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Shots Through the Heart


Date:  November 26, 2004
Places:  South Boll's Gather Beach and Lava Lounge
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  Shots through the heart, and you're to blame!  You give
booze a bad name!  Dang, I'm tempted to actually filk that now.  
Anyway!  T'bay's life has been most sadly devoid of misadventures
since graduation; what can a good Wingleader do but attempt to rectify
that, with the aid of an evil and long-lashed friend?  Kassi gives the
men an initiation into the art of drinking shots, which ends up 
leading T'bay to think he's a dragon and V'lano to asking Kassima a 
question for a change.

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The Log:

You wing down onto the gather beach.

You slide off of Lysseth's neck to land beside her easily. She rumbles,
cocking her head down at you, and you rub her eyeridges gratefully.

From the sky, Sarevith emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

Sarevith backwings to a landing.

"--Look, just don't roll around in the bloody seaweed this time, all right?
I know you did that just t'be difficult," Kassima's telling her dragon in a
rather amused voice as she works buckles free on the green's straps, her
jacket, gloves, and helmet already shucked and deposited in a bundle on the
sand. "You don't hide laughter even half as well as you *think* you do.
G'wan, g'wan. Wench." Lysseth stretches out her unencumbered neck and paces
in dignified fashion towards the waves, pausing along the way long enough
to cast a look up towards the sky and warble cheerful greetings to her
arriving Wingmate.

Sarevith's arrival is heralded by the beating of his wings several times,
slowing as he settles to a landing. He makes a strange combination of
sounds, an adolescent voice's transition from crooning warbles to a more
deep-in-the-throat murmur of greeting from a more adult dragon. "Yes yes
yes. Say your hellos. Though I'd imagine you'd be much more welcome if
you'd not throw sand at our Wingleader." Sarevith, for his helpful part,
makes tracks in the sand, slipping a bit as he struts, toward Lysseth.
"Hey, there. Let me off first. Then you can go play, wouldja?" After a bit
more cajoling, the brown is persuaded, and T'bay slips quickly to the sand,
where it takes him a moment to capture his footing, especially since his
first impulse is to shed his jacket and sweater. "Warm out here, compared
to home," he hails Kassima with a wave. "How's the water? Will he be in for
a surprise if he touches it?"

T'bay slides down from Sarevith.

Kassima has to admit with a laugh, "Since 'twould mean sand would get in
m'boots and then I'd have t'spend the rest of the evening attempting t'get
it out--" Some exaggeration there, which her grin acknowledges; a moment
later, "G'deve, Sarevith. G'deve, T'bay. Isn't it just? 'Tis why we like it
so--whether he'll be surprised depends on what he's expecting, methinks.
The water's a sharding sight warmer than the Lake, but nay so warm as the
Springs." Well, that's helpful. Lysseth pauses with the water just lapping
over her claws, wingtips dropping to brush the surface: generous soul that
she is, she could always flick a splash Sarevith's way, if he's curious?

From the sky, Volath emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

Volath backwings to a landing.

V'lano slides down from Volath.

T'bay salutes the greenrider as his wobbly sand-steps bring him closer, a
sheepish smile on his face. "I know, I know. Sometimes, he doesn't think
too far ahead." As if it were just then occuring to him, he adds, "Or
behind, either, considering his memory. Come to think of it," he tips his
foot up, dumping a little sand from where it has ammassed atop his boot's
toe area, "he doesn't think much at all. Leaves me, unfortunately, to do
the work for both of us, which explains a lot of things. Like sand in your
shoes." That explained, he wipes a dot of sweat from his forehead, looks
toward the ocean where Sarevith is creeping toward Lysseth, and just
laughs. "He never learns. Get him, Lyss!"

Volath swirls into existence somewhere in the sky offshore, jaw cracking
wide in a yawn the moment the frost of between's dissipating on his warming
hide. As he wings toward the sand, spanning sails wide to catch air for a
landing, a seemingly constant trail of good-natured muttering can be heard
from his rider. V'lano stays bent low over his dragon's neck, the stream of
'encouragement' coming into audio focus as his mount's talons splay wide
into the damp sand not far from tide. "...care if you're tired. Your own
fault staying up all night. Well, don't just stand there, let me down!"
Volath, more interested in stretching his great neck this way and that than
making of himself a convenient dismounting platform for his human, finally
is admonished into lowering his forehaunches a -little- and bending forward
a leg just a -bit- to assist his rider down.

Kassima makes a good-natured face at the brownrider, rolling up the straps
she holds and dropping them on top of the jacket and such she's already
shucked. "You really don't have t'be saluting, I promise. And for what 'tis
worth, I've had nay complaints with his thought processes--or yours--in
drills as yet. Which is the last business-like comment I intend t'make
here! This is a terrible place for formality. And a very good place for
drinks. You've never seen the Lounge a'fore?" The greenrider doesn't,
herself, offer vocal encouragement to her dragon, but her eyes dance as
they flick towards the spectacle--and Lysseth doesn't need much
encouragement anyway. After wading in a step or two deeper, she sweeps one
sail across the shallows' surface to send a fine spray of water towards
Sarevith even as she trumpets brightly to the bronze descending from above.
"Heyla t'you too, Vel, Volath!"

T'bay's grin widens, and his hand drops to his side. "Good to hear it! I
can hardly stand upright in the sand. Keep slipping back and forth. Guess
I'm used to rock beneath my feet by now." He does incline his head, having
heard the business-like comment and taking it as a positive note, and his
eyes glimmer with good cheer. "Lounge? No ma'am. Not somewhere my mama
would've encouraged her boy to go galavanting off to without good reason.
And I'm sure my not having seen it before is a reason good enough," he's
quick to amend, waving a hello to his grumbling friend as he arrives. "Up
all night? Need I ask why, or is it that his eyes were on another piece of
hide?" he ribs, a belated sideways glance only helping him to recall that
perhaps Lysseth was once the same, and he suddenly becomes very interested
in dragon antics. "What did you think?" he calls, as Sarevith shakes his
hide when the droplets strike. "Not bathwater. Probably colder. Right, but
you don't mind. He can't wait to get all wet and roll in the sand,
probably. More work for me."

V'lano raises a hand before he's even entirely down from Volath, responding
from a perch aboard the dragon's reluctantly provided foreleg in almost
knee-jerk automation to the sound of his name's first syllable. "Heyla
hey," he echoes and embellishes, then hops the several feet to the ground,
landing with a thud on the firmer, damp sand. Volath, clued in to draconic
presences, lumbers waterward with one eye narrowed and one wide, the former
one canted toward the sea in a considering expression. V'lano turns another
raised hand toward T'bay, maneuvering into the conversation with a wily,
"I'll give you good reason," offered with a toying slap of fist into palm
as he treads near - but once within hitting distance he only tosses out an
easy hand to clap his former holdmate's shoulder, if he'll be having it. He
turns a baleful gaze on Kassima, then, and mock-whines, "See what constant
torment I'm put through?"

"You can be taking off your boots if'n you want to. Bare feet are easier,
and Marcus won't care; he's used t'having people pad about barefoot, and
minus more clothes than just shoes, for that matter." Kassima's cheerful as
well. Tapping her belt pouch once, she says, "Nay t'mention having someone
willing t'pay for your first couple of drinks, just this once. In belated
celebration of your induction into our glorious Wing. Mind, if'n you don't
forswear calling me 'ma'am' ever again I might rethink it--" A
quick-flashed grin, lest he think her too serious. Lysseth, of course, is
only too glad to flick some water Volath's way too should the bronze come
close enough. She has no shame. "Hey, hey, nay brawling unless I get t'play
too!" she protests, putting on her most wounded expression. "That would
really *nay* be fair. Ah, poor V'lano, so very put upon. Mayhaps 'twill
stand you a drink too. Mayhaps. Or, y'know, a black eye, if'n there's t'be
brawling." Although she makes a show of rubbing her hands in anticipation,
her manner is far more entertained than actually inclined towards violence.

T'bay reaches his own arm out makes to half twine it with Vel's, a return
of the greeting. "Definately, constant torment. And I don't feel one bit of
pity for you, not one bit." Punctuating with a headshake brings the dragons
back into view, and their play at the water as Sarevith wades in, slaps a
wing, then reverses it, sharing some water in an echo, Volath's direction.
"Can't turn down the offer of a free sampling of the wares, can I?" he
murmurs, anticipatorally. "And after the trick you played on me, bringing
me into the fold as it were, I'd best have that drink, to settle my nerves
after these long sevendays." He does his best to look put-upon, but can't
maintain the pretense, gives up, and shrugs. "I'll hold him for you, if it
comes to brawling. If you need." His tone implies, not that I'd think you do.

"Ohhh no. You had your chance to shine my eyes," V'lano informs the
Thunderbolt wingleader with a courtly half-bow dip from the waist, one fist
finding a place on his hip as the other arm slings over T'bay's, the pair
every bit as brutal as brothers if hardly the appearance of it. "But that
special, one-time offer has expired." Volath shies back from oncoming water
droplets and fixes Lysseth with an effort at haughty affrontedness that
really only excels at making the bronze look like he's got a flea in his
nose. He settles for lowering himself into the shallows as much as his bulk
will fit and crawling for deeper water, more and more of his dragonhide
vanishing with each passing wave like an island surfer's variation on the
creature of Loch Ness. On shore, V'lano makes the twining of his arm with
T'bay's just a little firmer in grip, though after turning his bulk into
brawn it's fair to say the brownrider's got an inherent advantage in the
situation. "Besides," the bronzer grins, "you couldn't bear to hurt my
eyes, could you?" On which he'll flutter them for effect.

Kassima makes a sound of amused mock-derision at her Wingmate. "Wuss. You
mean we've driven you t'drink *already*?" Pause. "Now that's stamina.
Usually a new Thunderbolt rider would've gotten smashed at least
twenty-seven times by now," which to judge by her expression is pure,
shameless, outrageous fib. "Now there's a question. A little assistance
never goes amiss, though, needed or nay, and I note you've already got him
in an armlock of sorts...." One fist raises as if to threaten, but since
she's not standing near enough for it to land even if she wanted--and since
she's clearly trying not to laugh--it fails to be the most successful
threat of all time. "Oh, but Vel, are you quite certain? And one-time-only?
You can't imagine how grieved Lyss and I are t'hear that," she drawls, her
face somehow kept straight. Similarly, Lysseth is quite beyond doubt trying
not to show mirth at Volath's indignation--but she may conceal it better,
drifting in the water to attempt a conciliatory glide of her muzzle against
a furled wingsail as he passes into the depths. "Terrible," Kassi quips of
her lifemate. Then, with a regretful sigh, "Ah, alas--you've hit upon the
truth! I like them too well; if'n 'twere all black and swollen, you
couldn't bat your lashes half so fetchingly. I must drown m'shame in this
weakness in drink." She starts off towards the jungle at that note, muffled
snickers audible as she goes.

T'bay shrugs, "Sounds like you lost your chance," accompanies a shake of
his head, the brownrider's using his weight to advantage just enough to
lean a bit on Vel, make the more slender tall fellow take a bit of his
weight. "Ahhh. My portable rest, come to my side anew. Say," he glances
sidelong at Vel, "you always had such long lashes, or are those newly
gained with your lifemate's maturity?" A wink punctuates, while in the yon
distance, Sarevith has retreated from the water and begun to fan his wings,
leaving a shower of raindroplike beads to shine against the moon's light.
"You hear that? The lady needs to drown in drink. Far be it to us to keep
her from it. Besides, I'm twenty seven times behind. I've got catching up
to do, or our wing's name is at stake! And you wouldn't be responsible for
a smear against my wing, would you? then come on," he just about drags his
former holdmate off after Kassima.

V'lano makes an effort to look somberly apologetic about the loss of
Kassima's opportunity to sock him in the eye, but the grin pretty much
ruins it. He doesn't even snort at T'bay's question, but holds off
answering until their sixty-six-and-some percent of the trio's in motion
toward the thick vegetation inland. "I always had 'em. Somehow I never
realized how much good they did me until - " The grin's coy on that, and
beneath the other man's arm his own lifts and lowers along with his
shoulders in a weight-distributing shrug. Affecting an expert's scolding
tone then, he warns, "On your best behaviour now, T'bay! This place was a
real hotbed of intrigue the last time I was here." Only the way he
emphasizes 'hotbed' and 'intrigue' suggests something funny about his word
choice, and he sniggers as they stride onward, leaving Volath to rumble a
sweetly forgiving note toward the green as he paddles into water deep
enough for the bulk of a bronze to swim in.

You wander up the jungle path.

You push aside some creepers and enter a hidden cave.

You climb up the crude ladder and disappear from view.

V'lano climbs up from the caves below.

T'bay climbs up from the caves below.

Kassima is still laughing under her breath even as she gains the ladder's
end, her mirth certainly not helped in receding by the overheard comments
on the beach. "Do such things usually make men's lashes grow?" she wonders,
throwing a merry look back over her shoulder. "The things I've never known,
all this time. T'bay, you are absolutely right. You have such a great deal
of catching up t'do that mayhaps you should skip the glasses and go
straight for shots at this rate. We could see which of us could down the
most of 'em?" Now that suggestion is voiced far, far too innocently to bode
anyone any good, particularly since her eyes too are suddenly the picture
of guilelessness. "Hah. If'n any women in handspan-high heels turn up
*tonight*, I'm going t'be so very and vastly disturbed. Unless you were
*hoping* for such a thing, Vel...."

T'bay treads after the vanishing back of his wingleader, following her into
the near-darkness through jungle and cave alike, at last arriving at the
top of the rope ladder. "If it'll hold me, it'll take anyone," he murmurs,
catching up with his breath only at the top. "Wonder who totes the liquor
down here? Or up here? Or in here?" He blinks at the warmth, shakes his
head. "Rumbling. Volcano. Velano Volcano. Does that sound like a dangerous
combination to you--but perhaps not as dangerous as getting shots. What are
they giving shots for down here? Is there a danger of infection? I thought
only highborn got shots for infections, unless there's a plague. And
somewhere warm hardly seems a good place to hide if there's disease about.
Unless, of course, you're referring to the mind of my buddy, here. Then I
can understand." He blinks, spends a moment looking around. "Wow," he
finally concludes.

The bronzerider brings up the rear as it were, emerging into the lounge
lastmost of the three. "It's held more'n you," he mutters upward as T'bay
steps clear of the ladder's top, then hauls himself up as well. He blinks
in the light and mutters, "Er, no." Whether V'lano's meaning lash-growing,
heel-hoping, or combination-dangerousness is left for personal
interpretation. Especially since giggling low under his breath comes next.
The onetime butcher's turn now to hang some of his weight on his onetime
holdmate; he swings his arm over the brownrider's shoulders and leans a bit
on him, lowering his height to T'bay's so he can mutter - as if whispering
in his ear, but loud enough for Kassima to pick up - "Are you saying my
mind's a disease, or a good place to hide? I'm sure this place has a shot
for that."

"Probably Marcus," Kassima supposes, and points towards the bartender.
"Who'd be him. Heyla, Marcus!" Evidently the barkeep is familiar with this
particular rider, since while he raises his hand to return her wave, his
eyes are decidedly wary. "Oh, T'bay. My poor, uncorrupted Wingmate. Shots
are wee glasses, about so big," and her fingers describe the size, "which
you fill with liquor that you then toss down your throat. Nay disease
involved. That I know of. You have a diseased mind, Vel? I never, never
would've guessed that--" That she manages to affect a look of concern for
the pair is deserving of some sort of award, really. "A'course, drinks
really are a good cure for such ills. So what shall I bring?" She seems to
take V'lano's mutter as an answer of sorts, and gives him a grin that
borders on the wicked. "A shot against mind-disease for you, then. All right."

T'bay makes a face, "Ah, sad to hear tell of it," comes answer to Vel's
first comment upon entering the area. "Enough for a blush?" he tips a
finger toward the red-cheeked one, waves it about, amused. "This story, I
must hear." He half turns his head toward Vel's now very close ear, and
stage-whispers in return, "The former, my friend, the former. About the
latter, I've no proof." He listens, then, to Kassima's description. "Well,
the smaller glasses sound good to start with. I'ven't had much to drink
except what we've been allowed...not sure how that's happened." He blinks,
half-shrugs, directs his arm-in-arm pal toward a table. "We'll keep a seat
warm, you pick the beverage of choice. Sound fair? Especially since you're
treating at least one of us first one up, eh? And I'm sure Vel'd like to
treat us a round. Wouldn't you, diseased one?"

"Oh, Kassima." V'lano draws out the greenrider's name in a decidedly
begging fashion. "You know better!" He uses his free hand to lift and wave
away whatever she might be ordering, head turned toward T'bay, though his
eyes sneak back toward the barkeep and the wingleader, keen upon the
anticipated arrival of her order. "I have a hint for you, friend of mine,"
he shares in an elder-brother tone. "The smaller the glass, the harder the
runnerbeast kicks." This wit offered, he unslings his arm from around the
other rider's neck and pulls a chair back from the table. "Oh, I'm good for
one or two, as long as you get to my turn before I'm babbling insensibly
and can't order. What -are- you getting over there?" The last can only be
directed toward Kassima, his head raised and his dark eyes squinty in her
direction. Mistrusting, isn't he?

Kassima bobs her head agreeably. Too agreeably. It is, in fact, the sort of
agreeableness that should be accompanied by a warning chord on the
soundtrack. She ambles on over to the bar to take care of matters, getting
into a murmured conversation with Marcus over what poison she'd like--it
lasts awhile, and what little is audible suggests that the barkeep is
arguing that the two maleriders still look too young to die. Maybe that's
why when she returns, her tray holds not only three gleaming shot glasses
and a fair-sized bottle of something golden, but also a trio of glasses of
something blue-green. "Sea Spikes," she answers V'lano with a sunny grin,
setting the tray on the table. "For those who lack courage, or who need
t'build courage up. About mid-range kickwise. For the brave: Nabolese
firewater. Seemed like a good starting set." The bronzerider gets one of
her more winsome looks a moment before she solemnly agrees, "As to the
other, you're quite right. I *do* know better than t'doubt your mind is
diseased by now."

"They allow runners in--oh." Belatedly, it seems, T'bay catches on.
"Firewater. I getcha. Maybe," he calls, raising his voice as it comes with
a bit of a squeak attached, "we'd best amend that to a big glass. A very
big glass. Mostly of water. And another, all water, on the side." This
moment of sensibility shared before it became far too late, he pulls back a
chair with a smooth motion of heel and leg, clasping his hand into a fist
of triumph as he sits. "I've gotten better at that. Envied it since that
one rider demonstrated it on visit to the hold, so long back it seems now."
He eases into it, pushes another chair back from the table with an
extension of his long legs, presumedly for Kassima. "Ocean and firewater.
Good combination. I'll start with the salty deeps--call me coward or no.
But of course, after the lady. If there are any of those here." That last?
Definately an attempt to cover up almost calling her ma'am. But was it a
good enough save?

V'lano's eyes roll ceilingward, but he abandons his seat unsat to nudge one
out on the other side of the table, just near where Kassima's putting down
the tray. The effort puts him a little bit underfoot for her, and offers
him a moment to share one of those unsecret mutters. "So I take it you've
abandoned the idea of starting in gentle." A beat. "I wholly approve." He
sidesteps to be out of the way though not out of reach, and grins, "Better
start me off light too, Kassima. You -know- I'm a coward, and not afraid to
admit it."

Kassima chides, "T'bay, T'bay, would I ever insult you by bringing *water*?
That might imply you couldn't handle the liquor, and I'm sure we all know
better than that." Grinning for his triumph, she settles into the chair
offered her after a nod of gratitude to both men. "I live for your
approval, y'know," she grins to V'lano. "Shells, though, 'tisn't fair for
me t'start in on shots a'fore either of you. 'Twill have t'start off easy
m'self. Such a pity. There aren't any ladies present, a'course." There's a
decidedly amused glint in dark green eyes. "Ask your Holdmate. But 'twill
claim a lady's privelege regardless." She distributes the Sea Spikes all
around, and lifts her own in toast: "To shameless cowardice!" A strange
sentiment to which to drink, but drink she does.

T'bay watches the gentlemanly offering of a chair and pulls his feet up
onto the one he'd kicked out, pretending he intended it as a footrest all
along. "Show me up in manners, hmm? I could just as well be weyrbred, you'd
think, by my settling down before our host has even joined us." A hearty
and sincere swallow, maybe of some sort of rising lump in his throat?
follows this announcement. "Of course not! My middle name is Tolerance. Or
else it is Intolerance. I can never be sure." He raises one of the glasses
of oceanic-named brew, raises it in cheer to join the other, and seems
inclined to drink without sipping the dangers of the sea's murky depths.
"So glad you approve, Vel. Well, I'm shameless, that's sure. Let's send 'er
down!" Toast set, he's downing a sip of the liquid, then waiting for the
hurt like burning to commence.

"It's not that I'm showing you up, T'bay. It's that I've got to find
something to do so I can avoid answering you if you ask me what she said to
ask me." V'lano flicks an eye shut in a flash of a wink and rounds behind
Kassima as she drinks back toward his own chair. Last to settle and last to
pick up a Sea Spike, he gives it a distrustful look before deciding with
ironic, narrow tone, "Anything that pretty can't be any harm." He lifts the
glass to belatedly match the others, then tosses down a swallow, closing
his mouth over the gulp with a wincing grin.

"You could make a point of sipping the drink with your little finger
extended if'n you want t'make up for lost formal-manners points," Kassima
teases, playful, after swallowing about a quarter of her glass's worth and
waiting long enough for the burning in her own throat to subside. She seems
in fact obnoxiously unaffected, which makes it so much easier for her to
watch with more than a hint of mirth to see what their reactions might be.
"Vel! Are you implying that your answer would be something 'twould nay want
t'hear?" she wonders, casting him such a wounded look, eyes exaggeratedly
widened and lower lip threatening to pout.

The pretty and innocuous beverage that is the sea spike reaches out and
slaps T'bay, and he tugs his face back and eyes the glass. "Now what'd ya
have to go and do that for? You were so pretty there for a minute. Then you
grew a tentacle or something, and walloped me on the nose." Disbelieving,
he takes another sip, then repeats his amazed face. "What makes the colors
separate, then join together?" he wonders, raising the glass to examine its
shadings, lifting his pinky as directed, though he looks rather foolish
doing so. "Like this?--hey, no hiding. Whatever she wanted me to ask,
consider it asked." Another mistrusting stare at the drink preceeds yet
another sip. "It's not so bad, if you can ignore its attitude. Like
drinking a sea star, you know?"

When the smooth gives way to fire, V'lano exhales audibly, stifling a cough
that threatens to rattle his breath halfway through the sigh. He begins
reply to Kassima with a syllable very much like "I," but pauses then and
seeks refuge, wisely, in another gulp of the drink. Betrayed eyes slide
sideways, seeking out his holdmate, and his brows shade them by furrowing
low, but it still takes him a few minutes - swallowing a couple of times,
mute - to manage to say anything good. "I think," he begins, shifting his
gaze back to Kassima - and though squinty from the threat of the drink,
there's merriness in those eyes - "you'd like my answer far too much. I'd
be out of place to even give it." He smirks, triumphant, as if what he's
said makes perfect sense. He even picks up on a different topic for good
measure: "So -have- you drunken a sea star?"

Kassima's head ducks so that her laughter won't be quite so apparent, but
her amusement at T'bay's chiding of his glass is too great for her to hide
very effectively. "I suspect it has something t'do with differing
consistencies of liquor--some are thicker than others, depending on how
they're made and what they're made from. But if'n you want the honest
truth? Even as often as I've mixed up things--and if'n we manage t'get
through this and are all still conscious, I may mix a pitcher of the
official Thunderbolt drink for us t'split--I really haven't much idea. I'm
just happy t'drink it." Evidently so, since the glass is slightly less than
half full when she's done with her second draught. A long exhalation
through her nose is her only sign of feeling it at all. "Well, that's a
relief," she agrees, semi-mollified. "But tempts me terribly, terribly much
t'be suggesting T'bay ask again when the glass is empty and you've mayhaps
had a shot or two besides. Very little seems out of place then, strangely
enough. Would you do that for me, T'bay?"

"Nooo, not exactly drank one. I licked one, but it was dried. And I
understand that they sting. Don't they sting? And I bet it feels like this
tastes." His eyes go sideways to catch Vel's cough, concerned. "You okay?"
he oblivously asks, teasingly, "Sounds like that last sip hurt. You'd best
take another before you give me a better answer. Cause that last one?
Sarevith hocks up better stuff than that load of meatroll." A wink toward
Kassima, "If I can remember, I'll just keep asking, even after I forget the
question." Another drought down, T'bay's eyes are just a touch glassy,
though it could be the light. "Nah, really, though. It isn't so bad. Warms
up the insides nicely. Consistencies of liquids, hm? Like oil on water, how
the one floats? I wonder if there is oil in here." He studies the glass,
then recalls his job as tormentor, shifting to study Vel.

"Oh, oh, see, you're assuming I'll last that far." V'lano wrinkles his
mouth in a wry, broken smile at T'bay, then swallows another quarter of the
suddenly-seafoam mixture, the remainder barely a gulp waiting for him to
pass through the ebb and flow of ocean-calm, then tidal-wave burn. "And
you're assuming you'll remember to ask. For all you know we'll all have
forgotten what we were asking about by then. Why, I've forgotten already."
He raises the tumbler toward Kassima, then sets it down on the table, the
small quantity of liquid within coating its sides as it rocks, then
subsides. "Surprised it didn't sting you on the tongue," he muses
belatedly. "Missed its chance." Something about this must be funny by the
breadth of his grin, but he just sits there staring at the rest of the
Spike, his fingers loose around the glass.

"*Why* did you lick a sea star?" Kassima simply must know, staring at the
brownrider in surprise and fascination. "Was this some sort of dare? Did
you get paid for it?" She subsides into snickers again for his teasing of
V'lano, and lifts her glass to him in appreciative toast: "Most gracious
and kind. There *could* be some sort of oil... and I assure," brightly, so
brightly, "that 'twill remember! At least for awhile! I Impressed at
Benden, y'know." Because that's relevant. She adds by way of illustration,
"The question was whether there are any ladies present. What about that's
amusing?" She knocks back another quarter of her glass--then, after a
moment's thought, just drains the whole thing, resting the glass's rim
against her forehead a moment before leaning in to peek at V'lano's
expression. Her repeated, "Missed its chance," suggests she has a suspicion
of the answer, and that it has something to do with that previously-used
phrase.

"It was dried, you wherry," he laughs in V'lano's direction. "Very dried.
The dried ones don't sting. And I was curious. It felt all textured. I
wondered what it would taste like. And I was about eight turns old at the
time; alas, no prizes. It was a stealth lick. No judgement. Some things
never change." And for all he knows, the live ones neither. "Of course I
recall our topic. It was something about how there are no ladies present?"
In a miracle of recall, made even more humorous by the fact that it is only
a repetition of what Kassima just said, and that T'bay doesn't realize that
he repeated her words rather than coming up with them on his own, T'bay
celebrates by downing another gulp of the foamy tidal terror.

"Well, certainly I can answer -that,-" V'lano pooh-poohs, even with a flick
of his hand to dismiss the very possibility of any difficulty with the
question. "There's certainly a lady present. Yes. Positive. Absolutely.
Somewhere, possibly in disguise, but definitely present, in every meaning
of the term. Present. Next?" He recircles the glass in his fingers and
raises it to finish the contents, interrupted only by the need to laugh:
"Stealth lick!" He laughs more, propping his elbow on the tabletop so the
glass is steadied away from his bowing head.

Kassima considers T'bay across the table for a beat or two before deciding,
"All right, this? Is me, I'd just like you both t'be noting, nay saying *a
thing* about judgment in stealth lickings or how you know that hasn't
changed since. Nay. A. Thing. Some sort of prize is definitely in order."
Which is not to say that V'lano's mirth doesn't touch off her own so that
she's snickering all over again despite her attempt to be serious there,
and her merry taunt of, "All right, so which of you is the disguised lady?"
has to get out through chortles.

"In disguise?" T'bay looks all around the lava lounge, his eyes settling on
the bartender himself. "Must be that one. Looks suspicious, if you ask me."
To cover up his unseemly topic, he raises his glass in toast to the tender,
drinks down the rest of his first beverage with a bit too much fervor for
his own good. "I haven't licked Velano," he assures, reverting to the older
version of the youth's name as the glass is deposited on the table top,
where it wobbles, then steadies uncertainly. "Unless you mean in
fisticuffs. Might've accidentally bopped him one here or there. But not on
purpose. He's was a butcher," he half-errs, then corrects, winking at his
holdmate's drooping head, "that makes him strong of arm. I'm not starting a
fight with him. And I thought M'tri wore the dresses. Not one of us."

V'lano mocks affront, backing upright in his seat and lifting the
nearly-empty glass to a place aside of his face. "How could you think I
meant one of -us,-" he queries, eyes wide in innocence. "Doesn't being a
lady require flowers in one's hair and, and, um. Oh!" He lifts the
unencumbered hand to snap. "Long pretty dresses. And! Concealed, tiny
weaponry!" Perhaps he's driving at something particular, especially as his
eyes are becoming squinty upon the greenrider across the table, his grin
wry all the while. Lowly, he confides, "Besides, I've got T'bay fooled." As
if T'bay's not right there. "He thinks I could still beat him hand to hand.
As long as he thinks so, the better for me. No licking!"

"Marcus is a woman?" Well, that just gets more merriment from Kassi, who
sets her head down on the table until the fit has passed enough for her to,
straightening, reach for the bottle of firewater to pour the first three
shots. "It admittedly hadn't occurred t'me until now that you *had*--licked
him *in fisticuffs*? Accidentally licked him? Licked him accidentally?"
Some questions bear repeating, and she's staring again with that bottle
poised for pouring. Then, more snickers. "Such a mental image. *Such*.
You're right, though: M'tri wears the dresses." Each small glass is
eventually filled almost to the brim with gleaming liquid, and she sets the
bottle down with a thump. "But! I do nay have flowers in m'hair, Vel,
you'll note! Someone hasn't put them there yet. Concealed, tiny weaponry,
though...." A pause. "I guess that would be me. Since I'm sure neither of
you have," cough, "tiny weaponry. If'n you two ever decide t'test out again
who's better, promise t'call me so I can come and watch? It sounds fun. So
long as, aye, licking is optional."

"Weapons? Oh dear." T'bay mock-frowns, then shakes his head. "That part of
the description gives it up. I'm afraid you must be the lady here,
Wingleader," he reluctantly identifies, his words again coming just a
moment after her own confession. "For there is no one else here who can be
brought upon occasion to wield a sharp but small knife in the same way that
you can." An acknowledgement of some sort, perhaps? He tips his head,
respectfully, then ponders her follow up question. "Licked like triumphed
over. It can mean that, can't it? Not just slurped like a dragon tongue?
Bah, Vel. You're in far better shape than I, no need to be shy." His eyes
follow the motion of glass-filling and decanter-setting aside with
fascination, so much so that he misses the jibe. "Definately not tiny.
Besides, I don't think we're encouraged to carry knives at all. Except to
eat with." Talk about confusing the issue. "Is this the second course? What
was it again? Sheer guts of the volcano?"

V'lano's temporarily disabled, unable to defend himself, by red-eared
laughter over - well, pretty much all of that. He swirls the last of the
blue liquid, settling out some of its bubbles, and settles himself enough
to swallow it. "If you had flowers in your hair, it wouldn't be much of a
disguise," he breathes, robbed of voice halfway through the remark by the
burn. At last the Spike's glass is set aside, though he makes no reach for
one of the shots. Instead his hands rest atop the table, wrists angled
against the edge, fingers laced neatly, perfectly prim, in hands at least a
proper student ready to listen to a harper's lecture. He flicks a gaze
toward Kassima, deadpanning upon his fellow rider's unclued response,
"Certainly not. Built like bulls." Made gamey by the first round, he leans
toward T'bay to explain the second: "Firewater. This is where I'm done for.
Kassima'll have to lash me to Lysseth to get me home." Pause. "Which
Lysseth would probably get a pretty good charge out of, come t'think of it."

Kassima affects a disappointed expression and gripes, "Doesn't seem fair
that I should have t'be the lady--I'm fair sure ladies aren't supposed
t'drink beyond a few genteel sips. Ah, well. Just don't tell the Holders on
me--but do tell me, if'n 'twould, if'n any knives I might wield cut where I
don't intend." This is said somewhat more seriously than her other
protestation, but the nod lightens her expression; whatever she thought he
meant, she's evidently now reassured. "Well, it can. Only unless you meant
brawling with the sea star too methinks 'twas quite justified in confusion.
I'm certes nay going t'protest if'n you carry as many knives--" Another
pause. Resistence is futile. "--Of whatever size suits you, as you wish.
Nabolese firewater, this. I don't *think* there are volcano-guts in it, but
'twouldn't be all that surprised." She nudges one of the glasses over to
T'bay, one to V'lano, and claims the third for herself. She takes this last
up, though doesn't drink yet; she asks V'lano in a tone of great sweetness,
"Know that for sure about him, d'you? My, my, my... shells, you don't just
whistle the quaint regional melody. Lyss will snicker forever. Will Volath?
And since I drank first last time, by the by, one of you gets the honors now."

"Good thing they don't get a headache from the one's we're like as not to
carry home with us," the brownrider agrees, straightening his own posture
belatedly. "What is this? Primer time? I missed that we were starting
class, sorry." He folds his own hands, though has to concentrate to get the
lacing of his fingers lined up enough to set them down properly, his gaze
one of schooled but wavering concentration as he tries to follow the
dialogue. "What, sorry, knives? I don't think we'd need more than one
apeice. And the sea star? It didn't have any that I felt." He unclasps his
hands, cups one around the shot glass, and slides it closer to himself
slowly, aiming to avoid spillage. "Whistling? Bulls? I didn't know they
could whistle. Say, since it's my first go, I'll steal the honors." Careful
fingers circle, then raise the glass, and he eyes it midair. "Drink it all
down at once, or in little drinks? Which is best?"

V'lano shakes his head at Kassima, his eyes flickering a threat of
seriousness as she shows signs, however brief, of fretting over her own
sharp edges. The tension is brief and easily dismissed into his own
self-conscious chuckling. "We're -holdbred,-" he protests, using the oldest
defense in the book and lifting a palm to wave off any ideas the
wingleader's getting about the Lemos-reared pair. "Don't even imagine it.
Besides, T'bay's a good sort. Not to be spoiled by my diseased mind."
There's ruefulness in the tease, and he leans away from the brownrider to
watch the downing of the firewater - which doesn't come. "Oh, come on!"
Better to demonstrate than explain, in sudden impatience he grabs up the
glass pushed his way and upends it into his mouth. Gulp. A brief, quiet
moment ensues in which one can almost hear the steamy send-up resulting
from the meeting of fire and ocean somewhere in the bronzer's belly.

"Indeed nay. Just don't forget," Kassi cautions, shifting into seriousness
for just a moment, "t'be telling your dragons t'be getting their
visualizations from the watchpair back home rather than you. Always, when
you've been drinking enough t'leave you fuzzy. And probably," she concedes
more brightly, "you do just need one. More might get awkward. I'd point out
that I like having many knives m'self, but... 'twould sound really, really
wrong, just now," to say the very least, "so I won't." The look V'lano
flicks her is met by one with a touch of concern still in it--not entirely
reassured, she--but she shifts with a will back to the lighter side to
point out, "Well, y'never can be *sure*... he's a good sort, though, 'twill
agree. And I *like* your diseased mind, just for the record." She might
have answered the brownrider's query, but V'lano's demonstration distracts
her--she laughs outright, applauds her appreciation, and with an agreeing,
"That's the way!" takes up her own shot to toss it down her throat with
practiced efficiency. Not that any amount of practice can keep her eyes
from crossing, nor a cough from escaping her as vocal chords are singed.

"Hey! You took my turn. He took my turn!" He in turn, turns a petulant eye
toward Kassima, as if seeking a punishment for his holdbred fellow. Soon
enough, curiousity gets the better of him, however, and he again is
regarding Vel, as if to observe any conflagration which might become
apparent. "Well. He hasn't burst yet. I suppose it can't be that bad--" His
own follows suit just about the time Kassima gets to the warning about
visualizations, leaving T'bay to choke and sputter fearfully as well as
from the burning sizzle of the disguised beverage. "They can help us get
home? I'm afraid to try if there's any doubt--can we stay here, sleep on
the beach maybe?" comes out in hardly a breath of words, mostly as a
coughed exhalation with his lips making the effort at words and projecting
them into it, which lasts a few concerned moments before another topic
sticks in his short-spanned mind. "I'm a good sort?"

V'lano suffers far worse than crossed eyes and singed vocal cords, though
it's delayed - mouth shut, eyes squinted closed, he suppresses the breath
of fire until the high-pitched wheeze can't stay inside any longer and
betrays his state. When his somewhat infamous lashes part, it's on watering
eyes, and he complains, "Kassima! You could have warned us." Grinning,
because she did. "But by Volath's last shell-shard stuck to his shiny
backside, it's good stuff. Good, meaning, I'm glad I didn't taste it." The
bronzerider turns his merry face sidelong on his brownriding counterpart to
explain, "You're a good sort! It's like, uh, well. Ask Claret, she'll
agree." On this, he bursts into a sudden half-laugh, bitten off by better
thinking of it.

Kassima, made the merrier by T'bay's petulant look, considers the matter
gravely for a moment before reaching a hand over to try and thoroughly muss
V'lano's hair. Yeah, that'll teach him. Another cough before she finds her
voice, still steady but with a small rasp to it from the liquor, "They can,
but if'n you're in doubt 'tis better t'stay--you can absolutely sleep on
the beach. Or here, for that matter. I've spent only too many a night
unconscious on the floor here, which by the by includes the last night
'twere both here, Vel, if'n you'd like t'mock me. Shock of shocks, isn't
it?" In that she's back to teasing, though she spares more effort than
normal to be sure her tone is light, the jest and the friendly nature of it
clear. Well, until the need to chortle at poor V'lano wins her attention:
"What would the fun of *that* have been?" she asks even as she refills his
glass, and T'bay's, and her own. "That's one--" For the last she sticks to
a straight-faced, maybe even sincere, "And I'm sure she would."

T'bay continutes halting wheezy breaths, one hand no longer holding the
glass moving to clutch at his throat, the other hand firmly clutching the
container which held the blazing brew as if it were petrified in place,
even as it is refilled. "You looked at his backside? How could you have had
enough mind to do that?" His eyes shift to the refill, then widen. "If
you've smoothed a spot on the floor, kindly point it out so I can fall
there after the next round," he manages to get out, mostly breath forced
over a burned-through throat. "Claret?" T'bay brightens slightly, a partial
grin coming along, leaving him resembling a bovine. "I like Claret. She
makes me smile. You best not laugh at her, or I'll tell, and Avrieth will
give you the what-for. She's very protective." Just for good measure, for
Kassima, he adds, "Mock. Mock mock. Mock mock mock." Then, to beat them to
the round's beginning, he downs the second shot, and a few moments later
whispers, "ouch" weakly.

Telgar Weyr> K'nan says, "Yar."

Telgar Weyr> Kassima snugs her Evil Mentor.

"You should've come with me. I got suckered into wrapping Amarie up all
pretty and leaving her like a turnday package on a certain someone's ledge.
Oh, and Volath was happy as you can imagine about getting anywhere near."
V'lano bows his head, the easier to muss his curls, and outstretches the
glass-holding hand, the easier to have the shot replenished. He straightens
to watch T'bay take the first step into this round, grinning, and chortles
softly as the beatific look inspired by Claret's mention becomes a somewhat
different expression. His friend's final word on the matter makes him laugh
outright. "Take another one and tell us how much you like her," he
suggests, and lifts his own glass toward Kassima before preparing to knock
it back. Bravado fails him and he lowers the drink a second before it hits
his lips, only to shudder a breath and try again, with success this time.
Again, gulp; again, the strong-willed silence of keeping the lid on the
furnace.

Telgar Weyr> K'nan says, "Don't you dare read that wall."

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "Which one? There are six now. ;)"

Telgar Weyr> K'nan says, "Oh good. The parts about me are then harder to
find."

Kassima seems to take this question somewhat seriously since she cranes her
neck about to study the floor. "Last time 'twas there," she decides,
pointing towards a place under the most recent wall-space cleared for
writing. "Could try one of the sky-chairs too, if'n you trust you won't
fall out. Or get nauseated and throw up. That'd be bad. Really, now,
though, two rounds? I'm sure you can make it to at least three," which
means it's his turn to get the winsome, encouraging smile. "If'n nay four.
Now, Claret's a most excellent person and rider--she's m'mentee, so that's
a given. I haven't a reason in the world t'laugh at her. Besides, 'twill be
too busy weeping for all your mocking of me." A wink, and she knocks back
her shot. She's very careful in setting the glass back on the table; her
eyes are closed, her breathing measured and even, so that she can
eventually manage to say with unholy cheer, "Two. What did you wrap her in,
Vel?" It might be an innocent question. Her eyes do sparkle, but at this
point of alcohol-consumption, they'd likely do that anyway. Her empty glass
toasts him right back as she sets to refilling all their glasses yet again:
"That sounds like an excellent idea, T'bay. Do tell! We could each agree
t'answer a question for you in fair exchange?"

Telgar Weyr> Kassima starts to recite from memory (and, I believe, wall
section two), "There once was a rider, K'nan, who became a kilt-wearing
man...." ;)

Telgar Weyr> K'nan waves his cane threateningly!

Telgar Weyr> Kassima, too tipsy to know fear, triumphantly finishes, "His
feathers were ruffled when his kilt, Lysseth whuffled--that was certainly
not in his plan!" She then flees. Quickly. ;)

"You wrapped up Amarie and did /what/?" T'bay croaks incredulously, the
hand with the glass slipping back to the table in his surprise. "Ooo, I'm
sure that made you popular. Or something." He laughs, then laughs some more
as his usually warm-toned voice has been transformed, even in its
expression of mirth, into a hoarse whisper. Still chipper, he attemts to
visually track the location of Kassima's point, and perhaps, to attempt to
commit it to memory. "She weeps that I mock you?" he asks his wingleader
with all seriousness. "I didn't know that. That doesn't seem very like her.
I mean, no disrespect, but she's not usually that defensive." He watches
the warming liquid settle in his glass, heedless of consequences. "Oh, I
like her all right," he glibly replies. "Your turn. Only. I can't think of
any questions."

Telgar Weyr> T'bay says, "Ut oh."

Telgar Weyr> K'nan says, "Don't make me come down there, woman."

Telgar Weyr> Kassima proves her intelligence by putting her thumbs in her
ears, sticking out her tongue, and announcing, "Nyah, nyah!"

Telgar Weyr> K'nan makes a note to hunt down Kassima and seduce her.

Telgar Weyr> K'nan says, "Just because she'd be going 'ew' for the rest of
her life afterwards!"

Telgar Weyr> T'bay fears these walls.

"Being your mentee makes one a most excellent person and rider?" V'lano
pipes up with obvious hopefulness once the burn has passed. He shakes his
head, breathing a few times to clear some of the ash from his throat. "No,
I can't say. You have to ask her, you two; it's none of my business. I was
just helping a friend. - And T'bay, it doesn't count how much you like her,
as an answer, until you've had another. Go on!" He flicks a grin toward
Kassima and adds, joyfully, "He can't think of any questions. So there!"

Telgar Weyr> K'nan says, "Do not look at them!"

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "...Now there's a testimony you don't hear every
day. --Aren't they great? I've, uh, sort of written on them a lot."

"Nay, nay, *I'll* be busy weeping. Weep, weep, weep," Kassi enunciates as
best the liquor allows. She's still coherent and her hands are steady as
she pours, but when she's taken her turn at downing her shot first--and
caught her breath, which is definitely a prerequisite--her accent's a
little thicker, insofar as it can be made out through the increasing rasp.
"I'm nay sure it *makes* 'em so, so much as that I've had the fortune that
all m'mentees *were* so," she decides after some thought and a grin for the
mentee of hers who is currently present. "But shhhh, don't tell any of 'em,
including yourself. They might get swelled heads. Doesn't count? All right,
you heard him, T'bay! Drink! Then answer!" Her beam back to V'lano is
equally jubilant: an answer free of charge!

"I think," begins T'bay, ponderously. "I think, you'll each have to think
of a question for each other. If I can't think of any. After I've add
another drink." Said drink awaits, already in the glass, and he studies it,
as if surprised to find it there. "Say, it's full already. I didn't know
that either." As if to remedy this misappropriation of the liquid as a
filler for the glass, T'bay again drinks, a full body shiver claiming him
for a moment after the fire goes down. "I," he breathes heavily, "can sear
thread. Watch me." He turns his head, exhales forcefully. "See that? See?
Fire. Pure fire." Answer? What answer?

V'lano's drink is last to go. Before it does, he raises up the shot glass
and pronounces, "Answer, ansser, asswer!" Then the firewater's doused in
his mouth, lips closing over it as his shoulders shudder against the
volcanic impact. This time he can't keep back the cough, and his hand lays
the glass down heavy on the table so he can lean into his elbow while the
flareup sears his throat. He rumbles a murmur of disapproval at himself,
then peels his hand away from the glass and leans back in his chair, arms
lax at his sides and fingers hanging curled by the chair's legs on either
side. "You're a dragon," the bronzerider informs T'bay, then squints as if
to focus on him, turning his head to the side. "No, wait. I think you're
more like a wher. Only smarter. And nicer. And not so bumpy." He chews on
his lower lip a moment, then sits upright in sudden recollection. "I get to
ask Kassima a question?"

Kassima gives a thoughtful frown at this requirement, tapping the bottom of
her shot glass against the tabletop a few times. "But I already asked the
question I had...." She can't be pensive for long, though, and indeed she
isn't. She sets the glass down entirely to clap in glee for T'bay's
Thread-roasting performance--still sober enough, if only just, to be amused
by the antics of others instead of getting into a flaming contest then and
there. "Beautiful!" she proclaims. "You can be proud! But you didn't
*answer*. How much," she sing-songs, "d'you like Claret? D'you like her a
*lot*?" Even as she asks this, she's ver-ry carefully pouring a fresh dose
of throat-killer into each glass, apparently not inclined to stop until the
bottle's empty or someone takes it away from her. "You're doing good," she
encourages V'lano. "That's *three*. We're gonna make it t'four. Mayhaps
five. 'Tis a good start." A squinted look later, she agrees so very
grandly, "You may ask me a question!"

T'bay realizes the slur in V'lano's voice makes a funny word, and his
determined searing of the imaginary foe of Pern comes to an abrupt halt.
"Say, if I miss it, will I end up with big lines of color on my face, or
just this burning feeling in my stomach and throat?" He inspects himself
quite interestedly, curiously pinching at his own arm. "I am? Wow. This
drink turns ordinary men into dragons." He 'belches' another pretended
clump, then woozles and turns a slight shade paler. "I don't like the
belching part as much as the part where the thread burns up," he sincerly
confesses, before saying farewell to his fourth? Fourth cup of liquid
stomach disintegrator. Cough. Gasp. Splutter. "Claret?" Wheeze. "I like
Claret." Return of bovine face. "Shesh funny. How much?" Thinking face. "At
least as much as I like pastries. But it depends on the kind of pastriesh.
You know what? I donch feel very well. Mayyybe, notch another cup for me."

"It's all right. I have to think of a question too." V'lano shuts his eyes
with the effort of thinking, unaware of his glass over there on the table
being refilled, or of the count increasing. T'bay's efforts with the
thread-flaming earn his attention for a while, but the confession of 'I
like Claret' causes him to turn away and lean into the table, shuddering -
presumably with silent laughter. He picks himself up and reaches out for
the glass - oh look, it's full! - and perches the rim of it against his
lower lip. Like that, he observes, "You got to like her better than
pastries, Tobay. I never seen you spend that long wi' a pastry. Yet. Oh,
hey." He lowers the glass, eyes sliding toward Kassima, and again he
straightens the sudden straightening of realization. "I get to ask you a
question!" Still.

"I don't think it does that t'everybody. I don't feel like a dragon,"
Kassima decides, though she gives the matter some serious thought first.
"And I don't think *anybody* likes belching as much as they like fire. If'n
they do, then they are sick, sick people. Or dragons. Whichever--" She
breaks off that thought to down her own glass with something of a splutter
this time. Her eyes water just a little as she lowers her head, making her
blink as spastically as a certain Apprentice contestant. "You like her as
much as pie," she sighs. "That's so *sweet*. Awww... well, but you got
t'four." She accepts this defeat philosophically. "That's nay bad. And just
you wait, Wingmate. Within two Turns? We'll have you up t'*ten*. At least!"
Quite as if this is a wonderful thing, and quite as if he's bound to see it
as such too. Turning to V'lano for confirmation, "Isn't it sweet? And even
sweeter if'n he likes her *better* than pie. There should be a song about
that. Liking someone better than pie. You do!" She points to him. "So
what's your question? Ask me your question! I'm nay afraid!"

An ever-increasingly greening T'bay is leaning slightly forward in his
chair, his elbows propped up on the table, his chin in turn propped up on
his elbows, his glass abandoned. "Shesh eashy to talk to. Most pastriesh
don't chalk back." He ponders this for a moment, as if to be sure, before
adding, "All. I think, all of them donch chalk back. Not even piesh. I
forget, though." More concerted effort is spent on this thinking thing,
then, "I think. Iiii think ten? Out of the queshtion. Ohhh, ohhh.
Queshtion. Okay. Ashk her a queshtion. We're all wailling in sushpenshe."

"We're all wailing..." V'lano giggles. His eyes close and he raises the
glass again. This one doesn't go down in a gulp; it takes a little effort
for him to tilt the rim against his lip and let the liquid slide down. He
then slams his jaw shut and wheezes through his nose, eyes tearing up. "No
more," he begs, voiceless, pushing the little glass back out over the
tabletop. "Question. Ask Kassi... ma a question. Hey." The bronzerider
blinks a few times and puts on a beatific, triumphant grin. "We should call
you Kassi, because 'ma' begins with ma'am. Er, the other way around, like."
Though at least half of his words make it out unslurred, his vocabulary
seems to be having issues: "The question. I was going to ask. If you wear
different things." One hand rises to his earlobe, fingertip tracing the
skin there. Perhaps it's a twitchy thing, or else he's trying to explain
what 'things' means. "Things, in your... things, you know, shiny. Bobby
things. What different kind would they be?"

Kassima studies T'bay's face a moment. "You might want some klah," she
suggests. "Or water, or tea, a'fore you sleep. Nay looking so good. As in
sick. Don't *think* pastry talks. It's never talked t'me. Mayhaps if'n you
asked *pie* a question?" She seems to find this quite the logical
suggestion, and in fact flashes a beam after making it. "--Ten's
*possible*, 'tis, because I... I did *sixteen* once. I did. Only then I
passed out an' I woke up under the table an' somebody'd taken m'boots." Her
hand reaches for the bottle again, but this time--mercifully--it's to
restopper it instead of pour. "But. But. Gotta work *up* to that. You can
call me Kassi if'n I can call you Vel," she assures the bronzerider, and
never mind that she's been calling him that off and on since a certain
flight. It takes her a second to parse this question, especially watching
this earlobe-tracing with some fascination, but at length: "Oh! Oh. Hmm.
Well, I like green. But I've *got* green. Emerald. So mayhaps... red?
Black? Or blue, or purple, or jade mayhaps; like all those colors."
Suddenly, she brightens. "Ooh, but I know *my* question. 'Cause I get t'ask
you one too. What color d'you think would look pretty? That one."

"The free kind?" T'bay ventures, a giggle getting out between his lips
though they are squished against his hands where his face rests. Succumbing
to more giggles, his arms gradually slide farther and farther apart at the
elbows until the palms are resting on the table, and the face still resting
on the palms. "Bobby things. Fire breathing. Claret....Pies And some water.
Yeah, water... Hee hehe hee. You'd be all nice with jade ones. Lemos mines
jade. Hee hehe hee." Slowly, his drooping eyes begin to close, and a soft
snoring sound issues rapidly forth, leaving him unable to witness the
return question for V'lano, much as he might later be sad he missed it.

V'lano giggles again. "Taken your boots. But what for? Just liked 'em? You
ever find out who? ...Oh, wait. I only had one... answer thing." The finger
that traced his earlobe raises with its brethen to rub a circle into his
temple, and for a moment the bronzerider winces against the threat of a
distant headache. "What color. Well. I thought blue maybe. I thought about
blue for a long time. Blue, um, water blue. Only from above. Like the waves
from on a dragon, only between the waves, because the waves themselves are
kind of like white. Purple..." gets some consideration, his focus fading
for a moment as his own eyelids droop like T'bay's, then snap wide again.
"Sc'ept jade's green," he turns to tell his onetime holdmate in a faintly
betrayed tone. "S'not blue. You're sleeping. He's sleeping," he tells
Kassima. It's important that she know. "So what about roping me to Lysseth.
That not going to work?" He grins, then props an open palm on the tabletop
and fits his chin into it. "Think it's home time."

Kassima starts snickering about midway through T'bay's recital, highly
amused and tipsy enough that she doesn't try to hide it. "Methinks he's
*sleeping*," she confides in a 'whisper' to V'lano once the snoring begins.
"An' dreaming about Claret. And pie. Better nay be water, though, or
Claret'll get pregnant." Good thing T'bay missed that particular comment,
probably. "Took 'em because he was *evil*--'twas a Wingmate, an' I got 'em
back after some creative revengering. Free answer. 'Cause I'm nice like
that." She subsides into listening to him though, and when he mentions
thinking about blue for a long time, it gets him one of her bright smiles.
"If'n you think 'twould be pretty, then that. That's the kind they'd be." A
solemn nod, before she chortles--almost giggles--for this confirmation of
her suspicion. "He *is*. And methinks I can rope you if'n you want t'be
roped. Which weyr? Mine? Yours? You in mine and me in yours?" Something
about that last sentence isn't quite right, and her brow furrows as she
tries to figure out just what.

Whatever's not just right there either makes perfect sense to the
bronzerider, or not; no matter, he laughs merrily as if it's the funniest
joke ever made, eyes squinting and watering - no cause from the firewater,
certainly! - one hand twitching a desire to thump the table. When at last
he sobers and straightens, he fixes a steady gaze on T'bay. "Hate to leave
him." V'lano frowns in thought, then rolls his shoulders. "But if I leave
Volath 'twon't be so bad. Or Sarevith. Sarevith counts." He tilts his head
back at the greenrider, then pushes back his chair in obvious effort to
rise to his feet. He makes it only by holding palms steady on the table's
surface, much of his weight in his arms. "You know," he murmurs with
surprising coherence, "I think maybe it doesn't matter so much where we go
sleep so much as where we wake up. Where should we wake up?"

Telgar Weyr> T'bay wavies around, heads off to slumberland. Thanks for the
rp, very much! :)

Telgar Weyr> Kassima snugs good night! Sleep well and dream of pie! ;)

Telgar Weyr> V'lano says, "Mmm, pie,."

Telgar Weyr> T'bay snickers. Night!

Kassima looks pleased to have amused, enough so that she seems to forget
that she's not quite clear on what was so amusing. She laughs along in
fact, because mirth is contagious and she's in that stage of
tipsy-bordering-on-drunk where she's not feeling bad yet and almost
everything is funny. "We could sleep here too," she supposes, "although a
floor's a bit of a bugger t'wake up on. Or could sleep out on the beach.
If'n you'd rather." She rises with somewhat more grace, but it's the sort
of grace that someone is concentrating very hard to achieve. Her hand wraps
around the neck of the half-emptied and stoppered bottle. "I'm flexible as
far as that goes... wherever's comfortable for you, methinks, will be fine
with me. Except mayhaps T'bay's weyr; that'd just be weird. Have you a
preference?"

"Oh." The syllable is stretched out low and long, a tide-roar muse stop to
his giggling. "The beach would be nice. I think. If it's warm enough." He
slowly pushes himself upright, then cautiously removes his hands from the
table. "I won't get in trouble for leaving him here. Cause, you know, we
won't be far." He puts out an arm to offer a hand, firm enough on his feet
to risk falling prey to Kassima's stability, not to mention gamble on
walking at all. "And if we don't like waking up there maybe we can get home
then. Without the ropes. Because Lysseth would... snicker. Didn't you say
snicker?" Hand held or otherwise, he moves toward the ladder, moaning a
mutter of irritation under his breath at the realization that there's, as
he puts it, 'silly climbing' to do to get out of the lounge. But out he
heads, anyway.

"We might see the sunrise, too, if'n we wake up in time," which thought
seems to please Kassima further, although more in whimsical, almost wistful
fashion than in a way that sets off more giggles. "Always warm enough at
Boll. An' can curl up with me for warmth, if'n you want to." Her turn for a
moment's coherence there, before she tucks the bottle under her arm and
takes his hand--maybe offers him steadiness along the way, if he needs it,
since while she may weave a little she doesn't seem in much danger of
falling. Let's hear it for the tolerance of established lushes. "I'm all
for that, because she'd snicker and *point*," the greenrider agrees,
"somehow." Goodness alone knows how; that's a question that can follow them
down the ladder and through the jungle perhaps, to the beach, where sleep
and at least one dragon who may well laugh at them but will have the grace
not to do so where any but Kassi will know are waiting.

V'lano climbs down the crude ladder.

You climb down the crude ladder.