Ista Weyr - Various Locations

As afternoon fades into evening above the gather meadow, the sound of harpersong and the conversation of the bustling crowd mingles with the calls of various firelizards and one very pleased Zeek, the senior gold of Ista not only plotting a bugling competition, but attempting to convince the other dragons that it would be a /fantastic/ addition to the games. Her rider, as of yet, probably isn't aware of any of this, Cenlia having been too distracted with diplomatic socializing of a sort she usually delegates to her juniors and weyrleader. Not that they probably aren't off doing the same themselves, but it's proving near /impossible/ for her to extricate herself from the conversation with the High Reaches weyrleaders. And here comes the Master Weaver - oh shells, escape! Escaape! The last time he and Cen met, there was fashion /disaster/. And Cenlia was probably wearing it. "Is better'n paperwork, that's fer sure," she agrees hastily to something someone's said, edging back away from the gathered rankng riders enough to cast her eyes about the meadow, as surreptitiously as she can, without outright looking like she's attempting to escape.

Likewise has Th’ero been having similar problems, all thanks to the fancy knot pinned to his shoulder and running into a few (too many?) familiar faces. Despite having led Kimmila away in the hunt for food (and possibly sneaking in a bit of dancing), he’s had to do a few rounds of political socialization that turns dull all too swiftly. Polite greeting here, reserved and polite response there and the moment the Fortian Weyrleader has a chance to escape, he takes it! And Kimmila’s hand too, in hopes to pull the bluerider along with him. He’ll steer very clear of the HIgh Reaches Weyrleaders, but he is on the search for one particular goldrider. “You seen her about, Wingmate?” he mutters aside to Kimmila, dark eyes scanning the mingling crowds and offering a few smiles to those who pass and do the same. Better hurry! Before they’re hunted down again by some Lord or Craftmaster or Faranth knows who…

Kimmila has mostly stayed with Th’ero, but she won’t lie, she’s run away a few times for this or that, but she always returns. Scanning the crowd now, Kimmila rises on her tiptoes and then calls out. “There she is!” And she POINTS. And yells, “Cenlia! We are in need of rum!” And a lack of Other People, thanks.

SALVATION! Ahem, not that Cen was /at all/ looking like she was trying to escape. And it comes with the request for RUM. Clearly, this is how you rescue a weyrwoman. Whatever she says to the High Reachians, it seems to work. Or is it the fact that the Fortians are demanding booze? Either way, Cen flees, heading over to Th'ero and Kimmila as quickly as possible, though she may have to dodge a craftmaster or two along the way. But somehow, she makes it, without even being waylaid by the Headwoman, who probably will make her regret it tomorrow. "Shells, thank Faranth," can be heard as Cen, muttering to herself, finally reaches the two Fortians, "Ya dunno how close I came to endin' up inna /worse/ dress." Though, to be fair, the white cotton attire she currently has on isn't really too bad, the layered skirt still airy enough to not be bothersome, and short enough that she can, should she need to, break into a run. Right now, however, there is stealth required, "What I wouldn't give fer some pants," stifling a groan, Cen jerks her head toward the nearest edge of the gather grounds, "C'mon, b'fore Trolessi finds me again.." Not even a hello there, just escaaaape.

No one can blame Kimmila for running away! Th’ero certainly doesn’t and he’s probably jealous that the bluerider CAN escape! He’ll grimace and wince when Kimmila just yells to get Cenlia’s attention and then he exhales in a low chuckle, giving his weyrmate a look. Really? But hey, it worked and salvation is indeed approaching! “Is there something wrong with the dress you’re wearing now?” Th’ero asks as they close the gap between them. His eyes will likely take a quick evaluating look of the Weyrwoman’s outfit, trying to fathom why it would be necessary for her to change. One perk of Ista weather are the lack of heavy fabric dresses? Snorting, he gives both Cenlia and Kimmila a crooked smile. “Surely wearing a dress occasionally is not that bad?” he drawls and then nods to Cenlia. “Lead on! We’ll follow. And isn’t… Trolessi had a runner in the Race Gathers didn’t he?” The name is familiar and Th’ero, as usual, is hesitant at placing it.

Kimmila grins. “You look great, Cenlia,” she reassures, flicking the skirts of her own simple, understated gown. “Dresses can be fun. And useful.” For what? She doesn’t elaborate, but the grin she gives Th’ero is suggestive. “Let’s go, quick. Somewhere…let’s go hide.” She’s in fine spirits already, and perhaps just a /tad/ buzzed. Just a little. Though, given that her pregnancy is over, any amount of alcohol is enough to get her buzzed, until she gets more of a tolerance back for it. Tucking her arm through Th’ero’s, she grins at him, she grins at Cenlia, and she is quick to follow after.

"Feel like a sharding hold girl," Cenlia grumbles to Th'ero, pausing to consider this a second before she tacks on, "One of them ones tryin' to land a husband." Eyes rolling skyward briefly, the weyrwoman starts edging toward the meadow's perimeter. "Ain't so bad, I guess," she must admit grudgingly, with a wry, "Thanks," to Kimmila, "Gimmie a good set of pants an' some decent work clothes any day, tho'." Maybe the weyrwoman just doesn't like the whole fancy attire business. "Ista Hold's Lord Holder," she does note to Th'ero, about Trolessi, "Yeah, since his runner fouled up in the races, he's sworn his people will win some of the games instead," her grin a little crooked. "Dress ain't so useful where we're goin'," is added with a cough, "Promised ya the /good/ rum, yeah?" brow arching at the two Fortians, "We got time fer a quick stop - might wanna borrow some pants yerself," noted to the bluerider with a bigger grin, "Though we'll definitely get spotted if we head through the weyr to the storage caverns." Eyes somewhat unfocused.. she might actually be getting her dragon to get her some pants. At least she doesn't hit her head on any branches as she slips past the meadow's edge and into the trees.

Understated? Th’ero probably doesn’t think so but his idea of fashion or what IS fashionable is questionable since most of his wardrobe consists of black… everything. “Useful?” he mutters to Kimmila and frowns for a moment at that slightly suggestive look only to have it click and his brows lift. Oh. OH! Clearing his throat, he shoots her a quick, wry grin and then focuses back on Cenlia with a crooked smile. “Kimmila is right, you look just fine, Cenlia. Not at all a hold girl.” Definitely not in behavior! With his arm linked with Kimmila’s, he’ll follow the Weyrwoman off towards the meadow’s perimeter. “Want to know what is the worst for Gather attire? Try Guard uniform. Thick, heavily padded Guard uniform under blazing sun and tropical humidity.” he drawls with a smirk. He’d know from personal experience, even if it was Turns and Turns ago. “Ahh, that’s right! I thought his name seemed so familiar. And he’s a prideful one, isn’t he?” Th’ero will make note not to cross paths with this Lord Trolessi if he can help it. Glancing to Kimmila when Cenlia begins to hint on where they’re going, his smile will take on a hint of mischeviousness and intrigue. “Now I am quite curious as to where you’re taking us! Sounds almost like an evening set on adventure.” Something of which he hasn’t had in a long, long time. “Do you have pants, Wingmate?” Th’ero murmurs in a lower tone to Kimmila, since he’s beginning to catch on that Cenlia may be serious about needing them.

Even black underwear. Kimmila has seen them. Yes. She smirks when he gets the joke, reaching back to goose him - but just a little bit. “Nah, not Holder at all. Everyone knows who you are.” Grimacing when Th’ero mentions guard attire, she considers, then shrugs, then remarks casually, “Yeah, but you look hot in it.” Hot. Get it? Ha. “Where are we going? I don’t have pants, no, but…I can ride in this skirt and do just about anything else. Why, Cenlia? We have to climb a mountain to get this rum or something?” An adventure? YES PLEASE SHE NEEDS IT.

Cen might quirk a brow at that 'useful' there, though she stifles a snerk for the two of them, looking terribly amused. "Should hope so!" is chuckled to Kimmila, about knowing who she was. "Guard uniform, huh?" glancing back at the gather grounds where all those poor Istan guardsmen are patrolling, and Cen maybe looks a tiny bit guilty. But there was no way Ista was going to host so many important visitors without massive amounts of security. "Will mebbe talk to Errol 'bout raising the overtime pay," she mumbles to herself, or to Zeek perhaps. But as she's eyeing the gather (and sneaking out of it), she spots a face she definitely does NOT want to run into just now: V'lad. And he's totally spotted /her/. "Ain't so bad once ya get 'im drunk," is mumbled distractedly, about Trolessi, Th'ero and Kimmila's question about where they're going, going unanswered as Cenlia mutters an, "Uh-oh." Because a certain bronzerider is totally heading their way - he knows her too well. "/Zeek/, need a distraction-" is muttered under her breath, and the words have barely been uttered before there is a BELLOW from the bowl rim, Nziekilth apparently deciding that now is the perfect time to start that bugle contest. Maybe she can talk Velokraeth and the other dragons into joining her. Poor V'lad whirls around in a kind of panic, almost as if expecting someone to be getting killed somewhere, hand on his dagger even as Cenlia is diving into the trees, and out of sight! Hopefully, the Fortians are following her, cough. Escaaape!

No one needs to know about Th’ero’s underwear! And there shouldn’t be guilt for the Guards. They’re Guards! And they know they have a duty to undertake… which may mean sweltering in the hot sun. Or maybe that’s how the Fortian Weyrleader thought of it when he was a Guard in Western. Duty and honor and all that uptight thinking. None of which he seems to be considering now, as he allows Cenlia to lead them away from the crowds and festivities. “You get one of your Lord Holders drunk during talks—-” Th’ero begins to say, only to grunt in surprise when Kimmila gooses him. Even if just a little bit, he FELT that and the look he gives her is narrowed, but his faint smirk implies something else entirely. He’s pretending to be annoyed and shocked by her behavior and she’ll pay for that later. “You’re making it sound like a challenge, Wingmate. Are you challenging Cenlia to who can wear their dress better?” Th’ero drawls, giving her a wry smirk and one that extends to the Weyrwoman. Uh oh? He frowns, spotting V’lad making his way and only being confused as to why this is a Bad Thing! Nziekilth bellows and Th’ero starts, glancing back over his shoulder in alarm. Velokraeth DOES answer the Istan gold with a deep, brassy bellow of his own and the Fortian Weyrleader just rolls his eyes and noticing that Cenlia is making her escape, he grips Kimmila’s hand firm and tight before hauling her with him. Oh, they’re following alright! “Might get your answer as to where we’re going soon, Wingmate!” he says with a bit of a laugh. Escape! Part of Th’ero’s mind is cringing and protesting. What DOES he think he’s doing, running off like this? He should be out there, mingling and playing the political game, proper and respectful. Instead he’s here and swept up in the moment. Adventure Time! He’ll… explain himself to Nyalle later.

Kimmila yelps when the dragons set up their bellowing, and then she laughs when Varmiroth’s higher pitched, brassy bugle is added. The sight of V’lad and their need to run away from him also has the bluerider puzzled, but now it seems is not the time to question the Istan Senior about it. She laughs to TH’ero’s tease. “How would we even do that? More importantly, who would dare judge that contest?” Swiftly, her feet move along with TH’ero’s as they make for the trees. “Cenlia, do we need our dragons for this trip?” she calls as they move between the trees and she keeps her hand grasped tightly with Th’ero’s.

Of /course/ Cen gets her holders drunk - it's totally how islanders do diplomacy. Ahem. Like now, for instance. The dress-wearing challenge is one Cen will have to take on later, though, as she seems almost as startled by the bugling as V'lad, muttering less than quietly to her dragon, "/Ain't/ what I meant, ya sharding lump-" and devolving into lesser grumbling as she shoves through the trees, dress catching on branches here and there, but luckily not tearing. Though there are a few twigs stuck in the skirt. Her dragon seems satisfied with the performance, though, and Nziekilth will at least maybe suggest they save the best part of the noisemaking for later, for a proper bugle-battle, but her tone to the other dragons is utterly unapologetic. She likes shaking things up, after all. Even if she nearly gave some of the holderfolk heart attacks. Everyone needs a warm-up session anyways, right? Once they're safely out of sight of the meadow, Cen will slow, hopefully having dodged V'lad before he could try to get her back into proper diplomacy, and glancing back to make sure the Fortians have followed. "Nah, dun gonna need 'em," is said to Kimmila with a lopsided grin, "But might hafta head through the forest so's we dun get caught." By whom, she doesn't say. "R'mero's bringin' a bag of clothes," is tacked on, "Up 'ere." And by up, she means through more trees to the edge of the plateau, where a positively tiny green is coming in for a landing, the wher-like critter bearing in blocky shape, more than a little resemblance to Zeek. The straight-faced rider who hands down a sack just eyes his weyrwoman, but wordlessly has no more than a smirk when he seems to realize who she's dragging along for this adventure. And Cen, true to form, will wriggle out of that dress and into a drudge-worthy pair of pants and tunic, without even batting an eye. Clearly, her sort of diplomacy is pretty shameless, though given the greenrider doesn't look the least bit surprised either, it's possible the weyrwoman's made a habit of sneaking out of formal events like this. Or at the very least, done this before. "Sure ya dun wanna trade out fer some pants?" is asked of the bluerider, and to Th'ero, there's a belated, "B'ky ever gets his way an' there's a dancin' competition, then we'll see who can shake it better inna dress."

Th’ero does not have time to question Velokraeth’s behavior though he has his assumptions. Right now, he’s too focused on not tripping or getting snared and snarled by any wayward branch or vine as they race on deeper into the jungles, grimacing each time something does snag him briefly. He’ll try to keep Kimmila out of the worst of it too and he’ll be relieved when Cenlia begins to slow. “No idea,” he replies belatedly to his weyrmate, only to stare at the Istan Weyrwoman. “Who’s this R’mero?” And how does he know where to find them? Can this rider be trusted? Clearly, since Cenlia doesn’t seem ready to flee from him as she does V’lad. If Th’ero had been patient, he’d have his answers shortly enough as they walk out to the edge of the plateau. He’s still catching his breath at this point, one hand still gripping Kimmila’s. Eyeing the wher-like tiny green and her straight faced rider, the Fortian Weyrleader makes the mistake of dropping his eyes back to Cenlia just as she begins to shimmy out of her dress. “Shards!” he swears under his breath, swiftly ducking his head down and away. See, Kimm? NOT LOOKING. Cough. “There’s no dancing competition?”

Kimmila is pulled along, nimble though she’s easily tired, catching her breath by the time they get to the edge of the plateau. “Shards,” she mutters. “This is hard work. This rum’d better be worth it…” Looking up as the green arrives, she dips her head in a greeting to the rider and then looks at Cenlia stripping down. She laughs. “Looks like I wear a dress better,” she teases. Since, y’know, she’s still wearing hers. Win by default? “I’m fine, thanks.” She grins and nudges Th’ero with a wink, leaning over to mutter something to him.

"One of Zeek's," Cenlia answers Th'ero with a handwave, though doesn't explain what she means by that as she gets a pair of decent boots on her feet. Cenlia /does/ remember to stick her knot back on her shoulder, so at least she's not off incognito. R'mero is just eyeing the lot of them, though he and his green, with a salute to Cen and the Fortians, are soon taking off as sneakily as they'd landed, with a sack of weyrwoman gather gown. Cenlia, now in more adventurous attire, grins hugely at Th'ero and Kimmila, "Rum's /definitely/ worth it. Promised ya the best in Ista, yeah?" She pauses though, at the question of a dancing competition, "Huh, actually, ain't quite sure - figure B'ky'll know if there's one scheduled. He's all for that kinda thing." Cen, perhaps not so much. There is a laughed, "Guess mebbe so," in agreement with the bluerider about wearing a dress better, "The tavern out on Sandtrap Isle ever holds 'nother stripping contest, an' we could find out who takes one off better too," snicker. Jerking her head to indicate the steps down to the beach, the weyrwoman says, "Let's head down an' into forest - there's this little place through the trees where we keep the special stock. After that," grin widening slowly, "Figure, what's a visit to Ista without a stop to sample all the best?" She'll keep to the edge of the beach stairs as she starts down, trying to stay out of sight and then sticking to the treeline, picking her way carefully along the beach in the direction of Ista's orchards.

“What part of hiking through the jungles did you think would be easy?” Th’ero teases Kimmila and likely prepares to be elbowed in the ribs for that. He’s a bit winded too, but he’d blame it on the humidity and heat of Ista’s weather before admitting he’s out of shape. He ends up getting nudged anyways and snorts for his weyrmate’s remark on wearing the dress, tilting his head to her murmuring only to shake his head and shrug. Before he can answer her though, R’mero and his green are leaving and he’s distracted by their as abrupt disappearance. At least Cenlia is clothed when he looks her way! “You did… You’ll just have to excuse our doubts. Didn’t think we’d be going on this much of an adventure through deep jungle.” Th’ero explains with a crooked smirk. He’ll nod his head concerning B’ky, but cough again and look a bit flustered. Actual stripping contests? There’s… They’re not going to Sandtrap Isle, are they? Poor Fortian Weyrleader. He can pretend that he’s easy going and carefree but he’s still as proper as Nyalle at the core! Sometimes. “Lead on! We’re right behind you.” Once the path is clear and Cenlia a few steps ahead, Th’ero will move in to follow but not before allowing Kimmila ahead of him. Ladies first?

Kimmila laughs, shaking her head. “Nope, the only stripping I do is for my Weyrmate. Sorry, Cenlia, you’ll just have to keep using your imagination,” she teases. She /does/ elbow Th’ero as well for his remark, catching her breath while watching R’mero fly off. “Cenlia, I’ve never seen a Senior put so much effort into escaping her own weyr before…” What gives? With Th’ero motioning for her to go ahead, she does, the delicious center to their Weyrleadership sandwich.

A stealthy ninja weyrleader sammich! "All the best adventures are through there," Cenlia grins back at Th'ero, "Or off across the islands," hand waving toward the water. "Once went through Booze Island with some friends, got stuck inna wrecked ship, had to be hauled outta there by some Sapphire riders," her tone turning sheepish, "'Course, was dead drunk at the time." A pause, "I think." To Kimmila, there is a laughed, "Well shards, will just have to console m'self with a good brew anna bottle of tuber ale." Snicker snicker. Speaking of said bottles, as she's heading along the treeline, there's a squint at the sands, a shifty-eyed look left and right, and she'll dart out of the cover of the greenery to thief one or three from one of the beachside stands. Well, more buy than thief, but she's trying durnit! "Here, before them lot sell out," offering a bottle to the Fortians, "This way, dun worry too much 'bout breakin' branches, none of these trees're gonna mind," though maybe she's the only one with a concern for the plantlife. And she's heading off again through the undergrowth, careful not to let any branches fly back as she moves them aside. Wouldn't do to give them a concussion or something! As for all the effort she's putting in, there is a vaguely embarrassed shrug, as the senior weyrwoman admits, "Is sharding /hard/ to ditch the stuffy lot of 'em. Can't have a proper adventure with somebody always," again waving her hand, this time in an awkward expressive fashion, since the words aren't quite there. Used to trudging through the jungles though, Cenlia does at least try to keep her pace slow enough to be easily followed, casting looks back through the green, as if to make sure they really haven't been followed.

Booze Island?” Th’ero echoes back in surprise. What a name! And… does it live up to it? Somehow he doesn’t doubt that. He grimaces. “You… think? Shards… that sounds like one interesting tale!” Yet does he want to know? Because he might get second thoughts about this ‘sampling’ of Istan rum and booze! Wouldn’t do for the Fortian Weyrleader to get himself (and his weyrmate AND Ista’s Weyrwoman) trapped somewhere or Faranth knows what other scandalous situation! And yet, what DID he figure would happen? Festive atmosphere. Alcohol. Come on now! “Kimmila!” Th’ero half groans and half chuckles in complaint to her joking remark to Cenlia and then… they’re being handed bottles? Taking his, he’ll examine it curiously. “What’s this?” At least he asks, before popping it open to take a small sniff of the contents. Chuckling about the trees, Th’ero will follow after both of them, but does his best to avoid breaking too many branches. They’re trying to be stealthy, right? “Without someone always looking at you in disapproval or saying you can or cannot do this or that…?” he ventures to say and finish what Cenlia had begun to explain to Kimmila. Was he right or wrong?

Yay, booze! Kimmila takes her bottle and drinks from it, as you’re supposed to, and she grins. “Thanks! And why do you have to get away from them? I mean…you’re the Senior. It’s your weyr. What can they do to you?” She moves easily enough through the jungle, even in sandals and her dress. “Booze Island. Sounds like a place we should take the Candidates,” she laughs, grinning back at Th’ero. “Pfft. Who cares what other people say.” That’s her motto!

"One of the best ones we got," Cenlia grins, about Booze island, uncapping her own bottle and taking a swig - what's inside is fairly usual for gather fare, though with an Istan touch - fruit wine, not too sweet, but with some tang to it. "I get sloshed 'nough, and will tell ya the whole story," she promises Th'ero, though there's then a laugh for Kimmila's suggestion about candidates, "Ista actually did send a bunch off there one clutch, but was before I impressed. Wasn't called that back then, only named it proper after they found the cache the rumrunners left, an' that shipwreck. Sittin' right in the middle of the island, not so much as a puddle in sight." A glance back again, as if considering, "Should check it out someday, when it's brighter. Will give ya the grand tour even," taking another sip and then practically vaulting over a fallen log, her hand sinking in somewhat on the heavy moss covering the bark. "Eugh," she brushes her palm off on her knee, leaving a slimy green stain, then continuing on, with a head-bob as Th'ero guesses right, about said stuffy folks. "Pretty much - kinda kills all the fun, y'know?" big grin there, "Hah! Ya got a good point," laughing at Kimmila's motto and raising that bottle in brief agreement before pressing on down the trail - for they seem to have found one of sorts, but so overgrown that it's practically invisible as evening inches on. Luckily, Cen seems to know where she's going despite the dimming light, more carefully picking her way as they head further and further from the weyr and the beaches.

Wine tends to be one of Th’ero’s preferred drinks, though back in Fort he’s known to favor an ale so vicious and strong that most folk consider it poison. Which is all fine and dandy, since it means more for him! A fruit wine is not what he quite expects though but he’ll knock back the bottle and find it palatable. The tang he likes, the sweetness… not so much. But this is a man who usually turns his nose up at any sweets. “You can only tell it if you’re sloshed?” Th’ero drawls, only to shake his head about sending the Candidates off to an island. “Remind me to make sure none of our Candidates get it in their heads to venture there should any come to Ista during the Excursions.” he mutters, giving Kimmila a look. Don’t get any ideas! “Wait. So the ship is in the heart of the island?” he asks Cenlia for clarification, only to look rather impressed when the Weyrwoman just vaults over the moss covered log without pause. He’ll pause, but only so he can gesture for Kimmila to go with a barely withheld grin. Is she regretting wearing a dress yet? “Suppose you’re right. Kimmila… is right as well. Who cares?” This is all advice HE should be taking too! Right now, he’s going along with this. Later, he will likely bemoan over regrets and guilt for his decisions. Faranth only knows how Nyalle will take this too. When it’s his turn to cross over that fallen log, he’ll manage to do so without too much fumbling though he won’t escape that moss either. Ugh, is right. But what can be done of it? Nothing and so he just follows onwards, trying not to trip and stumble too much through the unfamiliar terrain. Or, Faranth forbid, drop the bottle he’s carrying!

Kimmila takes another sip of the wine, appreciating it and enjoying it. The log…ugh. Maybe she is, but she’s not going to admit it as she finds a way /around/ it. Ha. “Right, who cares,” she agrees, sipping again at the wine. “Must’ve been quite the storm to beach a boat in the middle of the island, huh? Would love to see that though. But sober.”

"The best stories're told while drunk," Cenlia laughs, cheerfully heading through the underbrush with an unerring sense of direction. Or maybe she just /looks/ like she knows where she's going - it's possible the woman could just be getting them all lost too. "Think travel there was banned by X'hil, back when he was weyrleader," Cen muses, though she doesn't sound entirely sure, nodding to the Fortians, "Aye, we figured musta been one big storm set it there. Looked like it'd been sittin' in the middle of the island fer sharding decades." There is a slight grimace as she adds, less cheerfully, "Found its crew still onnit, weren't the sorta thing we was expectin' - is prolly why travel there wasn't done a lot by the time I impressed." But there's a grinned nod as Cen glances back to Kimmila, "Riders still head out there sometimes, to take a look. An' there's a nice beach on the other side, can't be seen from the air. Good place to stash booze." Yup. Cen's totally got hidden booze stashes out there. Eventually, as they trek through the jungle, the greenery begins to thin, until almost abruptly, it clears entirely, to reveal rows and rows of fruit trees, as far as can be seen in the evening light. Ista's orchards stretch on into the distance, Cen skirting around the edge of it as she now seems to be looking for something, leaning past trees and peering through the greenery. After a little bit, though, she ahas! "Knew it was 'round here somewheres - this's the the stick Izzi an' I made when we first came here." And there is, tucked behind a stand of citrus, in a nook beneath a massive tree's roots at the edge of the orchard, a small crate carefully set out of view. Cen will try to haul the thing out enough to see before she starts working on the lid, a crowbar not being conveniently stashed nearby. "Either of you see any tools lyin' around? Could use a decent shovel fer this," Cen herself peering about the orchard, trying to spot something to use to get the top of the crate off.

“Only if you can remember ‘em!” Th’ero fires back to Cenlia with a smirk and then looks a touch disappointed when Kimmila actually figures her way around the log. Why didn’t he see that? Sulk. For a whole half a second, before he’s taking another swig of that fruity wine and following after his weyrmate and the Istan Weyrwoman. Hopefully she knows where she is going, because he’s at a loss (not that’d he’d admit it). “Travel to the whole island or just to the ship itself?” he inquires, only to falter in his steps at the grim addition to the tale of the shipwreck. Ugh. He grimaces as well, “Damn shame about the crew… and not a pleasant discovery at all.” And triply so for the poor souls who had to… remove said former crew. Or are they still there? That brings a slight shiver to race up Th’ero’s back. Happier thoughts! No thinking of dead crews on rotting ships. Nope. “I heard tales of folks burying treasure before, but not booze. Though I suppose booze can count as treasure, depending on the person.” he drawls and then goes silent when they step out into the orchard. His steps slow again as he peers curiously about the area and then settles on watching Cenlia as she seems to hunt for something specific. “Stick? A marker, then?” Th’ero asks as he steps closer, casting a look to Kimmila before eyeing that crate that’s set out for all to see. Booze? Or a trap? Both? He isn’t quite sure, so he hangs back a few steps, only to spread his hands helplessly (with one still gripping that bottle). “Afraid I don’t have anything of use on me. And… a shovel?” He frowns, confused and eyes Kimmila again. She have any ideas for tools? “Could use a crowbar. I’ll see if someone hasn’t left anything behind…” And off he goes to scour and hunt! Will he find anything? Or have they come all this way only to be thwarted by a closed crate?

Kimmila whistles softly. “Would love to go explore that place. Sounds fascinating. Kind of like that one area we found…where was that, Th’ero? Near Torince? You know the one.” The haunted one. As they move into the orchards she exhales in relief and shakes out her skirt, sipping her wine. “Ah…what?” She stares at the crate, and then at Th’ero. “We’re…this…what? This is what we’re hiking around for? I thought we were going to…go to bars and stuff.” Not dig crates out of the ground and bang them open with rocks. Which is her contribution, a large rock. “Why do you have stashes of alcohol hidden around, Cenlia?” For reals.

"Hah, true!" Cenlia agrees with Th'ero, "Tho', could make stuff up too, as ya go." Aah, drunken stories. "Booze is the best treasure," the weyrwoman tacks on, grinning at the Fortians, "We got stashes all over Ista. Is almost tradition by now. Was from backwhen, Temperance League usedta be a right pain in the behind. So's all the apprentices took to stowing alcohol away. This tho' - best of the lot. Mind, might take the skin off yer tongue if ya dun swallow fast 'nough." Is she kidding? Possibly. "The whole island," Cenlia answers, but has to add, "Was prolly more 'cause he took me out there fer m' turnday. Practically fell down into- well, anyways, weren't the best way to spend a day, lemme tell ya. But folks head out there now an' again, mostly riders. Is a sight from the air, anyhow," nodding to Kimmila, "Will definitely hafta show ya 'round the rest of the island, at some point." Kneeling by the crate, Cen eyes it critically, glancing back briefly with a curious, "Torince?" There are, not far away, but a bit beyond some of the fruit trees, small sheds with tools, though those probably have mostly shovels and similar garden implements. There might be a hammer or two though, leftover from construction work. But for now, Cen totally makes do with Kimmila's rock, huuge grin for the bluerider, "Bars're next, definitely. But this's Ista's /special/ stock." She did promise them the best, after all! There is a terrific WHACK, and the crate, small as it is.. looks unimpressed. "Well shards, what'd they seal this with," Cen grumbles, aiming more carefully to try to break the thing open without damaging its contents.

“Then it’s not so much a story as it is a tale of gossip?” Th’ero counters and laughs. “So I’m beginning to understand!” he drawls and frowns again. Temperance… what now? “A League? For what purpose?” Aside from the obvious. Chuckling low, he’ll shake his head to Cenlia’s joking. Hopefully she is kidding, or the Weyrleader is in for a nasty surprise! “I’m used to a pretty strong drink. Isn’t that right, Kimmila?” he muses, glancing her way. When Kimmila brings up that place by Torince Hold, Th’ero shivers and polishes off the last of the fruit wine. “That place is best left alone,” he grumbles and glancing sidelong to Cenlia, it’s clear she won’t get any further information from him. Th’ero is off on his hunt now and he’ll find that shed. A cursory search of it has him stepping out with a shovel, a spade and a hammer. None of which he assumes will work but… Cenlia did at least mention the shovel? Kimmila’s idea of the rock has him grinning and then laughing softly when the attempt fails. “Weyrwoman proof locks?” he replies smartly, as he sets the tools down nearby. “Patience, Wingmate.” he says to Kimmila with what could be a wink. “We’ll try the best of the best first! … if we can get in to it.”

Kimmila winces. “Your ale of choice could be used as paint thinner,” she says, standing well back as Cenlia uses the rock to…accomplish nothing. Well, she tried, and she takes another sip of wine. When Th’ero doesn’t elaborate, Kimmila feels the need to. “We found this abandoned hold, and it was just…got the /weirdest/ feelings from it. Really, really freaked us out.” Th’ero too. But mostly her. Still, he’s at the shed so she’ll happily say that he was scared. “Yeah, what’s the Temperence League? Sounds like some sort of sports team…”

"Or a giant seasnake-tale," Cenlia laughs, "Them things always end up with deadly seawhers an' whatnot in 'em." A brow is quirked at Th'ero's answer about Torince, Cen glancing at Kimmila once the bronzerider heads off to possibly acquire tools. "Really? Shells, sounds pretty spooky," the weyrwoman's brows rising significantly, "Didja ever find out why it was abandoned?" Although, then she's suddenly frowning, "Whereabouts was this? Weren't on the coast?" Hopefully nowhere near Istan waters, her tone might suggest. She'll just shake her head, eyeing the crate which stubbornly refuses to open. Cenlia gives it a few more solid whacks with the rock, but when things inside start clinking, she eases off a bit. Luckily, Th'ero appears to have brought more stuff for her to try opening it with! "Temperance League's this.. group of stuffy sorts that got it into their heads that booze was bad," though she doesn't outright scoff at the notion, telling Kimmila and Th'ero, "Mosta them was just against the 'brats gettin' into the stockpiles. So's they made a whole lotta trouble 'round the island. Mosta them're gone now, but is why Ista's the only place," at least that she apparently knows of, "that's got a drinkin' age. Sharding waste of worryin', in my opinion. If weyrbrats want into the booze, ain't no rules gonna keep 'em out. Better to teach 'em to drink proper, 'least then they ain't gonna try it themselves an' end up worse'n they'd be if they knew how." Restraint is.. definitely not something the Istan weyrwoman is known for, but who knows. She /does/ have children of her own now, too. And weyrwoman-proof locks indeed! "Shells, shoulda thought to bring a crowbar," Cenlia groans, straightening up and reaching for the tools - she'll try each in succession, but whether the nails have rusted shut, or the crate truly is weyrwoman-proof. Some swearing might happen, though she then gets the bright idea to use the spade as a wedge and the hammer to sneak it under the lid, and with a craaa-aack the crate is open! And inside are indeed, some very fine bottles of Istan rum.

Th’ero will miss the discussion concerning that abandoned and haunted place! As much as his pride bristles a bit for Kimmila admitting that he may have been scared of all things of an empty place, he’ll not kick up a fuss. He’s gone by then to fetch the tools and only arriving back at the end of Cenlia’s inquiry. So Kimmila gets all the fun of filling in the nitty gritty details without him looming or nudging her or hissing at her under his breath to behave. “So they tried to ban alcohol all together?” Th’ero exclaims in an incredulous tone. Were those people insane? Scoffing, he gives Kimmila a look. Could you imagine? Fort would probably revolt. “How does… what purpose is there to that?” All that extra effort to enforce an age limit! It baffles him and he’s probably on Cenlia’s side in agreeing that most folk are sensible and that if weyrbrats get into the stores… they get into them. One awful hangover and they’ll learn their lesson, right? Right. Th’ero seems to have forgot his gentleman-like nature back home as he only clues in to offer the Istan Weyrwoman some help after she’s struggled with the crate. By the time he’s speaking up, Cenlia has it figured out and the ‘CRACK!’ of the lid giving way drowns out his half spoken words. Huzzah! There be the rum! “Don’t think we’ll need that crowbar now.” he says with a laugh. “Shall we?” Time to celebrate!

Kimmila shakes her head, tipping back the rest of her wine. “No, we left it alone. Didn’t do any more research. It clearly wanted to be left alone, so. We did.” Then there’s a frown. “What a pain. I’m with you, Cenlia. Let the kids get a taste of it when it’s safe, around other people, instead of making it this daring thing to go off and do in the woods somewhere. That’s just dangerous.” Drinking in the woods in dangerous? Oh crap, look what they’re doing. RUM! Kimmila grins, peering into the crate. “Flattered you’re sharing this with us, Cen, thanks a lot. Now I have to go back to Fort and bury some whiskey…think Borodin’ll help me with that?” Smirk.

"Sounds pretty awful," Cen will agree about spooky places, likely having her own near-scary incidents at some point. There's nodded agreement for Kimmila, Cen glancing between her and Th'ero, "Ya wouldn't believe what some of that lot're like. Shells, an' I thought B'ky was stuffy. Figures there's always somebody worse'n I could imagine. Good thing we got rid of most of 'em." Though it's possible the weyrwoman's love of drink might have had something to do with that, at least in part. Also maybe her shovel. "Hah, yer honored guests an' such," the bluerider gets a grin, Cen grabbing a bottle then moving back, indicating they should pick their flavor - there are a few, though some bottles are likely more mild than others - there's even a few of tuber ale, though Cenlia will point them out with a sheepish, "Ya might wanna try that after we get to the taverns tho' - the smell alone'll take the wool off an' ovine." She totally grabbed one of those for herself. Ahem. "Anyhow, can't really figure the purpose of them Temperance folk," in answer to Th'ero, "Shards, the lot've 'em're prolly nutters." Given her determination to defeat the weyrwoman-proof crate, it's debatable whether she might have accepted manly help - good thing the box came open eventually! Though she will quirk a brow as she opens a rum bottle, "Borodin? Hah, makes fer a decent treasure hunt, too. Is what me an' some friends did awhile back - 'course.. is only 'cause we fergot where we stashed the things." Cough. Setting the wine and tuber ale aside, Cen will raise the rum bottle she'd snatched, "Best booze in Ista," said entirely with confidence before she downs a good portion of it.

Whoever said that they’re the best examples for children to learn from? Th’ero chuckles a little to Kimmila’s comments on the Temperance League and as he steps up beside her, he’ll slip his arm loosely around her waist. “Borodin might? But why the whiskey and not the beer?” he teases her. Blinking, he gives Cenlia a curious look. “Got rid… of them? Dare I ask how?” And should they be keeping an eye on Fort’s borders? Chuckling, he grins as well and gives Kimmila a slightly playful squeeze as he looks down at her. “You heard it? We’re honored guests!” Though shouldn’t Nyalle technically be in on this too? Ooh, will he ever have a lot to answer for come morning! If he’s even coherent then. Might be mid afternoon before he surfaces back into the land of the living. Stepping forwards, he’ll heed Cenlia’s advice and avoid the tuber ale — for now. He’ll select a bottle of (what he hopes is, anyways) stronger rum. Not as powerful as the tuber ale warned and mentioned, but enough to give him a good kick all the same. “Borodin is one of our vintners. He crafts some pretty fine beers and whiskeys!” Th’ero drawls as he opens the bottle and sniffs at the contents, only to give a rather appreciative (and apprehensive) nod. Yep, definitely rum. GOOD rum! He’s.. going to regret this, isn’t he? “To the best booze in Ista,” he says, waiting for Kimmila to have her bottle in hand before lifting his in toast and knocking back a good swig of it. Which may be a bad idea, if he’s not ready for the strenght of it!

Kimmila listens with a smirk, choosing her own bottle of rum at random and opening it, leaning against Th’ero’s side and sliding her arm around his waist in return. “Whiskey would age better when we forgot where we’d hidden it,” she says, and she…sounds serious. Like she’s thought this thing through. Ahem. “Honored guests, right. Because we’re letting her drink.” There’s a grin, and she lifts her glass to toast. “To rum!” TO RUM! Driiiiiink! She is going to get /drunk/ and be /miserable/ tomorrow. But she doesn’t care. She’s sleeping with the weyrleader. He’ll give her the day off, right?

If Cen's setting some kind of example for her 'brats, they truly /are/ doomed. Hopefully, some more sensible nanny has been tasked with raising the two. "Encouraged vinters to come to the island," Cenlia grins about the Temperance League, "Mighta offered to have Zeek sit on one or two of 'em." Snicker. She ahs about Borodin, nodding with a grin, "Knew I shoulda talked T'eo into a booze competition in the games - is as much tradition over here as all them flaming practices or sailboat races." Alas, she totally won't get a chance to find out who's best at drinking someone under a table, but she can definitely enjoy good rum, admiring the contents of said bottle with obvious approval. They're probably all going to regret this, come morning. Good thing Ista has so many guest weyrs, right? There's nodded agreement too, at Kimmila's remark about whiskey, Cen suggesting idly, "Could always make official stow spots. This one here," waving her hand vaguely at the crate and the roots it had been tucked under, "ain't really the best place. But been so busy, ain't had time to find a better one." She'll just have to lament that while she tilts back that rum bottle again. How is this woman still standing? Though maybe Cen's just used to it. "We got an easier trek down to the beaches," Cen does note, chuckling somewhat, "Figure the only other /real/ good stash is up a tree, an' er," coughing some, "dun think we wanna to runnin' across rope bridges in the dark."

Th’ero and Kimmila’s children have been fostered, not so much for worries of role models or examples, but solely for time. They’d not be here, for instance, right now, tromping through Istan jungles with the Istan Weyrwoman in hopes of finding The Best Rum if they had had concerns over who was tending to their children. “And the threat worked?” Th’ero muses to Cenlia. Surely there is more to it, but the Fortian Weyrleader isn’t going to pry. Laughing to Kimmila’s point concerning the whiskey, he hugs her close for a brief moment as he grins, “Just don’t let certain ears hear of it then if you’re going to go through with it!” Will some object? Probably. “Why did T’eo vote against a competition for alcohol? It’s a valid Craft. Seems as though if you’re going to ban them from competitions, you may as well tell the Bakers to close shop too.” he drawls with a smirk. Obviously the point of a drinking competition has gone right over his head! Or maybe that fruit wine is already working it’s magic and is getting a nice boost with some of that strong rum! Good company and conversation makes it hard for one to nurse their drink and Th’ero’s already a few (small) sips into his bottle. “A downward trek while possibly tipsy? Sounds risky enough! And… shards, no. No rope bridges in the dark.” While drunk. He gives a significant look to Kimmila as well. Right? Otherwise it’ll be more than a day off for her! Or any of them.

“Would we have to /run/ across them?” Kimmila asks with a crooked grin as she takes another swig of her rum. “Shards that’s good stuff, Cen. You’ve ruined all other rums for me.” Thanks a lot. Now she’s in a higher rum bracket. “I think the vinters should have a competition. And you can judge it, Cenlia. No one could deny the Senior the honor of judging such a contest. And there’d be no doubt you know your stuff, too.” Did she just kind of imply Cenlia is an alcoholic? Maybe a *tad*. But who knows if it’s intentional. “Hmm. Official spots? Not a bad idea. I’ll keep an eye out during my hikes, see if any good areas seem suitable to it.” She winks at Th’ero, nudging him back. “Bet I’ll finish my bottle before you.”

The Best Rum indeed! And Cen most definitely wouldn't have time for this sort of thing, with kidlets in tow. Huzzah for fostering! Ahem. "Zeek's pretty convincing," Cenlia will griiin, tilting back her rum, though she at least isn't chugging it down. She still has to point the way /back/ to civilization, after all. "Ain't suggested it, I mean," Cen amends, in regard to T'eo, though then her eyebrows are sneaking up toward her hairline, the weyrwoman looking /very/ thoughtful there. "Shells, why didn't I think of that? Weren't gonna try to convince 'im, but definitely am now," she laughs, and if the weyrgames end up with a drinking contest, she's totally going to blame the Fortian weyrleader. Coughcough. If she even remembers it in the morning, of course. Three bottles of fine drink are already held in her hands, though mainly the rum is being sipped there, for now. Who knows how many they'll end up with come morning? A sage nod is for Kimmila and Th'ero, in spite of her continued sipping of the rum, telling the bluerider with a bit of a crooked grin, "Depends how well yer stomach can stand the swingin'. Them things're worse'n rafts inna storm." Here she shudders, but is quickly grinning again, telling Kimmila, "Will just hafta make sure Fort gets a supply of this stuff from now on." Future trade possibilities! /This/ is how the Istan weyrwoman does diplomacy. Eyes sparkling merrily, Cen definitely seems to like the suggestion there, "Good idea - shells, could make a whole thing of it. Get all the weyrleaders an' folk in on it." Cen is all about sharing the rum. She has to grin at them both, though, suddenly very amused as she says, "Could make this the first event in the games - who's the best rum drinker. I'll judge, ya both figure out the rules." Her tone is joking, though, the weyrwoman leaning down to nudge that crate back into the nook beneath the roots and using the tools to bang the lid more or less secure again. She'll just head toward the shed, to put them back. Though more slowly, so rum can be sipped on the way, glancing around to try to spot the trail back as well, likely.

Was that part of the deal? Cenlia really could just leave Th’ero and Kimmila to try and find their way back alone. Hilarity may ensue then! Or… she’ll have some very injured (and more then just pride) Fortian riders on her hands. “Kimm’s got a good point too on the vintner competitions!” So blame her as well! Just not him! It wasn’t only his idea, honest! “Though lets be honest, we all know who wins the wine competition in that case. Should we just inform Benden they’re the winners?” he remarks with amusement and just a slight dose of sarcasm there too. No harm ever came of trading in alcohol, right? It would certainly make more sense then mud! “I’d not mind seeing a bit of trade, though I wonder if anything we have in Fort is of equal worth…” Th’ero muses, giving a sidelong look to Kimmila as he does. “And it’s a matter of convincing Nyalle too.” Weyrwoman has final say, right? “You are not running across bridges in the dark and with a head full of rum!” Th’ero warns Kimmila, but his grin ruins the whole effect. Her taunt only has him scoffing and whether feeling emboldened by what he’s already consumed in wine and rum or having a moment of serious lapse of judgement, he fires back with: “You’re on.” She was being serious right? Cenlia seems on board! He’s missed that she was joking and he’ll wait until she’s returned to grin. “You said you’d judge, right? Perhaps we’ll see who can at least get to half of their bottle.” Since even he knows how foolish it would be to chug an entire bottle of rum. Very GOOD rum! And when you’re not accustomed to it.

Kimmila sips her rum with a crooked, perhaps slightly wicked grin. But…Faranth only knows why. “Benden might win wine, but not the other things, necessarily. Fort’s got good stuff, worth competing with at least.” Does Fort have a specialty booze? Snickering, she takes another sip, but she’s savoring this fine, fine rum. Plus…she’s already a tad tipsy. “Ah, Fort’s got things worth trading! Crops, and…and things. Like. Woodcrafted goods, and Stonecrafted things. We’ve got things.” THINGS worth rum! “Nyalle.” She grimaces. “/She/ needs to get drunk. Like. Tomorrow. Get her drunk tomorrow, Th’ero.” Giggle.

Hopefully it was part of the deal! Though accidentally losing the Fortians or getting them all lost probably wouldn't be that great for diplomacy either. /Especially/ not if she wants to start trading booze with them. A lopsided grin is given Kimmila, Cen telling the bluerider, "Should do this in Fort sometime - best way to figure out what to trade is to try it, yeah?" There's a snicker of agreement with Th'ero, though, "Might as well give 'em the ribbon now, yeah, but then we wouldn't get to taste it! Gotta judge an' all." She seems terribly enthusiastic about this plan. There's a glance back as Cen seems to find the trail she's looking for, having stowed the tools safely back in the shed, "Watch yer feet, there's some roots an' things stickin' up as we head back down to the beach. Could see who drains the tuber ale faster, but mebbe save that fer when we dun gotta walk no more. Or stand up." Cough. She'll savor that rum as she goes, having capped the fruit wine bottle and held it and the tuber ale in her other hand, careful to not to drop them as she heads slowly down the trail. "/Definitely/ needs to get drunk," she'll agreee with Kimmila, about Nyalle, telling Th'ero all too cheerfully, "I could help with that." Disaster would happen. But it would probably be epic.

It would definitely be a trade-talk mood killer if both Th’ero and Kimmila were lost in the jungles somewhere from this adventerous night. Luckily for them all, it probably won’t end up that way! “That’s why I said only wine competition! Of course we’d taste it but it’s obvious who’d win hands down,” he teases both Cenlia and Kimmila, who he gives a playful nudge to with the arm he has wrapped around her. “I bet Fort could win with ale and beers. Dunno about our whiskey. What’s the other regions got, anyhow?” He can’t seem to remember, but his head is likely getting a wee bit fuzzy now. Details! Who needs ‘em? “We got… things? Shards, Wingmate… you’re going to have to be more specific than that if you’re to lead any trade talks,” he continues to say in a teasing way towards Kimmila. Taking another healthy (or not) swig of his rum, he’ll chuckle afterwards. “You keep speaking of the tuber ale like that and my curiosity is going to get the best of me! Is it really that strong?” Stronger than the ale he drinks? THAT he has to see! (And probably not remember) “We heading down then?” he murmurs, already casting his glance to the ground around them to be sure nothing is sticking up to trip him even before they make it to the paths. “Oh, she’s not that bad, once you get around the… prim and properness,” Th’ero mutters about Nyalle though he adds with a heavy sigh. “But you’re both right. She does need to relax but I don’t think getting her drunk off her ass is the way to start. Given that she’s liable to flay us all once she’s recovered.” Or not. He even seems to doubt that about Nyalle! He eyes Cenlia and then snorts, smirking crookedly for the offer. “Won’t tell you not to if you wanted to take a shot at it.” But he’s not responsible for the outcome! Nope. Toootally innocent.

Kimmila smirks, waving her rum bottle a bit. “This is why I’m not /doing/ the trade talks! Nyalle’s good at that. If she can trade /mud/.” Even Kimm was impressed by that one. Then she begins to move forward, her steps slow as she leans on Th’ero for support. She giggles. “Cen, I don’t think she’d stay around you long enough for you to get her drunk. You’d have to trap her first. And…OH! Make it seem like declining would be an insult. That’d work. Yeah, make it seem like you’ll be horribly, terribly insulted if she doesn’t sample your rum. Maybe…lots of it.” Sorry, Nyalle. Kimmila is…a bitch sometimes. But it’s good-hearted. Mostly. Poor Nyalle. “To the beach!”

"Huh, south Boll's got brandies," Cenlia, of course, has a definite interest in acquiring booze from different regions, pondering as she goes, "Think Xanadu's got ciders, though that might be Eastern? Shells, been ages since we heard from them lot 'bout trade." And the last time involved mountains of purple fabric. "Ista's got rum an' a lotta homebrews, lotta fruit wines, lotta /fruit/." Cen has to laugh, though, telling Kimmila, "So long as them things ain't just mud!" Because they probably will have more than enough of that soon. On the topic of tuber ale, Cen snickers, "Will be there soon 'nough, just gotta get to the beach in one piece." The trail at least doesn't appear to have any fallen logs on it, but there are roots and shrubs aplenty, as well as a few low branches that the goldrider points out in the waning light - or tries to, nearly clonking herself on the head a few times. "She reminds me of B'ky," Cen comments about Nyalle, promising the Fortian weyrleader, "Will make sure ya aren't blamed fer it!" Though between her and Kimmila's suggestions, Cenlia is looking /very/ thoughtful, "Good idea - shells, /would/ be an insult to all of Ista. Is tradition." That has to be the booze talking, surely. "Yeah, the beach!" followed by a WHUMP as Cen lurches forward and.. all but walks into another branch. "Er, watch out fer that one," she grumbles with sliightly less enthusiasm, slowing again and keeping a better eye on the trail.

“Suppose you got a point,” Th’ero agrees in a slow drawl to Kimmila concerning Nyalle’s skills as a negotiator of trade goods. If she can make mud look like a good idea, what else is she capable of? He’ll support her in return, keeping his arm looped around her for now. That may change when the go on the move again and the jungle paths won’t allow side-to-side walking. He laughs for Kimmila’s teasing and Cenlia’s response concerning trapping Nyalle. “Wasn’t it Nabol that has the ciders? Though I guess there’s overlap in regions. Can’t all boast one alcohol and one alone, right?” Right. Th’ero can only shrug for the rest, at a loss but probably losing a bit of his focus. More rum will help with that! Which is exactly why he takes another sip from his bottle. “Can’t say no to traditions!” Th’ero exclaims with a crooked grin. “And others… you can bend a bit.” To the beach! Right after he’s done with flinching as Cenlia all but knocks herself into a branch. Grimacing, he’ll make a note of said offending branch. “After you?” he drawls, almost slurring to Kimmila as he gestures for her to step ahead… when he also has a grip on that branch to push it a bit out of the way. Ahem.

Kimmila smiles. “Nabol has real good cider. They’ve got the apples for it.” She has to be quiet then, to negotiate the path without hurting herself. Though at this point if she did fall, she’d be rather limp as she did. “B’ky? That bluerider? How so?” Then she snickers, giggling softly, ducking beneath the branch Th’ero holds up for her. “Thanks,” she says, giggling, taking another swig of rum. “Cen, can we stay here tonight?” SLEEP OVER.

Rubbing her head with the back of one hand, since both are holding booze bottles, Cenlia makes her way a little more carefully down the trail, this one somewhat more straightforward than the last, and somewhat clearer too. "True 'nough," she will chuckle about booze regions, "Nerat grows some of everything, so they got some decent stuff, an' Ista's got brandy an' whiskey, though the best stuff's Igen Firewhiskey, but figure we could see how that an' Tanner's Friend holds up against the others - is a sharding good ale that one. Made by one of our brownriders." She could probably list off good brews all night, but her intention is definitely to taste them, shoving aside some shrubbery as she goes, the sound of the sea becoming louder now. "Traditions're important inna weyr," Cenlia will nod agreement again with Th'ero, "'Specially them that include good booze." Her favorite kind, possibly. "He's stuffier'n my pillows, an' stiffer'n stone pillar," Cenlia will answer Kimmila, the weyrwoman shaking her head there, "Think B'ky'll be able to sort out any trade, man knows his business, even if he is a pain." She laughs though, nodding to the bluerider, "We got plenty of guest weyrs, tho' there's always just findin' a soft spot on the beach to pass out." Sleepover indeed!

If Kimmila falls, Th’ero’s liable to trip over her and go faceplanting into the ground himself. “Ahh, I know Firewhiskey! Dunno if it’s like Igen’s but the Isles I was from, they brew their own. Aptly named,” Th’ero recalls with a slightly wrinkled nose. He’s had a fair share of that drink and finds a lot of other things far more palatale. Like the rum! Another swig, and he’s calling to Cenlia. “You’re right, this stuff IS good! No wonder you keep it stashed and hidden!” As if these were the only bottles left on Pern of it! Laughing about the value of tradition being weighed on whether or not they include booze. “Always helps, doesn’t it? Most traditions usually herald some sort of festivity anyways!” Th’ero goes on to agree, even waving one of his hands in an dismissive gesture. So on and so forth? He’ll get his hand smacked on a branch for that and shaking it out with grunted cursing, he’s back to focusing on where they’re going. Right foot, left foot. “What’s wrong with being stuffy?” he drawls, catching on to the last of the conversation between Kimmil and Cenlia in regards to B’ky. Grinning to Kimmila as she giggles, Th’ero is chuckling as well. “I vouch for a nice guest weyr! Beach is nice ‘n all but not when you get sand in uncomfortable places…” From sleeping. Yes. That’s right.

“Are we at the beach yet?” Kimmila whines. Yes, whines. “We’ve been walking /forever/ and I want to just sit and drink rum and make out with Th’ero.” Filters? Gone. “Stuffy is no good. Being /stuffed/ is good.” One guess where her mind goes when she gets drunk. So, so bad. “Cenlia. You ever had a threesome?” And…clearly she needs MORE rum. She’s hardly half way through with the bottle. “Guest weyr! Or Cenlia’s weyr.” Wait. What?

"Yeah? Wherebouts ya from?" Cenlia glances back at Th'ero, though her expression asks more importantly, how can she get some of that. "Would hafta fend off half the weyr with a shovel if I didn't," she laughs, turning back around to make sure she doesn't walk into anything as she picks her way through the roots and around underbrush clumps that clog the trail. The sound of the ocean gets louder, though no waves are visible beyond the trees yet. "Every tradition oughtta have a party," Cen agrees with clear enthusiasm, taking another sip of that rum, and more than likely letting it go straight to her head. "Almost!" is called back to Kimmila, the weyrwoman chuckling some, "Gotta walk off the drink on the way down. Shells, shoulda had R'mero just come get us," though hindsight is maybe clearer than her actual vision now, evening well-settled over the island weyr. The thick jungle would sadly be too difficult for even a tiny dragon to land in, but that doesn't stop Cen from squinting ahead. Maybe there's a clearing or something. "Ugh, sand in places the sun dun shine's the worst to wake up to," she speaks from experience here, nodding agreement about being stuffed and lifting the rum to take another sip. And promptly choking. There is *PFFFFthgehchkt*-hack-cough at the bluerider's question, the weyrwoman attempting to clear her throat for a second before she states, "Only if yer parts're the right ones!" Because she's totally trying to remember how to breathe now.

“Emerald Isles, north of Western Weyr. Far north.” Th’ero explains and is not… entirely helpful in his description. No name means it could be anywhere! Which may hint that he’s from a cothold. Chuckling, the Fortian Weyrleader follows along at the rear of the pack, picking his way carefully over roots and underbrush. He’ll keep working on that rum too while he’s at it and he’s past the stage where the taste of it doesn’t bother him as much. Mmm, buzzed state! “Agreed!” Th’ero calls back about traditions having parties and then gives Kimmila a look when she begins to whine AND for that non-filtered statement! He coughs a bit, some of the last bit of rum he swallowed going down the wrong way. “Kimm! We’ve not been walking for that long.” Honestly! Catching up to her, he’ll gently grip her elbow and whisper something to her. Warning to behave? Maybe. Then he’s letting her go and he drifts back a bit. “Could we have even fit all on that little green of his?” Th’ero seems doubtful, as he looks down the path to where Cenlia is still in the lead, smirking when she agrees with him about the sand. See? He’s lucky then that he doesn’t have his rum bottle lifted to his lips when Kimmila fires off THAT question to the Istan Weyrwoman. It doesn’t stop him from just openly gaping in utter shock for it. So much for not being stuffy? Not paying attention on the trail either means he snags his foot and stumbles, falling only to his knees but with a started grunt and an oath sworn under his breath all the same. Scrambling back to his feet, he’ll pretend that never happened. Ahem. Carry on folks! “Kimmila!” Cough. He’s trying to catch up to her again, both to snare her in one arm and probably try to steal the rum from her with the other. “Think that’s enough rum for you right now! What in Faranth’s name made you say that!” Look, you almost broke Cenlia! Though he looks utterly confused for what the Weyrwoman fires back. Maybe his brain stutters too, because he’s stumbling again. “Right parts? Who’s right parts?” What?

Kimmila snickers, tilting her head to listen to his whisper, and grinning wickedly at him in return, but then POUTS at Th’ero when he tries to take her rum. “Nuuuu,” she protests, trying to keep it in her own control. “My rum! You’ve got your own.” When he falls, she laughs. Sorry. “What? She’s hot!” OH! “So you have! With two other girls? Or,” wink, “two other guys?” Mental immmmmage. She twitches, and takes another gulp of her rum, and laughs. Reaching back, she tries to grab Th’ero by the waist so she can give him a kiss. Just a brief one.

Onoes! Almost broke the weyrwoman! Clearly, this requires more rum to fix. Coughing a bit more, Cenlia though, is trying not to laugh between remembering how breathing is supposed to work, lifting that rum bottle several times in failed attempts to get a gulp down. Eventually, she manages it, though there might be some cackling there. Totally blaming it on the booze. "Y'alright?" is called back over her shoulder to Th'ero, though she's having to pay more attention now as the trail is becoming less overgrown and more sandy, and definitely more downhill. Oh hey, are those the Istan fishing rocks in the distance? "Now, /R'mero's/ the one ya want inna thresome," she does note, cheeks the color of a very ripe redfruit, the goldrider clearing her throat. A lot. Oh the mental image there. "Shells, mebbe we shoulda brought him along after all," Cen snickering as they finally reach the coast - though not quite the beach. The shore here is rocky, and probably not the easiest to be walking over while buzzed. Which is probably why Cenlia keeps to the treeline and leans on trunks every so often while heading for the lights down where the water finally starts hitting sand. It seems the three of them have come out of the forest clear on the other side of the docks! But that also means they've entirely bypassed the massive beach crowd, which looks to have several bonfires and dances going.

Th’ero’s pride might be a bit bruised, but he’ll live. Nothing more rum won’t fix! His rum, Kimmila’s rum! Because he’s going to snare her bottle and drain a good swig or two of it before handing it back to her, his face twisting into a grimace when the rum kicks back a little. “‘M almost done mine,” He’ll lift his almost empty bottle to wiggle it pointedly at Kimmila. “And if you don’t want to lose your rum, you… behave.” he mock grumbles at her, his cheeks flaring with a blush now too when she goes on to say Cenlia’s hot. He… wisely keeps his mouth shut on that, but does shoot the Istan Weyrwoman a sort of apologetic look with an amused half-grin. Ha ha! All fun and games, right? “‘M fine!” he calls belatedly. “Just stumbled to my knees. No harm done.” R’mero? Oh, the images indeed and Th’ero just STARES again between both of them. Now they’re BOTH in on the threesome joking? He coughs, clears his throat and just… looks anywhere else but them. Geez. Mental imagery is right. Mental imagery he does NOT need! Kimmila hooking him in for a brief kiss is probably not helping things, but he’ll go with it and when she moves on, he’s stumbling right along behind her. “Where’re we now?” Th’ero asks as he shuffles his way across the rockier part of the shoreline and staring around curiously, peering at the bonefires in the distance.

“Why’s that?” Kimmila presses Cenlia, wanting /answers/. Pouting again at Th’ero when he steals her bottle, she takes it back and stubbornly…downs the rest of it. “Ha! I WIN!” Weave. Sway. Giggle. That was not a very good idea. “Now you can’t gettttt ittttt.” Unless she vomits on him. Joy. “Hey, we’re back on the beach! Why are we on the beach? I thought…” Now she’s confused. “It’s like…it’s right…I can almost touch those fires.” Those ones way over there, that she makes grabby hands at, watching them vanish as her fist closes. Giggle. “What are we dooooooing?”

So long as they're not breaking the Fort weyrleader too! Cen will never be able to explain /that/ one to T'eo. "Gotta watch yer steps 'round this way," she offers helpfully, carefully avoiding the rocks where she can, and stumbling only slightly before catching herself against a tree trunk. And all three booze bottles are still intact! Which is really what matters here. Her own rum bottle is draining steadily, though not quite as fast as Th'ero's, Cen having gotten it past the halfway point before having that breathing malfunction back there. Clearly, she has to catch up, so as they finally get to unrocky sand, she'll swig back a good gulp of it. And is still mostly steady on her feet! "Man's got some skill with his tongue," she's going to blurt out at Kimmila's question, but hey - the bluerider asked! Clearly, even Cen's not immune to the effects of good Istan rum. Despite still being able to walk upright. Mostly. "Boardwalk's just over thisaway," she does explain to them cheerily, waving them to follow her and picking up the pace just a little as they get onto the beach proper, "There's this pub up on the docks, gotta try their brew. Will put hairs on ya-" glancing back briefly and considering the description, "..nosehairs." What? It makes sense to /her/. Somehow. She totally avoids the bonfires though, ducking down unnecessarily, and attempting to ninja her way toward the docks. Sneak sneak sneak. Or, well, more like stagger-wobble-shuffle. But in the end, she's heading for the wooden steps that lead up to the boardwalk, hopefully most of the crowd either missing their passage or ignoring them.

“That’s fine!” Th’ero drawls to Kimmila when she seems so smug at having him beat and defeated and he just grins at her. “Just means y’won’t get anything more till you sober up a bit.” Not with her wobbling and weaving like that! Night is still young… isn’t it? He’s not so sure of the exact time but it FEELS early and that’s good enough for him! “Those’re off in the distance, Wingmate.” he says with a chuckled laugh, reaching out to take her arm to steady her. Maybe to steady him a bit too. “Probably where the party is.” Not this private party though! Draining the last of the rum from his bottle, he’ll keep a hold of it even with it empty as he shuffles along. Nothing to trip on here, but Th’ero stumbles again anyways and this time over his own feet. Distracted minds will do that and Cenlia is the source this time. NOT what he needed to know about that greenrider! His mind is going to places it shouldn’t be going and he swears under his breath as he regains his balance and follows the Istan Weyrwoman on towards the boardwalk. Th’ero doesn’t seem to get the joke, face scrunching up into a baffled look. What? “Lead on!” he says and when it comes time to sneak their way through, well… he looks almost delighted at this prospect! Sneaking he can do! It’ll just be like old days, when he had Guard work to do. Mind you, he was sober then (and as stiff and stuffy and proper as Nyalle and B’ky). Not so much now, but he makes a passable attempt at dodging any attention from the crowds.

Kimmila laughs at that, grinning wickedly. “You know this from personal experience?” she teases, before giving Th’ero a wicked look as they move onto the boardwalk. She…does not help with the sneaking, waving and hollering, “HELLOOOO!” to anyone who even remotely glances their way. “LONG LIVE ISTA’S RUM!” And off they go onto the boardwalk!

"/Best/ parties're on the docks," Cenlia chuckles back, pausing only briefly to amend, "An' in the shrubbery." Her footfalls on the wooden boards of the dock are steadier than when on the sand, though the state of that rum bottle is looking a little lacking. That doesn't stop her from tilting it back for another sip, though. "Ain't drunk 'nough yet fer /that/ story," she grins back at Kimmila, though the weyrwoman's cheeks are still redfruit-hued. Poor Th'ero, he had no idea what he was in for when he agreed to this, did he? "Shellshards, gal, yer worse'n m' /dragon/!" but still the goldrider looks amused, hurrying down the boardwalk with a, "C'mon, is just over here." She keeps low, peering ahead as if expecting at any moment for some Lord Holder to pop out of the shadows and accost them. Now /that/ would be diplomacy of a sort she probably shouldn't be doing. There's an "Ack!" when the bluerider starts to hollar, Cenlia flailing a bit, which isn't any more subtle, really. MISSION ABORT. ABORT! She'll just make a dive for the tavern doorway there - TOTALLY NINJA. Or.. not. There is the second WHUMP of the night, as Cenlia totally meets the closed door. Even /less/ subtle swearing ensues, though she'll open the thing sheepishly. At least this time it was her shoulder and not her head.

“… shrubbery?” Th’ero shoots Cenlia a skeptical look, since his idea of a party on the docks is vastly different from any party that may be held in shrubbery. A party for two, maybe? No, the Fortian Weyrleader had no idea what he was in for. Drinking, yes. But for this exchange of banter between Kimmila and Cenlia? No. Nooo and he’s still going to pretend he’s not hearing any of it! At least he doesn’t run off like Nyalle? The Istan Weyrwoman isn’t the only one startled when Kimmila starts hollering and Th’ero hisses at his weyrmate. “Kimmila, what are you doing?” Wait. What is HE doing and why is he sneaking about? He gives his head a shake, which is… a bad idea in his rapidly sloshed state. That buzz is mellowing nicely into drunkeness now. “Git over here,” he growls next, his old accent starting to surface into his voice now that he’s on his way to slurring. May as well just make it triply more difficult to understand him! While Cenlia makes a not-so stealthy dive for the door, Th’ero will stumble-lurch to grab Kimmila’s arm and attempt to haul her along. If she doesn’t start flailing too much (or even if she does), he’s likely to pin her to his side next. Nothing to see folks! He’s just hugging her close. Honest! Not… dragging her away. Nope. Off they go, to follow Cenlia inside though Th’ero at least doesn’t walk into any closed doors (or the wall).

What’s the big deal? They’re having a good time, right? Not like they’re doing anyting /illegal/. She still doesn’t understand the sneaking. She laughs (rather rudely) when Cenlia runs into the door, but…it’s funny. “Hey!” she protests, wobbling when Th’ero grabs her. “Wait until later,” she giggles, goosing his rear as they walk inside. “I like the…the way you talk when you’re drunk,” she giggles. “Like your accent. S’sexy. So’s your hair. I wanna play with it.” Grabby hands.

"Shrubbery!" is Cenlia's definitive answer to Th'ero, and totally the greeting she gives the tavern at large. Which, incidentally, is called the Crusty Barnacle, or so claims the little swinging sign above the door. A sign Cenlia squints at before ducking inside, and promptly not being noticed. Three more drunks at a gather, on a /dock/ are about as out of place as sand on a beach. She'll at least laugh at herself - hey, it /is/ funny, though she'll probably not be so amused tomorrow when her shoulder's all stiff. But who's worrying about tomorrow? Inside, it's busy, but not busy enough that there aren't plenty of free tables. And there even are few friendly waved greetings to various folks - thankfully none of them wearing fancy knots. The decor is the usual dockside tavern sort, with some quaint and tacky islandy additions, including what looks like a ship in a bottle on the bar, sailing in its own private sea of amber liquid. Cen will just plop herself down in a chair, and probably not a moment too soon, tilting back that rum bottle till its empty. She savors the last of it, grinning past it at the Fortians with an, "Oy, how come he ain't got an accent usually?" because obviously Kimmila must know!

That wasn’t an answer! Th’ero’s not so concerned about parties in the shrubbery and more so on keeping Kimmila (a little) under control. No big deal! They’re having a good time, even if the Fortian Weyrleader sometimes reverts back to his old habits of ‘this is proper and that is not’. Grunting when Kimmila gooses him again, he’ll bat at her hand and mutter something again to her ear before he’s focusing on leading her inside the… Crusty Barnacle. Oh, if he had seen the sign, Th’ero may have had a chuckle or two. As it is, he’s having to keep his weyrmate from grabbing at his hair. Not right now! Down. Down! They’re in a tavern with other people! He’ll straighten a bit, trying to keep Kimmila held (pinned) to his side as he shuffles along and offers a few nods of greeting as well. Maybe he should have slipped his knot into his pocket? Foresight fail. As they find some chairs, he’ll see that Kimmila is seated first (and stays seated), before half stumbling, half falling into one of his own. Ahh. Much better! “Don’t have one usually,” he drawls, the accent back and thick now. A lot of his words are mumbled and rolled together and being more than sloshed right now certainly isn’t helping. “But sometimes it comes back. S’old accent from m’home. Just how I was. How I am.”

Kimmila is led/dragged/pinned into the tavern and sat in a chair, which she rocks back in, and then settles, and then giggles. “Shrubbery!” Why are they shouting about shrubbery? She has nooooo idea. But it’s amusing, so she laughs again. “Huh? Oh. S’where he was from. He hides it usually, but I think it’s sexy. I like your accent,” she drawls to Th’ero, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. “More rum?” she asks Cenlia hopefully.

The whole pinning/dragging/leading thing does have Cen snickering somewhat, setting her empty bottle down and keeping the other two aside, probably for later while she settles comfortably on that chair. "Shrubbery!" Cenlia agrees, "Me an' X'hil usedta party in the shrubbery. Till S'gam stole his pants." She'll tsk about this to herself, before nodding with enthusiasm to Kimmila, "More /good/ rum." At least they're not sending the poor bartender off on a quest for shrubbery. "Island special, three rumrolls with a half-melon, an' three glasses of yer best," is instead said to the man, who takes one look at her knot, nods once, and heads round the back of the bar. Turning to Th'ero, the weyrwoman peeers at him across the table, "Shells, she's right, yer accent's sexy as all get-out. Should use it on yer weyrwoman, mebbe mellow 'er out some?" suggested oh so helpfully. "How come ya hide it?" eyebrows do go up, "P'rel usedta do the same thing, dunno why. Ain't like bein' all proper talking all the time's gonna make that much a difference," ironically, the goldrider does tack on, "Mine actually got worse after Zeek. Way she talks, is sharding contagious."

Just wait! Maybe Th’ero will throw Kimmila over his shoulder at some point, if he can even walk on his own feet by the time the night is through. “Was X’hil a bronzerider? Is, pardon. Cause if he is, why is it that our pants are stolen? Dtirae did that to me.” After he said some Not Nice Things to her face right after Zuvaleyuth’s flight that made her Senior Weyrwoman. Not his best moment. When both Kimmila and Cenlia comment on his accent he looks a bit flustered, eyeing the Istan Weyrwoman and then scoffing. “Y’think it’d work? Cause I don’t think Nyalle gives a damn whether or not I talk Fortian or talk Islander. If there’s anyone who’s to be mellowin’ her out, it’s that Mr’az fellow who follows her like a lovesick pup.” Ouch. And that’s one of his Wingriders, too! He glances sidelong to Kimmila, grinning faintly. “So it’s only my accent and mah hair that does it for you, huh?” he teases, only to shrug his shoulders at Cenlia. “Just do. Guess now it’s because I live in Fort and have for Turns. Picking up their ways. P’rel?” His brows lift and a look of faint recognition crosses his features. “I seem to recall that name and meetin’ him a few times. And that so?” He chuckles dryly. “Well, you two are lucky Velokraeth’s not rubbed off on me that much.” Yet.

Kimmila snorts. “/Drink/. You need to get her drunk and then talk sexy to her. She wanted to be in your bed anyway.” Thanks, Kimm, for bringing that up. Poor Nyalle. “Mr’az? You even think Nyalle /can/ love? She’s so damn uptight.” Though people said that about Th’ero at one point, to be fair. Then she smirks wickedly at Th’ero. “And your di-” OH, FOOD! Their food is delivered, saving Kimmila from completing that word.

Cenlia can sure at least point them toward some convenient shrubbery! Ahemahem. "Was a bronzer," she nods to Th'ero, "So was S'gam - shells, think he was m' weyrleader at the time, actually." Which has her snickering all over again. Who cares about tenses, when you have rum! "Eh? Who? An' didja go streakin' 'cross the weyr?" she asks with a grin, before waving a hand absently as she explains, "P'rel was m' weyrleader b'efore T'eo - sharding tough as tree bark an' moodier'n a proddy greenrider. Weren't half as," more vague hand waving, "as T'eo or S'gam, but had a backbone that one." A pause. "Also had a nice ass." Nodding sagely, she'll quirk a brow at mention of Mr'az, glancing between Kimmila and Th'ero, considering a second before she suggests to them, "Ya could get 'em both drunk? Worked fer Thea an' that what'shisname.. Da-something? I ferget. Was sharding ages ago. 'Course, I put it in the cakes. Goes down easier." Snicker snicker. "Shards, even worked fer /B'ky/," she tells Kimmila, "If it worked fer him, it's /gotta/ work fer her. Mind, B'miel was proddy at the time, so's he had an excuse to be gettin' other folks drunk. Wait till her dragon's glowing, mebbe, an' take her out.. /dancin'/," and the eyebrow-waggling suggests it's not the kind one does to music. At that last bit the bluerider says, Cen dissolves into totally unladylike snickers, while the poor bartender has brought them glasses of rum, half a melon filled with melon balls, with toothpicks to use to nom them, and the 'Island Special' which actually looks like a fruit cocktail of some kind - in a shot glass, with four separate layers of liquid, all of which are shades of amber and red. A tiny sunset in a glass, maybe. It's that, which Cen tells them, "One of ya gotta knock it back - 'cause the other's gonna hafta haul ya over to the next bar." She herself, lifts one of the rum glasses.

An offer of convenient shrubbery may be seriously considered! Th’ero grunts when Cenlia corrects the tense. But it’s true, who does care? Rum! It takes all worries away. Among many other things. Like inhibitions! “What? Shards ‘n shells, no. Dtirae was our Senior Weyrwoman ‘fore Nyalle. Velokraeth’d just won Zuvaleyuth’s flight ‘n the shardin’ woman took off with my pants. Had to go hunt her down.” Literally. After a pause, he adds. “AFTER I got another pair of pants.” In case that wasn’t clear. He tilt his head a bit, his rum and wine soaked thoughts giving little help to trying to recall a clear picture of P’rel. “He don’t sound half bad of a rider. Not that I’m interested in his ass.” More unnecessary clarification. He gives Kimmila another look and then double takes when she mentions THAT. “Kimm!” he hisses under his breath, giving her a little nudge to the side. Hush! “‘M NOT going to get her drunk and talk sexy to her! If ‘m gonna do that to anyone, it’ll be for you only.” he mutters, attempting to be “quiet” about it and… failing. “I ain’t R’lor.” Burn. As for whether or not Nyalle can love, he only shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t know or, at this point in his drunken state, he doesn’t care. He DOES give Kimmila another stare for her half finished word and then he’s coughing and clearing his throat. Right. Well… is it hot in here? “I don’t dance…” he begins to half explain and half protest to Cenlia but by then the booze has arrived and Th’ero drifts silent to both stare at it apprehensively and in awe. Curiosity killed the Weyrleader? Because he’s drawn to that four layered sunset in a shot glass and already has it in his hand to admire it (and wonder perhaps how it’s layered — what is this sorcery!). “It looks harmless. Pretty and harmless.” Which usually means it’s deadly. Doesn’t he know anything? Shot glass in hand, he eyes Kimmila. She mind if he takes it?

Kimmila snickers, smirking at the both of them. Amused. “YOu do /too/ dance,” she protests, frowning at him. But then, yes, drinks are here and she eyes Cenlia, then the drink, then Th’ero. And she grins. “I can carry you.” Giggle. “Do it. Do TWO. Bet you can’t do two.” She is such a bitch sometimes.

"Shells, ain't a good sign when the woman's the one runnin' off with yer pants," Cenlia laughs, snickering a bit behind that glass of rum, although she's sliding forward the bottle of tuber ale too with a suggested, "This's better'n two!" Hopefully they make it through more than one bar - then again, given they'll probably be too sloshed to remember tonight at all, it probably doesn't matter too much! "Shoulda seen his ass," Cenlia sagenods, making her way through her own drink in good time, a little less concerned with tossing it back and more with enjoying the flavor. "Who's R'lor?" tact went out the window with inhibition apparently, Cen raising a brow at Kimmila and Th'ero, then just dissolving back into snickering at Kimmila's protesting that the Fortian weyrleader does, indeed, dance. "Harmless as an ovine's headgear," she cheerfully grins between the other two, raising her glass a little to the bluerider, "Would pay good marks to see ya haul him over to the next bar!" Because this would probably amuse her terribly, for all the two minutes she was conscious enough to recall it - that tuber ale bottle is opened. And some more empty glasses are requested of the bartender, and then Cen is pouring. She manages not to spill, but it's a near thing. "We actually make it to the next place, will show ya the Flamin' Ovine." What is with this woman and sheep, really?

Th’ero sighs, “Not it’s not but it’s not like I had much choice once she had ‘em! I’m not like some Weyrleaders who streak buck naked around their Weyrs!” Now who could he be referring to? Or does he just assume some riders don’t care? Ahh and the fabled tuber ale comes out at last! He’s his hand full with that shot glass, so Kimmila may be free to take the first sample and taste! Who knows what will occur from this. They may make it to one more bar, but in what state is the question! “I think I’ll pass. Don’t usually admire the same sex. Now…” He tilts his head a bit, peering at Kimmila and there’s no need to explain where his eyes are going — or trying too. Hellooo. The rest of what he says is lost, because his mind is distracted and with a blink he looks back up to Cenlia in a sort of blank confusion. Whut? “…him? S’the High Reaches Weyrleader. Unless Pandara’s gold finally went ‘n picked another bronze.” he remarks with a dismissive wave of his head. Enough of that talk! “What’s an ovine’s headgear got to do with dancing?” Th’ero asks, glancing between both the Weyrwoman and his weyrmate. Woah, he miss something? As for who’s carrying who, he only snickers. “I’d like to see her or you try… I ain’t no lightweight.” Which is true, he isn’t and will be miserable to carry even with both of them trying if he goes dead weight and passed out cold. “So you think this is the end all, be all?” Th’ero drawls, lifting the shot glass again and shooting Kimmila a look for her dare. “ONE for now! I don’t want to wake up the next sevenday.” he mutters. Oh well, here goes nothing? He knocks the shot glass back and swallows, then begins the anticipation. Sweet? Sour? Spicy? Does it go down smooth and kick back or burn the whole way?

“How many marks?” is Kimmila’s laughed, slurred answer. “Could I drag him?” Ouch. “What’s…” But Th’ero beats her to that question, and she just blinks a few times. Hold on a second, let her brain catch up. A few expressions cross her face, and then she giggles again. “I want one too!” And she grabs the pretty drink (why did they get four if they’re only supposed to drink one?) and she downs it in one gulp. Swaaaaaaaay.

"Am pretty sure S'gam did that a couple times," Cenlia boozedly trying to recall if any of her weyrleaders have gone streaking, eventually comes up with a surprised-sounding, "Huh, actually, dun think any of 'em had it that bad. Shards, was /sure/ 'least /some/ of 'em.." a hand is lifted to wave vaguely in the air, as words fail to be found. Who needs words anyway - there is rum! And very good rum at that. Or as good as she can find in Ista, at the moment. "Oh him!" Cen isn't quite so sloshed that she fails to realize she was probably talking to the man not half an hour ago, which has her laughing all over again. The question from Th'ero has her pausing though, with a squinty-eyed, "..Dunno, think that's more'n I'd want while dancin'," making a face at THAT mental image. Oh dear, maybe it's a good thing the goldrider probably won't remember the specifics of this conversation tomorrow morning. "Eight marks!" is said to Kimmila though, Cenlia tossing back a shot of tuber ale, and promptly looking like she's gotten a punch to the face, at least from the expression she pulls. She has to remember to breathe eventually, though. The colorful drink at least is mostly different concentrations of alcohol and juice, actually - and sweet at that! - but it's probably at least as strong as the potato vodka, only with padding. Cen herself is grabbing some of those melon balls, possibly to save her tongue. Or possibly she just really had to munch something right then. "Neh- next one!" she coughs out after awhile, sort of sliding down in her chair and holding an empty glass up. Though her eyes are going to the bar entrance, and a terribly mischievous expression crosses her face. She starts to say something, but then has to do a lot of throat-clearing. "Right!" her speech definitely slurring, "Onward!" Give her a sec, maybe movement will happen at some point, between watching Th'ero and Kimmila down their respective drinks.

Conversations of pant stealing and streaking slide, lost to the short attention span Th’ero is beginning to experience now, thanks to the alcohol numbing his brain. Most of his body feels contentedly numb too and he’s begun to keep a faint grin on his features now. “Only eight marks?” he scoffs and then has to clear his throat, glancing again to Kimmila. “Dun drag me. Not verreh nice of you, if y’do. Alright?” That made perfect sense, right? Especially with him well into his drink and well into his thickest accent yet, with his slurred words coming out almost growled and muttered. The faces he makes as that multi-layered shot kick in are probably fairly comical and end with a nose wrinkle and a slightly disgusted grimace. “Ugh. Sweet. Dun like sweet things… At least with SOME things. Hmm, Kimmila?” Cause she’s a sweet thing! Not. When she all but dives after one of the other shots, Th’ero laughs. “Woah, easy now! Cenlia’s been warnin’ us of this stuff. Yer gonna end the night early, Wingmate! That I can bet on!” Who is wagering? Anyone? “Onward!” he exclaims, only to blink. “We leavin’ already? Cenlia… a moment!” He wasn’t ready to move yet! But he’s getting to his feet (in a sort of wobbly slide off his chair) and once he’s semi-certain his balance is okay, he’ll reach to snare the remaining shots to knock them back as well. Only to cough and sputter when he experiences the unpadded version of that potato vodka. “Sweet Faranth’s shiny arse!” THERE’S Velokraeth’s influence! Th’ero coughs again, blinking as he regains his breath. “How’n the world do folks drink this regularily?” Seriously. Not that it stops him from chasing it with… another shot. Waste not, want not?

Done! I’m wondering though, with how drunk they’re getting… should we start FTB’ing towards an end? If that makes sense? XD
I’m good with moving to an FTB… XD
I'm good with that too! XD

Kimmila giggles, pushing herself to her feet and swaying. “Eight? Not worth it.” Not because she /totally/ can’t do it. No, she’ll blame it on not being worth it. “I’m sweet.” See? She got it. Swaying out after Th’ero, she laughs again as they move onto the boardwalk and towards the next bar. But…if they get there…that’s the question. Kimmila certainly is swaying enough to be on the deck of a ship in a storm. Which might explain why she’s suddenly being sick over the side of the boardwalk. Oh dear.

"Ten marks, if she hauls ya over her head," Cenlia tacks on, clearly joking. Hopefully. Maybe. "Mebbe should try the Sour Surprise at the next place," is suggested to Th'ero, Cen eventually managing to find her feet, but not before swaying and some table-steadying happens. Leaning heavily on her hands, she takes a second before she's aiming for the doorway, though at a slightly slower wobble. She might call something over her shoulder to the bartender, about a tab, but the man only grunts a response. This is probably not the first time the weyrwoman has gone bar hopping through here. "Ya bet!" is laughed at Th'ero's commentary on Faranth's shiny ass, Cenlia nearly cracking up, though whether she actually finds the response funny, or whether it's the booze - who knows. "Sweeter'n a Flamin' Ovine?" Cenlia quirks a brow at Kimmila, the goldrider perhaps wisely using various pieces of furniture and walls to keep herself mostly upright. There's not so much swaying as staggering, but it gets her outside in one piece. Only to give a squawk and jump back as the bluerider is sick over the side of the boardwalk. Cen will just have to be /very/ glad she's not still wearing sandals from earlier. Sturdy boots, clearly, were a good idea tonight. "Y'alright thar?" is asked automatically, though Cen's momentum seems to be carrying her off toward the next bar, waving the other two to follow haltingly before she herself has to pause and not fall over the railing - because a faceplant in the ocean would probably end badly. "Grew up on this schtuff," is called over to the Fortians, belatedly answering Th'ero's question, or maybe talking about alcohol in general. [braaaainz XD]

“Sour Surprise? Sounds like I’m t’expect to get slugged one in the jaw.” Th’ero slurrs as he takes a moment to orient himself after downing those shots, one hand on the bar, the other likely fumbling for Kimmila’s hand and likely groping in all the wrong places before he just gives up and stumbles after her and Cenlia. Out into fresh air and back onto the boardwalk! Th’ero’s not quite walking evenly, swaying but seeming capable enough to keep forward or some semblance of direction. So long as he doesn’t move too fast that is! His eyes will follow the Istan Weyrwoman, then Kimmila as she begins to sway and sway… and then be sick over the side of the boardwalk. Wincing and grimacing, he’ll stumble-shuffle his way up beside her to pat-pat his hand awkwardly (and drunkenly) against her back. He’s not too squeamish or, drunk as he is, just doesn’t care. “Y’alright?” Th’ero echoes along with Cenlia, before he’s trying to slip his arm around Kimmila, half to steady her, half to draw her back along with them once she’s done being sick and has had a moment to recover. “Y’see? Ah warned you not to drink ‘em too swift. S’water and bread for you when we get to the next place. For a bit, till you sober up ‘nuff.” And then she gets to start ALL over again! Isn’t that grand? No one best be faceplanting into the ocean. Th’ero’s almost drowned once in his lifetime and once is enough! “Shells, y’did? And here I thought fire whiskeys were the worst sort to grow up on!” he calls back to Cenlia and with his free hand he’ll wave for her to continue on. Which… almost has him toppling over as he has to hastily backstep and stumble to keep his balance and not fall on his ass with Kimmila likely going down with him. “Lead on! Think we best get to sittin’ again. Boardwalks a’swayin’…” So is his head. He’ll start to lose most of his coherency from then on in. By the time they get to the Flamin’ Ovine, Th’ero will have no filter left or really any sense of what he’s drawling out in that thick and burr-like accent he has. Likely half the time no one will sharding know what the man is talking about.

Kimmila sways against Th’ero with a grimace as he helps her up. “Ugh. Yeah. Water. Bread. And…” Snort. Cough. Giggle. /Disgusting./ Onwards she stumbles into the Flamin’ Ovine, finding a spot to sit and look a bit miserable. Maaaaaybe this wasn’t a good idea? Shell perk up in a minute.

"Some of them drinks sure feel like it," Cen will nod agreement about expecting to get slugged in the jaw, the weyrwoman slowing so Th'ero and Kimmila can catch up - and to make sure Cen herself doesn't go headlong into a wall or anything. "Will order some breadrolls 'n schtuff," she promises Kimmila, though is then making progress forward toward a shadier looking building right near the end of the pier. "Ain't gonna hafta carry ya the rest of the way, will we?" is asked of Th'ero, though then Cen is peering back at the bluerider too, "Mebbe shoulda bet marks on which of ya can hold yer drink better? How much'd be 'nough fer a drinkin' contest? Or should I challenge 'im?" glancing from one Fortian to another, before heading into the doorway. At least it's less tacky than the last place, right? Well, maybe. But Cenlia heads right over to the bar, to plop down in a seat and calling out for three Flamin' Ovines, pausing a few seconds to remember, before tacking on, "An' water an' breadrolls an'… oh yeah. Yer besht rum." She hardly slurs at all through that, maybe. And she's still upright! But then, this probably isn't the first time she's likely done this kind of thing. "Rightso, which of am I drinkin' under the table?" wait what? She might be joking there, or she might just be teasing them, actually taking a glass of water and a roll for herself when the things are set down. It wouldn't do to pass out just yet! The night is young, and who knows what trouble they could get into now that they're getting (or gotten) properly drunk.