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Harper's Tale 3 - Thursday, October 03, 2002, 9:16 PM
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The Flying Mug
A few shades too bright for the lighting to ever be called quite dim, the interior of the Flying Mug reveals upon closer inspection the marks of a much-frequented bar. Although the tables all match and the chairs are of a set, one or seven chairs have a wobbly leg, a few tabletops have big gashes across them, and each surface has an intricate pattern of turn-old mug rings. A well stocked, well polished and well maintained bar stretches across the expanse of the wall, facing the series of shuttered windows looking out on the courtyard. The bar stools are better maintained than the chairs, with low backs. And they spin, too! An intricate 'mural' covers the ceiling and there's a 'note' on the wall.
High in the rafters are thirty-two firelizards.
You see Bartender Lem here.
Brogan and Synte are here.
Obvious exits:
Dining Hall     Great Hall
You stand in the rather rambunctious Flying Mug.

Brogan stands to his full height as he takes in his boss's attire wihtout a word and shrugs with his usual friendly visage. "Well the runnerbeasts don't say much, but they seem to appreciate the attention. Uh.. are you planning a trip?" he asks, curious. The newly arrived young man is given a nod of acknowledgement.

An almost painfully off-key whistling precedes the arrival of a certain lanky Healer into the Mug. Morallen is still wearing a loose set of clothing that Terran eyes would identify as scrubs, and has obviously just come off a stint in the infirmary. "Hullo there, Lem," he greets the bartender, sliding into a seat at the bar and resting his elbows on it. "Think you can spare a glass of juice for a poor thirsty student of healing arts?"

"Heading to the Herder Hall in a bit," the comfortable-looking Synte replies, easing onto a barstool, scowling down at his boot for a long moment. "Eventually, I'll go see that physical therapy lad that they keep on raving about." Sigh. The Bitran's drawl pauses, and he winces at Morallen's whistling. /Wince/. "If I 'ave to stay overnight, or some stupid mess, you've got morning feed," he addresses Brogan.

Brogan makes a show of looking hurt and overburdened, but it passes quickly to be replaced by a smile and accomanied with a bow. "As you wish, Sire," he addresses Synte almost disrespectfully, "I shall attend the beasts well."

"Physical therapy?" comes a tenor query from over at Morallen's end of the bar. Note this, kids, a surefire way of perking up even the most tired of Morallens. Mention his specialty, of course. "Who's gone and broken what?" he queries, unable to see Synte's foot from his particular seat.

Sudanna pages, "I know! I would jump Jaryn-player, but he already has his hands full..:>"

Brogan arms go out to his sides, ale still in one hand, and he looks down at himself "I don't /look/ broken." Synte is given his attention as he observes "You were limping ealier, though"

Synte blinks, slowly, at Brogan. "Call me 'sire' again, an' I'll break both your kneecaps," he idly states. "I'm Synte. An' if you think you can't handle it," and an impassive look crosses his face, "I'll get Malek to do it." Or he'll visit Rilna and find out how she keeps her 'hands in such iron control. Hmm. Perhaps a trip to Keroon should be scheduled... Synte twists to blink at Morallen. "Ahh. Myself, I fear. Badly sprained.. or something.. my ankle, in the earthquakes. Limped ever since. Everyone - even that Harper lass - has been rasin' /between/ to get me to go see some lad called Morallen." He twitches. "Lem, where's my sake?" Is that a /whine/? Gawd.

Brogan, who hasn't had a decent opponent for a tussel in a long time, tilts his head and laughs good-naturedly at Synte. "When you are healed, Stablemaster, Sir. I shall endeavor to curb my tongue until then." Morallen is given a wink. "D'ye think that sounds fair?"

Morallen's never met Rilna, but his player could hazard it has something to do with that riding crop of hers. But Morallen himself simply looks politely blank and sips his juice until the conversation works back around to him again. He spins his stool so that he can laconically lean his elbows against the bar and drawl out comfortably that "You broke it, if I remember right. And I'd be the 'lad' you're looking for," he notes. "Morallen, senior apprentice Healer, and the lone physical therapist in Ista."

Synte eyes Brogan for a long moment, before shaking his head and muttering something darkly. Then, Lem returns with his riverwine, and he takes two shots in swift sucession, before cradling one of the tiny cups in two work-calloused hands, mismatched eyes settled on Morallen. "Hmm. /You're/ Morallen?" One eyebrow ticks upwards, and amusement peeks at his expression. "...ahah. Well, that's sure interesting." And, without saying a word, he rises to his feet, limps ten paces towards the door, executes a military-sharp turn, and hobbles back, settling down on the stool and arching both brows wordlessly at Rallen.

Brogan just watches, letting Morallen deal with the moody, pained Stablemaster for now. It's been his expreience that Healers are much better at thier jobs than people give them credit for, and part of that job is getting people to let them do their work. He leans on the bar again, almost perpetual smile still on his face, and listens.

Morallen slips Brogan a wink out of the corner of his eye, before turning to Synte as the aforementioned stablemaster plonks down near him. He might have a somewhat irreverant bedside manner, but he's still a fairly dab hand at it. Sipping at his juice, he switches to turning his stool enough that he's only leaning with one elbow this time, the other hand holding his glass. "So," he intones. "I take it I'm not what you were expecting, but why don't we try and set up a bit of a case history here, before I haul you off to the Infirmary or anything drastic. Tell me how it happened." he orders with a casual air.

"It, er..." Shellit, Rallen, now you're making the /player/ think of how Synte got that injury. "I fell," he flatly states. "It wasn't a pleasant experience. And then... I kinda hobbled around on it for a while before going to a Healer to get it set." Twitch. It's the truth -- unpleasant, but the truth. Synte shrugs. "And I couldn't stand the bedrest, so I hobbled around on it when it was trying to get healed up."

Brogan would think someone who made it to stablemaster would have more sense, but he's not about to jeapordize his new position to mention it. Lem is called to refill his mug. He does make a quiet comment to the barkeeper, but it's almost a whisper and indecernable.

Willow flitters in, having been aware of something healer-like going on in here. If his 'pet only knew...

Morallen continues to sprawl casually in his seat, nodding here and there as Synte tells his tale. Although by the end of it, the affable young man looks like he's nursing the beginnings of a headache. He manages to dredge up a smirk, though, apparently without the compunctions that Brogan has. "Stablemaster, anyone told you recently that you're an idiot?" he asks rhetorically, before waving a hand at the other man's ankle. "Well, I can hardly ask you to don a gown and let me poke at you, but how about you let me have a look at how the bone's aligned. You /may/ have had it heal wrong, in which case I'm dragging you down to my mentor and leaving you to /her/ mercies."

Kryon walks in from the great hall.

Brogan spots the knot and gets edgy. One healer is a coincidence, two make him nervous.

Kryon shuffles silently into the Mug, writing slate tucked carefully in his arms. Shoulder occupied by a still youngling blue firelizard who watches warily what goes on in the bar-type setting. Why are we /here/? This is hardly the place to study pro--oh. Guess the healer didn't come to study. He doesn't have anything with him. Bar is approached, apprentice spending a little time waving Lem over, mouth never moving once as he points at a pitcher of juice, smiling gently. He does pause to look then, dark bangs covering one eye as he peeks about, slightly curious.

Synte scowls at Morallen. "So, what'd you want me to do, boy?" His tone's low, rumbling, ominous -- "I was the last shelling stablehand this hold /had/. You really wanted all of 'em to starve, or continue to wander like they did?" Whups. Bad topic to bring up. "Who's your mentor, lad?" He eyes him cautiously, before eyeballing the incoming Healer. Mrr. /Two/ healers? ... not good.

Morallen cants his head to one side with the air of letting the Stablemaster run through his speech like a toddler through a tantrum. That done, he promptly moves on, gesturing to the bar stool separating them. "Put your leg up on that and let me get a look at the ankle-- 'Lo there, Kryon." he greets the younger Healer, before rounding on his patient/victim again. "My mentor's Sudanna. Bonehealer, among other things. Trust me, you don't want me to go get her." Of course, Sudanna is far from the draconian presence he's making her out to be, but fear can be /such/ a good motivational tool.

Kabel walks in from the great hall.
Kabel walks in smiling to new people.

Brogan remains at the bar, finding a stool to claim. One far away from the goings on. Rather near a dark spot near the bar.

Kabel goes over to the bar and takes a seat, trying to get comfortable.

Kryon blinks slowly, taking a sip out of his glass before moving, shuffling quietly over to where the other healer is, peering curiously at both him and Synte. Peek. Silent questions are really all the mute boy can give, though he definately has an eagerness to help, if he can. He's helpful like that. The only really visible eye, blue, peeks out at the stablemaster as he smiles. See? He's a cute and pleasant little healer.

Malek walks in from the great hall.

Brogan leans over toward Kabel. "Y'are wise, Harper. I think they're looking for work."

Synte glowers at Rallen. "Sudanna's no great big deal," he protests. How does he know? He knows. One doesn't live in Ista Hold for oh-so-many turns without knowing the gossip. However, he clunks his foot up and around, hopping back to rest on one barstool and sprawl his foot Morallen-ways. "You know, you healers are gonna be the death of me," the young stablemaster states darkly, eyeballing Kryon. He doesn't trust 'cute and pleasant healers' -- not at all. In fact, they're worse than the tall, lanky ones who make their mentors out to be some sort of venemous people that eat ex-Bitrans for breakfast.

Kabel tries to stroke his chin knowingly but seems to just rub at it. "What sortof work are they seeking?"

Brogan still keeps his voice low. "Therapy for the Poor Stablemaster, looks like'

Kabel nods to Brogan, trying to think of any therapists. His nodding turns to shaking of his head. "I'm sorry friend, I don't quite follow you..."

Malek sort sidles in, edging around one random early drunk to claim a battered chair. Said seat is turned backwards and settled into that way, lanky arms looped around the back to form a pillow then put to use as a base for people-watching. A flicker of a glance goes Synte-wards, but nothing so polite as a 'hello' to any.

"Oh, that would be against our Oaths, I assure you," offers Morallen, lapsing into the polished Benden tones of his youth as he concentrates on removing Synte's boot. "Kryon, why don't you come over and get a look at this," he invites the silent apprentice. "Might as well try and seduce someone else to physical therapy, eh?" Meanwhile, hands far more deft than they look have disposed of the boot, and he's cautiously probing the offending ankle. "Huh, well tell me if any of this hurts," he orders. "Although it looks like, contrary to your efforts, you /didn't/ manage to make to bone set wrong." A mutter about stubborn stablefolk is deemed impolitic, and therefore squashed.

Kabel peers to watch the healer work, quite interested.

Kryon just nods, shifting to set his slate down so he can better watch. No, he's not going to try touching. He's still a beginning apprentice. Don't want to hurt something. But he'll watch, that much he /can/ do, and he's definately good at that. Fingers come up, pushing the tuft of bangs behind his ear to reveal the green eye settled beside the blue one.

Brogan doesn't answer Kabel, as the healers make who's who obvious. His large form just sits there on his stool as he drinks ale and looks grateful it's not him getting the attention.

Synte scowls openly at Morallen, before eying Kryon carefully. Hmm. Well, it's good to know that he's not the only one with mismatched eyes, even if his aren't so vividly different. He scowls over at all the gaping stablehands -- hmm, must assign them all more chores if they're all lounging around the Mug -- and gives an indignant sniff. "Well. Of course I didn't -- okay, okay, okay, that hurt," comes the sudden half-growl, lighter green eye glazing over slightly. Ow.

Kabel winces, for Synte, begining to rotate his own ankle...feeling empathy pains.

With a soft, "Ah-hah," Malek proves that he does indeed speak, midling dark eyes following the healers work, apparently the source of all amusement found in the bar late-afternoon. His gaze lifts to Synte's face with a blunt, "So that's why you limp." Scowling is met with a rather bland blink before attention shifts, a single finger crooked at the drudge in order to get her attention; unfortunately, the subtle dramatics fail and he has to actually lift his hand to catch the girl's attention. In the end, he gets his drink, and that's what counts, right? Zero points for style, though -- or manners, as he thanks her with a faint grunt.

Morallen offers a friendly smirk right back. He's dealt with scowls from his younger sister, and, no offence Synte, but when Wyn actually is irked enough to be scowling, they're a great deal more venemous. He makes a note of the sore area, his half-finished glass of juice now completely ignored, and continues his examination, nidding to Kryon again, and making a low running commentary partially for the stablemaster's benefit, but also for the other apprentice's. "What I'm doing now" he explains, testing the range-of-motion in the join "is checking to see where the movement is restricted. He's already got some muscle atrophy because he's been favouring the leg, but we need to figure out what's causing him to favour it... tell me when things hurt," he orders again.
join/joint

Kabel gets up and walks out.
Kabel walks through a door into the great hall.

Kryon gives a quick smile to Synte again, at least trying to possibly apologize for any pain. But hey, if it hurts anyway, why not go through a little more to make it feel better, right? His attention is drawn back to Morallen though, intently listening as he watches, blinking just a few times. Yes. Log away in memory for that.

Brogan winces as he watches: large man not taking the other's discomfort well. He silently slips from his stool and leaves as he mutters about runnerbeasts and brushes.
Brogan walks through a door into the great hall.

Wyn scowling is shelling /scary/. Even Synte would run. And Synte's pretty bullheaded, when he thinks he can take on someone... "It.. doesn't hurt but when you hit that--right there." Synte locks the ankle, scowling through the minute pain - he's dealt with much worse - and eyeballing the leg with a sigh. "So, who's your--" wince, "--quiet friend, Morallen?" One hand reaches up to settle a lock of unruly bronze-blonde hair back away from slightly-glazed green eyes. "Okay, Lem -- more sake, wouldja?" Yes. Get all nice and drunk for the healers. Cough.

Isyraelia has connected.

Malek's fingers curl quietly around the glass, apparently all his verbal exhausted by the brief observation made with regards to Synte's leg. Arms are resettled to accomodate the drink, and his chin rests there, eyes falling half-shut; not a nap, not even 'resting his eyes'. He still watches the others, just in rather lazy, distracted -- not to say silent and creepy -- manner.

Isyraelia waltzes in, rather sleepy-eyed, trying to find something to keep her awake. Rather enthused at seeing a small crowd, Rae shuffles over to the bar in hopes of finding some past time of conversation. Twirling a bar stool a few rounds before taking her seat, she cements a wide smile on her face. "G'day, to all o' y'all.

"Ah, where's my manners?" inquires Morallen, not really as sheepishly as the words might entail. He's still busy rolling the ankle through various odd stretches and contortions, you see. "Kryon, this is Stablemaster Synte. Synte, this is Apprentice Kryon. Kryon, Synte. Synte, Kryon. And Synte, it looks like you've got a contracted tendon. It's holding your foot at an odd ankle, which is why you're limping and it hurts." he pronounces, removing his hands from the stablemaster's foot, and wiping them on his scrubs-that-he-should-have-changed-but-didn't.

Kryon blinks quickly, apparantly rather surprised that /he/ forgot about introductions. Meep. Well then. Attention swivils, the young healer smiling at Synte again before nodding, fingers waved. Yep. He's Kryon.

"I think you left them with all remnants of any fashion intuition," Synte states in regard to Rallen's manners, snickering only slightly to himself as he reclaims his ankle and works his boot back on. "Er -- well-met, Kryon," rings out the true Bitran brogue, and Synte scowls upwards at Morallen once more. "So. How does one /fix/ a 'contracted tendon'?" Twitch. Twitch-twitch-twitch. That is a twitching Synte -- which is not good.

Morallen smirks in return. "They may not look like much," he quips about his infirmary-garb. "But they've got it where it counts. As for fixing it... you're a runner man, why don't you tell me what you'd do if you had a runner with a contracted tendon?" There. Rule 1 in dealing with difficult patients: Get them personally involved in the situation.

Kryon glances at Synte again, nodding, and simply smiles pleasantly. He's used to dealing with people of..similar temperments. However, he /is/ listening intently to the entire process, taking another peek at the ankle when he's able. Then, he simply slips away just a bit, to grab his writing slate, and starts to scrawl a few notes on it. When lacking in hides..use the slate. He can always run and get something to copy it on.

Synte scowls at Morallen. S'more. Yes -- seems like he's always scowling, ne? "You balance out the runner's hooves, splint the leg, and do forced extension--Oh, no," he mournfully states, rolling mismatched green gaze upwards. "Please, no. Not stretches. A cast, but.. deep stretches?" This isn't turning out to be a good day for poor Synte. "Please tell me that humans work differently than runners." He eyes Rallen warily. Again.

Kryon has disconnected.

It's a miracle his face hasn't frozen like that... or maybe it has, and we just can't tell? "Nope," Morallen demurrs with a sickening amount of hale and hearty good cheer. "When it comes to mucles and joints, the differences between man and beast are slight indeed. Except that /runners/ are a good bit /smarter/, when it comes to resting. You'll have some advantages the beasts don't have though. I can do a bit of pinpoint massage, you can consider yourself under orders to spend at least a couple hours a day soaking in the hot springs, I'll get you set up with some heating and cooling packs, and if you start getting muscle pains, I can talk to a journeyman about getting you some herbs. Better deal than your runnerbeast, eh?"

Lovelai walks in from the dining hall, closing the door behind her to prevent the Mug's noise from spilling into the dining hall.

Shaela walks in from the great hall.
Zorana walks in from the great hall.
Laytai slinks about with an aura of trouble in from the great hall.
Ajala strides cheerfully in from the great hall.

Over at the bar are a Healer and the Stablemaster. Synte has his leg up on a bar stool, and is sitting on another one, while Morallen is sprawled on still another and has just finished examining said leg.

Lovelai enters the 'Mug, still not quite sure of her surroundings. This is evident in her uneasy step... she glances around the place curiously, walking carefully. A small sigh of releif escapes her as she notes the familiarity of the place... yea! Somewhere she can rest for a moment!

The housekeeper arrives to cart Kryon off to bed.

Synte eyes Morallen dangerously, shaking his head. "I know you're enjoying every minute of my torture, boy," the stablemaster finally grits out. "Soaking? In the hot springs?" Bah. "I don't think I could fit Demure up there," he contemplates idly. "Maybe I'll just catch up on all the runner news." And make some of his own. Oh, yes, he can just see this now: 'Istan Stablemaster Fails To Keep Himself From Falling Apart, Suffers From Humiliating Tendon Injury!' .. sigh.

Ajala bounces through the door, hooking her arm through Laytai's with a smile. Yeah, she'll probably swat it away in a second, but whatever. She glances about, beaming, her every movement and stance radiating warmth and amiability. A long, curious stare goes to the Healer and the injured man, as well as to the somewhat quiet seeming girl and all other occupants. "Oo, this is gonna be fun!" is squealed to the poor souls within hearing range. Tugging on her messenger friend's arm, she points to the bar. "Pleaaaaaaaaase?"

Shaela spots her weaver-friend in a corner, and joins him immediately. She indicates to the other Reachians that they may join her should they wish, but quickly settles into a rather vocal greeting of her friend.

Zorana goes home.

Morallen rolls his eyes. "Would you quit calling me 'boy'," he chides, the senior apprentice shaking his head slightly. "I'm actually a couple months your senior, if I've got my dates right." A smirk. "And soaking. It'll ease the stiffness," the physical therapist orders. "Which means the stretching excercises will hurt less, and you'll be back to full mobility sooner. Besides... /you're/ the mated man... don't tell /me/ you can't think of any other advantages to hot springs, if you perhaps took Headwoman Psyra along with you," A waggle of one eyebrow, and he finally picks up his juice again. "I'll send you some hides with exercises I want you to try on them, and I'll corner you again in a week to see how things are going."

Laytai walks into the tavern and stops a few steps after the door, only to be pulled in further by Ajala, and yes indeed, as the runner gets pulled in more and more she detaches herself from her friend. "Fun?" Is all she says as she looks to the injured man at the bar and the Healer with him. "I..don't think fun is the word." A serious expression appears on Laytai's face as she regaurds Ajala for a moment. "Don't go nuts on the drinks, 'jala! I got night shift and gotta have some of my wits about me."

Lovelai slides closer to the bar, trying to avoid much confrontation. Instead, she leans onto the bar, raising her hand to gain the 'Tender's attention. She regards Synte with a confused look... he's rather familiar, too... oh well. "Ah... just some water, ah, please..." She manages a slight smile.

Ajala pouts and gives Laytai a /look/. "Fine. I'll have juice. You happy now?" But the smile quickly replaces any downcast look that may have briefly graced her contenance as she steps rather cheerily over to the bar to get herself a drink. Leaning against the bar, she offers a smile to the two men. "Greetings! The name's Ajala! And you two are?" A quick glance goes to the girl once more, and a slight squinting of her eyes indicates that she may be the next victim of Ajala's overly friendly nature.

Hynolonie walks in from the great hall.

"Yes," Synte sagely states, "But I'm a stablemaster and you're a Healer apprentice, which makes me your senior. Boy." Ahh, but wouldn't it be rich to compare the two's lifetime activites? The stories both could tell... "Bah. Psyra's pregnant, me lad, and just about full-term. I /hide/ from her, now." A fond smile is prompted. "But.. whatever you say." Sigh. Synte nods at Lovelai, trying to place just where he's seen her before... Hmm. "I'm Synte," the man offers to Ajala in a heady Bitran-accented bass.

Lovelai shrinks back from the, ah, somewhat loud girl... content to sit on a stool near the bar by herself. For the time being, anyway. As a glass of water is handed her, she takes a gulp. Not that her thirst is too hard-earned... by the looks of her she's not done a hard day's work in her life!

"I /could/ get my kid sister in here to lecture you on the use of belittling others as a means of hiding low self-worth..." drawls Morallen with a casual amusement and a complete lack of repentance, the latter quite common to Healers, for whom rank seems to have little meaning when they're Healing. "But I think we're better off leaving her and her dragon up at 'Reaches. But I'm glad you're agreeing with me. It's bloody tiring having to track down errant patients all the time," the taller young man recounts, before sketching Ajala a wave. "Morallen, senior apprentice Healer."

Ajala goes home.
Lovelai has disconnected.

Stirring only faintly from the pursuit of his favorite sport, people-watching, Malek turns his lazy gaze on those who've entered. His hand shifts slightly, a movement at the wrist, and the dark red liquid in the glass stirs lazily. Silence is the communication mode of choice; he sits, in his corner, quietly eying everyone. Real lively kinda guy.

Laytai glares daggers at her friend as she turns around. Her hadn goes instantly to her pocket as her eyes open with remembrence. "Shells! That's why I needed to come to Ista! I gotta deliever this message!" This all being shouted to no one in particular as the runner-gal turns on her heels and runs for the door. Better late then never!
Laytai slinks about with an aura of trouble through a door into the great hall.

Hynolonie strides into the room and walks straight up to the bar, giving Lem a familiar look. She slips onto a barstool and wrinkles her nose a she settles down for a moment, then turns one hundred eightly degrees to watch the people in the bar, particularly Synte. He was being loud and attracting attention, so it was easy to pick him out of a crowd. She sighs a little and leans back on the bar counter, rubbing at her nose and debating what to say really, feeling the need to appologize to him, but at the same time, not feeling very appologetic. With a perturbed look, she turns her eyes to the rest of the mug, and ignores Synte for the time being.

The housekeeper arrives to cart Lovelai off to bed.

Synte hmms, quietly observing Morallen. "I'm not belittling you," he states simplistically. "And you've no reason to drag kid sisters and dragons down thissaways," he scowls. Yes -- scowls. Seems to be a perfectly healthy emotion for the ex-Bitran. Green gaze swiftly scans the bar, settling on Lonie with an only slightly darkened expression, before motioning to Lem. Again. (At this rate, he'll be drunk... soon. Oh, no.)

Morallen shrugs. "Prickly sort, aren't you?" he comments mildly, easing back into his seat and sipping at the remainder of his glass of fruit juice. Apparently perfectly at ease with life, the universe and everything, the Healer leans back against the back of his barstool and just... lazes, taking in the sights and sounds of the pub in a companionable silence. Ahhhh...

Malek's gaze meets the bottom of the glass he holds, head tipped back as he drinks the last. He squints at it, tilts it from side to side, and when this fails to somehow refill it, signals for a refill. Back his head goes, sinking to the rest of his arms, folded on the back of the chair he has settled into backwards. People-watching resumes, with only the faintest wrinkling of his nose at calls for more drink of alcoholic nature.

Hynolonie hasn't done anything, yet. She wrinkles her brow at Synte before lowering her head a little and turning away from his direction. She gnaws on her lip and waves Lem over, ordering quietly before finding a hide in her pocket to write on. She wrinkles her nose and looks at something previously written and now reduced to smudges and wrinkles her nose. Hmm.. Vague.. Right? That was what she was supposed to be. Make them ask questions. Lonie has a distinct feeling that although it makes sense to practice her better conversational skills with Synte, her most recent offence, it might not be wise till she actually has them down.

"I'm not that prickly. Just obstinate and thick-skulled," Synte rumbles, leaning back with his sake cup, following Rallen's lead and merely glancing about the Mug with some semblance of a -- smile? -- on his lips. He looks it over intricately... he doesn't miss a thing. Except Lonie, who he avoids looking at with skilled ease. Every now and then, a sip of the warmed alcohol is taken, eyes drooping to a half-lidded state.

"My mistake then," smirks Morallen with a dry tone, glancing at his juice, then somewhat longingly at Synte's sake, before deciding to stick to the rules and therefore his juice. "Obstinate and thick-skulled sort, aren't you?" he amends the previous comment, before letting his gaze drift off across the bar again. Spotting Hynolonie and her apparent discomfort with something or other, his gaze sharpens a little, from under the tousled swipe of his sandy brown forelock, but he doesn't say anything.

Hynolonie can feel that she's being stared at and squirms a little. She also knows she's being avoided and that was oddly uncomfortable as well. She wrinkles her nose and stuffs her hie back into her pocket before jumping from her seat and walking away from the bar. She just wanted away from both of them for a little bit, to watch them, rather than being stared at. She arrives, rather oddly enough at Malek's table and smiles sweetly to him. "I couldn't help but notice your glass was dry." Yes.. She has good eyes. "May I get you another? Or something else? Perhaps... even food?" She raises an eyebrow and tries to be warm and inviting despite her inquisitive nature.

Malek. Silent. Corner. Not much else to say. Eyelashes have fallen over his eyes nearly completely, to lend to him the appearance that he's fallen asleep; the sudden appearance of a female at his elbow, so to speak, has both eyes opening rather suddenly. Now looking quite less the contentedly napping feline, he looks like who just found a bucket of water upended over it: confused, wide-eyed, and -- at the risk of being redundant -- lost. "Eh?" Eloquence itself, he shifts his gaze upwards to Hynolonie with a, "Wha--?"

Synte twitches, taking another sip. "Mmm, this is good stuff, Lem," he idylically calls over his shoulder, before muttering something to himself as he watches Lonie move to talk to one of his least favorite stablehands; one eyebrow furrows. "Well, if she can dig him out of the sarcastic hole he's buried himself in..." this is mused very nearly to himself, though perhaps said loudly enough for Rallen to overhear.

"Sure that's not just the effects of your oh-so-charming presence?" mutters Morallen into his juice at the same level of might-be/might-not-be overheard speech. The mutter's more amused than bitter, though, along the lines of an observation before the lanky Healer pulls a couple sheets of hide and a pencil from some hidden pocket of his pants, and begins sketching out a series of exercise diagrams, with commentary running down the side.

Hynolonie blinks, pauses and tries for simplier terms. "Thirsty?" She smiles warmly again and just stands there, her eyes locked on Malek. There was nothing she could do about her forward nature other than clamp her jaws shut and hope that she could pass for normal. She folds her hands infront of her and sways ever so slightly onto the balls of her feet before rocking back to her heals. She does sneak a glance back at the bar to see if any one is still watching her from behind, self conscious despite her attempts to be confident. She notices the audience she acquires with her actions but dismisses them for th time being.

Shifting on his chair a bit -- the better to see you, m'dear -- Malek regards Hynolonie blanky for a moment, the words appearing to finally catch up with him. With a sudden pronounced blink, he looks down at the glass in hand, then lifts it almost automatically towards Hynolonie. "Well, yes--" A heartbeat later, he pulls it back with a shake of his head, looking her over quickly in search of a knot. "Are you a barmaid? I'm not quite dehydrated yet, I don't -need- one," he says in a very, ah, dry tone.

Synte snickers, lowly. "Oh, I'm sure," he states, sotto voice, before shaking his head and watching the 'show' with idle amusement, playing with the warm golden liquid within his cup - staring directly at Lonie as she sneaks a glance back towards the bar.

Morallen offers a friendly smirk and then hands over the pair of hides. "Take these, and call me in the morning," the Healer orders whimsically, knocking back his juice and standing with a shake of his shoulder. "Or, call me in seven mornings, at least. Try that regimen twice a day, and I want you to take it easy. You've got stablehands, make 'em work. Because I'll know if you're being an idiot and doing too much, oh, rest assured that I'll know." And on that note, the young man slopes out, pausing by Malek's table to note cheerfully that "That bar maid's a Harper. Better watch it, or she'll stick you in a ballad." And then he's gone.