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.
Oh sweet, summer nights! It's a good night too, to crash the local tavern. The hour is late enough that it is not too crowded but not so late to be nearing closing time (surely this place closes at SOME point?). K'vir had the intention of coming here to unwind a little, after a rather hectic day that saw drills turn to some practical exercise over some minor emergency. No rest for the wicked, right? He hasn't gone to the Healer's yet about that persistent nagging ache to his shoulder but his excuse, if nagged about it, is that it's TOO LATE right now! But not too late to self medicate for a drink or two (or four). Which is all he's up too currently, nursing what looks to be a tumbler of whiskey and not the usual beer. Someone's looking to make a short night of things! He's seated at an empty table, slouched comfortably in his chair (or as comfortably as his ignored-injury will allow him) and dressed equally as casual. Lost to his thoughts, he's the perfect prey-target right about now…
Perfect prey-target, you say? Well, let me just bring out one slowly-circling bronzerider, moving in ever-tighter orbits around K'vir's table, slow but persistent, not at all unlike the inevitable approach of a shark scenting blood in the water. Cue Jaws music! Dun-dun! Duuun-dun! Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun — DUN NANAAA! Except there's no teeth, no blood, just a whole lot of GREAT WHITE BRONZER dropping to a seat across from K'vir, unhitching a waiter's apron from around his waist to drop it onto the edge of the table before him. SCARED YET? Well, don't be - it's just R'hyn, whose elbows lean against wood as he offers a vaguely pleasant, "Afternoon, K'vir," and a significant, somewhat less pleasant glance downwards at the other bronzerider's choice of drink. Whiskey. Gross. "Was gonna ask after your well-being, but that says about enough, I guess." Lips twitch up in a slight smile, gesturing with one hand for K'vir to disagree if he wishes.
"What—" K'vir's going to play off that first word like he totally wasn't unprepared for a shark-R'hyn attack! NO ONE heard the slight jump in his tone and sputter. It never happened! "This?" His glass is lifted, then tilted as if to emphasize the question and with a smirk he'll polish off the rest of the contents shot-style. What's gross? A slight flash of teeth as he works through the kick back and then a scoff, "It's whiskey. It's been a day but not THAT bad. Not like I'm gonna get blackout drunk, I just need a fast kick." Shoulders shrug (or one does, the other doesn't quite match the gesture) and his hands spread out in an innocently dismissive manner. THAT'S ALL! "Hey R'hyn," he returns in belated greeting, though laden with suspicion. "… what's brought you here? Or do I want to know?" Clearly, he's a touch on edge because of reasons! So many reasons.
NOBODY HEARD IT. Nobody heard it but R'hyn. Eyes scrunch, nose wrinkles, teeth bare because he saw that, and he's amused. "I know what it is," he drawls, lifting hands to steeple fingers lazily, "but nobody drinks whiskey for fun." An eyebrow cocks when K'vir proves his point, hushed laughter preceding a lift of those hands to pat the air before him. "Wasn't assuming any such thing, though I guess you couldn't be blamed even if you were looking to get drunk," you know, considering he knows exactly enough to make assumptions about why he and his weyrmate were called in to watch kiddos suspiciously late. But, he's not here for that. Instead he's here for, "Work. Pulled a few strings, they let me pick up bar shifts for fun. 'Fraid I was in back when you ordered, or I would have insisted on something less…" He makes a scrooched face at the empty glass. "Doing alright?" PERSONALLY? PHYSICALLY? Maybe both, considering the shift of blue-grey eyes from shoulder to face and back. WHY SO EDGY. GOT SOMETHING TO FESS UP TO?
And like sharks to blood in water, THEY COME. Luckily for K'vir, Ila'den (at the very least) is not at all on the lookout for prey. TODAY, HE IS ON THE LOOKOUT FOR HIS HUSBAND. Which is kind of like prey, but in the delicious and he wants it sense, and less in the… you get it. It's why, after Heryn has settled into a seat and gone about his bartending duties of passing judgment upon the drinks and life choices of one INNOCENT CINNAMON ROLL (okay, so it's a lot less critical and a lot more gentle), the older bronzerider's hands come down on the back of R'hyn's chair. Ila'den leans forward, lips finding the younger bronzer's temple to press a kiss there with a low, rumbling growl that's probably half a wordless greeting, half sheer enjoyment of stolen proximity. BUT THAT'S IT. THAT'S ALL THE REPRIEVE K'VIR GETS before that lone grey eye is shifting from Weyrhusband to Weyrson (??? shut up it makes ALL THE SENSE). You could say that Ila'den looks friendly (he's smiling/, after all), but there's something feral about it, too many //teeth and the show of canines for it to lack the edge of a predator who has, in fact, found its prey. And on grit and rasp comes a husky, "K'vir," in greeting, the kind that somehow manages to acknowledge a presence without inviting it any further in. "He still has all of his limbs. I'd say he's alright," gets drawled with a tilt of his chin towards his weyrmate, a raise of one brow. "Wouldn't you?" Now his attention is back on K'vir, with one of those polite-but-unpleasant smiles.
Just when he was thinking it'd be SAFE to relax again, along comes Ila'den to join R'hyn and now K'vir is pretty certain he's doomed. At least he's not to the point of trying to escape by sliding lower on his chair and under the table? Ugh. Curse is damnable luck! "At least I'm not drinking rum?" he counters quickly to R'hyn, while trying not to LOOK as suspicious as he sounds when he mutters a hasty and blunt: "I'm fine." Pfft. Nice try, kid! It's not like they already don't know something is up, given the previous night and FAVORS asked (begged) at odd hours. K'vir was just hoping they'd let it slide for once! Oh, how naive can he be? Ila'den's polite-but-not smile is met with a grim look; it can't be helped! Seriously, he hates how he's both in awe of them and scared of both of them (okay, maybe more Ila in this case) in the same breath. "Yeah," he all but mutters again. "What he said." About all the limbs. "Hale and whole, or however that's suppose to go." Blue eyed gaze darts between the two of them and whether it's the sudden LIQUID COURAGE kicking in or something else, but he actually holds a lingering stare bordering on challenge. Well? Happy now? Can they leave him alone now?
K'vir gets a moment's reprieve, at least? Blue-grey eyes fall shut for the press of lips to his temple, R'hyn's attention momentarily stolen as he lifts one hand to cup the side of Ila'den's face, scritching gently at the silver striking dark hair at his temples, lips twitching up in a grin that is warm and fond and lingering long after his weyrmate has pulled away. "Rum is delicious," R'hyn counters instead of answering Ila'den's ill-disguised questioning, "and doesn't taste like liquid smoke strained through a tunnelsnake's fang and left to bake off in the midday sun on a particularly hairy islander's back before being flaked off and rehydrated in stale water." OR IS IT JUST HIM THAT FEELS THIS WAY? He flicks a glance of inquiry from one bronzer to another, then sighs as though vaguely put upon by the sudden tension in the room. "Oh, for fuck's sake, sit down, Ila'den," he drawls, pressing a kiss to fingers (and said fingers to Ila's cheek) to take the heat out of the statement. "I was being serious." Or TRYING ANYWAYS. "I, for one, have never come out of any interaction with Risa with my anything intact. Prosthetics. All of these." He gestures at his arms, his actually-slightly-bionic leg, his pecs? HIS PECS. "Now you know the secret. Don't tell anyone." SHH, intimated by a press of a finger to his lips and a crooked smile. "But if you're sure. Want another?" Drink, he means, already half out of his seat to MAKE IT HAPPEN.
"Well, there you go husband. He said he's fine." And Ila'den being Ila'den would have let it go except that K'vir made one VERY FATAL MISTAKE. Hi, K'vir. Have you ever met Risali? Excellent, please keep her in mind as you allow us to exhibit things she clearly learned from her Dad: NEVER BACKING DOWN FROM A CHALLENGE (or, you know, he just listens to R'hyn better than he has a mind to listen to just about anybody else). See, Ila'den meets that stare, meets it and holds it even though his weyrmate's lips are on his fingers and — and the corner of his mouth quirks. "What has whiskey ever done to you?" comes husky and lilting as Ila'den does, in fact, pull out the chair beside R'hyn and settle into it, leaning forward to press one elbow to the table as his attention swivels back to his weyrmate. And then he's laughing - low and husky, a hint of something warm and catching as the younger of the duo gestures to all of the parts that are NOW FAKE. He can attest that they are not, and maybe it would have been the kinder thing to do. But Ila'den? He opts for, "Aye, well, if he goes into any interaction with Risali and comes back without his heart intact, I'd say it's that's a problem for Risali and K'vir, and not us." There's little humor in those last few syllables, an edge probably meant for K'vir that's not quite mocking, but is certainly lacking sympathy.
Oh, K'vir has something to add to poor R'hyn's dislike of whiskey! "What kind of shit whiskey you been drinking, if it tastes like that?" Where does this kid (okay, he's not a kid anymore, BUT HE IS IN MY HEART) get such a mouth! No shame, no shame. Since they're not meeting here for official Wing business, maybe he feels he can push it, just enough that the lines come close to blurring. MAYBE. He's definitely looking at his drink but not to reconsider his choice; it's to avoid watching too much of the physical exchanges between Ila'den and R'hyn. K'vir is no prude, but it's more like envy than anything, for what he thought he had and desires to, but cannot. At least, not now or in the foreseeable future! Speaking of coming out intact, he smirks grimly at that, blue eyed gaze lifting to look between the two older bronzeriders. "Yeah, no offence to either of you but I'm not really wanting to dish on the details? Figured you'd put two and two together." That he and Risali had another spat. They'll leave it at that, right? Any lack of sympathy from Ila'den is met with indifference from K'vir (clearly, he's sassy tonight!), if the narrowed look and deadpan expression say much.
"Any. All. They try to make it more interesting and ergo more expensive by aging it for one forever, or storing it in barrels they've literally incinerated because it wasn't a bitch enough to choke down to begin with," because if K'vir can swear, so can he! TAKE THAT! "But in the end, it's all terrible," he smirks before humming disbelieving of all these 'fines' being thrown about like candy at a parade. It's implication that what happens in Purgatory stays in Purgatory that earns an actual, drawled, "Tsk tsk, husband. You can take the bartender out of the bar, but you can't take the bar out of the bartender." There's a beat in which R'hyn makes a face, chin pulled back, eyes squinted ceilingwards, halted mid-lift as his lips press flat. "That. Sounded better in my head. But you know what I mean." Old habits die hard! As hard as that spark in blue-grey eyes, brightness snuffing low despite the close-lipped smile he gives K'vir as he stands the rest of the way up, one shoulder rolling. "None taken. Some of us," hint: maybe not Ila'den, "were only asking if you were alright. Didn't ask for details." Knuckles rap gently on the table as he takes a step back, halting only momentarily to adjust the pull of metal and straps around his knee. "But alright. One bastard-sweat menace for you, and the pinkest, most umbrelliest thing they have for Ila. Play nice. I'll be right back." And there he goes, executing a somewhat lopsided saunter towards the bar. He'll be back before you know it. Hopefully. (Dun-dun…)
DOES THE CUSSING BOTHER ILA? Boy, you done picked the wrong bronzerider if you though it'd draw a reaction; au contraire, K'vir says, 'What kind of shit whiskey you been drinking,' and R'hyn replies, 'Any, all … it wasn't a bitch enough to choke down to begin with,' and who would Ila'den be if his lips did not immediately pull upwards - not quite a full smile, but enough of one to say that his mind went terrible places with that and then (just in case you had any doubt about what he was thinking), Ila'den parts with a husky rasp of, "I love it when you talk dirty, baby." EYOOOOOOOOOOOO. Eyo? Little eyo. (Eyo!) He doesn't even stop there because now R'hyn is saying something about TAKING THE BAR OUT OF THE BARTENDER and low, rumbling, husky laughter is pulled from Ila'den as fingertips curl into fists on the table and Ila'den turns in his chair to face his weyrmate, places one hand on his own thigh as humor is replaced by something much more… feral (but no less playful). "Now I'm beginning to think you're doing that on purpose. But I oblige: I'd be more than happy to put the bar back in the bartender." ILA'DEN, NO. ILA'DEN STOP IT. SOMEBODY GET THE SPRAY BOTTLE AND SPRITZSPRITZSPRITZ HIS FACE. HIS IS MISBEHAVING!!!!!!!!!!!! … And focusing on K'vir again, a slow tilt of his chin, a roll of his eye to fixate on the youngest of this bronzerider trio, and Ila'den smiles predatory around words of, "I didn't ask." About the details, he means. And then R'HYN IS BEING A DISTRACTION BY STANDING, AND EXISTING, and - "Make it two umbrellas," Ila'den watches him go. His focus stays on the way his weyrmate moves for an uncomfortably long amount of time - the kind that says maybe, just maybe, turns and turns and turns of whatever this is hasn't been enough to sate an endless hunger. BUT IT'S NOT IMPORTANT. Or, at least, it's not relevant. Now it's about K'vir, and his R'hyn-insulted whiskey. "Drowning in whiskey won't solve it. I should know. I've looked in the bottom of every bottle." Oh. Well. Now his attention is back on K'vir again. Is that… FATHERLY ADVICE? Don't tell anybody. He'll deny it.
Okay, R'hyn has him there and despite himself, K'vir's got to laugh a little at that. Even the bartender joke gets a scoff, though he'll keep any COMMENTS TO HIMSELF on the nature of bars and bartenders! A little eyo, just for Ila'den! There's a frustrated grunted-sound from him and he'll eye them both again. "Said I was fine," And he's not lying! Not entirely. Of course he's upset in someway but he's past the age of all-out rage fits. He's taking this surprisingly well. Too well, maybe? Jury is still out to debate that. There's no oogling on his part, he'll leave Ila'den to do all of that himself, while he'll just polish off the rest of his whiskey. "What's a bastard's sweat menace? Or was he talking about whiskey again?" he mutters, half to himself but also throwing it out there for Ila'den to answer or ignore. WHICHEVER! Play nice? Sure. No promises, R'hyn, though K'vir isn't feeling like tempting death again tonight by fighting Ila'den (spoiler alert: we know who would lose). Another grimace, mixed this time with a frustration-laden pinch of his nose before he mock glares at that very bronzerider. "Thanks for the advice but that's not what I'm doing!" For the last time! "Just wanting a drink. If I was gonna go chasing the bottom of a bottle, I sure as hell wouldn't do it here."
It might be whiskey. It might be a pickleback. We'll NEVER KNOW. (K'vir… K'vir will know, if he's brave enough to actually take the pair of small glasses R'hyn slides his way upon his return, but listen, shut up.) Is the bronzerider fighting back laughter? He is, flicking K'vir a twinkle-eyed glance because he caught that little laugh and he isn't about to give it up. "Juice of salty whoresons, just for you." And then that brightness hardens to daggers as R'hyn focuses his gaze on Ila, newly-freed hand aiming a sharp poke at the shoulder nearest him. "As for you, don't you think I didn't hear that. I'll be doing more than talking dirty if you don't knock that-" HE GESTURES AT ALL OF HIM "-off." A beat. A sigh. "That wasn't threatening at all, was it?" WHATEVER. He tried for playful menace, and fell short, so he changes tack, ignoring the idea of putting bars in illicit places in favor of shoving something eye-searing and so full of umbrellas that Ila'den is going to have to pluck a few out to even drink it towards the eldest bronzerider. "Don't answer that question." For K'vir's sake. Think of the CHILDREN. Speaking of… "But very well. Since you, and he, and I are all fine," still dubious, "you'll join us at the beach later, yeah? Cita's bringing the kids down. Get yours and we'll make a party of it. Board on some waves. Kick a ball around. Sandcastles. The whole kit and kaboodle." A lean forward onto his elbows. "I'll even snitch a bottle of that, so you can drink to your heart's content." Oh, now he's just being rude, lips twitching up sharply at both corners, attempting to make a tease out of the situation they've created with their incessant badgering of the poor cinnamon roll. "Maybe I'll race you. First one to the bottom of a bottle wins." A patpat for Ila's knee. "You can watch the kids, baby." YOU'VE GOT THIS, HE BELIEVES IN YOU, intimated with a scrooched kissy face. Worst.
"Damned if I know," Ila'den answers, because HE DOESN'T KNOW, K'VIR. But you can tell him all about it after you take a drink or five, because if you don't drink the drink his most precious of Heryns has concocted for you, Ila'den will come around that damn table, plug your nose, and POUR IT DOWN YOUR THROAT. … Kidding. Mostly. Anyway, he'll be too busy picking umbrellas out of the garish monstrosity that R'hyn delivered his way to do much about it - for now. He's doing just that, in fact: pulling umbrella after umbrella free, tucking some behind his ears and into his jacket where there might normally be a knot. He even tucks one into R'hyn's hair as he leans toward the bronzerider close enough to catch five o'clock shadow against R'hyn's jaw when he growls, "It was perfectly threatening, husband," against his ear. But away he goes, because HE IS, IN FACT, THINKING OF THE CHILDREN, and so Ila'den lifts his glass in just enough time for husky laughter to precede that first sip of ANTI-TOXIC MASCULINITY. BUT K'VIR. OH, SWEET K'VIR. He glares, and he sasses, and Ila'den pauses in that drink, allows that dainty glass to hang from the tips of his fingers as that grey eye rolls up slow, slow, slow to fixate on the youngest rider again. R'hyn does the right thing - he does the thing he always does. He keeps the conversation going, engages K'vir, forgives that societal faux pas in a way that might be the only explanation one might ever garner on just how in the hell Ila'den hasn't managed to lose him yet. But Ila'den doesn't. Ila'den watches, keeps his attention focused on the bronzerider even when he knocks his glass back to get the rest of liquid out, even as he sets that glass back on the table and pushes it with the extension of one forefinger towards R'hyn. "You've already beat him. That's why we have Zyriden, isn't it?" … That was about as low of a blow as Ila'den could have possibly managed. And he doesn't. look. away. IT'S TOTALLY OKAY IF YOU WANT TO MAIM HIM, K'VIR. Just make sure you do it in a dark alleyway where no R'hyns are in sight. And would you look at that. There's even a hint of canines to complement that exceptionally rude… smile. We'll go with smile, despite the fact that it's more a baring of teeth.
Poison is poison, right? K'vir likes to believe he is brave (and he is, in some ways) but let's be honest here… if it came to an altercation between him and them, he'd break pretty damn fast! Another scoff, almost snorted breath for the name applied to the drink and he fixes R'hyn with a level stare. "I think I preferred the other title. That one doesn't flow as nice," he jokingly quips, now giving said glass wary consideration. Does he want it? He'll think about it. When he's not focusing on the offer suddenly laid out and instantly he is fighting the urge to turn it down (it's a TRAP, right!?). Brows knit in thought, while his lower jaw works slightly as he mulls over an answer. "Alright." Simple as THAT! No, seriously. That's all he opens with, while meeting R'hyn's gaze (pointedly, not including Ila'den yet). DIDN'T HE JUST SAY he wasn't aiming to get drunk!? Granted, K'vir can hold his alcohol, so if there's time between, well… he's still in the clear. He was going to say something on the matter of skipping races but HEY-OH, there's Ila'den! Throwing in that barb and drawing K'vir's attention all sudden-like! And oh, K'vir has that temptation to maim written clear as day all over him, from the hardening of his expression and the change in posture. Envisioning leaping over the table and starting shit (sorry R'hyn) and tearing into the other bronzerider, as though doing so will allow him to transfer blame. It'll be HIS fault, not K'vir's, for what he feels he's lost. Instead, BLESS HIM (or not), he'll gain control, exhale heavily through gritted teeth and nose and… IGNORE HIM (and that rude smile). All that bristling has him looking to sink back into his chair, but not without a little reminder ping from his shoulder — without thinking, his free hand absentmindedly presses to the outlying area just below his collarbone. "Not sure about the racing." He's just going to turn back to that waylaid conversation like nothing happened. Don't mind him!
"Good," comes R'hyn's immediate response, grinning in the face of that scoff-ridden stare, "you're not supposed to like it. I was going to go with something else, but 'bitter wher piss' seemed too nice." Blue-greys lift from the drink in question to meet K'vir gaze for gaze, brow notching as he watches that contemplation come and go, notes the temptation to cast the olive branch wrapped in a gauze of assholery aside, a small smile tugging at his lips when finally the younger bronzer consents. There's no immediate response, not yet - freed from the impromptu staredown, R'hyn tilts his chin to watch Ila'den take apart the chaos that is his drink, shoulders shaking and nose huffing with poorly-repressed laughter. The hand on Ila's leg comes up to adjust the colorful fan at his weyrmate's ear, adjusting it to a jauntier angle even as he receives an umbrella for himself. "Mmm," hummed as though R'hyn doesn't quite believe it, or perhaps because any follow-up he might have is not fit for company, judging by the set of his lips and the sudden flush of pink across cheeks for Ila's aggressive proximity. Pity it doesn't last. Pleasure at successfully recruiting K'vir to their ranks, enjoyment of his weyrmate's cheek, all goes out the window as Ila speaks words that has R'hyn's hand seizing around the stem of that empty glass, has stormy blues darting up to K'vir's face, to Ila'den's, back and again, tense and wary and not at all pleased by this turn of events either. It's up in the air, for one crystalline moment, on just where R'hyn will land on the spectrum of reactions. One hand settles on Ila's shoulder, his expression is headed somewhere chiding, full of gentle reproof, readying to tell the bronzer off or, more likely, deny the WHOLE THING EVER HAPPENED as he has, loudly, for several turns despite definite adoration for his resultant son — but then K'vir visibly bristes, as well he might, as well he should, and dark eyes snap over, narrow, and it's instinct more than anything else that bids the bronzer's big body to shift as though more than willing to put himself between Ila'den and K'vir. It lasts only seconds - only long enough for R'hyn to blink at himself, to loosen the fingers that have tightened around Ila's shoulder, to ease the instantaneous fight out of his own hitched posture - but it's enough. It's enough that his voice is as wary as his expression as he says, "Yeah," as he drops his gaze to watch K'vir absently massage at his shoulder, allowing inquiry to, for once, go unvoiced. A beat, two, and then he offers a tenuous smile, one that doesn't quite meet his eyes as he says, "maybe we'll make Ila and Cita race instead." Because THAT'S what this weyr needs. "Unless you have a better idea?" He's all ears.
GOOD JOB, K'VIR. IGNORE ILA'DEN. It's… honestly, probably the safest bet when faced with a man such as this, the caliber of which is questionable, the motives even more so, the morality out of touch. Ila'den aligns somewhere in a grey area, a hazy fog of maybe he just doesn't like you that's full of twists and turns sometimes prompting (unexpectedly) gentle reprimands or overtly aggressive dominance - and there, beneath all the thick and mire lies a wolf, who's as likely to lick your hand as he is to rip it off. SO WHAT DOES HE DO NOW? He's caught up for just a moment in R'hyn, in that huffing, poorly repressed laughter that gives rise to another kind of beast and, perhaps, in the wake of flushed cheeks, lends even more aggression to the expression he fixes onto K'vir. And there it is, words are exchanged, the youngest bronzerider looks, for just a moment, as if he might come across the table and Ila'den's body hums with the anticipation, tenses and coils and prepares for a myriad of abuse that might, in some way, define Ila'den and K'vir both in ways yet unknown. But it doesn't happen; there's no violent amalgamation of shedding guilt or anger or whatever in the hell has K'vir however many drinks into his misery as he is now. It's why he doesn't look at R'hyn when that hand comes down on his shoulder, why he doesn't acknowledge his weyrmate for mere heartbeats until he doesn't have a choice because R'hyn - even for those split seconds - is aiming to put himself between the fury of one and the daring of another. And that is what bids Ila'den's hands to move, to shift down and catch at one hip to prevent any forward momentum even if he doesn't need to stop it. And slowly, slowly that eye drifts from K'vir to R'hyn and Ila'den catches at his chin with an alarmingly gentle application of thumb and forefinger. "I thought we talked about this." Putting himself in harms way? MAKING THAT FACE? It's hard to say what, and the former renegade doesn't elaborate, either. Instead, he plucks one of many umbrellas from his person and gains his footing, leaning across the table to drop it into one of K'vir's drinks. And then another. And then another. "I have a better idea," comes gruff, as that lone eye locks on K'vir's blues once more, and then slide back to find R'hyn blue-grey. BACK TO K'VIR. "Excuse us. R'hyn's making that face and now I have to come up with creative ways to get rid of it." ILA NO. ILA, DON'T YOU - not even the sexy way. R'HYN IS GETTING HAULED OVER A SHOULDER, and Ila's raising a brow as he gives K'vir a mock salute. "Wingsecond," he parts with. It's hard to say if that means he's lost some of Ila'den's respect, or gained it. "Don't drown."
Another time, perhaps, when K'vir has more enlightenment and sheds a few things (like his rank), then, MAYBE, Ila'den will get the fight that was just avoided this time! Not this time, not in this exchange however or in this location. K'vir is stupid (or was) in some regards but not so much that he'd risk throwing down on one of his own wing riders, IN THE WEYR! That's asking for a whole heap of trouble and more folks angry and disappointed in him than he'd ever desire to count (and aside from the obvious). "Not a single one," he mutters in reply to R'hyn's prompt of ideas. A deal is a deal though and if that beach going is happening? He'll be there. In what condition, WHO KNOWS! Noting the exchange, sensing the tension that was there, then isn't or is replaced by something he doesn't quite want to see, all for wishing to forego the salt-in-wound sensation. That is neither here or there and K'vir won't stop Ila'den from gathering R'hyn and excusing himself. If anything? THERE IS MUCH RELIEF on his part! "Don't plan to." Mock salute is returned, along with a smirk to hide that his tone of voice suggests an unspoken 'not today'. He'll watch them go and it won't be until they're truly gone that he finally drinks that gifted drink from R'hyn. Does he regret it? MAYBE. Maybe he doesn't but they'll never get the answer from him! With a low exhale, he won't order any more alcohol beyond that and, after a few more moments of "quiet" at last, he will rise to his feet and leave the tavern. Time to return back to his weyr, back to home and whatever form of it awaits him there.