what he foolishly believes to simply be a bit of companionship with one friend drawing comfort from another, that silky soft purr finds sea-blue eyes flaring. And while heat slips through his veins, Cha'el is also aware of the very slippery slope granting such a request will put him on. "'Rissa," her name is uttered in a husky murmur of sound that speaks the conflict of desire versus good judgment. "Don't."

As much as Cha’el tries to fight it, Erissa senses the attraction beneath his denial, too tuned to the nuances of his demeanor and expression to miss it. With her emotions emboldened by the strong rum she doesn’t bother trying to contain how she feels but lets the heat of a flush darken lightly tanned skin as she lifts her chin just that much more. Her voice is a whisper that nearly brushes the short bristles of his beard. “Please.”

Oh he's tempted. So very, very tempted. And the flood of heated memories that come flaming in aren't helping any other. "Sweetheart," the endearment ridged with regret, "I can't…I uh…I'm seeing someone." Though Cha'el does lift his free hand from his glass and trace the full bow of her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.

Misdirection is easier through the hazy fog of too much liquor, something that Erissa is much too good at under normal conditions anyway. Sentiment and gesture combine to paint the picture she wants to see and not the one he’s trying to get across. Arching slightly as she lifts her chin to close that small gap, enticing curves press against his side, two simple words framed warmly to his lips as she delivers the kiss she’d asked for. The touch is slight, not demanding, but spiked with the heat of a hundred flamethrowers. “I can.”

Aw maaan. Erissa, you don't play fair!! There is only the very briefest of hesitation before Cha'el is returning that light touch of lips. Demanding, hungered and pressing toward 'Lets get a room upstairs' and then just like that, he jerks away again, breathing shallow and eyes deepened to the rich hues of the deep sea. "No." The brownrider croaks. "No." Echoed again. "This can't happen, Erissa. You're drunk." And he'll not take advantage. Lies!! He totally would.

Like the flip of switch Erissa is there, ignited instantly by the urgency of his response no matter how brief. When he breaks the kiss she shifts only to put her mug on the table then that arm is reaching around to set on his hip, layering her smaller frame across his broad chest all the more. Leaning into him so that her lips still hover over his, her breathing matching his for quickening, she insists in a firm but breathy tone, “No I’m not! I know perfectly well what I want.” Putting action to words she kisses the side of his mouth, then the other side, before tempting fate by trying for a kiss meant to entice that hunger back out again.

With a poorly stifled groan that reads, 'Dear Faranth, help me!', Cha'el tilts his head back, lids closed while he gathers himself together and then gently but firmly setting his hands to slender shoulders he fixes Erissa with an intent look. "Time to go home." He tells her with a pointed expression meant to convey that this particular party, is over. Chances are she'll interpret that statement to mean something else.

Erissa eases back at the gentle nudge of his hands, the shadowed look on her face slightly unfocused. “No!” she snaps, her hand rising to thump a fist to his shoulder. “I told you I’m not going anywhere till I get done doing what I wanted to done get….. done doing…” Tongue-tied, she gives her head a shake - which is a big mistake - and sets him with a scowl. “Home? Which home? The one that kicked me out, the one that used me, or your weyr?” she asks with heavy sarcasm, lumping the last in a way that reveals she might know more deep down than she’ll admit when sober. Not moving away from him in the slightest on her own she instead slides both palms across his chest and up to the sweep of his collarbones. Pale lashes flutter over a gaze that remains hooded. “Will you take care of me, Chay?”

A frown, mostly originating from compassion and empathy creases across Cha'el's brow. Home - Such a mixed bag for the both of them. "Back to Igen." Reply deliberately vague as he nudges Erissa with a hip for her to scoot over so that he can slip out of the booth. And if she doesn't take the hint? He'll simply wrap a strong arm about her and gently manhandle her to her feet. "Aye," he says to her last, flashing a quick smile. "I'll take care of you, 'Rissa." In as much as one wingmate would of another.

Erissa will take manhandling, thank you very much. Even with his more sober direction she still sways, leaning heavily on that supportive arm and trying to curl into his side as much as possible. Movement seems to heighten the dull warmth of the alcohol through her system - or is that the afterburn of desire? Either way his first reply earns a drawn-out moan and his second a sigh of happy relief. Fingers curl into his shirt as he gets her to her feet, her low toned voice urgent. “Chay, don’t make me go alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

Once she's up on her feet, Cha'el wraps his arm tighter about her waist and begins steering her toward the door, payment for their drinks left on the table for the barmaid to scoop up. » Sikorth, see to it that Dano understands she's too drunk to fly with him and that she's coming with us. « That having been done the brownrider sifts a smile down to Erissa. "You're not alone, Riss. I got you. Now c'mon, one foot in front of the other and we'll soon have you tucked up in bed." Though whose, he doesn't say.

Erissa weaves an unsteady path, making progress only by virtue of Cha’el’s assistance. Half way across the room a waitress approaches, offering the couple a bed upstairs. The bluerider doesn’t help in allaying the woman’s impressions with the way she hangs on the man who has, once again, come to her rescue. She simply smiles winningly at the woman’s question, swinging an amused but glazed look on Cha’el. Sikorth will find Danorath alerted to their presence already, a relieved blast of thick ocean winds conveying his worry over her having shut him out after the pair had arrived earlier that evening.

Forgive Cha'el for looking a little awkward for the offer of a bedroom upstairs because his mind had totally gone there earlier in the evening. Now however, he politely declines and leads Erissa out into the crisp snap of wintery night where their dragons await their arrival. Crouching down as low as he can, Sikorth does his best to try and accommodate the tricky task of getting one very drunk bluerider up his side and mounted between neckridges. Grunting under the strain of having to almost bodily haul the blonde rider up, Cha'el settles her in front of him and quickly sets about buckling flight straps firmly in place. From there to her weyr, flying straight rather than risk Betweening is a half hour of keeping her grimly wrapped in his arms. From ledge to inner weyr, is going to be a little trickier.

Danorath hovers nearby like a worried parent, reflective facets never leaving his bonded. Occasionally a low rumble flows from his sea-crested neck but otherwise he doesn’t disturb those who are caring for her. Erissa, on the other hand, is functioning in an evermore clouding field of concentration that focuses on the brownrider whose chiseled features and musculature captivate her so. Growing more amorous by the minute she uses the closeness he’s forced to use to guide her to her advantage. Feminine curves press to hard muscle, a caress here, a brush there, a grip to keep from falling, leaning her head back into his shoulder once mounted. Some of it is genuine as the more they move the more the ground tilts and the star-filled sky drops too close sending her off balance and making her head spin. Finally the lull of the flight and comfort of Cha’el’s firm hold wrapped around her pull her under and she falls asleep, pale lashes reluctantly closing on the image of a strong bearded jaw and handsome features set intently ahead.

Aware that most dragons are unhappy with their rider being carried by another, Cha’el sends a constant stream of reassurance via Sikorth to let Danorath know that his rider is safe and sound. Safe and sound and making it very, very hard (no pun intended) for Cha’el to keep his mind firmly focused an anything but the soft and pliant woman curled up against him nuzzling closer. Relief is a sweet breeze when he glances down to find Erissa fallen asleep. Relief and something else he’s not willing to define. For all that Sikorth kicks up a mini sandstorm any time he lands, the landing itself is surprisingly gentle. Unclipping the both of them, Cha’el manages to get boots to the ledge without having Erissa land on her head and then, scooping her up in his arms, he heads into the bluerider’s weyr, squinting through the gathered dark as he navigates his way to her bed where he carefully deposits her. That done, he moves about flipping glows open until soft light brightens the dark interior. Next he gets a fire going and then, and only then, does he return to the bed of a mind to pull Erissa’s boots off and settle her under a blanket.

Erissa would be completely dismayed to know what she is missing while lost in oblivious limbo. Deep down an unconscious part of her responds on it’s own though with soft mews and moans, drawn to the warmth and strength of being in his arms and then to the familiar comfort of her own bed. Sleep draws much of the shadows and calculated guards from her expression, softening lightly tanned features and making her appear younger than she is. Danorath trundles in behind them and curls up in his couch with hardly a sound, expressive faceted eyes bright and watchful.

Smiling fondly at Erissa’s eclectic decorating style, Cha’el carefully maneuvers first one boot and then the other from her feet. That done, a folded blanket is taken up and neatly spread over her slender form and there the brownrider stands for a few moments, staring down at her. Such a complicated, feisty woman and yet beneath it all, like this in sleep she presents the picture of sweet innocence. Leaning forward slightly, Cha’el drifts a few of those shaggy blonde strands from her face. “Sleep well, ‘Rissa.” He murmurs and then, taking up another blanket moves himself off to the couch, shucks off his boots and does the best he can to curl his frame onto it and pull the blanket up over him. Sleep isn’t immediate for the Weyrsecond, his mind an uneasy sea with snippets of the conversation at the Oasis Inn tossing about like foam on a storm riddled wind.

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