==== January 28th, 2014
==== Prymelia, Cotholders (NPCed by T'ral)
==== Prymelia ventures out to deliver news, make trades, catch cold.

Who Prymelia, Cotholders (NPCed by T'ral)
What Prymelia ventures out to deliver news, make trades, catch cold.
When There are 0 turns, 1 month and 14 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

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Out on the Road
Rain has been falling in a light but steady drizzle for the past couple of days. The roads have become slick with mud and despite her best efforts to stay dry beneath her oilskin cape, Prymelia has managed to get herself a head cold. Lucky her!

Winding along the river that feeds down from deep in the mountains her path is tracking, the trader sneezes and then blinks, eyes straining through the hazy mist of rain to try and get a bead on the irregular pattern of buildings that loom in the distance off to her right. Broad head down, Soot plods his way along drawing the gaily painted wagon with its clatter of pots and pans, ever closer to what reveal themselves to be a cluster of dwellings made from locally quarried rock protruding from the side of a cliff. Some sport new exteriors, no more than a couple of turns old while others show signs of extreme age. Possibly from the last Pass?


Ragged, slat-ribbed canines rush the plodding runner, barking madly at him and the wagon's driver, their eyes rolling as they bark and look back at the cots, bark, look back at the cots. LOOK! MOVING SHED THING! LOOK! SHED THING! HOLY SMOKES! LOOK! IT'S…! TWO-LEGS! AND BIIIG FOUR-LEGS! LOOK! FOOD. SHED THING! As if anyone could miss the Trader's wagon. Even (though maybe it's especially) in the miserable gray drizzle. With the clamor of the canines womenfolk turn out on the deep porches, children peering from windows or around skirts. One woman at the nearest cot calls to her neighbors, one hurries down her steps and further down the road. The other sweeps her children inside. The remaining woman, murmurs to the little ones clinging to her skirts. The little ones scurry inside, their faces appearing, moon-like, beyond curtains twitched aside. In floor-length skirts, the woman steps to the edge of her broad porch, skirts hitched up with one hand, the other hand moves up to, it appears, lean casually on a column of the veranda, her eyes trained on the wagon's advance.

Gah! Canines!! The bane of Prymelia's life as a traveler. Leaning to one side, she plucks a long whip like item from a bracket worked into the side of the buckboard, flicking it through the air to ward off the barking, slavering mutts. As for Soot, he rolls his eyes, snorting at the annoying, snapping creatures, even going so far as to snake his head to one side and attempt to bite at one that gets too close. Rolling closer toward the higgledy-piggledy arrangement of dwellings, those that call them home start to come into focus and as usual, wary of outsiders, they skitter away leaving the trader uttering a soft sigh of frustration. It was the same wherever she went as if perhaps she carried the plague with her instead of commodities they might not otherwise have access. Throwing back the hood of her cape to reveal herself as female, she lifts her whip hand and twirls it about in the air in greeting toward the one woman that has remained, a bright smile in complete contrast to weather fashioned as she calls out a cheery, "Ho, the cothold!!"

The cotholder straightens, head angling to flick a glance down the road from whence Prymelia came as if to say, 'surely there are more than you.' Dark eyes return to the wagon and it's flame-haired driver, turn up to the sky, and look down the road the other direction. The dogs continue their racket until the woman snaps, "Quiet! Come!" some of the dogs quiet and back away, others cringe and continue glaring at Soot and Prymelia, giving low sullen woofs as reminders of their fierceness. But they know whose hand feeds them scraps and picks spines out of their hides and by and large slink away. "Who are you, girl?" The woman calls out. She peers at the wagon, trying to see in the windows. Who else is in there?

Aaaand there's that 'where are the others look'. Steeling herself, determined to keep that friendly smile in place, Prymelia isn't that wet behind the ears so as to hop down from her vantage point until she's gotten a feel for the sort of reception her presence is likely to extract. Drawing Soot up level with the cotholder's porch, the brightly spotted hanging pots of flowers adorning the sides of her wagon swinging back and forth, she waits until the canines are done with their outburst. And when they are, despite the condescending use of the word 'girl' with reference to her person, the trader sets the brake on her wagon and slips the long leather whip back into its bracket. "Prymelia, trader out of Southern Weyr, at your service," the mahogany haired young woman replies, standing with ease of balance and dipping her head in polite manner. "Bringing you all the bits and bobs to make your life easier. You want it, I got it." Grin.

Woof. A brace of the dogs lope to stand between Prymelia and the cotholder. The wary woman looks down the road again, and glances at the sky. The hand leaning on the column was in fact, curled around a staff, which she reveals now, dropping the skirts to hold it in front of herself, "The Weyr!" her face pales, "You turn around! We don't want any of your mind sickness. Go on!" She glowers mightily, seeming to have trouble parsing the cheery, brightness of its exterior and driver with the images in her mind. She glances up the road the other direction. Her hands twist on the staff.

Still standing up on her wagon, not about to step down and risk getting bitten while the canines are still about, Prymelia arches a brow at the other woman, attention narrowing to the staff she has clasped in her hand. "Mind sickness? Really?" Dryly amused. Starting to feel more than a little uneasy every time the woman glances either up or down the road, the trader shifts ever so slightly so as to put herself within easy reach of her whip. "Lady, I'm a trader. Not a rider. And if you're expecting one to fall out of the sky," a dragonrider, "you're gonna get a crick in your neck waiting." Suddenly she sneezes and winces slightly at an echoing pound of headache. "I only wish to trade with you. Pots, pans, fabrics, beer, nails, hammers, runnershoes," the list goes on for a bit more. "For whatever you might have that can be of use in return." One of the canines gets a little too close for Soot's liking and the runner jinks sideways jerking the wagon so that Prymelia throws out a hand to the metal roof to steady herself.

The cotholder's mouth slackens, "The riders are mind sick?" As if she didn't believe it and Prymelia contrasting herself that way is confirmation. "We see them fly over," she murmurs, she shivers. The sneeze does nothing to put the woman at ease and she takes a step back until Prymelia rattles of her list. An eager, but wary, light flares in the woman's eyes, a hard, calculating look at the wagon. "You have needles? Metal needles?" She glances up the road.

"What? No!" Prymelia hastens to clarify. "No one's mindsick. Not the riders and not me." But she is starting to wonder if the other woman might not be. Eyes narrow slightly as once again the cotholder glances up the road. "Aye, I got metal needles. All different sizes for darning and sewing and embroidery. Even knitting and crochet and I'll show 'em to you too if you tell me what you're watching for." Because trouble she does not need.

"We haven't seen riders but once, back when we settled." Her mouth twists, bitter. "No word, no news, just rumors. Most of it bad." She lowers the staff a bit, knuckles tightening, "And worse. Folk back home said Thread fell at Keroon and Nerat. That It's back already." Seems these cut off folk are hungrier for news than for goods. Or maybe she's just stalling.

Listening attentively, translating the cotholder's body language and nuances of tone and expression, Prymelia appears to relax a little and turns out a friendly smile. "And that's where I come in." A pause and then eyeing the canines, she makes a move as if to disembark. "Aye," her expression and tone become tight, "there was a Fall over Keroon." She admits. "Dunno if Thread's back early or not. The riders don't seem to either." No point in lying. "But they're drilling long and hard in preparation." The trader goes on to add lifting a faint smile the cotholder's way.

Eyes narrowing, considering, the older woman studies Prymelia for a long moment. There's a flicker as she comes to some decision. "Well, come on. Show me your wares." She doesn't have all day. "Git!" she hollers at the dogs, not hers, who cringe away and scurry for the muddy track, looking reproachfully over their shoulders. Her dogs she looks at fondly, "Hut, Harn," she calls at the two dogs. They scramble up onto the porch, muddy feet tracking, tails waving, low wary banners. They settle behind the woman, looking at Prymelia. Looking up the road, the woman raises a hand, waving it sharply back and forth -negation?- and then making a beckoning motion. Doors creak open around the sad little cluster.

Once she establishes that not all of the underfed curs belong to the cotholder, Prymelia hops down with whip firmly in hand. Now she'll not think twice about switching any of those that get too close to either her or Soot. Heading toward the back of her wagon, a drop-down table is quickly lowered and braced with a supporting leg folded along its side. In not time at all a selection of metal needles, threads ranging from that used for sail making all the way down to gossamer fine embroidery, a couple of bolts of fabric and even a few rudimentary children's wooden toys are swiftly laid out. Yes, she'd seen those grubby little faces peering from the doors of the cothold. Business ensues, trades are made, gossip exchanged and then after sharing a mug of tea with the cotholder woman, everything is neatly stowed away and stifling sneezes, Prymelia hits the road again.

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