Prelude to a Farce

Xanadu Weyr - Wanderin' Wherry Tavern
It is often whispered, in the crowds that converge here, that a certain Weyrleader was asked what he wanted in the remodeling of the pub that was not so long ago given a refreshing. He muttered back over the rim of his ever-present mug, "I don't care what you do with the place, just so long as there is plenty of ale." With that in mind, cask after cask of ale lines the walls of the tavern, the remodeler's idea of a jest. As they age, the casks bring a real rustic atmosphere to the pub, along with the deeply wooden flavor that seems to be the theme throughout.

The lighting is dim, as it should be in all good pubs, and the tables and chairs are plentiful. A long mahogany bar, intricately carved with runner beasts, stands vigilant duty at the head of the bar, lined with stools for those patrons that seek the bartender's company. Behind it are drinks for those not inclined toward ale, as well as a door leading to the small kitchen where snacks are made and a back room that probably holds yet more ale.

F'yr doesn't often drink. Given Glorioth (no additional explanation needed), he just doesn't like to have his senses dulled to the often unpredictable call of duty. But Glorioth is asleep right now and right now, F'yr needs. a sharding. drink. Fortunately for him, he found Ru'ien on his way so he doesn't have to drink alone. All of this means that on this relatively busy night in the Wanderin' Wherry, there's a pair of weyrlings occupying one of the tables in the back while some drunk bluerider drones on some song or another off the karaoke machine near the front. F'yr's finished his first drink and is starting in on his second, less verbal than usual, though not without the ability to listen nor the ability to respond enough to keep Ru'ien talking about— well, whatever Ru'ien wants to talk about. Some of his quiet might well be linked readily to the fact that Glorioth, who had never been interested in a glowing green in his life, despite the numbers going up in recent months, got a sudden whim to chase Koth, and damned if he didn't catch her, too. He's been kind of quiet since, turned inward, chewing over… well, whatever problems he has now that he didn't before then.

“Someone ought to put him out of his misery,” Ru'ien comments in regards to the droning singer under his breath, in an aside to F’yr and going as far as to attempt in gently nudge-elbowing his fellow weyrling lightly. There’s a snickered intake of breath and then a low sigh, as he tips his glass up to his lips for a shallow drag of his ale. Has he noticed those quiet lulls? Of course he has! Does he point it out? Of course not. It is much like before, when F’yr was coping with his grief and Ru’ien merely lent much of his support by not mentioning the obvious in a very rare display of observation (coming from Ru’ien, anyways)! Has there been gossip of Koth’s flight? Probably. It’s not like the dragons don’t talk either. Is that why they’re here? He assumes nothing more than a few drinks with a good friend and so here they are! There were no protests when F’yr found him — he’s easy enough to please and convince in tagging along. Slouched comfortably in his chair, he has his (long!) legs stretched out and oh-so relaxed. His hair has grown out more, though he’s messily tied it back. His mouth curves in a bemused way and then he tilts his head, lazily like, to further address his companion. “Dunno if my weyr’s gonna be complete by winter — at least not fully. Keep hitting little snags here and there but I’m not gonna quit. It’s gonna be worth it!” So worth it. And being as poor as a rider can be, by the end of it!

"Who are we to crush his dreams?" F'yr's response is very F'yr. It's wry in voice while deadpan in expression. The comment from Ru'ien is enough to draw him out of his personal reveries just that much more, though, and he squints down at his mug of beer as if contemplating whether this is his second or third. (Second. It's fine.) "Some people," but surely not F'yr himself, "would suggest putting you out of your misery with your house of dreams." He shifts, leaning back in his chair now, a mimic of his friend's pose, and if his own long legs should hap to meet with Ru'ien's under the table, so be it. His next words are more serious, with a slight dip of his brows, "Every project is bound to have snags. Particularly one as involved as yours. I mean, we built a new shed one turn out at a far pasture and that was nightmare start to end. One thing after another. Hopefully yours turns out a little better. I can come lend muscle sometime if it would help." His labor, at least, is free.

Ru’ien will come close to chortling under his breath for F’yr’s deadpan delivery, much of his amusement further muffled under yet another pull from his drink. There’s a scoff for HIM being the target for the size of his ambitions and he will rest his glass against the armrest of his chair, long fingers holding it steadily in place. “Oh come on,” he feigns a slight pout. “It’s not that ambitious! And can you blame me, really? You looked through how many weyrs?” So take that, F’yr! It’s some gentle barbing, but hardly without the edge or heat to it. Are they to play footy under the table? Not quite yet, though he does briefly graze one of his ankles. Nudge nudge. “Was the nightmare shed worth it, at least?” A small tease, before he sobers and his smile tempers a little. “Thanks, Fear! And you know I’d be happy for the help. Matty’s about to stress himself into greying before he’s even hit his mid twenties by this point.” Never MIND half the reason is Ru’ien himself, coming by and mucking around with the materials and just… being himself. His gaze turns to the crowded interior of the tavern, people watching in a mildly distracted (and predatory, let’s face it), manner, a lone finger tap-tapping lightly against the rim of his glass.

"Wait, let me. 'Ruin, I'm going to build my own house. But it's not going to be anywhere traditional. I'm going to stick it at the bottom of the sea.'" Fear feigns seriousness poorly as he verbally flounces through letting Ru'ien see how his proposal sounds to the sane people around here. But plainly F'yr is teasing, at least a little. "You had to know it was going to take more time than you planned for. You're a smith. I'm sure your projects there never went quite as you planned, either." He lifts his beer glass, sipping slowly. "Don't be jealous that the perfect weyr fell out of the sky and into my lap," okay, with help, "after the day we went looking," and didn't even get properly through the one they saw before they got distracted with an excursion to the cliff, the better to spend their time that afternoon. If he's distracted by thinking back on that afternoon, he probably can't be blamed and the smile he directs toward Ru'ien has a touch of mischief to it. Maybe that's why he doesn't seem to quite register the reference to Matty, or put it together with any of his recent experiences. "I'm happy to lend a hand. As soon as Glorioth and duties and— Well, all that will let me." This is to say that the man is willing but the schedule may not be.

“Hey! I don’t sound like that!” Ru’ien feigns some indignation to F’yr’s “mockery” of his (perfectly sound!) proposal, but the effect is gone in the next moment as he leans in suddenly. So sudden that his glass is jostled, despite his hold on it, some of the ale sloshed over the rim and onto his hand. Ignored, for the time it takes him to add: “Do I?” With merely a cursory intrigue. DOES HE, F’yr? There’s another scoff and smirk, which says he doesn’t quite believe the bronze weyrlings ‘luck’ (but totally does). He also similarly waves off his chiding on him knowing better, being a Smith. BAH! Redfruit and citrus, bro. Lifting his hand, he’ll suck away the spilled ale off his skin without a second thought to the action — nor how he subtly lingers too long at times throughout the action. Something is off, by just the tiniest of fractions! Ru’ien has always been one of gestures and emotive actions but this? This is… something different. Maybe the alcohol is hitting harder, faster, tonight or maybe… “Great! It’s a deal, then. You wanna haggle payment?” The last of that is completed with a suggestive grin and wiggle of brows, which he wholly expects to be kicked under the table for. Everything seems apropos for their usual evening and time together, up until he’s drained the last of his drink and set that glass aside (a slow drag of fingers, a half second too long and slow in withdrawing) — he slumps back into his seat, tugging briefly at the collar of his tunic. “Is it hotter in here tonight? Shards, I know it’s a little packed and it’s autumn but this is slightly overkill…” Because he’s seeking now, to see if the hearths in question are TO BLAME for this mild wave of discomfort. Don’t mess with his vibe!

Ruin is starting to have a bad habit of underestimating Fear. First, there's the lack of reaction to that so sudden nearness. Not a flinch, not a shift to indicate he's been surprised or is bothered in any way by the proximity. Then there's the slight quirk of one blonde brow at his bro. "Does it matter?" He answers question for question before lifting a hand to ruffle it through Ru'ien's hair. "You're a dreamer, Ruin. You'll never hear me fault you for it, but you do come up with some wild ideas." F'yr likes him best that way, of course. They might not have become the bros they are now had it not been for a variety of those in the past. Blue eyes begin to track these small things. It's probably not, at first, intentional, just situational awareness intruding into the beer tinged view of the world that something… something is off? Different? Something. The next hiccup in Ru's usually keen observance of people is the offer to haggle for payment…. With F'yr. It's F'yr's turn to lean close, closer to Ru'ien and give a rough rebuke. "Not a chance. If you want something, you're going to have to win." Just like they agreed; no getting something in exchange for freely given labor. But then, F'yr always has been and will apparently continue to be terrible at the art of the deal. To the big blonde's credit, though, he does take a moment to consider the greenrider's question. He frowns slightly, "I run hot," and this much is probably common knowledge, the bronzerider is practically his own toasty blaze, "Maybe you're just too close," he suggests, grin spreading to something wide and too knowing. See, Ru? Two can play at this teasing game. It may be that his leg slides against Ru's just then by chance or by design. Who can say? Either way the bronzerider is sitting up and setting his beer back on the table. "It's not really hot in here, though." At least he doesn't feel it, and wouldn't he? If it were?

Ahh, what a quick learner! The lack of response in F'yr likely unsettles Ru'ien, not to the point of being entirely visible but it has him briefly confused — that is, until his hair is ruffled and he withdraws with a snickered breath. "One of us has to be!" he quips back, not at all deterred by the dreamer comment. Nope, he's never going to change! Smoothing back his hair into place (spoiler: it doesn't work), he smirks wryly. "It's my wild ideas that keep life from getting dull, y'know." So you're welcome, F'yr and everyone! Ru'ien could be joking here too but who knows? He doesn't yield any ground when he seems to have skipped and hiccuped in his observations (doesn't that seem odd?), smirking all the more arrogantly in the face of F'yr's rebuke. "Who said I was bartering that?" he teases, making it all the worse by pitching his voice low and close to sultry — which surprises even him. That's very much a Kihatsuth thing to do and he clears his throat in the next breath, moving on without acknowledging that blip with anymore than a fleeting frown and narrowing blink of his eyes. Huh. Wait, what were they on about? "Message received, though!" In case F'yr had concerns, but Ru'ien's not even going to let more than a heartbeat pass before he's dashing ahead in the conversation. "If you do come and help though, I'm gonna at least make sure you get some snacks and a beer out of it." SEE F'YR!? He's just trying to be a GOOD BRO too! There's a scoff, a sidelong tilt of his gaze towards F'yr. "Of course you do!" He doesn't even have to check to know that the bronzerider isn't lying. Oh, so they are playing footsy! By chance, Ru'ien's leg will "slip" and lean a little firmer against one of F'yr's legs, pointedly lingering before moving away. "Mhm, I don't think so?" he feigns innocence and uncertainty, even pulling off a thoughtful frown that may actually tip into the genuine thing a beat later. "Huh. Must' be in my head, then!" And that is that, dismissed from the conversation despite the lack of resolution. Ru'ien's all too happy to move on to other threads of conversation, even going as far to flag the server for another ale! Clearly, he's feeling alright… even if he's absentmindedly fidgeting with the collar of his tunic again — a splay of fingers, rubbing lightly, tugging, settling and resuming at unpredictable intervals.

"One of us?" That has F'yr lifting his brows at his companion. The affront may not be entirely feigned, although surely none of it is deeply wounding. "My dreams might not be as dramatic as yours, but I assure you I have never stopped being a dreamer." There's only a slight pause before he levels a candidly serious expression on Ru'ien as he adds softly, "If I weren't a dreamer, I never would have left the farm." And here he is. Proof in action. Still, he has to roll his eyes for the next claim, expression a mask of pained indulgence, "Your wild ideas. Glori's wild ideas. Other people's wild ideas. My life will never know a dearth thanks to your combined might." F'yr might just have a type, y'all. Fortunately, it's a type that can handle a little of the chaos F'yr is bound to introduce in turn, as he does on the heels of the tease that needs answer the way a demand to duel does. One hand moves fast, reaching up to snatch the tie from Ru'ien's hair— he's getting annoyingly adept at that. But then, he's already ruffled it out of place, so… Maybe he's helping? Even if he misses, his hand is back in his lap by the time the greenrider is assuring him that the message is received. For that, he can offer a grin, and a, "Good, and a pat on the thigh. … wait. Was that not his thigh? Oh well, with the table blocking, only Ru'ien can know for sure. It was all some kind of jest anyway, right? From the offer to the rebuke and on to this conclusion. In light of this, it's predictable that the bronzerider's leg doesn't give in the least to the press of the greenrider's. Sure, footsy. Why not? F'yr is a touchy person anyway, Glori-permitting. The joking must be set aside for the big bronzerider, though, when Ru'ien concludes it must be in his head that things are running hot. F'yr is no healer, but he grew up with a Ma who knew a thing or two about checking for illness, and if F'yr's a little sensitive to the idea of one of his bro's taking ill right now, he can be forgiven in light of his recent experiences, right? He deposits Ru's hair tie onto the tabletop before his hand comes up to press his palm against Ru'ien's forehead, expression concerned, lips tugged into a slight frown. "Are you feeling alright otherwise?" He glances to Ru's drink, taking a moment to slide his own farther away, unfinished, before suggesting, "Maybe we ought to walk over to the infirmary and get you checked in case you're coming down with something?" They do work hard and have been all over Pern these past sevens, a sickness isn't out of the realm of F'yr's primed imagination.

Oops? While no straightforwards apology comes, Ru’ien phrases it differently by smiling broad (and crooked) but warmly to him. “Thank Faranth then, because I’m damn well thrilled to have you here! I think others would agree too.” Obvious ones aside! There’s a snickered breath for his lamenting of lack of dearth when it comes to ideas, showing not a stitch of remorse for being one of the suppliers. The unexpected comes not from Ru’ien, but from F’yr, as the hair tie is snatched up and he can only sputter a grunted protest before he’s half blinded by the fall of his hair into his face after it is sufficiently ruffled. “Hey!” he laughs, already lifting his hands up, missing his chance to playfully slap F’yr’s hand away and choosing instead to flip the unruly locks back. Almost as promptly, he begins to comb it with his fingers. Someone’s feeling a little vain (oh wait, no, that’s a usual day thing)? And was that his thigh, patted so? If not, well… Ru’ien’s smug look is betraying NOTHING! A jest is a jest, even if retribution is craved — but he behaves himself. If he had any inkling that his behaviour was putting sound concern in F’yr and bringing up those kinds of thoughts, Ru’ien would’ve found a way to assure him through humorous quips. As much as he’s blunt and terrible with his teasing, he doesn’t outwardly aim to cause actual distress. So he is caught again, off guard, when F’yr is suddenly pressing a hand to his forehead. Blinking, looking a touch bemused and puzzled, he’ll permit it — and all that will be felt is warmth for certain but not the alarming ‘oh shit’ kind. “… yeah? More than alright, actually. Kind of restless.” he answers truthfully, only too scoff lightly at the mention of the infirmary. F’yr should know by now that the change in expressions usually heralds something and the sly grin is no different. Whether he withdraws his hand in time or not, Ru’ien will try and touch it… with the closest thing available! This being his tongue or even a brush of lips in the semblance of a play bite. So much for behaving? “A walk sounds good though? After we finish another round? Burn off some of this buzz. That might be all it is, y’know?” Uh huh. There’s a pause, as some small thread of thought flickers by and realization dawns in the form of a potential assumption. “Or…” he surmises, leaving it hanging with a pointed look to F’yr. Wanna take a guess, bro?

F'yr might drink to that if he were still drinking, but he can and will return the crooked smile with a lop-sided one of his own. Ru'ien and company are not the only ones glad he made that choice. The bronzerider is still apparently as crazy as the rest of Xanadu and still just as glad to be here. The lop-sided smile might turn to glee when his bid for the hair tie proves successful, and too fast for the playful slap. Nyeh-nyeh, Ruin! One point for Fear. There's something about the way F'yr tilts his head to look at Ru'ien after his hair is down that's some kind of quietly appreciative. He's not ogling his friend, but it's plain the sight of him with his hair wild stirs not something so crude as a physically lewd response, but rather, that it strikes some deeper chord, maybe for F'yr, seeing Ru'ien this way is syncing up his looks with the part of the greenrider that F'yr likes the best: his whole self. The touch of that nearest something of Ru's to the bronzerider's work-calloused hand makes F'yr's smile twitch wider, but not wide enough to show teeth bemusement in his face. He takes this as his invitation to sneak that hand (okay, it's not really sneaking if he's completely obvious about it, is it?) to slide fingers into Ru's hair just above his ear and make like he's tucking some lock back, when really, what lock is going to stay where F'yr puts it anyway? If anyone's paying attention, and who really cares if they are, F'yr does, at least, lean his body so that his gesture is partially blocked from gawkers. "You don't seem to have a fever," he'll confirm readily enough. "You're always restless," he observes without judgment beyond the understanding that this restlessness is somehow different. Then F'yr's taking the opportunity to lean his far elbow on the table, torso twisted toward Ru'ien as his chin finds his upraised fist to prop it. "I think I'm done for tonight. With the drinking, but a walk would be good." Only, "If you want something else you're going to have. to. pick. a. game." The bronzerider enunciates each word carefully, giving it pause and weight. "Otherwise we'll just get bogged down in deciding who's leading who in this dance." He flicks a glance toward the karaoke machine and grins. "How about a song? Bigger applause or lack of boos wins." DOES RUIN DARE FACE FEAR-LESSLY STUPID IN A BATTLE OF SONG? He probably would take an alternative game, were one offered. Probably.

Is someone keeping score!? Ru’ien isn’t and given he’s not about to start planning ahead now, it’s highly unlikely F’yr’s ever going to earn some payback! That is, unless by some chance it comes off as some wily plan concocted by the greenrider — but that’s giving him A LOT of credit. When that hand sneaks up to tuck away that lock of hair (it lasts all of a few minutes, but good try!), Ru’ien’s smile is broad and warm and something else aside from the usual mischievousness that lurks every moment he breathes. “… you’re the second person to say that. Am I really that bad?” he asks, mildly curious and likely not overly concerned on the general populaces opinion. It’s only sinking in because it comes from two people he cares about, in varying degrees and thus, CURIOUS. As F’yr leans in, Ru’ien will twist in his seat as well to mirror him, wry smirk now in place as he cocks his head in a feigned show of misunderstanding. “Oh? You wanted me to pick? Why is it me and not you?” he suggests, not without the usual teasing edge to his voice. Who is leading who, INDEED! And oh, OH, do not challenge him Fear, for Ruin will always take the bait (with rare exceptions)! He begins to laugh, reaching out now to playfully shove at the bronzerider’s shoulder if he happens not to move fast enough to evade the gesture. “Alright! But I choose your song~” Said (threatened?) in a sing-song tone even, as Ru’ien makes a break for it before F’yr can voice any protest. The bluerider has finished his turn, so maybe he’s just trying to get it next before someone else claims it! Or he’s trying to out run F’yr, to make GOOD on said —threat— offer. Will he make it and everyone will have to suffer? WHO WILL WIN? Who knows. Let the rumours spread on what occurs this night or whoever else may join them (or try to wrestle them away, Ru’ien’s singing is only passable here folks!).

"Whoever said being restless was bad? It's just part of you. Why would that be bad?" Especially to Fear, who likes his Ruin just as he is, for everything he is. It might be better if F'yr were remarking those things in a tone of levity, keeping it light, but his tone is so simple, so straightforward that they bear the weight of his truth. He wouldn't want Ru'ien to be other than as he is, unless Ru'ien wanted that himself. That's just how F'yr is and, hopefully, that's how his friend likes him because it doesn't seem to be changing any time soon. The bronzerider doesn't need to respond to the greenrider's question in any other way than he proceeds to do anyway, since he does, in fact, suggest a game in the next moments. "That won't work," he argues practically, though, leaning toward Ru'ien. "If they're not songs we know, we'll be worse than that bluerider to start out with. Have you seen the song list on that thing?" F'yr has; more and older than most of F'yr's repertoire, to be sure. But before they can get too far in the haggling for terms for the game upon which the rest of their evening seems to hang, life goes throwing them a curve. It's in the form of a laughing Louci and sour faced Solcady, sliding in across from them, interrupting all the games - from karaoke to footsy and even the banter because they have a story to share. With a rueful smile to Ru'ien that communicates a silent, 'Next time,' to the greenrider, F'yr reclaims his mug of beer and turns his attention to their fellows and the tale they have to tell.

Add a New Comment
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 License