==== December 17th, 2013
==== Prymelia, T'ral, NPC Goven
==== (Backscene) Aftermath of Talicanitath rising. T'ral and Prymelia wake up not at home.

Who Prymelia, T'ral, NPC Goven
What (Backscene) Aftermath of Talicanitath rising. T'ral and Prymelia wake up not at home.
When The morning after Talicanitath's Flight
Where Southern Weyr

Prym%205.png t-ral_sheepish.jpg


A vast and sprawling cavern, the main storage area of the weyr is well-tended by the loving and stern hands of those who oversee the bounty stored within. Depending on the time of day, it is a place of illuminated neatness, stacks of dry goods and foodstuffs labeled clearly… or it is a place of werelight and stygian darkness that taunts those who would dare challenge the depths thereof.
The glowbaskets are lighted and illuminate the room beautifully.

T'ral slowly becomes aware of his surroundings. Cool. Dry. Lumpy. Lumpy? He grunts, shifting on something hard and unyielding wedged squarely into his back and becomes aware of a warmth beside him. A quietly breathing warmth. Prymelia? Ow. He blinks, shifting again, dim shapes of tall shelves becoming clear. Baskets overturned… Were those pants hanging on the glow basket?


Goldflight. After a marginally successful weyr-appointment trip to the Stores, Prymelia had insisted that she take T'ral to the Stores to get him properly set up. They'd been deep in the shelves when Esanth's notice of Talicanitath rising had reached the bluerider. As secluded and quiet and remote and dim as the stores were, it had been hard enough to resist Prymelia. But he had resisted her… this was his father's turf. As sacred a place as T'ral could reckon there was in the pantheon of his upbringing. A place of plenty and renewal and order and sustenance. And. Now… flight sex. Shelf-toppling, basket scattering, who-knows-how-far-the-damage-goes flight sex.

Disorder has come to the Sacred Cathedral of Renalde.

"Prymelia!" T'ral hisses, scrambling up, making a leap for his pants. Whiff. He lands heavily. "Wake up! Prymelia!" Nothing. COME ON, WOMAN. He nudges her with a foot. Jump whiff. Jump snag. Triumph. T'ral hops on one foot, careening about, trying to put the pants on at one go. Teeter, teeter… crash. "Ow!" He scrabmles up, casting about for his shirt. No where. He peers into the dim light at the mess. "Stars and stones…" Who knows what we… oh. This is… Triage! Quarrantine… quarrantine. In the distance, the heavy door to the Stores creaks open and shuts. Oh no! T'ral grabs the nearest basket and peers at the label, 'Doorknobs.' What? Why do we have a stockpile of doorknobs? He spots one where he'd been sleeping and twists his shoulders, no wonder his back was killing him. He moves over quickly and leans down to snag it, growling at Prymelia, "Get up!"

Heavy. Everything feels so damn heavy and yet, light at the same time. T’ral’s first attempt to wake her receives only a sleepy grumble from the redhead wearing little but her wrap-around skirt which is less wrapped and more tangled about long shapely legs. The second attempt about scares the living daylights out of her given the low growl in which its couched and she jacks upright and tries to scramble to her feet only to become snagged in her multi-colored skirts. “What the… whoa!” Arms flail and Prymelia lands square back down on her butt. Only then does she become aware of being in completely unfamiliar surroundings. “Ooooh… shit,” comes the quiet realization. That there’s someone approaching their illicit make-out spot, currently escapes her knowledge.

T'ral starts in alarm at Prymelia's pinwheeling and rushes over too late to help. Part laughing and part concerned he murmurs, his voice conspicuously quiet. "Are you okay?" He helps her up, laughing into a quick kiss as he spins to start making sense of the mess they'd made. He rights the toppled shelf, which tilts back into place with a loud thud. He winces. Surveying the baskets spilled, he wilts in relief, "No perishables." That means no waste. He looks around, wide-eyed, wary, holding a hand flat out in an intent keep-it-down gesture. Nothing. Eyes snap to Prymelia, Whew. He grin-winces and starts slinging stuff into the doorknobs basket. He'll sort it later. Shirt. Shirt. Where is my shirt!? Wait. The shushing gesture again. Footsteps! Hurryhurryhurry. Shirt! Or… something. A dim pile some distance away. He scoots over there. Oh. No. Not my shirt. This is… He hustles back to Prymelia, chucking more things into baskets on the way. He holds out a little bit of frothy lace, "This is not my shirt…" Laughter is one hysterical break away.

Cheeks still dusted a delicate rose from sleep’s heavy embrace and mahogany tresses a wild riot of ‘Guess what I just did’, Prymelia gladly accepts the help to get back to her feet again and grins into that kiss. “Your father is going to be so pissed.” She notes with an impish giggle. Starting to scope about for anything that might resemble the rest of her clothing and happy for the time being to leave T’ral trying to fix what they messed up – at least he’s found his pants - she freezes in place. Someone’s here? In the storage rooms!? What if it's… Oh dear Faranth! NOT the way she wants Renalde to find out about whatever it is she and T’ral have going. PANIC!! He might be on the verge of hysterical laughter, she’s more along the lines of ‘OMG. OMG. OMG!!’ Darting for that frothy bit of lace – her knickers it appears – she doesn’t even attempt to put them back on and instead shoves them into a concealed pocket and stoops to grab up what she assumes to be her blouse. Drat! It’s T’ral’s shirt. “Here,” Prymelia hisses and bunching it up, tosses it at him. “I can’t find my…” steps, the heavier tread of a man’s begin in their direction and then alter course, heading one aisle down. “Top.” Ah there it is, hanging over a lidded glowbasket. Snatching it up, she struggles back into it, unaware that its now wrong-side out and back to front.

T'ral expertly catches the shirt with his face. "Ah. Thanks." He hustles into it. Weyrlinghood is months of panic-dressing and while his balance wasn't all it was cracked up to be, inside-out T'ral has down. He cocks his head at Prymelia and does a flippy-flippy motion with his hand. If she notices or, more importantly, cares remains to be seen. He surpresses a grin at Prymelia's hair, one thing at a time, right? He tucks the shirt in two hops and smartens it with thumbs run 'round under the waistband at his back and turned at hips to pull the shirt tight across front and back. Crisp as ever. If wrinkled. And dusty. T'ral spots his boots and skids over, snagging one and -not trusting his balance- drops to the floor to pull it on. The footsteps grow louder. Murmured voices. "Pissed. Yeah." T'ral's boots are on and he rolls to spring up and spots a flash of color. Wrap. He reaches under a shelf and pulls Prymelia's wrap out. A spinner goes scurrying away. He scrambles to his feet, shaking the top like crazy and hitting it. Holding it this way and that to be certain it isn't crawly before wadding it and tossing it at Prymelia. He scrubs a hand through his hair -standing up all crazy, but when isn't it? Really?- and goes back to tumbling strewn items into the wrong baskets. What a mess!

Flippy-flappy hands? What are those supposed to mean? Her hair? Prymelia squints upwards then tries to rake her fingers through the tangled mess, doing more harm than good. If Nika had to see her now. Sandals. She had a pair. They have to be somewhere. She also had a lacy cami to match the frothy lace stuffed into a pocket but its whereabouts remains a mystery. A surprise for the one that next goes rummaging through the wicker basket of door hinges? Catching the rolled up wrap, she pulls it about her shoulders and ties into place, the inside-out and back-to-front blouse hidden. Mostly. Spying one of her sandals kicked beneath a shelf, darts after it, trips over a doorknob that had rolled away and curses a little too loudly. “Someone there?” Comes the male voice one row down. “Shit.” She squeaks in dismay and turns wide eyes to T’ral. Do something!

T'ral panics. "Ah. I think I do need some more doorknobs." T'ral improvises, pitching his voice to be heard. He winces, shrugging at Prymelia as he hurries over to steady her. "Yes," he clears his throat, calling over, "Do you, ah, need some doorknobs over there?" He slings arms around Prymelia, buring his head in her shoulder, shaking with laughter. He chokes quietly, he raises his head to continue, "We've got plenty." At 'plenty' he breaks, laughing, burying his face in Prymelia’s neck to stifle himself. This couldn't be worse. Or funnier. Suddenly all of Cerise and Dimi's stories make a lot more sense.

T’ral’s improvisation is what does it. Panic sweeps into a wave of hysterical laughter, fuelled by the fit of laughter he tries to muffle against her shoulder. With her foot shoved into the one sandal – the other still missing – she clamps a hand over her mouth in a bid to stifle the rush of giggles. But it’s no good. Several escape, piquing the curiosity of the ‘intruder’ who shoving aside some baskets, pokes his head through the gap and narrows a look on the suspiciously disheveled pair. “What’s going on here!?” The grizzled older man with tufts of hair growing out of his ears demands to know. Hiccoughing in her attempt to suppress her mirth, Prymelia shakes her head, eyes glittering with tears of hilarity as she tries to compose herself. “Nothing, sir. Just browsing for knobs.” Ahem.

T'ral pushes away from Prymelia, nothing to see here. Except, yeah. Not hard to do that math. T'ral makes a great show of peering into a basket, Hmm. Yes. A dozen of Southern's finest doorknobs, please. He plucks one out, holding it up for inspection in the dim light. "This one's pah-" he can't keep the giggles down and he laughs in the old man's face, "Hoo. This one's perfect." He wipes his eyes. The old man wags a finger and growls, "Canoodling in the Stores! The Headman will hear about this!" T'ral sobers, still grining, lopsided. He tosses the doorknob up and catches it, "I'd rather my father hear about it from me, if it's all the same to you." Integrity required nothing less. That was going to be a fun conversation.

Prymelia finds herself unable to make eye contact with the old geezer for every time she does, another bout of giggles erupts. Eventually, the only way to contain them is to catch her lower lip with her teeth. The accusation made makes it even harder as she tries to imagine the Headman’s face when he hears of how thoroughly his son has been corrupted. Bad trader. Bad!! Just as she’s about to add a comment, she happens to glance upwards, and there, dangling just above the grizzled old man’s head, on their side of the shelving, is her elusive cami. Slowly, slowly it starts to slip free from the handle of a wicker basket above, threatening to come floating down and drape across old man Goven’s face if he doesn’t pull his head back to his side. “T’ral!” She hisses under her breath without moving her lips, elbowing him in the side to get his attention then waggling her brows up, up , up. Look up!!

T'ral's eyes snap to Prymelia's, catching her alarm. What?! His brow furrows, What!? He shakes his head and then follows her eyes. Oh no! Biting lips, T'ral sliiiides over to the shelf in one long step, leaning against it oh-so-non-chalantly, trapping the camisole in place. "Then you'd best be going," the old man harumphs. "Both of you." T'ral nods, and sweeps Prymelia's camisole down behind his back. He backs towards Prymelia, wagging the silky fabric at her. Take it. Fixing them both with beady looks, the grizzled head withdraws, grumbling. "What was that?" another voice prompts. Muttering follows. Setting to rights what they'd mussed, T'ral, satisfied, sweeps another tuck around his waist. He crouches to sort through the basket of random odds and ends and grins, "I wonder if there's a mirror in here. Your hair is a mess." One by one he pulls items out setting them here and there. Now that they're more or less presentable, he's got work to do properly fixing things up. "Next time a gold gets close to rising, let's just hide in my weyr."

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