==== January 2nd, 2014
==== Prymelia, T'ral
==== (Backscene) Prior to Renalde snarking at her, Prymelia and T'ral have a picnic.

Who Prymelia, T'ral
What (Backscene) Prior to Renalde snarking at her, Prymelia and T'ral have a picnic.
When There are 0 turns, 4 months and 25 days until the 12th pass
Where Southern Weyr

Prym%205.png t-ral.jpg


Prymelia's Wagon
Beneath the beaten metal roof, the interior is a fairly accurate representation of the occupant herself - Welcoming and vibrant while leaning slightly toward the eclectic side of life. Cupboards accented in a deep burgundy line the left-hand side, reaching to waist height with a sturdy work counter painted emerald green topping them. Above, shelving fronted by sturdy leather straps, keeps a kettle, two pots and a frying pan securely in place. Along the right-hand side a knee-high storage unit doubles as a couch or extra sleeping bunk with a mattress and brightly embroidered scatter cushions softening angular lines. Beautifully fitted into the alcove at the back of the wagon, is a raised sleeping area framed by a pair of sapphire blue drapes. Linen is feminine with embroidered edging covered over by a quilt in a riot of jewel tones. A pair of plump pillows softens the headboard with what looks to be an old childhood toy nestled in their middle. A squat shaft of light filters in across the bed via a little window with a metal shutter worked into the paneling with a small shelf above it holding a variety of knick-knacks particular to feminine vanity.
It is the sixty-third day of Winter and 70 degrees. It is partly cloudy, but still warm and bright. Clouds have started to drift across the sky again. The jungles are almost dry.

Prymelia couldn't remember when last, if ever, she'd been so tired. A rubber band strung taut with tension and almost at the point of snapping. Sleep eluded her and when she managed to grab a few hours, horrific nightmares woke her in a cold sweat. So she kept busy. Running errands, helping in the Infirmary, spending what time she'd been able to with T'ral while he convalesced, busy, busy, busy. Eventually, her body had taken over and put her down for the count. Now, an hour later, curled up in the middle of her platform bed, the trader is dead to the world. Only Soot cropping quietly outside and Meadow, perched between his ears, indication that she's in residence.

T'ral couldn't remember his last restday. Not counting when he'd succumbed to wounds and stress and exhaustion and slept for the better part of two days. And so, on the first day he's got to himself in what seems like living memory, he's sought out the brightest spot in Southern. Not so much a place as a person. Outside Prymelia's wagon T'ral and Esanth land, Esanth backwings mightily, landing on hindquarters and easing down into a three-legged stance, one forepaw tucked against his chest. The blue has been doing everything this way since vowing to Jiamoth that he'd learn everything he could about how to live on three legs. Frankly -especially for landings- it's been a blessing. Esanth's focus on the landings has made them much smoother and signicifantly less bone-jarring. T'ral's teeth, his spine, his spleen and his mostly healed threadscore are all grateful. The bluerider slips off of his dragon and trots a few steps as momentum from the drop bleeds off. He pads up to Soot who tosses his head and dances, eyes rolling at the predator nearby. T'ral murmurs and pets the broad neck, settling the restive runner. Esanth, you can at least look somewhere not here. He trots up the steps and knocks. Waiting. Hmm. He cranes his head down to peer through a gap in the curtains over the little window. He tries the door. Open! Slipping quietly inside, he shuts the door behind him and tiptoes to the platform. She's such an angel when she's sleeping. T'ral smiles fondly at Prymelia and leans down to kiss her temple, savoring the quiet moment before he -in a voice rather louder than is strictly necessary- says, "You know. You should lock your door if you don't want visitors to come in on you unawares." Because the best way to avoid getting hit was to get inside someone's reach, T'ral, instead of dodging away, leans further in. And arms too. Surprise hug.

Usually one to sleep with one ear open, Prymelia in her near comatose state, sleeps on blissfully unaware of her charming visitor. But not for long. There's a low and sleepy murr of sound at the kiss to her temple and then total PANIC when T'ral speaks louder than needed and leans in closer. "What the fuck!!??" Yup, she went there. From curled up into a fetal position, her willowy frame jackknifes straight, fists bunching and teeth baring as she prepares to fight for her life!!

Face buried in her neck and arms thrown around to catch just this response, T'ral laughs out, muffled, "It'ff me! It'ff me." When he's sure he's not gonna get pummeled, at least not in panic, he eases back, his smile faltering as he notes how very tired Prymelia looks. "I'm sorry." Genuine, "That's no way to wake up." He kisses her forehead. "You've been so sweet, coming to take care me and Esanth. I've come to return the favor." And what a good start!

Heart going a million miles a minute and adrenaline coursing through her veins it's going to take a few minutes for Prymelia to regain her equilibrium. "Arsehole!" She chides, pouting more than scowling but already she's turning in T'ral's arms to curl about what she can of him. "You should be resting," she goes on to say, expression softening and a hand sneaking up to palm against the side of his face.

T'ral twists from side to side, stretching ribs one way, then another. The score still pulls and burns and aches, but… it's not awful. "Arianne kicked me out. Well, Caelth did. Well. I'm not sure, actually. But… he was… grim." His face grows a little slack remembering those bared teeth and that snarl. It must be what Soot feels around dragons. He knew dragons weren't supposed to hurt people and he knew Arianne would never let Caelth hurt anyone, but… T'ral wasn't all that sure Caelth was totally on board. They'd skedaddled. "So I have a day off. Do you have anything pressing today?" Besides me! He grins, squeezing.

"So you're moving in with me?" Sleepy the lopsided smile that appears for the tease. The testing stretches weren't missed though and Prymelia rolls up into a sitting position, long legs curled to the side, hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. "Mmm…I can think of something 'pressing' I have to do." Cue the wicked little smirk. "But first I want to see how you're healing up."

T'ral meant a picnic at the beach and -finally- some singing. But, hey, no arguments here.

One button, two, then three and finally all of them have come free and Prymelia's hands glide up to his shoulders, slip in beneath the fabric and shuck it off so that it falls trapped about T'ral's elbows. Faced with a vested undershirt, hazel regard flickers upwards. That's a new addition. But hardly a hindrance. Hands drop, the fabric gathered and slip upward revealing the tender pink of the newly healed injury. Eeeeverso lightly she traces a finger across, mapping the twisted pattern, features a study of thoughts held tightly in check beneath the surface.

The crawl of Prymelia's fingers sends T'ral's thoughts reeling. Picnic? What picnic? What is a picnic? The back of his neck prickles. Goosebumps and… he's ticklish - and no less so for having a scar that basically maps all the ticklish spots. The wound is tender still, so he endures the ticklishness instead of curling into it, wincing mightily, belly tensed, posture very straight for the tightening of his core. Ow. Ha. OW. But she's studying him, not devouring him with her eyes. Well, maybe a little, but this appears to be concerned Prymelia, so he doesn't ask her to stop.

Studying. Thinking. Panicking. He could have died. Forcing the thought away. Playing ostrich. Silence stretches out. Teeth catch to Prymelia's lip. Blink. Blink, blink, blink. Emotion swells through an exhausted mind pushing at fragile barriers. There's a soft susurration of breath. Shaky at the edges. And finally, hazel regard lifts, lips trembling, her hands knotted into her lap.

Could have. Didn't. And will court it again. Every time they're needed. And proud to do so. Scared. But proud. But… then… he wouldn't be the one left behind if the worst did happen. T'ral hasn't really grappled with this, focused as he's been on other folks, their dragons, he hadn't really focused on things closer to home. To heart. 'Keep coming back.' But distressed Prymelia requires only one response, really, he steps forward and gathers her close, cheek resting on her hair. He's not really sure what assurances to offer and gambles on… none. That's been working okay. He just holds Prymelia, surrounding her as much as he's able. Some picnic.

There is nothing to be said. It is what it is. Life's a picnic and then the ants eat all your sandwiches and some twat kicks sand in your eyes. Gathered up in T'ral's embrace, Prymelia burrows her face against his chest, arms slung about his waist. There are no sobs, no dramatic shuddering of willowy frame, just a quiet slip of tears down her cheeks, dampening the rucked fabric of his undershirt. For long moments, she's quiet, just clinging to solid evidence of his having made it through relatively in one piece. Eventually, she shifts, gathering her legs beneath her, and kneels so that they're on the same level. There's a kiss that follows, soft then edged with a surging sense of the frailty of life. Finally, coming up for air, amber flecked eyes latch to deepest blue. "Let's get out of here."

Everything that's hard and broken and bad seems to just vanish in moments like this. She's upset. And he's comforting her. But T'ral finds himself comforted. Whole. In a way not disimilar to his bond with Esanth, but entirely different for their very separateness. It was easy to feel close, bonded, to someone who shared your brain. It was entirely other to find it outside. And bring it in. Whatever he can do to extend that sense to her, to enfold her in it, he does. Breath, body, mind. Hers. When she shifts he loosens his arms and smiles before losing himself in the kiss that is strangely, sweetly, intense. Prymelia breaks the kiss and T'ral's eyes snap open, leaning in, Come back. He huffs a surprised and breathless breath. "After that you want to leave?" He sets her with a hard look, squinting, jaw askew, teeth pressed together. "You are an uncommonly cruel woman, Prymelia." He gives her a long-suffering and wry smile and shrugs into getting his shirts settled.

The hard look is misunderstood. Viewed as chastisement. She'd not intended to tease. She'd just needed to… Prymelia withdraws slightly, gaze dropping to the pattern of flowers embroidered along the edge of the coverlet rumpled from having slept atop it. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I just." Wanted to get out and smell the salty sea air. Walk along the beach hand-in-hand and pretend nothing had happened. Emotion is still raw, still demanding a far more dramatic release than what it had been allowed and it mocks at her now. But something had happened. Something frightening, and awful and deadly. Angrily, she swipes at her eyes then attempts a covering smile. "We can stay. Of course we can. Have you eaten?"

T'ral is surprised by Prymelia's reaction. He wilts. "I'm no good at joking, love." He sighs, "You should know this by now." He lifts a hand to brush the tears away, then puts fingers under her chin to tip it up, dipping his head to look into her eyes, "Let's get out of here." He drops his hand to take hers, stepping back. "I brought a picnic! Where do you want to have it?" They could go anywhere!

"No," Prymelia agrees, quirking a watery little smile out. "You're not. Especially not when you've already chewed me out once for being a tease." Aaah, the source of her misunderstanding it seems. But then T'ral mentions having brought a picnic along and she brightens. "Really?" Apparently she's easily mollified. Either that or she simply has no interest in fighting over something stupid. "Somewhere that has lots of snow and a big hearth to cuddle up in front of," she quips. Teasing aside. "I heard about these pools. The turquoise pools or something? Maybe we could go there."

"Chewed you out?!" He's incredulous, and scowls up at the ceiling, remembering. Hmm… Ah. Yes. "So I did." He casts about on the floor and -ah!- retrieves Prymelia's sandals. He waggles the shoe at her, "But, if the shoe fits…" He grins. You gotta keep swinging to contact or you'll never get on base. He steps forward, running a hand down Prymelia's leg from knee to ankle, lifting her foot so he can put on her shoe if… what were all these straps? He hunches, scowling at the shoe, at Prymelia, "Why are your clothes so complicated?"

It's just as well T'ral didn't actually hand the sandal to her or he might have gotten thwapped with it. His notation of shoes and fittings sees Prymelia sticking her tongue out at him. So mature! But then he's feeling up her leg and suddenly a picnic in bed is sounding way more interesting than anywhere else. Huh? Complicated? Catching sight of his expression as he tries to figure out her sandal, she giggles. He's just too adorable. "Because anticipation," she purrs, leaning forward, "is half the fun." Smirk.

His chest tightens at that purr. Agreed. He grins, "Be that as it may," he says, holding up the sandal between them, peering at her through the intricate webbing of straps. "I think we'll starve before I work this out." He drops the sandal and gives Prymelia a kiss while fumbling to set the sandal on her foot. Fumbling. Fumbling. He cracks an eye, cocking his head to peer down, lips stilling as he concentrates. "Ah." Eyebrows tick up. Success. He dips down to find the other one. Repeat. Kiss, fumble, success.

Giggles are muffled against questing lips with Prymelia doing absolutely nothing to help T'ral get her sandal on. Or the other one for that matter. She rather likes the fumbling, kissing, game. With both feet now clad in leather, she peers down at them, wriggling her toes and then glances up again, expression impish. "I'm starting to wish I'd been napping naked." Mahogany brows wiggle up and down expressively.

T’ral admires his handiwork,“Riiiiight,” he gives Prymelia a wry look, “Because dressing you is what I’d… be doing… now…” He finishes lamely, blinking at himself, ears coloring. He drops his eyes, smiling crookedly. Thinking such things and even doing such things was different than saying such things. He’d become such a cad in the South. “Uh… the Turquoise Pools sound lovely.” He clears his throat, “I’ve been here over a turn and still haven’t seen them.” He gives Prymelia a let’s-go head toss and turns, spotting Meadow. He gives the little green chin-scritches before opening the door and hopping down the steps. He turns at the bottom to offer a hand down. Esanth, one foot clutched to his chest, rumbles when Prymelia comes into view, wings fanning vaguely.

“Exactly.” Prymelia quips back to his first, hopping down off her bed and taking up a light shawl to wrap about her shoulders. A folded blanket is grabbed on her way out and the door to her wagon locked, the long length of ribbon holding the key draped about her neck with the weighted end disappearing beneath her blouse. Taking T’ral’s hand down the few short steps, a frown of concern creases her brow. “What’s wrong with Esanth?”

T'ral sniffs amusement at the quip, ears still red. He stands aside, pressing hiself against the cabinet so she can get by to snag her wrap, protesting when she puts it on, "Hey. That's my job." He brushes past her heading out. If they all grow up in these close quarters, it's no wonder there's no… ah… personal space. His brow furrows in thought. Cerise is a bit standoffish though. I need a larger sample size. Trip, trip, trip down the stairs. Prymelia's hand. Her question. Hmm? "Oh!" T'ral's expressive face darkens, "Oh. They're, um. They're likely to have to take Jiamoth's foot. Off." He swallows and looks worriedly at Esanth, then a smile curves his lips crookedly, "Esanth is 'practicing,' for Jiamoth. So when she's recovered he can give her tips and tricks." T'ral purses his lips, looking at Prymelia's shoes, "Those probably aren't good for a hike." His eyes move up to her skirts, "And those aren't good for a flight." Astride. Still boggle-y. "I thought it would be fun to walk. I've seen so little of this place." I'd like to know what I'm protecting. He looks down at Prymelia, eyes shadowing. It was a close thing. A hair slower. A moment earlier. That Thread would have burrowed through his heart and he wouldn't be standing here. An unutterably fragile string of coincidences that -in hindsight- look like Fate. But at any moment, those coincidences could align to… He swallows, throat suddenly dry. He rasps, "Do you think," he clears his throat and starts again, "Do you think you can make it in those?"

“Dressing you!” He grins on his way out and stops, shaking his head, a very serious expression, “But… not really. Until you get simpler clothes.” Outside. Amputation. T’ral’s face is stark, the probability was frightening. But whatever was best for Jiamoth the Healers would do. Esanth stills in confusion at Prymelia’s embrace, slewing his head around to peer at her, then at T’ral then back to Prymelia. T’ral translates, “Ah… he says… ‘I reckon any of us would do the same for Miss Jiamoth, ‘s just me that’s doin’ it.’” He cocks his head and clarifies, “That’s close, anyway. It’s a little more… nuanced than that.” He looks at her feet and at the jungle overgrowth and undergrowth and at her feet and at the overgrowth and … he winces, “You should probably get them. We’ll bring ‘em, and if you need to switch, we switch.” T’ral notes Prymelia’s distaste for her workboots. Ugliness doesn’t really enter into his calculus of what shoes to choose for this venture.

The explanation T’ral relays from Esanth has Prymelia uttering a softly breathed, “Dawwww.” Such a darling dragon! Not unlike his rider. And then its back to footwear and reaching their chosen picnic spot. “Fine, I’ll bring them along. But I’m not going to wear them.” She tells him slipping back up the stairs to the door of her wagon. Famous last words! Within moments she’s back, a pair of scuffed leather boots tied together at the laces and tossed over a shoulder. “Lead the way, bluerider!”

Haunted pride flickers across T'ral's brow and eyes and through the quick catch of his posture, head brought up, shoulders back, as he regards the sturdy blue. Care and worry lay hard on every face since the untimely Fall at Keroon, none moreso than those who saw comrades and loved ones lost or hurt. The heartsick look at Esanth vanishes under a lopsided grin as the rider uses movement to shake himself free of dark thoughts. He strides up to the dragon, thumping him fondly on the chest. Esanth snorts and shifts his heavily-jawed head, browridges cocked. There are several bundles hanging on the straps, which T'ral leaves in place, except to fish out a long, sheathed blade that he belts around his waist. Looking up as he feeds the straps through the loops, T'ral favors Prymelia a fond look, "It'd be a shame for me to have to carry you, Prymelia. For me." He eyes her sandals skeptically and gives the (admittedly very sloppy-looking) boots a nod and looks off to the jungle. "I've only seen the pools from the air, but they're," he squints off to the west, hands pausing on the belt, he gestures with his chin, "Off that way. Esanth will meet us there." He finishes belting the blade and steps forward holding a hand out to Prymelia, "All right, then. Let's be about it!" The two tromp and trek along the overgrown path. Jungle growth is thick and reclaiming the trails where game and travelers have not trod in some time. ENTER: Blade. Avians different from those in the summer flirt and flare through the trees, their voices harsh and plumage a riot of color. Vibrant flowers, strange and structured and beautiful, grow in golden light filtered through the canopy high above. Slipping and laughing along the banks and stones (with only minor dunkings) they finally make it to the pools.


Turquoise Pools
Such beauty! Water the color of pure turquoise reflects the filtered light of Rukbat that comes through the small opening of the upper canopy; surrounded on all sides by lush greenery, the jungle stream tumbles into the brilliantly colored waters of the pool creating a waterfall that refracts the light into giving a near-constant, imperfect rainbow. The stream continues on, long past these hidden pools of turquoise, leaving behind the crown jewel of Southern's getaway spots. The spray of water from the small waterfall mists the rocks, and at some point in the centuries that Southern has been inhabited a quaint stone bridge was built to span the width of the small pools. Vines and jungle growth further add to the sense of seclusion, surrounded on all sides by nothing but nature. A small stand of bamboo and palm trees grows here.
It is the sixty-third day of Winter and 70 degrees. It is partly cloudy, but still warm and bright. Clouds have started to drift across the sky again. The jungles are almost dry.

At the appearance of the sheathed blade, Prymelia had lifted a questioning look to T’ral but left it at that, sure he had his reasons for taking it along. The journey to the pools had been filled with exclamations of appreciation for the vivid display of avians, the flowers, the light dappling through the canopy above, with the mahogany-haired young woman chattering away happily. Apparently, the outdoors and exploring to be more exact, is a realm she’s well at home and happy in. And then, they finally reach their destination and she comes to an abrupt and slippery halt, eyes wide and unbelieving turning up to T’ral. “Oh… it's just beautiful! It's like the oasis in the desert.” Her gaze swings back to the serene setting. “I could live here and never leave.”

T'ral tenses his arm, steadying Prymelia, then slips a bit himself, grin flashing. He regains his balance, grin still lingering on his features and walks to the edge of the waterfall, where it tumbles away to fall into the pools below. T'ral is speechless. Wonderstruck. Mouth agape in a wordless wonderment. From the air the vivid colors were plain, but not the details. Nor the heady scents of growth and decay, nor the fine mist of water splashed up from the steady rumble of the stream tumbling into the pools, nor the rainbows shimmering in the air. Breathtaking. He turns his head to look at Prymelia when she speaks, her amber eyes alight and alive with the beauty of the place. Doubly struck. T'ral swallows, stomach giving a flutter. His dark eyes staying on her as she turns back to the view. There's a leaf in her hair, the petals of a flower tucked behind her ear visible beyond her cheek, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, Esanth's shadow falling across her face from high above, smile playing about the curve of her lips. '…never leave.' He blinks. Yes. He plucks the leaf from her hair, smoothing it, then wraps her up from behind, kissing a spot in front of her ear. "Let's build your bungalow after lunch." He closes his eyes, enjoying the closesness, arms tightening as he takes a deep breath. His stomach growls. "Definitely after." He lets go with reluctance and casts about for the least treacherous way down to the shore. The palm trees look promising and he points, "Let's head there."

Surrounded by such beauty and pulled in with her back against T’ral’s chest, Prymelia breathes a sigh of contentment then twists a look back and up to him. “A bungalow doesn’t have wheels,” she points out with a teasing smile. “But maybe if there’s a bath…” Hugging her arms over his, she leans her head back against the solid warmth of his shoulder. “Or we could just bathe under the waterfall.” A short mew of disappointment is uttered when he moves away but she’s suddenly ravenous herself. “Shall we swim afterwards?”

Puzzling, "If you never leave, what need for wheels, hmmm?" The 'hmmmm' delivered with lips pressed to the side of Prymelia's neck. A bath of his own, that would be grand. T'ral's not a huge fan of the public baths, despite having lived with them his whole life. A turn gone and the memory of Prymelia in the baths is still vivid. Waterfall. T'ral clears his throat, shifting. Food. Foodfoodfood. "Definitely a swim. After lunch and building the bungalow." Ahem. Food. T'ral picks out a path down the cliff, an only-somewhat-treacherous switchback trail carved into the steep face of the cliff that drops to the pools. Esanth circles and drops into the narrow opening in the canopy, twisting and cutting his wings to land (three-legged) on the shore near the stand of bamboo which bends and flutters musically in the backblast of his dramatic drop and strong backwinging. T'ral winces at that acrobatic entry, looking up at Prymelia's face as he helps her down a tricky bit of the cut steps, "You have my apologies for whatever has become of lunch."

The humming press of lips to her neck sends a shiver down her spine, the words that had preceded it earning T’ral a little smile. “Good point.” And then they’re picking their way down the trail. Several times her hand tightens about his when she stumbles here and there, but it’s not nearly as tricky as the path they’d just navigated. “And what shall we build my bungalow with?” Prymelia wonders aloud, pausing to watch Esanth’s aerial antics then releasing his rider’s hand to applaud his agility with unfettered delight when he lands. Moving again and navigating the steps cut into the landscape, she trips over her own feet (stupid ugly boots!) and almost loses her balance, arms flinging about T’ral’s neck. “Mmm, lunch.” The look she pours over him suggesting that he’ll do quite nicely for lunch thank-you-very-much. “If its too smooshed up, we can always ask Esanth to catch some fish for us and then we can cook them over a fire.” Ever practical this one when it comes to feeding her belly. “What did you pack for us?”

T'ral's dashing boots did make steadier work of the rocky climb. It was sure to be their stylishness. He whuffs out a surprised breath as he's got a sudden armful of decidedly hungry looking trader. As to being lunch, T'ral doesn't really have enough marbling to make a tasty meal. Too lean by half. He backpedals a few steps, grinning, trailing his Prymelia scarf, "What did I pack?" Everything, apparently. Esanth settles awkwardly, dropping onto one flank so that he can ease weight down onto his 'good' limb before rolling onto his belly, sphinx-like to watch his bondmate and the female scurry about. Even in repose he tucks the 'injured' leg against his chest. T'ral watches the awkward wallowing with some dismay, but the blue is careful not to disturb the half-dozeon or more packs and bags hanging from his straps. At least, not any more than they've already been disturbed. T'ral unstraps only two of the bags. One is quite obviously his -what else- his gitar case. This is set aside.

The other contains food. Mostly stuff that could weather a trip between and be served at room temperature. On top of all the food, a blanket. It had been meant to cushion the food in transit and then be spread out for the picnic. Hopefully it would do its second appointed task better than its first. T'ral shakes the blanket out, looking for telltale stains from spilled food. He gives Esanth a look of mock warning, "You lucked out, pal." Esanth responds with a cocked head, browridges canted, faceted eyes scanning the canopy and the narrow opening into the pools. The scuffed and muddied boots of the humans. He snorts, a blast of warm air, and looks off, down into the depths of the lake. Maybe there were some fish in there. The female would like fish. T'ral grins fondly, laughing, "Yes, that was quite a landing. Yes, you did save us carrying all this." He grins, over-replying so Prymelia can 'hear' the dialog. He shakes his head, "Heh. No, I don't think we'll need the fish. Thank you, Esanth." T'ral roughly folds the blanket and hands it to Prymelia, "Find a good place for this and I'll see what really survived of our lunch." He squats over the bag, pawing through it, lips pursed.

Rainbows and palm fronds. That elicits a laugh from Prymelia as does being trailed along like a scarf. Carefree, easy times. Much needed after the stresses and tensions of the past few days. Turning as they reach where Esanth has done his three-legged landing, she watches with interest as he carefully settles himself so as to make the carrysacks he has attached to his straps more easily accessible. Pulling the folded blanket in against her chest, the trader lingers a moment before setting off to find a good place to spread it out, her attention dropping to the gitar case. “Are you finally going to sing for me?” She asks tipping a grin up to T’ral. “Because you’re in danger of being in breach of contract.” Stepping away to begin looking for a suitable location, Prymelia pauses and lends Esanth a fond smile, her words going to his rider. “Oh let him fish if he wants to. We can take them back for supper if he finds any.” Leaving T’ral to go through the bag, she wanders off a short distance coming to a halt at a small sandy patch situated between the gently swaying bamboo and palm trees that overlooking the pools themselves.

T'ral's response to Prymelia's question is simply a nod. But as she grins up at him and mentions the contract his faces smoothes, eyebrows raised coolly, "Ah. You signed it, then? If so, you'll be singing too. If not, well, you should read the fine print." He turns away, inscrutable, to gather the pack of food and the gitar case, following Prymelia to the sandy patch. Once the blanket is settled over the sandy ground, T'ral kicks off his boots and settles cross-legged, handing item after item from the pack to Prymelia. Various salads (tuber, fruit, green), a jar of something unidentifiable except as some sort of …paste, canteens of juice and water, sliced meat and vegetables for sandwiches. Redfruit (somewhat bruised). Citrus (partially juiced). And what used to be a loaf of bread which is now smashed rather flat. And a very, VERY smashed cake. Cake paste, really. And, oh, hey, a bottle of wine. Miraculously unbroken. Sturdy bottle. But… given the concave shape of the smashed bread and cake, it's pretty clear what did the smashing. Bottle + g-forces = smashed baked goods.

That cool expression that comes from T’ral with regards to the contract he’d given her finds Prymelia blinking up at him. Lips open and then close about a light frown for indeed, she has not signed it yet. And clearly, he’s not going to be happy with that and so she simply doesn’t answer, busying herself instead with smoothing the blanket out and fussing unnecessarily with its fringed ends. Kicking off her muddied boots, she settles toward an edge of it, shapely legs curled to one side and takes the assortment of items he hands her. Silence continues to linger as she sets each down carefully within easy reach of the both of them, filled by the steady rumble of the waterfall above and the chatter of avians overhead. However, when the smashed bread and cake are produced, she glances over, amusement sparkling in hazel eyes along with a glint of impish intent. “You went to a lot of trouble,” Prymelia murmurs, looking over the feast he’d so carefully put together. “I’m sure it’s going to taste delicious.” That offered as reassurance for the state that some of the items have arrived in.

His eyebrows go up -further- at Prymelia's silence and her little frown. He's incredulous, laughing, "You still haven't signed it!" He shakes his head, hands pausing in handing over a rueful grin on his face, "Well. The law dictates, and the fine print would read," he cuts his eyes over at he and goes back to handing over items, "That the contract is null if unsigned by both parties after a turn." He sighs, "I say 'would read' beacuse I didn't include any such provision in the fine print," cue the lopsided grin and twinkling eyes, "Whoops." He looks at the spread, it is rather good at that. A fine picnic. He glances at the other packs when Prymelia mentions 'a lot of trouble.' She had no idea. He picks up the disaster loaf and begins trying to pry it into some semblance of usefulness. Dark eyes, sheepish, flick up from time to time, "Well, like I said. You've been very sweet. And I've been very… occupied." He shrugs, grimacing at the bread, "This is long overdue." And if we never had to leave, that would be just fine. His eyes track along the blanket and are on a trajectory for Prymelia's face… but. "Your feet! Stars woman! Why didn't you say anything? Don't they hurt?" He rolls off the blanket and springs up, hurrying to Esan -ow, sharp rock, that's why the boots!- Esanth. Fishing through one of the packs he pulls out a rolled leather folio. Limping back (because, sharp rock), he settles onto the blanket. "Lemme see." Unrolling the folio, it's a first aid kit. Freshly stocked. And a good thing too!

"No," Prymelia frowns, despite the light-hearted manner in which T'ral questions her about the contract. She doesn't add anything further on the matter. At least not just yet. A small smile emerges for his reiteration of his reasons behind the picnic. "You've been busy doing what you've been trained to do," she tells him with understanding then glances upward and finds herself smothering a chuckle when he tries to reshape the bread. But then he notices her feet and she blinks at them. She'd been so enthralled by the scenery and the wonder of the pools themselves when they'd first slipped out of the undergrowth that she'd not really noticed the discomfort of the blisters peppered across the tops of her toes and raised around the backs of her heels. "Oh. I…" Uncurling her legs she peers down at her damaged feet. "I told you they were ugly boots." Yes. Because it's ALL his fault. Sitting still as a mouse, Prymelia watches him retrieve his first aid kit, wincing when he steps barefoot on a sharp rock. Tracking him as he moves back to her again, she swivels slightly so that her feet are pointed toward him. "For my people, a contract is a sacred thing. Even the lovely one you wrote up. Our word, is our oath and we take it seriously." Quiet explanation given.

T'ral leans across and snags the water canteen so he can dampen a bit of… hmmm… no towel. He makes a mental note to add that to the kit. Gauze! Dampening a bit gauze with water and redwort to scrub up. There's really not much to do with blisters except let them heal and not repeat whatever caused the insult in the first place. He glowers at the boots, "I thought you meant ugly outside." He cleans her feet carefully with an apologetic wince of empathy at the application of redwort. He leaves them unbandaged, they were going swimming soon anyway. He'd bandage them after that. Plus, the open air was good for them. Prymelia murmurs her bit about contracts and he sighs, dark eyes seeking hers, "It's no less serious for non-traders, Prymelia. Contracts, treaties, agreements… they only work if they're serious. And I would like to have been able to keep up my end." He looks moves off to wash up at the water's edge. "I shouldn't have written it at all. Even toothless as it is." Esanth rumbles a deep-chested complaint.

"They're just ugly all over," Prymelia quips with a wrinkle of freckled nose, a smile forming on her lips for the care in which T'ral tends her feet, toes wriggling because she's not very good at sitting still as it turns out. That sigh and the turn of those navy blue eyes onto her contracts her heart. She'd hurt him. Watching in silence as he moves off to wash up, she gets to her feet and pads after him. Coming up behind him, arms slip about his chest and she lays her cheek against his back. "I'm very glad you did. It's the nicest thing anyone has ever written for me." She murmurs. "And it's not toothless. It's sweet, and funny and clever." Just like him.

"Maybe they're just not broken in?" He squints at the boots. They would be now, that's for certain. It's hard to look at Prymelia solemn. Heartwrenching, even. He'd troubled her. Stupid contract. He can only blame how strung out he was early on in weyrlinghood and the giddy stupor he'd been in at her admission that she thought of him for not thinking it through. He is surprised when she approaches and puts arms around him. He sighs, this one happier. He sluices water up over his forearms, "Legally toothless." He emphasizes, "There isn't an adjudicator on Pern that would recognize it as binding." So it's safe to sign. Except she hadn't. He shrugs, "The song I've written you is better." And less fogged with the stupids. He shakes his hands free of water, wiping them dry on his pants before standing, straightening, drawing Prymelia up as he turns toward her. Nose scrunched, in a grimace, "Note that better is a relative term and, at Harper Hall, I was headed into the Archives." Not composition or singing or playing or writing or oratory. The Archives. She's been given fair warning. His grimace tracks over to the blanket, "See what you can make of the bread and I'll tune up." His stomach does a little flip. Jitters. That was another reason he'd not been suited for performing for audiences. He recalls how he'd shook in Keroon. Life was pointing at him getting the heck over that, it seems.

Having made a comment about her rather worn out boots being too broken in, Prymelia turns wide eyes onto T’ral when he stands. “You’ve written me a song?” Wonder filters through her voice and curls about the smile that breaks like a Southern sunrise across her face. A song. One of her very own! Without hesitation and waving off his comment meant to warn her about what he’s written, the mahogany-haired young woman moves back to the blanket and redworted feet, careful to avoid sharp stones. Settling back down again with an air of anticipation wrapped about slender shoulders, she eyes the flattened loaf of bread. With no way to slice it in the conventional manner to create sandwiches with, she reaches for a knife and slices it lengthways instead – French loaf style and begins putting together one rather large affair for them to share, stuffed full with a bit of everything. Except for the cake paste that is. That she has other plans for.

"Well, yeah. There are a couple kicking around in here." Man, T'ral has got it bad. Prymelia's smile is rather like a sunrise. Light and life struck right into his heart. "This one's the first one I'd call finished." He picks his way across the sand, careful himself of sharps stones hiding in the sands and grabs his gitar case. Settling onto the blanket he cracks the case and lifts the gitar out, watching with some interest what Prymelia makes of the bread. The strings are loose, laying sloppily across the fretboard and he spends several moments re-tensioning them before he can even begin to tune. He hums a note, plucking a string and listening as he turns the pegs. "See," he says, admiring Prymelia's solution to the squashed bread, he taps his temple, "That's why you're along." Before too long, he's got the gitar tuned up and the little spike of nerves flutter again. "All right," he looks down at the blanket, sheepish. Caveats rise to the tip of his tongue, but he lets them die unspoken. No amount of talking would make him feel any easier. He clears his throat and looks up at Prymelia, hands perched on the gitar, eyes not really knowing where to settle. He should really just start playing because, then he'd have an excuse to look at his hands or off into the distance. Or. Yeah. He blinks and finds himself looking right at Prymelia.

"You should finish them all," Prymelia states, pulling two plates closer then flicking a look over to T'ral. A soft laugh greets his comment of the plan she'd made with the flattened bread. "As a traveler, one becomes adept at making do with what there is. And this looks delicious," she declares, cutting the long sandwich in half. Carefully she transfers a half to each plate, the load bursting at the seams with the tasty tidbits stuffed into. The tuning twang and soft testing hum of the bluerider's voice draws her attention squarely back to him and pulling her knees up, skirts pulled over the tops and arms wound around her legs, she rests her chin on her knees and waits with an expectant smile curved about her mouth, hazel locking to blue.

"I'm sure I will, in time. They tend to pick when they finish more than I do." His stomach growls. Hungry. And nerves aren't making that hollow feel any better. He flexes his fingers. Nothing else for it but to begin. It starts softly, a bass line, finger picking follows, a cascade of notes, driving and floating. This isn't something sung at full voice, but softly, not quite whispered, but quiet, adding to the dream-like quality of the lyrics painting a picture of unravelling, misplaced fear, sunlight in trees, water, wind, silence and togetherness. Connectedness. His voice fades out and the song rides out on the cascading melody to its conclusion. Not a traditional song structure. Or love song. More like a word painting. Or a glimpse into a dreamscape.

Unaware of the nerves knotting T’ral’s stomach, Prymelia is captivated right from the very first note. It's not that she’s never heard anyone sing or play an instrument before for her clan always have a fiddle or a flute or gitar handy with someone willing to sing the songs of their tradition and more often than that, everyone joining in and even dancing a jig. But never before has someone not only sung to her and her alone, but also sung a song written specifically for her. By the time the last notes have melted onto the air, his voice a soft whispering memory of beautifully constructed wording, tears are slipping silently down her cheeks while in contrast she’s wearing a smile as bright as the sun. Prymelia tries to speak but words seem like such a trite means to convey the swell of emotions threatening to burst free. And so instead she merely shakes her head and swipes at her eyes, a little giggle escaping to mark how silly she feels for crying. In one movement, she’s on her knees and careful not to squish the gitar between them, captures T’ral’s jaw in her hands and kisses him soundly.

Once started, things had settled out. He'd been living with this song bouncing around in his head for half a turn or more, Esanth could probably hum a few bars, so performing it wasn't the trouble, except for a couple tricky spots. T'ral -Taralde- had sung for girls before. Back at Harper Hall, because, duh, Harper Hall. There the girls had been used to boys singing for them, and if they were more discerning about talent, they were not less charmed. But he'd never sung something of his own for the person who'd inspired it. That was something else. Something else all together. The tears were something else. And that bright, sunny smile was something else. T'ral's own smile is small, head still half in the song, hands hovering over the strings, "So, did yo-mmmffh," he starts, jaw captured, attention captured, balance threatened. His hand clutches, steadying the gitar from the neck, the other goes to Prymelia's back-shoulder-side, awkward around the body of the gitar. That kiss. He's lost. Doomed, really. When Prymelia breaks away, he shifts, sitting forward, more balanced. Grinning, he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and finishes the interrupted question, dark eyes bright on Prymelia's amber, "So, did you like it?" He tucks his chin, looking up, mock-serious look ruined by his grin, "You can tell me if you didn't. I can't really tell."

Breath a light flutter of air passing her lips after that kiss, the smile of earlier not the least bit diminished, Prymelia delivers her reply. “Oh it was positively awful. I was sure my ears were going to start bleeding at one point.” She teases, the effect completely ruined by the happy glint in hazel eyes but before she’s allowed enough pause for T’ral to respond, her expression softens and she allows a hand to linger at his cheek while the other drops away to curl in her lap. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” she tells him sincerely. “I wish there were a way to capture it in a little box so that any time I wanted to hear it I could simply open the lid and out it would come to dance around in the air about me.”

A rare sound, the belly laugh from T'ral. He winces and points a finger at Prymelia's ear, "Some blood there," when she looks, he flicks her nose. Gotcha. He grins, noodling on the gitar, bits of the song's melody forming and falling away, he looks up, the nerves from earlier seem foolish. "I'm glad you liked it." T'ral shifts, hunkering down, "It'd have to be a pretty big little box. But I could probably fit." His stomach growls and he leans around Prymelia to look at the sandwiches. Yum. He snags the gitar case and settles the gitar carefully into the case, closing it, snapping the latches shut. It wouldn't do to damage the thing. "Okay." T'ral claps hands together, rubbing them, "Let's eat. And then we've got a bungalow to build." He ticks items off on his fingers, "A swim to take and more songs." He raises his eyebrows, "You'll sing. Oh. And… crumbs." He glowers at the cakepaste. "Dessert."

A rare sound indeed and one that serves to pull an impish grin from Prymelia, giggling when he pretends to make note of a spot of blood and then catches her with that flip to nose. Laughter, light and airy greets the comment about a box. “Maybe if I squished you up really small,” thumb and forefinger make a pinching motion, “I could just tuck you down my front and carry you around in there all day.” With T’ral settling his gitar back into its protective nest, she lifts up a plate with a half portion of giant sandwich on it and passes it over to him a wicked little grin curling up the corners of her mouth when he scowls at the cakepaste. “Dessert,” Prymelia agrees flicking a look from the ruined cake to where his uniform allows a small glimpse of tanned skin. Taking a bite from her half of the sandwich, chewing carefully and swallowing then washing it down with a refreshing mouthful of juice her gaze drifts over to the inviting pools. “I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” she notes pretending at idle remark. Not that she even owns one. “Guess I’ll have to swim in the one I was born in.” Skinny dipping!

At Prymelia's suggestion for his new daily conveyance, T'ral makes moony eyes at the canopy and wilts in a wistful sigh. To his credit, his ears color only slightly as he imagines this. Renalde was wrong, it ultimately wouldn't be the dragonriders who would spell the ruination of his son's carefully wrought propriety. Gitar settled, T'ral digs into the sandwich, boggling a bit at Prymelia's coy birthday suit comment, A suit for Prymelia! I didn't think of it! He'd thought of so many other things. T'ral tries out a new tack for dealing with Prymelia's barbs, "'S a good color for you." Playing along! Chomp! He takes a big bite of sandwich.

Lunch passes in laughter and light. There is swimming. T'ral falling off the bridge. He brought a change of clothes. PREPARED. An aborted bungalow construction effort which winds up with Prymelia wearing a makeshift dress of palm fronds. And more first aid, because, palm fronds - sharp!

There’s a giggle and a playful shove of hand to T’ral’s shoulder for his moony-eyed tease. The trek through the jungle to get to this little pool of paradise having awoken a fierce hunger, Prymelia happily munches her way through the sandwich. Pausing to lick her fingers, she arches a brow at his last and strikes a pose. “You think so? I’d rather been hoping for blue, but apparently that’s not a very good color on people.” Grin.

First concern and then laughter had met T’ral’s fall from the bridge but only once she was sure he was relatively unharmed by it. Then Prymelia had treated him to a dance in the fashion of her clan, resplendent in palm-fringed attire. Cake paste had been put to thorough and delicious use. Frosted bluerider anybody? YUM! Best dessert evah! Of course that had led to swimming. In the buff. And then lazy conversation with the two of them stretched out atop the blanket while the sun dried the moisture from their bodies.

A precious few hours snatched in blissful retreat from the harsh realities of life.

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