==== November 15th, 2013
==== Prymelia, T'ral, Esanth
==== Following: Meeting a Dragon, T'ral bungles brushing Prymelia off.

Who Prymelia, T'ral, Esanth
What Following: Meeting a Dragon, T'ral bungles brushing Prymelia off.
When Sunset
Where Southern Weyr

Prym%2013.png t-ral_facepalmIncoming.jpg


beach.jpg

Beach
An eerie mirror, the glass-quiet Sea of Azov: the clear waters stretch along the dark-pebbled shores, and along this narrow beach. Here the faintest lap of waves belies the calm beyond; here the rocks have been ground down into finest, softest sand - those observant would mark upon the similarity between it and the sands of the hatching grounds. The soft sand soaks up summer sunlight as a sponge; painfully hot during the warmer months, it is only truly pleasant at wintertime. Rocks rise to east and west, lichen-limned and green against the abyssal darkness of stone.
It is the thirty-ninth day of Autumn and 84 degrees. Partly cloudy, the storm seems to have almost pass, occasional short falls of rain painting the ground.


"All right, pal. Get those wings stretched out." T'ral plants fists in his back, leaning back to stretch tired, complaining muscles. Assessing Esanth, he rolls one shoulder then another. He is standing at Esanth's tail, the dragon stretched out before him, sprawled, snout towards the water, tail towards the strand. Esanth raises his wings, blotting out the setting sun. It's the golden hour and his wingsails grow luminous. T'ral's heart skips, struck still for a moment. But just a moment and then he's back to his work.

The golden hour, when the chores for the day are done, dinner is still a way off and after a seven of continual rain, the glittering sands of the beach beckon. Prymelia is amongst those drawn to enjoy the splendour of a sunset. Mahogany hair has been set free of headscarf and braid, falling to mid-back in thick waves and her attire is that of a simple white peasant blouse peeking from beneath a beautifully embroidered bodice. Feet are bare, a pair of strappy black sandals dangling from a hand with ankles brushed by skirts shaded in hues that shift from deep purple to lavender. She's not really looking where she's going, her gaze turned out over the sea and the marvel of brilliant hues streaking across its surface. That is until hazel regard alights on a certain weyrling and his bonded. A certain bare-chested and oily weyrling touched by the dying sun's glow that slips across lean musculature in ways that has her fingers twitching. Gulp! As if drawn by a magnet, her path changes and of their own volition, feet carry her toward… red alert sirens start going off in her head. Prymelia ignores them.

T'ral ducks around Esanth's wing and kneels with the forward edge cradled on his lap. He's peering at it intently. Esanth had banged it during exercises and the gash, while healed, was flaking mightily as the new hide came in underneath. Esanth grunts at some rather more vigorous ministrations and T'ral looks over at the dragonet, flashing a grin. "Sorry, pal." He looks around, humming to himself, "Where's that pot…" he twists around sideways and spots it juuuust out of reach. Looking at the wing in his lap, then at the pot, then back at the wing… he can totally reach it. T'ral twists streeeetching to snag the crock. His fingertips are just brushing the pot, he can allllmost get it. Just a little more… and… he twists a bit too far and overbalances, flopping onto his side in the sand. And there are suddenly bare feet …? Wriggling toes, skirts… Prymelia!? T'ral is suddenly and uncomfortably aware of his uncover-ed-ness and his oil-ed-ness and her close-ed-ness and now he's just making up words. I give up. He groans, collapsing onto the sand, rolling onto his back, eyes closed, one hand over his eyes, the other flung out in defeat. "Great stars, woman." He lets the other arm flop down, and looks up at her, shaking his head, rather, rolling it back and forth on the sand, "This is going to break me." T'ral closes his eyes again and Esanth lifts up his head, swiveling it on his neck to regard Prymelia, eyes whirling a grassy green. A deep, creaking groan sounds in his chest, rumbling.

Watching as T'ral had been stretching for the pot, Prymelia's steps had quickened in a bit to reach it and hand it to him but just as she's attempting to do so, he suddenly loses his balance and falls at her feet. A snicker breaks free before she's able to suppress it, a hand pressing to her lips to stifle further chuffs of amusement. And there she remains, peering down at the blue weyrling stretched out on the sand in front of her, her mind assaulted by a hundred different prompts to action or speech - Each one more licentious than the next. Esanth's interest and deep rumble darts her attention in his direction, a tentative smile sent the blue's way, "Hello, Esanth. You're looking well?" Statement and query rolled into one. As for his rider, T'ral's comment draws a bemused look into place and she crouches down, drawing on humor in a bid to dispel shameless thoughts. "If I'd known I'd have men falling at my feet I'd have dressed for the occasion," she says, waves of dark red tresses tumbling over one shoulder.

Esanth blinks at Prymelia and cocks his head, browridges quirked suspiciously before he snorts, nostrils dilating, then he settles his head back down to look seaward, eyes slowly lidding, lidding, lidding. The blue takes a deep breath that lifts his wings, they settle as he exhales. T'ral dusts his hands on his pants and covers his face. Prymelia might glimpse a pained expression before his face is hidden, "I'm not joking, Prymelia. I can't be around you." He rubs his face, frustrated and sits up, half his body still under Esanth's wing. Extracting himself, he crouches in front of the wound he was tending deliberately not looking at Prymelia, "The other day, I was just glad to know you were safe. But…" He dollops some of the numbweed on the wing, watching out for if it tickles or hurts, the last thing he needs is a talon in the eye. "But this," he gestures with the numbweed paddle back and forth between himself and Prymelia, still not looking at her, "You and me. Alone." Sort of. "I can't do it. Not for a while."

Not very familiar with the ways of dragons, Esanth's response is taken as being standoff'sh, perhaps even vaguely displeased and Prymelia frowns not sure what she's said or done to engender such a reaction. Back to the human half of the pair, the one so deliciously oily and dusted in places with sand from his tumble. Her smile starts to return as she focuses on T'ral but wanes before it's even fully formed. He can't be around her. What the shards!? Immediately, Prymelia starts to recoil, mortified that she'd obviously so clearly misread what few signs he'd allow to slip past that controlled exterior of his. Leaning back on her heels, color draining from her face, she starts to stand when he seeks the shelter of his bonded. What a fool she's been! You and me. Alone. I can't do it. What is his problem!? Does he find her that vile that…Ooooooh. About ten glowbaskets unlid in unison. For several moments, Prymelia just stands there staring at T'ral, her arms hanging limply at her sides. "Oh…I…" a hand lifts to rub at the side of her neck as she suddenly begins to feel very exposed and awkward. "I'm sorry." She's not quite sure what she's apologizing for here. "I… uh… I'll go." And she starts to back away, Esanth's reaction suddenly making a whooole lot more sense to her now.

Controlled exterior. Oof. T'ral closes his eyes at the strange tone in her voice. Not one he's really heard before. She's doing what he asked, right? Why should it feel like the wrong thing? He stoppers the numbweed and drops his hands into his lap, looking down at his hands, "You know I don't want you to go, right?"

Head bowed, her face hidden by a fall of thick luxurious tresses and gaze studiously trained on hands that fiddle with the strap of one of her sandals, Prymelia is quiet for a very long time. A light breeze teases at the hems of skirts, flirting fabric back and forth like leaves shuddering beneath its breathy caress. Slowly the trader lifts her head and steals a glance at T’ral from under lowered lashes. He can’t even look at her. Something twists in her chest causing a soft sigh to be exhaled. “I don’t know what it is you want, T’ral but I don’t know how to be around you and not…” The sentence clips off with a frustrated breath. “Look, its okay. I get it.” Not really. “You have your hands full with Esanth and weyrlinghood and… this was probably a very bad idea to begin with.” Said idea not expanded on there comes a short nod of head as if she were confirming some or other internal dialogue. “I’ll see you around, aye?” A smile, quick and as guarded as her gaze is offered over to T’ral and then she turns and starts to head back the way she’d come, suddenly hit by an inexplicable dose of misery that pricks at the backs of her eyes.

I'm screwing this up. Frustrated, T'ral stands. At some prompting from Esanth he growls, "Oh, and you're an expert?" He glowers at Esanth, "That's what I'm trying to do, you big lug." T'ral dusts himself off as best he can, but oily, it just sticks and - ugh - nevermind. He trots a few paces to fall in beside Prymelia, "Uh, Prymelia, wait a tick?" He stops, "Vomiting, exercising to complete exhaustion," Oh, yeah, great start, "living on two hours of sleep…" T'ral shrugs, "Somehow all those things - hard sorta terrible things - are okay for a dragone-" He cuts off and looks at Esanth, Esanth is looking at him. Golden hour has passed and it's twilight. In the dim light the silvery constellation of scuffs on Esanth's hide glimmer. "Yeah. I know it all has a purpose." T'ral steps aside and waves Esanth to Prymelia, "Do you want to explain it to her?" He nods. Mmmhmm. Thought not. "Uh. Sorry." He scowls briefly, Where was I? Oh. "Part of the training is keeping emotions in check. Even happy ones." There's a long pause, "So. I see you and I have to actually try to not be happy," he shrugs, eloquently. He snorts, "There's not a disgusting place in the Weyr I don't associate with you now." Full stop. That didn't come out right. "Uh…" He blinks, "That sounded better in my head." Esanth's snort is almost a bray. "I hope you can forgive me if I don't want to make a habit out of that."

She hadn't expected T'ral to come after her. In fact, she was fairly certain he wouldn't. He'd made himself painfully clear. Emphasis on the painfully. Swiping angrily at a drop of moisture that has the audacity to slip free, Prymelia comes to an abrupt halt when suddenly he's right there next to her. And she's torn. Oh so very torn. One half of her rejoices while the other wants to shove him on his ass (A la D'tri) and berate him - for what she doesn't know - until she runs out of breath. But instead, she tugs that guarded mask into place and listens. Actually, listens to what he's trying to say. Of course the back and forth mental conversation is a little tricky to follow but she tries nonetheless. In the soft glow of falling night, hazel regard tracks back toward Esanth. Even he, a dragon confuses the shards out of her! Happy? She makes him…happy? The corners of her mouth twitch, threatening to break free of the unreadable mask she's holding so tightly in place. And then there's that comment - There's not a disgusting place in the Weyr I don't associate with you now. Prymelia can't help it. The bubble of elation that had started to grow bursts past constraints and a giggle erupts. Just a short tinkle of sound and then its pressed away again and a sigh is exhaled, her gaze now fixed to their feet in the sand, hers slender and finely boned, his bigger and covered with a fine sheen of oil and sand. When her eyes lift again, there is nothing but compassion mirrored in their shifting depths. "It sounds awful," she quietly states. "Weyrlinghood," she clarifies and then frowns. "And I'm sorry if I've made it harder on you. That was never my intention. You…were never my intention." Whatever that means. A small glimmer of smile is allowed to make an appearance. "I've been awful, haven't I?"

T'ral wilts with relief, she gets it. Finally she gets it. "Yes. YES." He grabs her by the shoulders, looking at her with wide eyes, "You've been TERRIBLE." He's smiling like an idiot, "Now would you please," he squeezes, grinning, "Please. Leave. Me. Alone." It's the sweetest brushoff ever. He lets go and backs up a few paces. There's so much to say. Esanth will be flying soon. Twenty questions? Have you heard from Alberon? When are you going out next? Will you have more people? Have you seen Alarph? I miss playing music. Did you know Alarph is the name of a star? D'cen showed me. I can point it out to you. I might take up dragonhealing. Probably not, but I'll have plenty of practice.

Unexpectedly grabbed by the shoulders and set with that wide-eyed look and goofy smile, Prymelia is swept away on a tangled tide of emotion. A laugh, soft and husky floats out onto the gathering evening air, hazel eyes glinting with a knowing look now that she finally understands. Briefly a hand lifts to brush the lightest of touches to one of those hands on her shoulder before it's dropped away and she nods. "I'll go," she agrees, "but you're going to owe me. Big time!" If T'ral thinks he has questions, so does she. A hundred of them all crowding in at once vying for air time as well as a few explanations he's probably due. When the blue weyrling steps away and moves back to his task, the trader lingers a few moments longer, eyes straining to pick out his silhouette and that of Esanth's and then with a secretive smile toying about her lips, she finally turns and does as asked. She leaves him alone. For now.

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