Honor amongst men?

Participants:

E'ro.jpg Max.jpg

Date: 2010.07.22
Location: A pub located near Eastern Weyr
Synopsis: Max decides to mingle with the locals and ends up with more than he'd expected.
Rating: R for violence and language.
Logger: Max


Who called for all this rain? And the thunder? The lightning? It certainly wasn't E'ro or his posse, all lamenting the weather that sends them inside rather than one some kind of fantastical journey. They won't be unhappy for long, as the shelter they've chosen is that of a local tavern and bar not too far from Eastern Weyr. Old, worn, and shuttered is the building, but the inside is just used and dirty enough to be comfortable for a bunch of rowdy men. There's two barmaids and a bartender, all of whom have their hands full with the crowd of hooligans that have overtaken the place on this dismal day. "Shards, there's enough sausage in this place to satisfy all of Fort's greenriders," is the comment of another bronzerider, as he tugs his leather jacket tighter. "Makes it easier to pick their pockets then," chimes in a young bluerider. "Oh, blimey, shut your lips and find us some poker partners. I ain't got the patience to deal with the likes of you two," is the last of the party of four, a crockety old brownrider who sets forth knocking shoulders, looking for a good game. That leaves E'ro, who prefers a good pint to a hand of cards; he'll mosey over to the bar, wedged himself up there between two large gents without so much as an apology. "I'll have a beer." Simple but practical. It's not long before the seats beside him are freed up, neither of the burly men at his elbows happy with sharing their drinks with a dragonrider. Some people, huh?

Foul weather to match a foul mood. The gods must love him. With the skies having been clear when he’d left the Weyr, Max had in turn, left his overcoat behind. So its one drenched and unhappy rider that squelches his way into the bar, water running off of him everywhere and leaving a trail behind him. Pretty barmaids are for the time, ignored in favour of setting a pursed lipped look over the crowd of dragonriders. The cut on his mouth is starting to heal, the broken nose…that’ll take a while longer. All he wants now is somewhere to nurse a couple of drinks and try to dry off. Which has him heading for the bar, spurs and water – squelch, clink, squelch, clink - and arrives just behind where E’ro has himself wedged. “Brandy. Double. And no ice,” he calls out over the rise and fall of the rowdy crowd, hoping to get the barkeep’s attention.

"Brandy, double no ice?" baritone reflects the request of another, those blue eyes seeking out the owner of such an intrepid mindset. E'ro notices the cuts and bruises right away, nodding his head to Max in a show of understanding and respect. "Looks like you'll need that bit of fortification. Nasty looking things you got there. Got in a fight?" He gestures to the recently vacated seat next to him, as the bartender slides a brandy snifter full of amber liquor towards Max.

At least the top half of his face can move without hurting and Max demonstrates with hike of a brow, studying the bronzerider who questions his choice of drink. Hat still on, the newcomer tries for a crooked grin that comes out more as a grimace, “Naw, walked into a wall.” Said in a tone entirely devoid of humour and thus likely making it hard to ascertain whether or not the man is joking. He’s been in the saddle for a few hours already, but a change of seating he’ll take nonetheless. Fingers wrapping around the brandy when it arrives a nod goes toward his new drinking companion, “Max.” That’s him.

"That's a new one," E'ro comments without a trace of emotion, sipping slowly on his pint of beer. "Usually it's, I fell down some stairs, or, I tripped." He's got a sideways glance for the other man, his own eyebrows hiked as he assesses the situation. "You don't look like the stupid kind to me." Which means he's not convinced of any of those stories - what healthy, able man walks into a wall, voluntarily falls down some stairs, or trips? A pansy, that's who. "E'ro, bronze Yzuruth's." Whether he recognizes Max from Eastern or not, he's not saying or even hinting; there's no recognition factor, simply two strangers sitting at a bar, enjoying their drinks.

That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. Or so the deadpan look Max gives the bronzerider, would say. A rough snort, followed by a wince for how it travels up nasal passages, show in his eyes following E’ro’s comment, “Apparently, I am.” This to his being stupid. Lifting the glass he throws the contents straight down the hatch, not even bothering with sipping or savouring the amber liquid. Through a slight wheeze the burn brings, “Another one.” No recognition comes from the rider either when the other introduces himself, just a nod of acknowledgement. “Been here long?” the bar, or the area, either will work right now.

Well stupid is as stupid does, so E'ro can't say much on that subject. He'll marvel as the brandy is tossed down like water, his astonished gaze flying to the bartender who pours the next double with pursed lips. "Damn." Beer is one thing, brandy being the harder stuff. "Just got to the bar not too long ago myself, been about Eastern's way since the settlement. Came from Igen with weyrwoman Randi." Jerking his head at the lone rider, he smacks his lips and says, "What about you?"

The next brandy arrives and it too is taken up in the manner of a man parched in the desert. Max’s hand halts midway to his mouth as he takes in what E’ro says. Something passes behind dark eyes at mention of the goldrider’s name but its there and gone again as the drenched newcomer responds, “Came in with Indira and her crowd from up Nerat way. Run the beast caverns.” Down his throat goes the next brandy, the glass set to the bar top with a slight clunk. Now, he’ll have a beer, indicated in short order to the barkeep, saying to the bronzerider as he does, “Sharding cold out there,” in the rain, “Brandy warms from the inside out.”

Parched and headed for a mean hangover, perhaps. E'ro won't say anymore on the subject, simply test his beer a few more times as his expression settles into something smug. "Indira, huh? That's a good ride if there were was one," because they're both men and men talk about their exploits. "Lucky to have something like that making the nights more interesting on your way out." He settles his elbows on the bar top, hunching over in a lazy, comfortable way - it's not often he gets to be truly, one hundred and nine percent, lazy. "That? Out there? You haven't been between too many times, huh? That's unlike any cold you'll ever experience. Brandy won't help get the chill out of your bones either."

Its long, -long- moments of dead silence from Max, a muscle starting to tick in his jaw as attention remains set to the glass in hand, his knuckles slowly turning white from the grip he has on it. His posture, now anything but relaxed, “What did you just say?” his head slowly turning to fix E’ro with a death stare. All other conversation paling in comparison to the besmirching of his dam’s name.

Being observant and being oblivious, they're two different things, you see. On the one hand, certain instances can be stored away easily or observed, and on the other, E'ro tends to be just plain oblivious. "Huh? Oh? Between?" He's not getting the hint, not catching the tension in the air, though the bartender sure as hell is, as he keeps his gaze on Max and ignores protests from further down the bar. "It's something, that. Not a cold you can easily shake off or drink off." Then he takes another sip from his pint, eyes glued to a busty barmaid refilling ale mugs.

Inhaling slowly, Max throws the rest of his drink down his throat and then sets the empty glass to one side with meticulous care. Standing, so that he has a bit of a height advantage over the still seated E’ro, “About,” he grinds out through clenched teeth, “Indira.” Hands fisting and unfisting at his sides, busty barmaids be damned. However, that kind of distraction could work in the beast manager’s favour.

"Indira?" E'ro has still got his sights on the brunette barmaid, whose blouse dips down so far he can almost see the good parts. "I said she's a good lay. What, you're telling me you've never had a toss with her?" He turns around, grin as wide as the unfilled lake at Eastern, expecting to find Max with just as much humor in his face or in the same, nonchalant position he was in before. Surprise, his smile fades and he sits back, "What's wrong with you? If you're the kind to keep your business private, sorry, I won't mention it again." But see, now he's wary, as is the bartender.

“No, I fucking haven’t had a toss with her!” Max spits out, his body leaning slightly out from E’ro and then back in to offer full force behind the fist he aims at the bronzerider’s head. Growling like a feline wounded he moves to then try and wrap both hands around the other man’s throat if he can, “She’s my fucking mother!!”

In that instant before he gets clocked, E'ro shows wide-eyed astonishment, "Mother?" he gets out and then he's socked in the face. He falls back, managing to hold onto to the bar and keep his seat, but Max is on him in the next second, hands wrapped around his throat. Retaliating would probably be futile, though he does grab the other man's hands and starts trying to pull them away. Luckily enough, the commotion was noted from the start by the bartender and seconds later by his wingmates, and there's a rush to get Max off of the bronzerider. Hands are pulling, people are swearing, it's a mad rush to save the dragonrider from being strangled to death.

Enraged almost beyond reason, Max struggles against those trying to pull him off the bronzerider. His hands loosing from E’ro’s throat in order to try and deck those doing so. Quite the scuffle ensues with someone landing hit a to the beast manager’s gut, effectively knocking the wind out of sails as he doubles over. Coughing as he tries to suck air back into his lungs, blood has once again started to stream from his broken nose where someone’s elbow had caught it. Spitting out a mouthful of it, there comes a low strangled sound of Max attempt a chuckle as he glances up at the dragonrider, “Guess that makes you a motherfucker.” Perhaps it has something to do with having the sense literally knocked into him, or it’s just that he’s done enough fighting over the past few days to last him the rest of the turn.

Bodies are moving left and right, fists and feet flying - it's an all out brawl that Max has created. "Shit," E'ro screams hoarsely as the hands release and he can breathe again; he was turning red and then purple for a minute there. His face starts turning to a more natural pallor, but where the beast manager hit, there's definite swelling and bruising already . It was a solid on, at that. "Guess that makes you rightly incensed," he breathes loudly, his brow furrowed but no resentment in his voice. At least he's a good sport about it, even if the bartender is pissed and starts yelling about kicking them all out. "We had best start packing it in, E," the gruff brownrider from earlier mumbles, eyeing the bartender and giving the bronzerider's jacket a tug towards the door. "I think this time, I agree." His blue eyes linger on Max a moment longer and he sighs as they flick to the exit, "Don't cause any more trouble, eh, kid? I won't be telling the Weyrleader, but if you put up more of a fight, it might just get back to him." And there goes his job, or freedom anyway.

Having gotten enough breath back into him that he can straighten up once again, Max swipes a sleeve across his nose and gives the swelling evidence of his handiwork a smug look. With a dark look thrown the way of the ones that had had a hand in pulling him off the bronzerider, the young beast manager turns back to his antagonist, “Talk about her like that again, and next time you won’t have your mates around to save your hide.” Hands lift and drop, just saying. With the dragonriders seeming to be of the opinion that the better part of valour is to leave, he isn’t and settles back onto a bar stool, watching them leave. The ‘kid’ comment causing his jaw to tighten and release before he deliberately turns his back on the departing and orders a beer.

One, two, three four, and they're out the door, all those Eastern dragonriders filing out without the slightest hint of drunkenness. It's a first, for sure, but they'll likely be back when the ruckus has died down and the bartender isn't so keen on throwing them out back.



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