====December 1, 2013
==== Prymelia, V'dean
==== The discussion of flowers, love notes, and hunting one evening in the newly revamped library.

Who Prymelia, V'dean
What The discussion of flowers, love notes, and hunting one evening in the newly revamped library.
When There are 0 turns, 7 months and 0 days until the 12th pass.
Where Archive Library, Southern Weyr

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Archive Library
Where once books reigned supreme, this open space is now dominated by a stalwart skybroom reaching to the sky through a broken ceiling. What was once evidence of collapse is now ornately carved with engraved ivy, matched by a clever contraption of stone that allows the gap to be closed in inclement weather. A small garden occupies the space around the tree-trunk, all manicured bushes and flowering shrubbery enclosed by a grated gutter. The walls are lined with bookcases, while a spiral staircase leans on the western wall to wind upwards to the second level. Tucked in the corners and scattered in the main areas are tables and chairs, cafe-style, and comfortably worn overstuffed armchairs. It is the perfect place for individuals to gather, to enjoy the offerings of the food-cart or a spirited conversation.

With its refinished interior, the Library has been popular, the newly placed chairs and tables often full during the day. Tonight, with wan moonlight overcome by a generous scatter of glows, the hour has grown late enough that it's possible to find a handful of empty seats as weyrfolk drift off to restful sleep in the relatively dry cool of a non-storming autumn day. V'dean is hardly the only person still working away — and he does seem to be working, which might explain why he's at one of the little tables instead of the more comfortable armchair adjacent. The seat opposite has an uneven pushed-out look that may make it look recently occupied, though the bluerider currently sits alone. There's a pen in his hand which moves smoothly across hide in even lines and a neat script.

Word of the Library’s refurbishment had reached the ears of a certain trader lass but with one thing and another in need of attention, she’s not had a chance to check it out for herself. Thus it is that evening draws the colorfully garbed young woman inward. Mahogany tresses free from the headscarf and braid they’re usually schooled back in, flow passed slender shoulders, the intricately knitted shawl released from its tight draw as her light steps carry her inward. Somewhere around where V’dean is seated, Prymelia pauses and takes in the changes wrought in the area and then, with a softly breathed, ‘Oh, how lovely!’, she makes a beeline for the little garden planted about the trunk of the tree.

V'dean isn't so consumed by his writing that he's unaware of even so light a step. There's a schooled straightness to his posture so that it takes only a brief lift of cool green eyes to note the brightly dressed young woman. His pen pauses, lifts, sways slightly in the hold of his fingertips while a look drags over her and the shadow of his dimple deepens ever so slightly for those soft words. Perhaps, as the bluerider finishes his page — and he does finish — the considering lift of his gaze is turned more towards Prymelia in the search of the garden than in search of his own thoughts. Once the pen is set safely aside and ink is left to dry his attention turns more surely towards her. Posture corroding, his legs stretch and cross under the table while his fingers comb up through the soft wave of his hair before linking behind his head. With the obvious winging of his elbows thus made, he watches her with a smile playing wider across his lips.

Unaware that she’s being watched, Prymelia crouches in front of the little garden, layered skirts creating a pool of color about her as she does. Reaching out a hand, fingertips hover just a spinner’s leg away from actually touching the fragile petals, the smile on her face beatific. An indoor garden! What an utterly wonderful and clever idea! From out of a pocket, cleverly hidden along the seam of her outermost skirt, crawls a tiny little green ‘lizard, not more than a couple of days out of its shell. Holding out a hand for it to curl up in, the trader woman holds it out toward the vegetation. “Look Meadow, isn’t it wonderful!?” The scrape of a chair darts attention over her shoulder and that’s when she sees him. The bluerider watching her.

It's quite a sight — the pool of skirts, the creep of lizard. V'dean seems riveted, anyhow. That play of his smile turns to something surer, if lopsided, once the girl's attention turns. "It's quite a trick, isn't it," he comments lazily, lashes dipping a slow blink. "Making pretty things so convenient." And while he may find it convenient to just sit and watch Prymelia, the link of his hands fails as he tips back more upright in his chair. A flick of the hide ensures the glisten of black ink is mostly dry before he starts gathering the small writing kit together. "You have seen the flowers that grow out of the Weyr?" he checks with dubious traces warring with jest as pale green eyes slant back to her.

Slowly, slowly, while Prymelia’s attention is diverted, Meadow cranes her neck forward determined to have a sampling taste of shiny green leaf. Warmth infuses the trader’s smile and she gives a small dip of head in agreement to V’dean’s assessment of the garden. “That it is. Such a clever way to add some color and life to a place all too often associated with stodgy old codgers.” She’s not referring to the bluerider, right? Nah. He’s too young and cute to fit the ‘codger’ category. Narration aside, her attention spins back to the small ‘lizard spluttering and spitting at the disgusting taste of greenery. “If you’d stop trying to eat everything…” she scolds, standing swiftly and tucking the little critter back into her pocket. Angling her path toward where V’dean lazes, an odd little smirk patterns freckled features. “There are flowers? Beyond the Weyr?” She teases back. “Whoever would have thought.” Pause and then her head tilts to one side, attention dropping curiously to the hides he gathers together. “Work or a love letter?” Nosey, this one.

"Very clever," V'dean echoes with a lift of brows while his gaze is diverted to the stoppering of ink. He at least seems unworried about the association being tied to him. While the gluttonous lizard may draw a flicker of glance, the green doesn't stand a chance against Prymelia's smirk. "A whole host of them," flowers, V'dean agrees with a falsely innocent blink and the tease of his smile slipping smarmy. "More than one color, even." His hands don't rush under the tip of her attention, but neither do they pause. There's perhaps something a little too list-like for sonnets showing upon the edge of hide that's still getting rolled up into the bundle with ink and pens. "A love letter," he's chuckling at her guess instead of answering. "Do you get many?" The cock of his eyebrow is curious as green eyes rove again over her now at freckle spotting distance. "Were you meeting a secret admirer?" is another impish supposition that gets him craning a bit of a look about to the nearby tables before offering up his grin to the trader girl.

“More than one color?” Cue the wide-eyed look of feigned wonder, ruined by amusement that hovers at the corners of her mouth. “I must be living under a rock.” Hazel eyes follow the movement of hands, the edges of columns caught and yet she’ll play along with the ruse of a love letter. “A pretty greenrider with long blonde and big blue eyes.” Prymelia teases with a little grin. “Do you give her flowers?” A question for V’dean before she moves to answering the one he’d set her. “Just the one,” she answers far more honestly than might be expected, a smile toying then growing and warmed by a soft laugh when he tries to espy a suitor. “If I told you that it would no longer be a secret, now would it,” she counters, a hand setting to the back of the chair standing askew and leaning a hip into its side.

"No," V'dean objects vaguely to this idealized tease of his love letter's recipient, the slight fold upon his brow leaving his smile unruffled. "Not a greenrider. And I seem to have forgotten the flowers." He'll give the rolled hide a little lift, just in case there are blooms hiding beneath. The motion becomes less than off hand as Prymelia's first answer sets his gaze more keenly for noticing the expression spilling into laughter across her features. The draw of his breath pulls a little deeper and the angle of his gaze tips as he drags his knees back to right angles and leans the fold of his forearms at his edge of the table. "I believe the secret is usually a matter of the identity of the admirer, not in the existence of the admiration." Amusement is sparked silent in his eyes. "But perhaps not always. The one," is phrasing that has not escaped his notice and now inflects into a question.

Not a greenrider. That’s a partial admission isn’t it? So there must be a someone. “Perhaps you should visit those wildflowers you spoke of beyond the Weyr. Or better yet. Take her with you and picnic among them.” Is she really that much of a romantic? Or is it just that it seems like the logical thing for a man to do to win a lady’s affections. Hard to tell for her expression gives little away on that topic especially once amusement lifts to greet his latter comments on secret admirers and letters. “The only one I’ve bothered to keep.” Prymelia qualifies and slips into the chair she’d been standing guard over, making herself at home while hands coil thick tresses over one shoulder and then set to fiddling absently with the curled ends.

V'dean shrugs off wildflowers and picnics carelessly. "Perhaps." He's more attentive to the settling of the girl across from him, his gaze closely following the drag of mahogany hair over her shoulder and through the fiddle of her fingers. The edge of his tongue peeks in thoughtful run along the lingering curve of his lower lip. "It must be a very good letter." The bound leather of hide and pen drags a soft few inches across the table under the reach of his fingers as he pulls it nearer the edge within the enveloping curl of a palm. "And not a secret admirer. Nostalgia, then?" The lean he takes across the table also sends his chair scraping back a fraction and sets his weight above his feet. "You seem conflicted over it," is an observation made from close range with smile sharpening a touch feral.

Does Prymelia notice the peek of tongue tip or the sly air to V’dean’s smile? Maybe. Though her expression gives nothing away if she does. “It’s a contract of intent,” she tells him, dropping her hands from her hair to once again extract the tiny ‘lizard wriggling about in her pocket. Setting Meadow to the table, a finger lifts and idly meanders up and down the soft underside of the green’s gullet. “And yes, it is good,” she adds, setting the bluerider with an enigmatic little smile. “Very, very good.” As to being conflicted over it, the faint twitch of deep mahogany brows is likely telling with an unspoken ‘but’ hovering in the air before its reeled back in and a warm smile appears when paused pettings find Meadow butting her head against the trader’s hand for more. “Do you hunt?” The question a testimony to just how laterally minded she can be when avoiding topics.

Cool eyes are upon the brighter green of that stroked gullet as V’dean flows along with that commitment of his weight to standing, pushing up from the propped heels of his hands against the table. Little twitches of his expression shape his reaction — intrigued, knowing — as his gaze flickers from firelizard to trader. Circling about the table, the bluerider fetches up against the edge nearer Prymelia with a lean of hip. “I do hunt,” he answers absently. One hand loosely holding the rolled satchet of leather to the long slope of his thigh, the other lifts to offer a knuckle towards Meadow. “A very, very good contract,” he returns to with more sly interest. “That sounds naughty.” His dimple is pressed deep within the scruff of his cheek as his gaze slides over the trader. “Is that the problem? Overwhelming for a sweet thing like you? He should have stuck with flowers and picnics.”

Curling her palm so that Meadow may rub her little head into its hollow as she pleases, Prymelia tracks the bluerider’s movements, having to tilt her chin upward when he comes to a rest nearby. Hazel regard drops to the length of rolled leather resting against his thigh then lifts again, a low chuckle that resonates with anything but innocence lifting up at his remark. “No,” she returns drawing her hand toward herself when Meadow espies a larger one to chafe herself against, V’dean’s offered knuckle gently headbutted in greeting. “I fear that perhaps it is I that will be found to be…overwhelming.” The comment a testament to being fully aware of what she’s about rather than self-deprecating. Setting that aside she returns to the topic of hunting. “I find myself in need of a few good men,” lips quirk toward a little grin, “to eliminate a threat. Maybe even several but I’ll need the pelts as proof of death.”

Those large, coarse knuckles are good for headbutting — particularly as the rough weight is balanced by dragon oiled smoothness. The curl of his finger runs over Meadow’s youthfully soft hide, a casual effort to keep the firelizard entertained. “Oh really.” This is probably not a comment made in regard to hunting. The slight shift of weight from foot to foot scuffs boot soles upon stone and leans him a little closer as he tilts his dimpled smile confidingly close, green eyes upon hazel. “I’m afraid I’m not a good man.” Not that he sounds very sorry at all. But. “Tell me more about what you need,” he welcomes, blink dipping languid lashes as his smile continues to play in a deep twist at the edge of his mouth. Related, as another press from the edge of his tongue helps suppress the wider spread of his grin: “What’s in it for me?”

Meadow, as the young of any species are prone to being, is entertained for all of five minutes. And then she spies the glint of something up upon a shelf. Without warning, her small body braces and she leaps into the air, winging her way toward the small metal plaque titling the section of books stored there. That confession that’s accompanied by that particular frame of smile draws another softly husky laugh. No, he probably isn’t a very good man depending on which angle you view such a statement. More like the smooth operator ‘bad boy’ she’s more familiar with than the contained-by-the-book type she currently finds herself trying to figure out. “By definition of interpretation,” Prymelia replies flipping V’dean a little smirk. All jest falls away, lightly freckled features drawing solemn when he enquires after her needs. “Wild felines have taken up in the caves we hope to use as shelters once Thread starts falling. The others refuse to continue with clearing and stocking them until I can deliver proof that the previous occupants are no longer a threat. As to what’s in it for you?” This is where slender hands set palm flat to the table and the trader stands. With the bluerider being in such close quarters, it means she unfurls her willowy frame just shy of being right up in his personal space. “My deepest gratitude and offer to trade the pelts on your behalf once they’ve been shown to Matrid.”

While V’dean may have been happy to absently dote upon the firelizard, he doesn’t even spare the green a glance when she departs. The hand drops smoothly instead to better support his looming attention. Bad boy, perhaps, with his smile sharp and a wisped curl of hair starting to fall loose across his forehead over the laughter sparked in green eyes. The bluerider only looks a little disappointed when her needs prove to prompt a solemn answer. He pulls in a long breath, a rueful slant settling upon his lips as his chin tips more level. But then, Prymelia is rising from her seat and standing so close to the pocket made by the surface-set prop of his arm and the long lean of his frame upon the table’s edge. It conjures the fullness of his dimple again, her proximity. “And you’ll take a commission off the top,” he guesses with cheery cynicism of her proposed fur trade. “I wonder,” and here is really where his focus lies, “about the depths of your gratitude.” Casting off from the table, he is anything but shy — swaying right into the trader’s personal space, his knuckle now lifts to wind soft at a mahogany tendril. “I do hope that’s a euphemism,” curves wolfish humor up upon one brow.

Despite the gravity of her reply and the help she requires of V’dean, Prymelia can’t help being amused by the whole dimpled smile and teasing green eyes. She’s also not unaware of the entirely predatory air the bluerider wears with wolfish panache. The stillness that wraps about her frame when he claims a portion of her personal space has nothing to do with a scared little rabbit pose. Hazel eyes watchful and chin lifting in what might appear to be a challenging gesture when that knuckle drifts along a lock of hair, lips curve about a rueful smile. “Must gratitude come with a price?” She’ll ask thoughts shielded from expression.

There’s nothing frozen about the bluerider, cavalier ease seeming to keep him in motion although those motions are slow: the idle wind of her hair about his fingertip, the contemplative drift of cool green eyes that flows from this twist of mahogany up to the shape of rue upon her lips. “It doesn’t have to,” V’dean supposes carelessly. He’s only leaning more closely into her space, words dropping to a low murmur for the lack of distance as the curl of his smile curves more deeply. “I would imagine the type of man content to confine his lovemaking to paper,” his knuckle, coated in the glossy wrap of her hair, is lifting to settle light beneath that challenging chin, “would also be satisfied by the simple expression of thanks from pretty lips.” From such a mouth, for example, to which his own is leaning to brush this answer at hair’s breadth distance.

She could jerk her head away, exclaim indignantly over V’dean’s bold approach. Perhaps even slap at his teasing hand. But there’s something about the man that holds her in place, attentive gaze contemplative maybe even flecked toward the sly. That is until he says what he does. In that instant the visage of another flirts into place – soulful blue eyes and an open smile – Gentle Man. Chalk.And.Cheese! But it’s enough to set a private smile to pretty lips and for that delicately pointed chin to withdraw from the light press of knuckle. “Then you would imagine wrong,” Prymelia tells him, a hand lifting to press fingertips to V’dean’s lips in a staying gesture. “The type of man that would take the time and effort to think out such a contract, is one that’s worth thanking in any way he chooses to be thanked.”

There’s a slight stretch of smile that meets the intercepting press of fingers. Wrong? Oh? It shapes light upon his brows, laughter never leaving cool green eyes for all that they perhaps take on a bit of edge. The feather-light touch of the tip of his tongue curls across one whorled print before the partial pucker of soft lips makes kissing farewell of her staying hand. “Worth all that, is he?” Perhaps there’s something of a hard, self-satisfied note as V’dean sways a step back and drags a low-lashed look over Prymelia. His knuckle, rejected by her chin, is last to draw away in a slow unwind that leaves a loose mahogany curl free to bounce back upon her shoulder. “I’ll think about it,” the bluerider is now easily returned to the business of hunting as his fingers lift to comb through the waves of his own hair. “I know a few riders who have some experience going after felines. And for whom may I say the hides are to be gathered?”

While she may still be uncertain in her mind as to quite where she stands on affairs of the heart, Prymelia is at her core, a carnal creature. Thus it is that the soft, moist capture of fingertips does not go unregistered, a spark of acknowledging heat flaring briefly in hazel eyes before its determinedly damped down. “Aye,” her tone slightly huskier than before either for the taunt of teasing lips or for a memory of something else that smokes through her mind, “worth it.” There’s the very slightest edge of relief to the breath of air exhaled when V’dean steps back, the temptation to lift that curl his fingers had toyed with and toss it over her shoulder, valiantly fought against. “Prymelia,” her name is given easily enough as she lifts a hand into the air to snap thumb and forefinger together to garner Meadow’s attention. In a rush of wings, the curious little firelizard abandons her investigation of the shiny metal plate (a few minor scratches left in the wake of testing talons) and settles to a slender shoulder, tail wrapping lightly about the graceful column of her human’s neck. “And for whom is it that I should think up a suitable measure of my gratitude?” Is sent back the bluerider with a teasing curl of lips added for effect.

The snap serves to briefly draw green eyes as well as the green firelizard. A lightly admonishing tsk is clicked against the roof of his mouth as the rider returns a sidelong gaze to the trader. “No one likes a cocktease, Prymelia.” And yet the dimpled quirk of his smile is still slipped surely into place as he makes velvet answer. “What would your gentleman writer think?” An eyebrow bounces sly even as he juggles the bundled roll of leather within the grip of his palm. It leaves two fingers free for knocking off a little salute from his temple as backward steps leave him space to tip a half-hearted, if well executed, partial bow. “V’dean. Blue Ekerth’s. Do have a good night?” His smile blossoms wider, perhaps too sweet, as he straightens to better make his departure. “Surely being wrapped so snugly by contract makes for very sound sleep.” And with a final slim run of tongue to bring his grin to heel, he’ll be on his way.

Up goes a mahogany brow at V'dean's dimpled admonishment and amusement rather than indignation patterns lightly freckled features. "Darling, if I had been teasing, you wouldn't still be standing." Smirk. "Besides," a hand lifts to caress the green tea colored muzzle butting against her jaw for attention, "if I recall correctly, you were the one doing the poaching even after being made aware of my…gentleman writer." The name provided is tucked away with Prymelia inclining her head in acknowledgement thereof. "Sounder than being wrapped by nothing at all," she quips in return, amusement continuing to be etched as she watches him leave. Another last appreciative glance at the little garden tucked about the bottom of the skybroom and then she too is off. Perhaps to seek out the aforementioned gentleman writer.

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