==== October 6, 2013
==== Prymelia, Iain & Jayanti
==== Prymelia's trunk finally turns up. She meets a few more of the locals and is mistaken for a whore.

Tavern
Tavern
Of course this should be renovated with alacrity: though the glass is yet to be replaced in the windows, there is a large marble-topped bar along the western half of this standalone building, and a random tangle of chairs and tables much like the living caverns. For now, assistant headmen man the meagre stock of beer and wine and whiskey, and no fancy drinks issue forth.
On the perch are Scout, Ninebirds, Quid, Scheme, and Tuesti.
Iain is here.
Obvious exits:
Swinging Door

Some would consider pre-lunch a terrible time for drinking. That population doesn't include Iain, who is settled in the mostly-empty bar, chatting up the lovely bartender with his vivid depiction of some kind of tall tale, gesticulating wildly. His grin is boyish and charming, bright eyes dancing with amusement: a tall glass of foam-topped ale is half-drunk before him.

While some might consider this to be the perfect time of day to imbibe, Prymelia is not amongst their numbers. At least not yet that is. Still dressed in attire that while lightweight and flattering of figure lacks in the flair and color most back home would associate with the mahogany-haired young woman. It’s the backside of her that first crosses the threshold of the tavern followed by a low curse, a THUMP and then an oath enough to have a sailor blushing as she drags a rather beaten and battered trunk in with her. “Sharding sailors without a sharding clue how ta read a sharding manifest. How sharding hard can it be!?” Grumble, grumble, huff, puff.

Iain turns a bit in his chair to watch the proceedings. He doesn't seem inclined to comment or offer help, instead fetching his beer and taking a long sip. It's like popcorn, but better! More alcoholic. "How long do you think it will take her to ask for help?" Iain questions idly to the black-haired bartendress, who laughs and moves down the bar to finish drying fresh-washed glasses.

Although she doesn’t glance in the direction that remark comes from, Prymelia’s heard it alright. Evidenced in the tight pursing of lips and narrowing of hazel eyes which serves to have a grizzled old sailor slumped down in his chair nearby snickering and elbowing his dozing mate in the side. “A mark says she lands flat on her arse afore she gits ta where she’s goin’.” Ah, but stubborn is as stubborn does and finds the willowy redhead gritting her teeth and soldiering on. All the way up to the bar. THUNK! Down goes the end she’d been hauling on. Not the best of plans for the already battered trunk springs a latch and spews a vibrant selection of fabric from its one half.

"You do realize, you, that you have made it into the tavern," Iain so-helpfully comments, "And not the markets down by the docks, aye?" He sees that fabric. The Roma trader's eyes are laughing as they focus on Prymelia's face.

In complete contrast to colorful glimpses of clothing and undergarments currently showing themselves, the overly large shirt, a man’s going by the design and the too long skirt are the peahen to the peacock – drab and lacking vitality. Having been glaring down at the betrayal of her recently acquired trunk, hazel eyes lift eeeverso slowly. From the feet of the Helpful One aaaall the way up to his grinning face. Expressionless before a pattern of mock surprise etches across Prymelia’s features. “A tavern? Not the docks? Don’t tell me. Let me guess. I was sleepwalking again.”

"Must be," Iain agrees with a solemn nod. "Maybe if one pinches you, you'll wake up." He snapper-fingers at her with thumb and forefinger, as if he plans on doing just so. "You must be an oldtimer," then observed, "Are you, then, you? An oldtimer? Showing your intimates in the middle of a bar," gesturing with his drink to her trunk and the things spilling forth.

Poking at the clothing with a sandaled foot, trying to shove the damn things back in while appearing not to do so, Prymelia opens her mouth to reward Iain with an entirely sarky comment only to snap it shut when he makes comment on her unfortunate trunk malfunction. Although tempting, and while fingers itch to make a grab at those pincering fingers, she controls the urge to do so. “Oh these old things? Nah. Was hoping to trade ‘em for a drink. What do you think? A beer for a pair of knickers?” His question conveniently sidestepped.

"So nowtimer, then," Iain states, and then leans forwards with a smirk. "Are you a whore, then, you? Goods for sale? Is that how they do this, here? Call things knickers?" He leans back, gesturing broadly with his ale. "I don't buy girls, I. Who buys the things one can get for free? But I wish you well with your clientele, madamoiselle, though you perhaps would want to switch into something more color to display your wares, you."

Whore? Did he just intimate she is a….Almost instantly two bright red splotches of color splash onto lightly freckled cheeks and eyes narrow dangerously. It’s not often that Prymelia is rendered speechless and while its only long enough to rein her temper in, Iain accomplishes in a matter of minutes what very few have managed to do. “Nowtimer,” the redhead cuts out in confirmation. “And it’s Prymelia, not ‘you’. And if I were a whore, trust me darling, you would never be able to afford me.” Take that! So much for biting her tongue though it does carry a distinct Igen accent to it blended with undertones of a brogue individual to a certain clan known to trade in the Northern reaches. “Whisky. Two fingers,” she calls to the bartendress. Clearly a drink is now in order.

"Oh, no," Iain assures her, "I'd be able to afford your wares, you." Seems that the 'you' that Iain uses is a general affectation, and not a stand-in for a name. The tall chestnut-haired trader is at the bar, in his normal shorts-only garb, chest bare though a shirt is tucked through one of his belt-loops. Though it's earlier in the day for most to be eating lunch, he has a beer, mostly drank, in one hand; Prymelia is also at the bar, with a trunk half-open at her feet, brilliant-colored clothing and underwear spilling from it.

Oh, the mention of whores? Well, that's Jayanti's cue. The woman has been mysteriously absent from the general day-to-day ministrations as of late, but here she is, breezing in through the swinging doors with a catcall of a greeting towards the bartenderess. "I'm back today darling~" She moons with a dramatic crow, moving towards the bar and that half-open trunk of colorful fabric and panties. Iain and Prymelia are like one of those really obnoxious zap lights, and Jayanti can't even control her impulses to move towards the pair. "What is this! A panty party?" Jayanti greets, moving one hand coming out to stroke against Iain's bare shoulder blade as she moves past him towards the chest of underthings. "Are you selling these, sweetheart?" She asks Prymelia with a lilted smile, motioning between her and Iain, "And he's your promoter right? That's so smart— having a shirtless man to attract clientele." And then she's swinging a finger over her head towards the bartender, "Just my regular— Ooo, these are lacy~" The panties, guys. The panties

Prymelia is one of those that simply cannot walk away from a challenge even when she knows she should. Laughter low and taunting spills at Iain’s assertion, hazel eyes glinting with sly humor. “Over confidence is usually a sign that someone is trying to compensate for some or other deficiency.” Her gaze takes a slooow meander across that bared chest, drops pointedly downward and then flicks upwards, lips curved about a bright smile. A little too bright perhaps? “But you keep telling yourself that.” That he can afford her…wares. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Thankfully the whiskey ordered arrives in a squat tumbler as does Jayanti and the notion that what is currently on display is actually for sale. That one comes completely out of left field and finds Prymelia blink-blinking at the other young woman. “Hey. Wait! No.” Two rarities in one day for now Jayanti’s comment about the flimsy bits of lace masquerading as panties has a blush creeping up the smooth column of the trader’s neck. “Those are mine.” She ends lamely and summarily downs the contents of her glass in one swallow.

Iain has only a smile of appreciation for Jayanti's caress of hand to skin; he's a guy, he can like it. "There is a woman, there," he comments to Prymelia with his eyes on the nanny. "I need not think about you to sleep," to the underthing-girl again, "As I've just met you, aye? Perhaps you are also touched," he lifts two fingers to tap against his temple, "Up here." His smile shades to sympathetic. "What brings one like you, eh, you to a place like this?" THAT one was for Jayanti, for sure.

Prymelia's horrified response doesn't even give Jayanti pause, and the woman reaches down to pick up a particularly scandalous piece of underwear, a mere triangle of fabric that she stretches out between her fingers. "Oh, what a shame. I'd buy you out of every. single. piece, because they are lovely." Her Nabolian alto creeps upwards with saccharine amusement but she's swinging around to give Iain a flirty pout, holding the fabric up for his examination. "What do you think, shirtless man? Do you think it's my color?" Brows knit with mock frustration and she's bapping him with a free hand on his bare shoulder again. "Oh be niiice to her; anyone with panties like these knows how to have a good time." If Prymelia is mortified, Jayanti doesn't even caaare, winking at the other woman with a toothy grin before making a grab for her drink that's arrived. "Cheers to new friends and new thongs too!"

At Iain’s return a brow arches upward and hazel eyes track from Iain to Jayanti and back again. And for some reason, she suddenly finds the humor in it all. The burst trunk of clothing, the mistaken identity and even the suggestion that she’s perhaps not playing with a full deck of cards. Then again, it could be the whiskey burning with pleasant warmth in her belly. “Touche,” Prymelia utters through a chuckle, her surrender given to both the Shirtless Wonder and the Appreciator of Undergarments. “When we arrived they mysteriously couldn’t find my trunk of personal belongings.” Ten marks says some of those scanty undergarments are missing and taken up residence with a leering gap-toothed sailor. “Got word this morning that it had been found. But, if you’re really interested in making some purchases, I have a beautiful selection of items from Southern Boll. Believe me, they’re worth seeing.” Aimed at Jayanti. And as for Iain? She turns his earlier question back on him. “Old or Now?” Timer that is but she doesn’t bother clarifying that.

Iain eyes that triangle of fabric and then Jayanti's face and then, more consideringly, Prymelia. "You, I think, would look better in no underwear, my mysterious lady of confidence." He salutes the nanny with his beer, then dissolves into low-voiced laughter of his own at her bap of hand against his shoulder. "Cheers," he voices, draining the remainder of his beverage before motion at the barkeep for another. He has a smile for Prymelia, then; "Oh, aye, and there she is. I knew you had to have someone hiding behind the shrew." His smile is easy, despite how the words *could* have been delivered. "Now, if you mean time. Iain of Roma is not a dried fossil from the past, no, not I."
"Oh, if I had a mark for the times I've heard that, I'd be richer than a Lord Holder's shriveled left ball." Jayanti croons back to Iain, turning 'round to deposit the panty back in it's owner's chest. Prymelia's offer warrants another pleased smile: "Oh, sweetheart, I'd love to inquire further about your wares— are you a trader? Because I haven't seen you before; Do you offer more adventurous pieces? I prefer those, if nothing at all." Whatever mood Jayanti is in, it must be a good one, because as she says this, she swings back around to give Iain a pointed look. "Well met to both of you. I'm Jayanti; the Senior Weywoman's right hand, and part-time nanny." She cheers her own drink, knocking it back with a smack of lips, pleased as pie that she's brokered some sort of detente here. "Cheers to that, Iain of Roma; us Nowtimers aren't as bad as we look." And then she leans closer to Prym, pulling a hand up in mock whisper. "The Roma caravan have some of the best men, let me tell you. If you haven't tried it yourself…" Yeah, don't mind Jayanti's slutting, guys.

One might expect the infamous temper of a redhead to be set off again by being named a mean little rodent. Instead, Prymelia wrinkles her nose, features crinkling about a slightly sheepish look sent Iain’s way. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ve been forced to go around borrowing my Uncle’s shirts and wearing skirts better suited to a mourning than being worn out in public. It wears on a girl.” Especially one born and bred into a culture imbed with gay colors and all things shiny. “Well met. Prymelia, clan Flynn out of Igen,” she offers by way of introduction to Jayanti. Just then, whatever meager sunlight spills through the doorway of the tavern is blocked by the bulky frame of a newly arriving patron. “Been waiting for you for over an hour up at the Weyr entrance and I find you’re down here drinking and having a grand old heels up? Time waits for no man. Git your shit together, girl.” Thus growls the ginger-haired man as he stalks a step closer. Before Prymelia even has a chance to argue any of what’s been said, he stomps a foot on the lid of the trunk, forcing it closed and trapping a fringe of bright fabric in its side. Scowling he then easily lifts it and stomps off. By no means meek or mild, the willowy young woman glares daggers at that broad departing back and utters a curse that couples rutting whers and the name ‘Alberon’ together under her breath. “Senior Weyrwoman’s right hand?” That definitely captures her interest. Come find me after breakfast tomorrow.” Prym calls making her way after the ill-mannered oaf that has her trunk. “I want to hear all about it.” The Roma men? Jayanti’s position? The Weyrwoman herself? Left open ended to be explored another day.