==== January 14th, 2014
==== Prymelia, T'ral
==== Shortly following 99 Problems, Prymelia and T'ral catch up after her trip.

Who Prymelia, T'ral
What Shortly following 99 Problems, Prymelia and T'ral catch up after her trip.
When There are 0 turns, 3 months and 15 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

Prym%201.png t-ral.jpg


stables.jpg

Stables
The stone stables of Southern sweep breezily in arches and vaulted ceilings, done in the same architecture that figures so prominently within the inner caverns. A half-loft in the back shows neatly stacked hay bales, the sweet scents from the fodder drifting down to commingle with the aroma of runner and leather and sweat. There, broad box stalls house inhabitants safely away from the fancies of dragons: nickers and restless stompings fill the air, nirvana to those so inclined.

Later afternoon, heading toward early evening with her wagon emptied of personal possessions and sent down to the smiths for maintenance, Prymelia is to be found down at the stables in quiet conversation with a herdcrafter. "Well, he did stumble in a mud-filled hole in the path on the way back but I checked him out immediately and he seemed fine." - "Sometimes it won't show up until later. Especially if he kept on hauling afterwards," the wiry little man tells her. Right away, Prymelia is chagrined. "Don't fret, lass. A bit of rest and a few poultices and he'll be right as rain in no time at all." A light frown sketches between dark mahogany brows. "How much time?"

Snagged back to the Dragon Infirmary for a spell after his bath, it is some hours later when T'ral catches up with Prymelia. He looks around, he'd not been in the stable since he'd found Assa over a turn ago. Bits of hay sparkle in shafts of sunlight slanting through the thrown-open stall doors. Scents of hay, leather, sweat and dung -distinctly more pleasant than carnivore dung- are thick in the air. The dust tickles his nose. He leans around a corner of the stables, looking down the long run between stalls and spots Prymelia in conversation with a herdcrafter. He stops and watches her for a moment, admiring the way she moves when she's talking. Intent. Graceful. She'd said something about Soot favoring a leg, and the great beast is, indeed, standing with one hoof cocked. But… they did that, right? He moves down the run, boot heels thudding on the hardpacked dirt of the floor. Prymelia's old boots are slung over his shoulder and a bundle is under his arm. He raises a hand in greeting and pauses. Man, that dust is so… tickl- "ACHOO!"

"Two sevens…" - "What!?" Prymelia's voice explodes through the quiet of the stables causing Soot to turn his wide head and set her with what looks to be chiding eye. "I can't stay Weyrbound for that long. I have trades to make and people expecting me back." The wiry little herdcrafter built much like the jockeys of modern Earth, shrugs a helpless gesture. "Take him out any sooner and put a load on him and you risk permanent damage." Eyeing the short man, the young woman sighs and presses thumb and forefinger to the bridge of nose in a show of frustration. "I guess I don't have a…" While the sound of someone approaching had been largely written off as being one of the many stablehands, the sneeze cuts Prymelia's sentence off and swings her attention in the direction it had come from. A smile appears and then she spies her missing workboots. Oh dear Faranth. She'd thought she was well rid of the horrid things. "Bless you." Comes her response a hint of humor flecking hazel eyes before she turns back to the herdcrafter.

T'ral gives himself a shake, blinking back tears. "Thanks." He scrubs at his nose with a free hand, crinkling his face. Another shake. Woo. Big sneeze. Eyes merry he addresses the herdcrafter, "There's a mark in it for you if you call it three weeks." He grins, mischeivous, between the two. It's not Starcraft to work out that T'ral is sweet on the girl, so hopefully the man takes it as it's intended, in jest. He mentally casts about his person, did he even have a whole mark on him? Some… probably not a whole mark. He takes a half-step back and withdraws so that Prymelia can conclude her business.

Prymelia doesn't joke about business. Not when her independence is on the line. And so the smile she lends T'ral is weak at best. The herdcrafter on the other hand, recognizes a young man smitten and gives forward a knowing toothy grin. Tipping two fingers to his temple he ticks off the semblance of a salute to the bluerider and steps back. "Two sevens madam trader. No sooner." Turning, he offers to T'ral in a low tone, "Them redheads are trouble, pup, but sure as shit worth it in bed." And off he goes yucking it up. Poor kid hasn't a clue what he's in for.

T'ral blinks and draws up, the boots slung over his shoulder thudding alternately against his chest and back. He points after the man his face awash in comic affront, Did he? Then points at Prymelia, About you? He clamps his mouth shut, face screwed up in overt consideration. He scratches at his jaw, a crooked grin flashing. "Not far off the mark at that, though, eh?" He threads a thumb through the lace of the boots and adjusts the bundle under his arm. He looks at the runner, glancing down at the leg, "Is Soot okay?"

Having missed the low aside that passed from herdcrafer to bluerider, Prymelia is none the wiser and so arches a brow at T'ral's comment. "What isn't?" She asks, leading Soot back into his stall then latching the half door behind him once he's settled and munching on a net of hay. "He's wrenched a tendon," she answers flicking a saddened and somewhat consternated look the way of her beloved runner. "He just needs a rest. If I had another runner, the burden wouldn't be so great on him." But runners cost marks she doesn't currently have. Forcing a smile into place, she points at the boots slung over T'ral's shoulder. "Where did you find those horrid old things? I thought I'd seen the last of them."

Oh. She hadn't heard. Whoops. T'ral bares his teeth, trapped, "Ah." He clears his throat and paraphrases, T'ral-Harper-style, "He merely speculated on the complexity of our relationship and the, ah, commensurate rewards that balance said complexity." Eyes widen innocently, "Or something…" His grin falters at Prymelia's description of Soot's injury. He winces sympathetically, nodding at her desire for another runner to share the burden. Not anything he could help with, really. At her disdain of the ratty old work boots, he winces, recalling the blisters they'd made on her feet, "I stuffed them into a pack after the picnic. I think you might like these better." He grins and holds out the bundle.

He said a what now? Prymelia just stares at T'ral. In plain English please? But then he's commenting on having saved her old work boots. "Why!? The only thing those are good for is planting flowers in." She's kidding right? Maybe not if he's paid attention to the eclectic selection of planters she has distributed all over her wagon. Little samplings of the pretty flowers she's gathered along her travels, popped into a variety of cracked pots, mugs, an old chamber pot but thus far, no boots. A gift? For her? There outright glee wreathes about freckled features, deepened by the sun's kiss. Before opening it though, she rocks forward and plants a kiss to T'ral's cheek and then there's no holding her back as she makes swift work of unwrapping the oddly shaped bundle.

At Prymelia's blank stare, T'ral re-paraphrases, ears red, but teeth bared in an unapologetically impish grin, "Redheads are trouble, but worth it in the sack." He darts a look the way the herdcrafter had ambled off and then back, sweeping appreciatively up along Prymelia's lean lines and colorful garb. He shrugs, "I agreed." He gives the Trader a wide-eyed innocent look, "Should I have disagreed?" He doesn't give her chance to answer, nodding ruefully to himself and looking off into the distance, "I should have disagreed." He looks back up, hopeful, sweeping a hand out parallel to the floor, nodding, definitive, "No trouble, awful in the sack. Got it." He holds that as long as he can before a lopsided grin and merry twinkling of overtakes his expression. T'ral fidgets in every direction as Prymelia takes the bundle. He brushes hair back behind her ear, fingertips brushing her cheek and trailing down her neck. He moves beside her, looking over her shoulder. He slips away and comes back with a stool. No reason. He looks from the package in her hands to her eyes and back.

She hadn't expected T'ral to clarify his exchange with the herdcrafter but when he does she stares at him a little unbelievingly. Not for the content but that… it had come from the bluerider who is usually so circumspect about everything he says. And it's that pulls a laugh and amused shake of head from Prymelia. "Tell you what. You think about which would best serve you later on and you'll have your answer." As to whether he should have agreed or disagreed. But. Present! At first her fingers had moved quickly to remove the string tied about he parcel but with the way T'ral fidgets and fusses waiting for her to open it fully, the mischievous imp in her, slows right down. Slowly, slowly, slowly she peels first one layer back and then another, drawing the moment out. However, when the new boots are revealed, the trader is quite literally stunned into silence. Eyes widen and latch to deep blue. "These… They're…" Blink. Fingers caress the supple leather, her head bowed.

T'ral puts the stool down and leans over pointing at the straps that on other boots might carry a spur, "These are removeable, so you can dress down on the road." You know, where miscreants might shiv you for your fancy boots. He cranes his head around trying to see Prymelia's face. "Try them on! Oh." He grunts in disappointment. "Socks. I forgot socks."

Listening as T'ral explains that the beautifully crafted straps are removable, Prymelia offers a silent nod of head. Finally, she lifts her head and when she does, there's a big ole goofy smile stretched about her lips. If he's close enough, she'll fling her arms about his neck and shower him with a flurry of small kisses along his jaw. "Oh T'ral. They're simply exquisite! I've never had anything quite so… me, before." Drawing away, there's a quiet chuckle for his having forgotten socks. "We could go back to the clearing? Noram is watching my things for me while I'm away and the wagon is in being checked over. Unless of course you have to be somewhere…"

T'ral beams. He really didn't have any doubt that she'd like the boots. They'd just seemed right, but the look on her face. Yeah. It was a good gift. And she needed them too! "In about a candlemark I'm due to get dinner and then I've got late sweeps." He looks at the stall where Soot is munching fodder, "Is Soot all settled?"

Tipping a boot up to her face, Prymelia points her nose into it and inhales deeply of the new leather smell. The sigh of appreciation that follows suggests she's just caught a whiff of exotic perfume. Hugging the boots to her chest, there's a quick nod of agreement to meeting up later. "Sure. I'll meet you for dinner. Wearing my new boots!" Which are probably going to get worn everywhere now!! As for Soot, she turns a sad look to the valiant runner. "Aye, there's not much more that can be today for him."

"Meet me for dinner? Oh no." T'ral slings arms around Prymelia from behind, face pressed into her neck, "You've been gone for over a month. Now that you're back, you're not leaving my sight." He clears his throat, the tensing of his chest and belly echoed in a squeeze of his arms, "Ah, that is, until sweeps." But not until then. "Let's get your stuff. If you need to, you can keep it in my weyr. It'll be safe there." He shifts again, and there's a crinkling. "Oh. Ah." T'ral turns loose of Prymelia. "There's this." He's taken a folded scrap of paper from his pocket and is looking at it a strange mix of emotions on his face. He makes to offer it, pauses and opens his mouth… nothing comes out. He shakes his head, "Just… read it." He hands the letter to Prymelia.

A warm smile greets the warp of strong arms and finds Prymelia turning her head to nuzzle her cheek against T'ral's. There's a soft chuckle that follows next along with a teasing lift of brow. "Back to your weyr, hmm? Where you'll help me sort my laundry?" Sort laundry. Shyeah right. But then he's pulling out a folded letter and pressing it into her hands, bidding her to read it. A frown traces between slender brows and a glance drops to the letter, sideways to T'ral and then back to the paper again where she slowly begins to read. The further she gets into, lips silently tracing the words, the stiller the trader becomes, an expression of sadness etching deeper across her expression. Finally, she reaches the end and spends a long few moments staring at it until eventually a shaky sigh is exhaled and Prymelia turns in his arms. "This…" the letter lifted. "Explains so much."

T'ral smiles slowly at Prymelia's response to his offer to keep her things, "And then I can braid your hair and we'll paint eachother's toenails. Oh. Then we can have a pillow fight." He rolls his cheek along hers, sighing breathlessly, "And stay up all night telling scary stories." He nips at her neck, "Or something." He grows still as Prymelia reads, retaking his position behind her, arms slung around her waist, face buried in her neck, except his eyes which skip across the letter in Prymelia's hands. He'd read the thing enough times that he didn't really need to see the page to call the words. His father had never said, done or shown anything like that… ever. If he didn't know the handwriting, he might not believe it. T'ral sits quietly, breathing in Prymelia's flowery fresh-from-the-baths soapsand scent, while she reads. He nods at her assessment, "Doesn't it." T'ral shifts from one foot to the other. "It's not really any of his business what we do. But he's in a position to make things very difficult." T'ral sighs. "I don't know what to do with this."

A soft snort and a playful jab of elbow backwards into T'ral is the response he gets for his humorous response. "I vote for 'Or Something'." Is Prymelia's in return with a wicked smile making a brief appearance. And then there's the letter. "No," she states quietly, "That's not what I meant. It explains so much about… him. About your father. Why he's so…" a frown as she searches for the right words, "icy and distant. I guess it's a bit like being a dragonrider. He lost half of himself when he lost your mother." She's quiet for a few moments before exhaling a sigh. "As for us," hazel eyes lift to deep blue. "He's just scared for you, T'ral. He loves you, deeply, that much is clear and he's trying to protect you by… by trying to keep us apart."

T'ral shudders at Prymelia's comparison to a rider losing his dragon. He closes his eyes, head tipping forward to rest forehead to forehead. "I know," he murmurs. He knew now more clearly than ever. It wasn't anything he'd really doubted. "I've been chewing on this for a seven or so." He shifts again, looking up and down the lane of the stables, listening for anyone nearby that wasn't chomping fodder or… noisily urinating. Runners. T'ral shifts Prymelia a litte closer to Soot's stall. Hey, look. There's an empty stall by Soot's. And no one's about. T'ral looks up and down the lane again. He clears his throat, "Chewing on this and pining for you. And flying drills and taking shifts in the dragon infirmary. And flying sweeps." He gathers Prymelia closer, "For all that he's protecting me… he's protecting himself too." He sighs, looking off, the light has shifted slightly, golden shafts of sun gone. "He doesn't get to do that at my expense. At your expense." T'ral's face grows solemn. "He's not going to hold you or your plans hostage." But right now, Renalde was helping. And…ugh. So complicated.

With new boots still clutched to her chest Prymelia is easily shifted toward that empty stall, the bulky armful squished between them when T'ral pulls her closer into the circle of his arms. He'd been pining for her? Her heart melts and a soft smile appears. Rolling up onto the balls of her feet, she brushes a kiss to the side of his neck while he's still talking and lowering back down again, she frowns at his last. "He's only doing what I asked him to do," she replies, her voice tightened at the edges. "And he's right. I need to work hard to secure my place with the Weyr. He put a lot of faith in me by offering me the first contract so that I would have a wagon and goods to trade and stock the shelters with as we clear them." Unsure quite why she's defending Renalde given the manner in which he'd treated her, Prymelia glances to the gathering dusk beyond. "We should go and get my things before it gets dark. Noram will be wanting to go to down the docks."

T'ral gives Prymelia a smile in return at her kiss. That stall is sooo empty. And sooo close. And there's sooo not anyone around. How long might that last? "Explain how he's doing what you asked." He nods through Prymelia's defense of Renalde, listening intently. He narrows his eyes, leery of this reversal, "You work as hard as anyone. My father knows it or he wouldn't have given you the contract." He drops his hands, looking at a barrel in a corner, a shelf of bits and bobs related to runner care. A whole other world here in the stables. "Stars, I think he likes you." You had to read between the lines a LOT with Renalde, but it was there. If you knew where and how to look. He takes the letter back from Prymelia and tucks it into his pocket, before offering Prymelia his arm. He cocks his head, thoughtful, a wolfish glint in his eye, "I didn't get to say welcome back," and, before she can take his politely offered arm, T'ral scoops Prymelia up, boots and all and hustles her into that empty stall. Poor Noram. He'd just have to wait a bit longer.

"If he liked me, he wouldn't have been such a prick about the contract in the first place. No. I think he tolerates me for your sake." Big difference. But she doesn't get to add much more after that, not with the way T'ral scoops her up and hustles her into the empty stall. The soft giggle and assorted scuffling sounds making it all too obvious as to the nature of said Welcome being delivered. Poor Noram indeed. Poor Soot too. He'll be scarred for life after poking his broad head over the low wall at one stage.

T'ral winces at 'prick' and gives Prymelia a long-suffering look, "Maybe you've met my father? Yea tall," he holds up his hand at head level, "Reputation for being -ahem- stern." He shakes his head, "That said, whatever respect you've earned with him is your own. Or," he laughs, "Maybe even in spite of me. You should be proud of what you've accomplished. A wagon of your own, new contracts. I would be." Some time later T'ral stumbles out of the stall, grinning, bits of hay festooning his clothes and hair. He's pulling a tuck on his shirt, resettling the sash around his hips. He holds a hand out to Prymelia for his neckerchief.

To T'ral's sardonic return there's a soft snort and expressive roll of eyes. "Stern is one way of putting it," Prymelia grumbles only to have such grumblings swept aside by the sweet content of the bluerider's next. "I am proud," she tells him openly with a little of chin, "but I'm not done yet. I want more than just one wagon. I want a caravan and if whoring myself to your father's 'stern'," the air quotes in her voice evident, "ways is how I go about achieving that? Then point me to the corsets and red rouge." Le sigh. Yes, T'ral she's just that blunt. Later, with long hair that's escaped a certain diminutive bluerider's scissors, a wild mass of waves draping about her shoulders and decorated with bits of straw, Prymelia, settling skirts back into place - ahem - instead of handing over the neckerchief, uses it to sweep her hair back into some semblance of respectable. And then it's off to see a Noram about a dog, erm, her things, and carting them up to T'ral's weyr for safe keeping.


weyr.jpg

Atrium Libertatis
A perfectly round room with a domed ceiling polished smooth. Inclusions in the stone glitter like stars in dim light. The room is over half a dragon-length across with no other rooms or alcoves are apparent. Carved and built into the walls under the dome, shelves run around the entire perimeter. They are sparsely filled with baskets, books and foodstuffs.
A large round wooden table of sturdy planks, dressed with simple tableware, dominates the center of the room. A stone bench surrounds it, carved from the stone of the floor allows seating for several people. Shallow glow sconces are set into the bench, covered with thick glass, and when lit set the domed ceiling to sparkling with glittering reflections. Currently, five mis-matched and tattered cushions dot the benches.
There is a small seating area to the right, a sturdy lounge badly in need of recovering and two comfortable (and similarly disreputable) chairs. Strangely, there is no bed in evidence. Nor a dedicated work surface. Closer inspection reveals built-ins, a bed that lifts and lowers on a clever mechanism (that could use some maintenance) and a desk that folds out of the wall.
The overall impression is one of solid intricacy.


T'ral dismounts and unhooks a pack from Esanth's straps. He thumps Esanth on the shoulder, "Right. See you in a candlemark for sweeps. Don't forget your foot." Esanth tucks a foreleg up against his chest. "Your other foot." Faceted eyes wheel. "Yes, switch." T'ral sighs. He tucks a thumb under the packstrap and settles it, they were going to have the long version of this nigh-daily argument it seemed. "So you don't get lopsided." The bluerider nods and shifts his weight from one foot to another. "Yes. Jiamoth will be lopsided, but we're no good to the Wing if you strain yourself." The two lock eyes for some time, Esanth's great, heavily jawed head nose to nose with T'ral, Esanth's eyes wheeling slowly, grudgingly, T'ral's unblinking, steady blue. They stay like that for some moments. Finally, Esanth snorts, ruffling T'ral's hair, and sits back. He clutches his other foot to his chest before twisting around to canter off the ledge and into the night air. T'ral smiles, shaking his head. He turns and strides into the weyr, bootheels ringing on the stone of the ledge followed by crunching across the gravel of Esanth's couch. He stops cold in his tracks. Color is EVERYWHERE. Like a… like a Rainbow had a rumble with a flock of milliner parrots (Nika refereeing) and none survived. Stars and shards, I was only gone for twenty minutes! He takes a tentative step inside, unshouldering the pack. Everywhere he looks is a new assault. Prymelia is nowhere to be be seen. But she's clearly been here. "Uh… I brought dinner." That had been his task while Prymelia got settled in. He walks to the table in the center of the room and sets down the pack. There's a riotously colorful tablecloth over the handsome wooden planks. He pulls items from the pack one by one. No where is safe to look. Up. The smooth dome didn't have anything to festoon.

Solid intricacy aka boooring! Or so the magpie of a trader has deemed her temporary surrounds. Thus it is that while T'ral was away, swathes of cloth draped in deep jewel tones have invaded the bookish bluerider's living space. From the table to the lounge furniture and even a section of wall, shimmering shades of emerald, royal blue, a deep amber and a stunning wine red adorn surfaces. Even the cushions that had been on the couch have not been spared, the dreary tatty things replaced with those of crafted by Prymelia herself depicting various scenes from the life of a traveler. The bed is possibly safe and that only because she hasn't figured out how the mechanism to lower it works.

Stepping out from behind a pile of crates set off to one side, the young woman beams at T'ral and then twirls about in a flare of skirts with arms extended to her sides. "So what do you think?" She asks coming to a halt, colorful hems wrapping themselves about slender ankles. "Doesn't it look wonderful?"

T'ral starts a little when Prymelia emerges and he nearly chucks the crock of fish stew he'd brought up from the Caverns. How in the world could she hide in here? Anywhere?! He looks around at the spills of rich fabric. Asked and answered. He grins broadly and replies with the safer (and evasive), "You look wonderful." He can't help smiling at how pleased she is. But because he also can't help giving her a truthful answer, he looks around. The colors aren't anything he'd have ever picked. But they're bold and that suits him. He's racking his brain trying to remember where any of this was in her wagon and is coming up blank. Where did she keep everything? The embroidered pillows were a little froufrou, but that was a small thing. And it wouldn't be for long, right? However long it took her wagon to get repaired. And then she'd be off again. Oh. He suddenly likes it rather a lot. "It looks like home." He finishes preparing the spread. Voila. "Let's eat." He hops over the stone bench and settles himself, serving up stew. "Tell me about your trip, you look like you were put through a ringer." In the baths he'd seen a dozen bruises and nicks, scratches. Smooth. Prymelia's bootheels clack on the stone and T'ral leans around to see how they look, eager, "How do they fit?" He smiles, setting to his dinner with gusto and listening to tales of the road. He had some hidework to get to before sweeps, but for now, there was this.

Prymelia may often come across as easily sidetracked or dissuaded, but much like the colorful skirts she wears, that more often than not is a front for an extremely sharp mind. Briefly hazel eyes narrow when T'ral appears to use compliment to sidestep answering the question she'd put to him. Thankfully for the sake of his blueriding butt, he follows it up with a remark she finds to be sufficient. Moving toward the table and its stone bench seating, the mahogany-haired young woman flicks a small smile his way as he begins to tuck into his meal as if he'd hadn't eaten for a seven. Settling herself, hands smoothing over her skirts so that they're arranged just so, she begins the tale of her travels, weaving the whys and wherefors of the bruises and scratches and the three young men she'd returned to the Weyr with, into a rich tale.

The two trade stories of the intervening weeks and, in what seems like no time at all, Esanth returns to take T'ral off to sweeps. With a kiss, and a promise from T'ral to return soon, the bluerider crunches off through the gravel of Esanth's bed and the traders gets back to organizing her stores.

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