==== October 7th, 2013
==== Prymelia, Taralde
==== Prymelia and Taralde discuss dreams in the Archive. (Modified One-Liner - we couldn't quite manage!)

Who Prymelia, Taralde
What Prymelia and Taralde discuss dreams in the Archive. (Modified One-Liner - we couldn't quite manage!)
When Evening
Where Southern Weyr

Prymelia.jpg t-ral.jpg


archive_library.jpg

Archive Library
There's a skybroom tree in here. It's surprising. There is also a stage, and this room has been cleaned and tidied; it's an interesting space to be sure.


Early evening, just before the dinner hour finds a willowy figure decked in the vibrant hues of a hummingbird slowly pacing up and down the shelves of the library. One volume and then another is pulled out, the title read and then pushed back in again, a sigh emanates from the mahogany-haired young woman perusing the Weyr's literature.

Taralde is reshelving opposite the brightly garbed woman. He catches tantalizing glimpses of her between books. At her sigh, "Need something?"

Having been absorbed in her self-appointed task, Prymelia about jumps a foot high when Taralde's face appears in the gap from where she's just extracted a book.

Taralde's sad eyes dance with brief amusement. "Sorry about that." He looks down at the cart of books to reshelve. "Can I help you?"

"Some would argue I'm beyond help," touched in the head was recently intimated of Prymelia, "but if you can point me to where the maps are?"

Taralde nods, "Follow me," he says leaving the cart behind and walks across the room, shaking his head at the sky broom, "Anything specific?"

On Taralde's heels, passing the sky broom an elegant brow lifts. Weird. "Of the known sweep area down here?" Prymelia replies.

Taralde glances at Prymelia's shoulder for a knot, brow furrowing at the lack, and he stops at a wide cabinet with very shallow drawers.

Prymelia may not be wearing a knot but Taralde's is noted with mild surprise. "Candidates work in the library?"

Taralde looks at his knot, a mix of emotions playing across his face, "We work where we're needed. A sevenday ago, this was a Harper knot."

"Harper?" Interest colors Prymelia's tone as they pause at the cabinet. "Seems everyone's a candidate these days." Spoken like a grumble.

Taralde's eyebrows raise, "Have you seen the Clutch? It's enormous," he shrugs, "We'll need all the Candidates we can get."

"Er, no." Prymelia's reply oddly clipped on the clutch her brows crinkling in a light frown. "It doesn't scare you?" Open ended question.

"Scare? Try terrify." He shrugs, "It's possible that the 'leaders have sweep maps," Taralde shrugs, "But I really don't know. I'm new."

Prym nods on the maps. "My brother," recently acquired but what does that matter, "wanted to be a Harper." There's a query there somewhere.

"Wanted," tired eyes quirk with interest, "Not any more?"

A smile, fond in origin patterns Prym's lips. "Still but might be too old to apprentice now? He's around 16 or 17 turns."

"Yeah, that's a good bit older than normal," then scratches his jaw, pondering and gives Prym a wan smile, "But here anything can happen."

"Aye," quietly spoken agreement comes easily and then Prym turns a questioning look to Taralde. "Such as?"

"This can happen," Taralde gestures at his cord, "I'd put aside dreams of Impression long ago," he chuckles ruefully, "Boyish dreams of glory."

Wry the smile that marks Taralde's point. "And now you get your chance," Prym replies. "Do you think you could maybe have a chat with him?"

Taralde nods, "Of course. Though, so long as I'm a Candidate, I don't - can't - represent the Harpers."

"He's not seen much kindness in his life. Knowing he might still have a chance at his dream might do him good." Prym shares with sad eyes.

Taralde looks down at the floor, sad for Prym and this brother of hers. He nods, understanding, "I get posted here a lot. Send him by."

A smile banishes sadness when Taralde gives his agreement. "Oh I will. His name's Daren. And, thank you…?" Husky tone lilts in query.

Taralde bow from the waist and straightens, "Taralde." Cocking his head, he smiles inquisitively at the brightly garbed young woman.

Winsome the smile that meets bow, a playful curtsey dropped in return. "Prymelia. Clan Flynn out of Igen." She returns adding. "Nowtimer."

A quirk of brows. Traders in the South. "Clear skies, Prymelia." He takes a deep breath, "I need to get back to it," he tosses his head at the stacks.

"Fair roads," Prym replies in the manner of her clan and turns to the cabinet hopefully holding the maps she's looking for.

Taralde nods and walks to the stacks, the weight on his shoulders and the darkness in his eyes returning.

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