(123-06-05) Morning Drinkies
Morning Drinkies
Summary: Two thirsty people drink things, early one morning. Nobody goes boating.
Date: 09/06/2016
Related: None

The sun is fast warming Starfall; and a woman who's been out riding in the cool hours after dawn, in dark russet-brown leathers and a shirt the colour of fine red wine, pushes open the door of the village tavern with an eye to wetting her throat. She wears a whip coiled at her belt, and two knives she's willing to show as a token of the rest. Her groom follows, a short and stocky girl of no more than twenty, dressed similarly though without the discreet touches of opulence which suggest that the first woman, the older of the two by a generation, is sufficiently well-born to have spent a small fortune on her plain and comfortable old riding clothes when they were new. They both have the look of sandy Dornish, brown-eyed and caramel-skinned.

They separate, the lady waving the groom off to join acquaintances in a corner and then striding up to the bar to park herself upon a stool with as much easy leonine confidence as though it were a throne. Beneath the expected scents of horseflesh and clean perspiration, she carries a spicy, darkly honeyed fragrance unlike any other. Her usual is quickly forthcoming, poured without a word and slid along the bar to her by the young man behind it.

Soon after the door opens again and a young man strides in, bringing a whiff of salt, sea and tar with him to mingle with the pervading scents of sweat and horse. His black hair is worn open, falling into his eyes and nearly to his shoulders, his cheeks are covered by several days' worth stubble.

"Make it a decent cool ale.", he tells the barkeep as he steps towards the bar, standing near the woman. An uninterested sideglance is followed by a blink and a closer look, but then he quickly looks away again.

Turned slightly upon her stool to face the barkeep and the small glass of clear amber-hued liquid which has just approached her along the bar, in the act of untying the kerchief from about her pinned-up silvering black curls, Lady Ynys catches that first glance and the second. She raises a caustic eyebrow at the man and holds it a moment; otherwise not a muscle in her face moves. Then she lowers the eyebrow, pulls the kerchief free and shakes it out, and folds it in half and sets it on the bar next to her glass.

Her actions earn her another look from the man, but this time the expression of panic is gone from his eyes, replaced by one of mild amusement. "You know, standard procedure is to drop it to the ground, so that the man will pick it up for you.", he suggests ever so casually. Then a mug of ale is sat in front of him and he picks it up. Lifting it briefly towards Ynys in a half-toast, he brings it to his lips for a deep draught.

Lady Ynys glances down at the floor of the tavern, which isn't bad as tavern floors go but all the same; and then up to meet the stranger's eyes with her own. The bar was the better choice. "And put it back on my hair?" she drawls dubiously, her low velvety voice of a colour in keeping with the rest of her. "Besides, I don't know if I'd want you to pick it up." Both eyebrows quirk.

On the way in she stripped off her riding gloves and slipped them through her belt; a bare brown hand, weighted by a heavy golden signet ring engraved with a hanged man sigil, curls around her small glass. She lifts it to him and pours its contents down her throat in two quick, crisp, savouring gulps.

"And why not?", Elyas grins when she wonders about having him pick up said kerchief. His hands are bare - they are rough and calloused from handling rope, sails and oars at sea and not brightened by fancy signet rigns. Only a rather simple silver adorns one finger, blackened by years of salty air and water. "What's a fine lady like you doing in a place such as this then?", he wonders innocently.

The fine lady's large liquid brown eyes narrow at his attempt at repartee. (That may be why not.) She lifts her glass again, this time brandishing it as an explanation. But she does add, "Waiting for the ferry to come back."

"I don't blame you.", Elyas admits lightly, turning his head to look towards the grimy window and beyond to the main thoroughfare, "It's not up to much, is it? Starfall? Where are you from then?"

"Where are you from?" the lady fires back at once. One foot hooked around a leg of her stool, she leans forward over the bar to wave to the man behind it: she points to her glass and he sets about pouring at the other end.

Elyas smirks when she throws the question back into his face and takes another draught of ale. He sets it down slowly and shrugs. "I am a son of the sea. It is my home.", he says vaguely, "What about you? A daughter of the desert?"

Sitting straight-backed again on her stool Lady Ynys leans a hand upon the bar and shifts it just slightly to catch the second glass dispatched along to her. Her signet ring gleams. "Some of the time," she concedes with a like vagueness. "Was that your ship I noticed this morning, that wasn't here yesterday…?" Again a lift of a dark eyebrow, this time in question.

Elyas shakes his head. "My ship tends not to make landfall in these waters.", he says vaguely. His dark eyes rest upon that signet ring - it's hard to avoid with all the gleaming - and his expression turns somewhat frowny as he tries to remember Heraldry lessons. "A lady of House Trant then, are you?"

And Lady Ynys, who certainly doesn't look anything but full-blooded Dornish, gives him a wry smile and repeats, patiently, "Some of the time." She lifts her second glass and swallows half its sharply fragrant contents, then asks, "Are you a pirate, or do you only pretend to be for the sake of women you meet in taverns?" Neither prospect seems to concern her.

"Some of the time, huh? And the other time? A wildling in disguise? A traveller from Volantis?" He's clearly intrigued and certainly doesn't mind asking nosy questions. Even if he remains cagey about himself. "It's not an occupation to shout from the rooftops, Mylady.", he says softly, "It might lead to a closer aquaintance with a noose I'd rather avoid."

"… The latter, then," decides Lady Ynys. "Or you'd have troubled to make up less suggestive answers to common questions." She ignores his questions to her, for the time being at least, and just drinks down the rest of whatever that liquor is she finds so palatable early in the morning.

"The latter what?", Elyas asks, clearly confused and dropping his playful spiel for a second. Or several seconds as he fishes in vain for something else to say. So he focuses on draining the last of his ale and promptly orders a new one. His lower arms lean on the bar meanwhile and he stares out into space blankly, thoughts meandering elsewhere.

Watching him squirm is entertainment enough for a moment; but when he drifts away Lady Ynys, again patiently, explains: "I meant that you must be pretending. Hinting on purpose." Though as he falls into thought she studies him in a manner which suggests she might well be retaining an open mind.

"Why would I be hinting on purpose?", Elyas asks, without changing his position or stopping to stare at the wall, "Don't you believe that an occupation such as piracy would put you in danger of meeting the noose? Yet why should I lie about my occupation when half a dozen patrons here and beyond the door would easily tell you so?"

"A man who was something besides a pirate might hint as you did to make himself more mysterious, more interesting, than he would be in another occupation," answers the lady promptly. "If there's no truth in it, if the contrary can be proved, there's no danger… is there?" Her eyebrows lift again, her own point proved whether or not she believes in it. It is as well to add that she has spoken only softly, and that even the bartender hasn't lingered near to overhear. News like Lady Ynys Yronwood got round Starfall swiftly enough after her arrival some months ago. "As long as they don't hang you by mistake before the ferry comes, I don't mind either way."

"You're talking my brain into a knot.", Elyas replies gruffly, looking slightly annoyed, "If you wish to be convinced by my occupation, come out with me, I'll show you my boat, take you for a ride even, if you like." His humor begins to return and he grins. "Might be more interesting than hanging out in this dreary pub doing… what exactly?"

The lady's amusement follows his, very discreetly; she gives him a wry and knowing look which suggests she saw this coming, had plenty of time to consider it, and… why, yes, she has her answer ready. "Not today."

"So busy then?", Elyas smirks and shrugs. "I may be gone tomorrow. Then you will regret not taking your chance." His attention is taken away by a new arrival, this one's features hidden inside a dark cloak. He goes to sit at a small table and suddenly Elyas seems to hurry with his ale. "Hey, there's some big thing going on here soon, isn't there?", he asks Ynys though, "Some… celebration?"

"Any day now, Seven willing," is Lady Ynys's answer, given in a manner all at once sober. "If you're gone tomorrow, you might regret missing it." She unfolds her kerchief and wraps it again about her head, tying it more securely than before, to see her curls protected from the sea breeze on the ferry.

Once again Elyas looks confused. "I thought it was some sort of tourney? Something for the nobs to hobnob. Would have been fun to attend as there are always ways to make good money. Speaking of which - I have something to attend to. It's been a pleasure to meet you, Lady Mysterious of Trant."

Knot tied, pins adjusted, hair covered, Lady Ynys draws her gloves from her belt and casts a glance toward the groom she came in with, who immediately knocks back the rest of her ale and makes her excuses to her friends.

"The tourney will take place on the twenty-fifth of the month," the lady explains to her own new acquaintance whilst buckling her riding gloves, "in celebration of the birth of House Martell's next heir. The child," another wry smile, "whose arrival we expect at any day, at any hour. Perhaps I'll see you there. Making good money." She slips down from her stool, smiling a touch more broadly than before. She's a tall woman, not much shy of six feet.

"Then let's hope that the birth will go according to plan.", Elyas grins. He does notice that the woman is slightly taller than him but he doesn't bother to look up. Instead he bows half-heartedly and begins to retreat. "Perhaps I'll see you indeed. I wouldn't mind.", he says before turning his back to her to join his cloaked companion.

"How generous," Lady Ynys murmurs in departure, amused, just loud enough to be overheard — and then her groom has the door open for her and she walks straight out. Neither of them trouble to pay. It all goes on the tab.

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