==== January 4, 2013
==== Prymelia, Renalde
==== Prymelia has a triumphant return.

Who Prymelia, Renalde
What Prymelia has a triumphant return.
When There are 0 turns, 3 months and 18 days until the 12th pass
Where Headman's Office

renalde4.jpg Prym%2014.png


Headman's Office]]
A large desk made of carved wood stands in the middle of the room. Neat piles of papers, each looking to have a specific purpose sit in orderly lines upon it and a line of writing utensils sit ready to be used. A large administrative chair of dark leather, looking not particularly comfortable, sits behind the desk. Behind the desk a wall of bookcases and cabinets stand, slowly being filled with the day-to-day records of the hall. Across from the desk a large fireplace sits awaiting a log to burn against small breezes. One large comfortable chair sits off to one side, easy to converse with, and even easier to ignore if need be. To the left large double doors open onto a small living area complete with bed and wardrobe with an expansive view of the Southern ocean.//

Early mornings are glorious, especially in the headman's office. The doorway between his room and his office is flung open, the sun shining brightly upon the hearth and causing it to light up as if with an inner light. Renalde is already at work, though this time not the work of the weyr. Instead he is cleaning his own office with particular attention. A light rag dusts every corner, though it is hard to see what he is even brushing off. Dust wouldn't dare sit here would it?

Early morning sees the familiar and gaily painted wagon belonging to a certain Southern trader formerly of Igen, rolling into the Weyr, trailed by three lads on runners ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-two. Travel-worn and still coated with DUST, Prymelia doesn't bother with first freshening up and with an expression of grim determination, sets Soot free in a paddock along with his three new compatriots and marches herself off to the Headman's office. There's a sharp rap to the door to announce her presence and that of the three crowding behind her and the mahogany-haired young woman outfitted in breeches, boots and what looks to be an over-sized man's shirt, steps inward. "I'm back." That's it. Nothing else as she awaits the weight of Renalde's attention.

Renalde's dust rag pauses at the sharp rap, as he glances towards the doorway's visitor. "I find early mornings have individuals stating the obvious without cause." He shakes the rag once over the sooty hearth and then folds it into a small square. "Do you have your journey logs?" Of course she does, and Renalde seems to know this already as he stries over to his desk to pull out the record book reserved just for Prymelia's journeys. "Introduce your companions."

Renalde's first is ignored, allowed to slide right off like water to an avian's back. With dusty freckled features set about an intractable line, Prymelia steps up and drops the leather bound journal onto the Headman's desk, a small puff of dust lifting off of it. Turning the three strapping lads are beckoned forward, their attention warily set on the stern Headman, one shuffles inward while the other two take an arrogant saunter. "Riden," the tow-haired youngest of the three is indicated with a roll of hand, "is from Exmon cothold. Wynda," the good looking lad with the ebony hair and mocking blue eyes appearing to be around twenty turns flicks his head to one side sending a thick fall of bangs sweeping into his eyes, "is from a cothold along the plateau. And Larsen," the eldest of the three sporting classical surfer boy good looks, smirks at the pretty young trader, "is from a small clan at the foot of the mountains." There she pauses, hazel eyes glinting with a crafty light for there is more to this tale than just having brought a trio of tag-alongs back with her.

Renalde opens the log, scanning it's entries just briefly. When nothing glaring jumps out to his attention he sets it atop it's sister upon the desk and settles himself upon his chair. Her introductions are met each with a small mid to the young man in question, his eyes lingering just an extra moment on that smirk upon the face of the pretty boy. "Well met," is intoned, though the dryness suggests that perhaps less well is more along Renalde's line if thought. "What can Southern Weyr do for you this day?" Renalde speaks to the young men, but there is a quirk upwards of an eyebrow that he shoots at Prymelia that indicates she is welcome to answer for the trio.

Being as how all three have been threatened to within an inch of castration if they so much as speak out of turn while in the presence of the Headman, Prymelia speaks for them. “News of the fall over Keroon has spread like wildfire,” she tells Renalde, hands folding behind her back in a mirror of the pose the man himself so often favors. “And have offered their sons forward to be used as the Weyr sees fit with the hope that they’ll be asked to Stand and impress.” There she pauses when the pretty boy utters a sound much like a snort for he’s only come along with the hopes of getting into the trader’s pants. Or up her skirts. Whichever best suits. Flashing him a filthy look, Pryemlia’s attention returns to Renalde, posture straight up and squared in much the manner of a weyrling reporting to his or her ‘master. “Their parents have each sent bribes.” She’ll call it what it is despite the tight look the lad with the ebony hair cranks onto her. “The crates are being unloaded as we speak.” Hands unfold and another manifesto is pulled from her shoulder bag and set before the Headman laying out in precise detail the contents of the ‘provisions.’ “There will be more delivered on the first day of each month for as long as each of them stay on until such time as they impress whether it be with this clutch or the next.”

The cool look Renalde levels at the blond boy shows he didn't miss that look, nor the implications of it. With one last gaze Renalde picks up the hide, dissecting it's contents and allowing the quartet to cool their heels as long as it takes him to read the document… Twice. Finally he lays it down again and leans back in his chair. "While we are willing to take any young men who are willing to work, I cannot accept these provisions. There is no way at to tell if these boys might impress and I will not place a price upon the dragon's choice. It is the height of arrogance for these cot holders to assume they can buy their way into the weyr." Standing Renalde takes the hide to his fireplace and tosses it into the hot ashes and watches it catch fire. "Now, if they wish to remain I do have a place for willing workers, and should they be searched they will of course be free to be free to set their sights towards that goal. If the holders wish to set up trade with the weyr, which I assume is already established through you Prymelia, we can speak on those matters."

Renalde’s reaction to the extra provisions she’d managed to secure for the Weyr licks a flame of anger through Prymelia though it doesn’t show. Instead her expression remains as it is, an icy reflection of the Headman’s usual visage. Behind her, the three young men whose families have just been discredited in one swift move shift, their frames tensing with Wynda’s hands balling into fists. But Prymelia says nothing until Renalde has set the manifesto to the hearth. “Or, we can simply view it as their offering tithes of their own accord for the protection they will be afforded.” Po-tay-to, po-tah-to in her view. She’s trader so it’s all about the end result in her eyes. Turning to the trio behind her, she cuts each of them a hard look. “You may go now. Wait for me outside.” She tells them and although the older two shift from foot to foot pinning Renalde with stiff looks, they eventually turn and file out. Closing the door behind them, Prymelia turns back to the Headman and offers forward a tight smile. “Lets talk,” she agrees and takes a step forward, usually expressive features held under bland control. She’ll not let him see the chinks in her armor again.

Before the young men can leave completely Renalde speaks one last time, "Turn your hand to the left and follow the corridor. You will find them living caverns. Breakfast should be served soon." Taking their leaving as the certainty it is, Renalde turns back to Prymelia once the door is shut. One hand gestures towards the chair across from him as he reaches out to pick up the log book she had deposited, opening it this time with a purpose. His long fingers trace the entries looking for the trio of cot holders the girl had mentioned. "From their presence I can only assume that these holders are more than willing to open up trade connections with the weyr, using you as an intermediary." Not a question, merely a statement of fact. "This is what I have been looking for. Even with a few of these mountain men joining the weyr we still know very little about their insular ways." His eyes move from the life book to Prymelia as he awaits her response.

While her obdurate nature would rather she remain standing, Prymelia, maintaining that carefully cool composure, takes the seating offered. Dusty butt and all. Neither perching on its edge nor lounging in a slouch, she sets Renalde with an intent gaze as he goes through her travel logs, the names, ages and origins of each of the young men that have arrived with her, noted on the days they joined her. “Aye,” she agrees of his summation. “They’re not easy folk to win over. In fact, some wouldn’t even allow me to water Soot at their well let alone give me the time of day, but those three, and a couple of others,” as noted in her logs, “were more easily won over thanks to Aaron’s brew.” Cue the little smirk that makes a brief tilt of her lips.

Renalde quirks an eyebrow upwards at that. "Perhaps I will need to.see if the Smith will outfit our other traders with his poison. If it will open doors there is no reason to keep it away." Well, away from the cot holders. Someone would need to tie Renalde to a rock and hold open his mouth for him to stomach the brew. Renalde's finger moves down the logs and pages turn as he makes note of her successes and her failures. He pauses on a few, reading again more carefully the entries before putting the log, still open, onto the deal before him. "I assume you intend to continue to defy your father and remain in the south?

“I owe him for the brew I shared in order to sweeten their ears,” Prymelia notes of Aaron’s homemade beer. And then she falls to silence, knowing that her failures won’t be overlooked by the eagle-eyed Headman. Its Renalde’s last that finally draws a flicker of stubbornness to bear, evident in the minute lift of chin and hardening of hazel regard. “I intend to continue to earn my keep here in Southern and prove myself indispensable, to the Weyr.” Is that a slightly challenging glint that makes an appearance in her eyes? Surely not.

Is here just a slight shake in the reserved headman’s head at that spark of defiance? Perhaps, but only for a moment as Renalde is reaching forward to flip through a pile of papers. He finds the one he wants quickly enough and places it on the desk facing the woman. “Very well. Then, if you will sign here…” A quill and bottle of ink is placed next to the papers, “then as long as you remain in profitable trade contracts with these three cotholds you will be considered a member of the weyr. If you father wishes to contest this he may come down and speak with me. By no means to I approve of your choice to disobey, but perhaps times are changing.” There is a slightly sour note in the headman’s voice, “And Southern needs those willing to conquer it, as you have shown yourself apt to do.”

A dozen different ways in which to try and explain to Renalde that her choices are less about disobedience and more about wanting the same chances in life as her male-born siblings rise to mind. But each is squashed and firmly set aside for the Headman has made it patently clear where he stands on the matter – on the side of hidebound, stuffed shirt ideals that keep her as far away from his son as possible. At that mental reminder, Prymelia’s features tighten. Reaching for the contract she doesn’t immediately sign it but spends a bit of time reading through it. Once, twice, attention flicking up to Renalde and then down again when she finally takes up the quill, dips it in the ink and carefully tapping it against the side of the pot, signs her name with less flourish than one might expect from her. Sliding it back over to him, she leans away again. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the Weyr’s support.” Polite with a similarly fashioned smile attached. “Was there anything else?”

"No. I will look over your logs too see what provisions need made for your next journey." Renalde stands, pulling the contract closer to blow lightly on the ink to help it dry. "Make sure that trio makes it back to my office once they have eaten." There is silence then as unsaid words stretch between the pair- nothing about a particular blue rider this time.

Enduring the silence in which words and gasp, feelings, swirl around her mind like so many vtols, until it seems she might go mad for all the things left unsaid, Prymelia finally nods and stands to her feet. “Yes sir,” that to ensuring the tag-alongs return to the Headman once they’re done filling their bellies. “I’ll be in Weyr for a seven while my wagon is re-provisioned and checked over for repairs and then I’ll be heading out again.” Just in case he was wondering. That said, there’s a seemingly respectful incline of head and then the mahogany-haired young woman is moving for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob she turns and sets Renalde with an unreadable look before opening it and exiting stage right.

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