==== December 3rd, 2013
==== Prymelia, T'ral
==== (Continued from Muddled 2) Shenanigans at Prymelia's wagon.

Who Prymelia, T'ral
What (Continued from Muddled 2) Shenanigans at Prymelia's wagon.
When There are 0 turns, 7 months and 27 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

Prym%204.png t-ral_mischief.jpg


bowl.png

Lower Bowl
Cobblestones sweep as far as the eye can see, a unique feature to the lower section of the bowl -but necessary, perhaps, as the stepped western bowl drains off into this high-trafficked area. The shallow bowl is bounded by craggy-black bowlwall with entrances pockmarked - and some boarded over in an effort to prevent entry from un-renovated caverns. Directly south, the wall neatly crumbles away to roll southerly into rollicking fields of soft hills; a glance of the stables can be seen through the gap, nestled against the entrance bridge that spans westward.


T’ral laughs at Prymelia's joke, a good bark from the belly. "Oh?" he queries, turning to grin at her. She's arching a brow at him. The brow says 'Not joking.' "Oh." he repeats, grin faltering. Overt amusement dims to wry amusement. He steps close alongside Prymelia, eyes dancing, gitar case bouncing along against his leg. His free hand comes up to brush the backs of knuckles along the sweet curve of her jaw, and up to tuck hair over her ear, "Sounds like I'm in for it," he murmurs, smiling. The hand trails down her neck, shoulder, back, to thread through her arm. Prymelia's hands are full too. With dishes. Dishes. Arms linked, he pulls her close, leaning into the friendly catch. He steers them out, with a slight detour to drop off the dirty dishes and pick up his coat which he settles around Prymelia's shoulders before catching her up again, "I'm leading drills in the morning." Leaned in as he is, his cheek brushes Prymelia's hair and he gets a heady whiff woodsmoke from her being out in the cold and flowers. The back of his neck prickles. Hot. "I can't really stay out long." His ears color, he knows what's fixing to trip past his lips, "But I can walk you to your wagon," he turns loose of Prymelia to open the door out of the Living Caverns, he braces against the blast of air that blows in as the door opens, moving to shield Prymelia from it before holding an arm up for her to pass under. Out in the bowl the sky is overcast, slinging drizzle and gloom. Thunk. The doors close. "Prymelia?" He looks into her eyes, "When we get there… I'm going to kiss you."

In the wake of that brush of knuckles and warm slip of palm, skin tingles sending barely detectable shivers racing down Prymelia’s spine and her steps falter, causing her to sway in against T’ral. He’s talking. Saying something that requires a response. “Drills?” The dishes deposited with a little more clatter than they’d deserved. “And you’re leading?” For a reason she can’t explain, a flash of pride slips through her, the weight of his coat slid about her shoulders providing a strange sort of reassurance she can’t quite define. “You’ll make a good…” Words falter when he leans in, “…leader.” What is wrong with her!? It’s certainly not the first time a man has shown such an interest in her. Get a grip. The cold blast of air goes a ways to clearing her head as she ducks under T’ral’s arm. For all of five seconds! He’s going to what? SURPRISE!! Blink, blink-staaaare, trapped by twin pools of blue. “Uh…” Cue the mouthful of teeth while an infusion of rose darkens chilled cheeks and then plush lips curve about a slow smile. “And what I wonder,” husky alto dropping, “will your ‘masters say about that, hmm?”

A good leader? He hadn't finished that thought with E'don and Yules earlier. T'ral doesn't have any grand illusions about his ability to inspire or lead. Tomorrow, he was going to make the best crack at it he could. "Thanks. We've prepared a lot. Shut your eyes." The other party in that 'we' makes a sudden and possibly startling entrance, landing nearby like a ton of bricks, backwinging and sending chilly mist and rain blowing sideways at the two. T'ral - aware that Esanth was enroute - moves up in time to shield Prymelia from the blast of wind and water. One arm goes around her, the other holding up the gitar case, not an embrace exactly, more like a protective hunker. As the blast subsides, he relaxes into something more resembling an embrace, arm loose around her shoulders, case dropping down. Esanth: Best. Wingman. Ever. Except for the soaking T'ral just got. He shivers, pretty damp now and… shivery. He steps away. The low fluting husk of Prymelia's voice redoubles the chills running down his neck. He scratches at the side of his head, "I didn't tell you!" Facepalm. A real one. "You must think I'm nuts. Leave me alone. Now all this." He grins, lopsided. "Prymelia… the weyrlingstaff cleared us to search for weyrs. I'm out from under most of the behavior restrictions."

Shut her eyes? The warning is processed too late and even if it hadn’t been, there is no way Prymelia could have been prepared for the sudden appearance of one very large Esanth from out of the drizzle and gloom. With a squeak of dismay she jumps back and curls into T’ral, instinctively seeking refuge in the shelter of his arm. “Uh… hi.” That goes to Esanth. With attention trained on the dragon half of the pair she only partially catches what she’s being told but jerks her gaze back to the bluerider at his last. Just in time to catch that lopsided grin. Thick lashes flutter as the implications catch up with her. “Most behavior restrictions?” Prymelia queries in a far huskier tone than she’d intended, hazel eyes glowing with unspoken anticipation. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me.” Right. Like she doesn’t get it. Tease!

T'ral's heart skips at Prymelia's curling into him. "He says 'Evenin' ma'am.'" Esanth takes a step forward and sits, haunches dropping neatly, tail coiling and wings… well, wings are still cattywampus. His head curves back, eyes gleaming in the dim, a grinding rumble uttered towards the humans as he settles. T'ral leans forward and catches Prymelia's hand, drawing her along with him towards Esanth. Esanth stretches out shoulders ending up at a surmountable hip-high height. "Well, I still have a curfew." T'ral lets go of Prymelia's hand and climbs onto Esanth's neck, sitting well back. Switching the case to the other hand he holds a hand out to Prymelia.

“Ma’am?” Amusement erases some of the inbred anxiety at being so close to a dragon. It had been one thing when Esanth was still little but now… he’s anything BUT! A smile appears, infused with warmth and directed at the neatly postured blue. “You can call me, Prymelia. Or Mel. Or… whatever you want to but Ma’am has me looking around for my mother.” Then, without warning she’s being hauled toward Esanth and instinctively, she digs her heels in, hazel eyes flung wide with apprehension when T’ral clambers up the blue’s side and then reaches out a hand to help her up. So not gonna happen!! “Uh… its fine. I’ll walk. Its not far,” she tenders in a quick burst of words, and takes a step back.

T'ral shrugs, grinning at Prymelia's request, "No promises. He's a mind of his own." He thumps the blue on the chest, a solid, meaty sound, slightly resonant. His brow furrows lightly, consternation, Mel? Who calls you Mel? Melly. Mels? He grins at his list of nicknames and then cocks his head at Prymelia's resistance. He looks befuddled, "But, you ride all over the place." Oh. Duh. Of course. He slouches into his perch on Esanth's neck, "Prymelia. We can't fly unsupervised." He gestures at the straps, "I don't even have straps for two." He waves her over, "Come on, 'we'll walk. It's not far.'" He uses her words and waves her over again, grinning lop-sided.

“On a runner,” Prymelia is quick to counter, still eyeing Esanth warily. But its more than that, perhaps suggested in the quick dart of hazel eyes that goes from T’ral to Esanth and back again, an odd blush dusting her cheeks in the dim light. She’s tempted. Oh so very, very tempted for who in the right mind doesn’t want a chance to ride a dragon. But….There’s that thing. “No,” she reiterates despite the encouraging grin being sent her way. “It wouldn’t be right.” A pause and then lowering her gaze to somewhere round about Esanth’s chest, she sighs. “You remember when he was little and I was petting him and you said you could feel it?” Because she does. Only too well! “Well, wouldn’t sitting astride him be the same as…” Is it getting hot? “As… well, you know…” BLUSH!!

"OH!" T'ral boggles at Prymelia, face, ears, neck going totally crimson as he maps what she's saying onto… onto… he squirms, "Aahgghhhk. Ahh…" He splutters, "You-" were totally fine, "That-" was just a misunderstanding, "It was-" not your fault. He shakes his head, eyes wide, free hand slashing the air in front of him, "No. No," he looks at Prymelia, cheeks flaming, "It's… that was early on. We were pretty tangled up." He waves a hand between his head and Esanth's. "It wasn't even-" he huffs out a breath, looking away, glad of the cold air on his cheeks, "It wasn't even really like that. That was… just the easiest way to… not think about you doing that to me." He winces. Ugh. So awkward. He wilts, slouching, on his perch on Esanth's neck, "Beacuse I really wanted you to." He scrubs a hand through his hair, now-mussed (well, the muss is rearranged) and shakes his head. "Oh, Prymelia. I'm so sorry. No wonder you never touch him." He looks at her, contrite, a pathetic, goofy little grin, "C’mere."

Eyeing a section of straps that just so happens to be located round about T’ral’s nearside thigh, Prymelia keeps her gaze carefully averted. That is until he begins to deliver spluttered explanation and then her attention darts upward. The more he blushes and squirms and the more sentences that are started and cut off, the more she wishes the earth would open up and swallow her whole. On the point of turning tail and fleeing into the darkened, rain-soaked night to be alone with her humiliation, she’s stalled from doing so by T’ral’s last. That goofy grin he’s wearing is about the most adorable thing she’s ever seen. And so, swallowing the shreds of her dignity and against her better judgment, Prymelia takes a hesitant step forward. “There really should be some sort of guidebook or something that gets handed out to family and friends of newly impressed riders,” she huffs, still wearing a rosy blush. “Its all very confusing, you know!” But she is a few steps closer and has even drawn up the courage to tentatively reach a hand out toward Esanth. Yup. She plans on testing his ‘rider’s reassurances first. First we touch the dragon while keeping a sharp eye on his rider and then, we mount. Maybe.

T'ral's brow scrunches in thought at the notion of a pamphlet "So a Loved One Has Impressed: Things You Should Know", "That's a really good idea, actually." Weyrfolk knew. Or thought they knew. T'ral was weyrbred, but that didn't really prepare him for the realities of the bond. Confusing. "Tell me about it." At Prymelia's light touch on Esanth's shoulder the urge to mess with her is nearly insurmountable. He scrunches up, bunching his shoulders, heels drumming on Esanth's sides, teeth bared, he finally lets out a gusty sigh, laughing, "Agh, I can't do it. I can't mess with you." He grins down at her and nods, leaning forward, "Really. It's okay. Hop up backwards. Side-saddle." He looks down at her skirts, "No 'astride' in skirts." Not on a dragon at least…whaaaat? T'ral's ears flame anew. He hunches a bit both eyes squinted shut hard, head tilted down. He unsquints one eye and looks up from under his brow at Prymelia. "You had to put THAT idea out there?" He scrunches his eye closed again and gives himself a shake, grunting, then straightening. A deep breath in and a long one out, under a hard, considering, openly appreciative look. He shakes his head. "All right." Whew, "Hop up. I'll catch you."

The title T’ral tosses out there is met with an amused roll of eyes. “Not quite, but aye, something like that.” Prymelia agrees. Palm to Esanth’s shoulder, absorbing the strange sensation of warm hide beneath it eyes latch to T’ral, her hand quickly snatched away when he appears to be having some kind of fit. She knew it!! Touch the dragon. Touch the rider!! No way is she getting up on… What!? “Jays! You’re a brat, you know that?” She grouses, messed with whether T’ral had intended or not. As for the side-saddle comment, Prymelia huffs out a breath and flashes him a look. It’s supposed to be a glare but fashions itself more as a pout. “How was I supposed to know? You about had a conniption that first time I touched him. It made sense to me.” Then she catches his expression and the steadying breaths taken and a little knowing smirk catches to pretty lips. Yeah, his mind so went there. Score one to her! Reaching up, slender fingers clasp about his and with a bit of a leap involved and faith (a whooole lot of faith) in his promise to catch her, Prymelia lands side-saddle in front of him, automatically flinging her free arm about his neck to prevent herself from toppling over backwards.

T'ral laughs, eyes merry -contrite- but merry at Prymelia's outburst. Amusement fades and T'ral slouches from his perch, squinting at Prymelia, "I rather think 'conniption' is an overstatement. That was very uncomfortable for me." T'ral quirks an eyebrow at Prymelia, ears and cheeks still red. "But I can see why you… uh, thought that." Shifting. She's wearing a little knowing smirk looking at him. T'ral is not a fan of smirks. A flash of hardness in the eyes and mouth and then he's got an armful of Prymelia. Dah! Fortunately, months of chucking and catching sacks of firestone has really paid off. He slouches a bit, left arm -encumbered with the gitarcase- acts as a fence, not catching so much as keeping-from-tumbling-off-backwards. His right slings across her belly and waist, curling around her hip and tucking her close as he straightens, which brings them nose to nose with her arm slung unexpectedly around his neck. When he'd thought how this might go -because he totally has- she hadn't ever tossed an arm around his neck. So it's with a little shock that he finds her so suddenly Right Very There. Mouth suddenly dry, he manages to rasp out, "Did I say 'wagon?' I meant, 'dragon.'"

Hard eyes. From T’ral? Prymelia doesn’t have much of a chance to process what it might mean. Not when she finds herself tucked in close against him and they’re all but sharing the same breathing space. Speaking of which, she almost forgets to do so herself. Amber flecked hazel latches to rich blue, the hand of the arm slipped about his neck, curling lightly to the nape of his neck in an almost-caress. “You caught me.” She breathes. Was there something being said? She’s not sure.

T'ral is caught himself for a long moment. Straps. Fingers on the nape of his neck are making it very difficult to think. But months of training do have a purpose. A word bubbles up from the white noise in his brain. Straps. His breath is caught. STRAPS. She's gone just as still against him. The word struggles out past T'ral's lips in a desperate bid for life. "Straps." he whispers. T'ral starts, tensing. "Straps!" Safety first. He loosens his hold on Prymelia and leans over to fetch the strap hanging to his right and clip it to his belt. He's not wearing full flight leathers, but the belt is a nigh-constant accessory. He straightens and reaching past Prymelia again, shifts the gitarcase to that hand before bending the other way and fumbling up the left-side strap. Once clipped in, he gives a quick nod, mentally checking off that pre-flight measure, then lost for a moment of communion with Esanth. He nods again, ferrying the case back to his left hand and resnugging Prymelia to him. "Sorry. If I fell off making googly eyes at you, I'd never hear the end of it." His eyes widen, "Ever." He holds himself in his seat, legs tensing, Prymelia would probably recognize the mixture of relaxation and readiness from all the riding she's done, "All right, you ready to move out?" This delivered to a dragon-leery Prymelia, a genuine question.

Straps. The first whispered utterance of the word is lost on Prymelia who is transfixed by the way his lips move and not what it is he’s saying. The second utterance sees her jerking out of that weird trance she’d slipped into. Yes. Straps! Belatedly she becomes aware that T’ral probably would need two hands for such a task and she flaps a hand at his gitar case. “Let me hold that for…” Ah never mind, he figured it out. Resettled and resnugged, a giggle slips free for the googly eyes comment. “I don’t think there’s anyone out here to see,” she notes and then drops a glance to smooth blue hide. “Unless of course you’re meaning Esanth… Would a dragon really do that? Tease about something? Do they have a sense of humor?” Questions tumble free one after the other, none really needing an answer, its just Prymelia who for the life of her cannot figure out why she behaves like an untried thirteen turn old whenever she’s around him. “Tallyho!” She calls out faking the bravery bit. In other words, lets go!

T'ral grins at Prymelia's rally cry. Esanth takes a deep breath, massive chest expanding, shifting the two people on his neck. He lets it out, with a bassy, nearly inaudible rumbling, felt more than seen as he lurches to his feet. Esanth's standing posture lifts Prymelia a bit higher, her eyes above T'ral's now and gravity doing most of the work to press her against him. Still, knowing Esanth's bone-jarring gait and in anticipation of the shocks, T'ral, hesitating for just a heartbeat (rather several beats of a wildly skipping heart), melts and melds to Prymelia, closing his eyes to bury face in her neck, jaw along her collarbone, bracing against her so that he can lead her through the swaying impact of Esanth's walk. If Prymelia was cold, she's welcome to T'ral's heat. There's plenty to spare, apparently. Furnace over here. He huffs a laugh, "Yeah, some of them are funny. Esanth. Jiamoth - if Cerise's near constant amusemen-" he cuts off. "Esanth reports that Jiamoth is clever not funny." He shrugs, close as they are, it's a nuzzle. "They're like people in that way. All different." Unseen against her neck, his brow furrows. The warmth and closeness. This. This was needed.

Runners she knows. Riding them almost before she could work. But dragons are another animal entirely. Longer, broader and waaaaay taller. As she finds out when Esanth lumbers to his feet. She hadn’t expected to be positioned that bit higher than T’ral and so when she is, there’s a muttered curse of surprise along with a sharp intake of breath. Initially, as she would if Soot were descending a steep hill, she attempts to counter the incline by leaning backwards. But that lasts for all of a second and then Esanth is into the swaying forward motion bit. Flung forward, both arms instinctively wrap tightly about T’ral’s neck. It’s only a few paces in that she realizes that the ebb and flow of warmth spilling down her cleavage is… his breath. And that’s when things get awkward. In another setting, she would have taken FULL advantage to taunt and tease. But this is T’ral. Fine, upstanding, Harper-trained, T’ral and she is clueless about how one is supposed to behave around a gentleman. Instead she screws her eyes shut, catches her bottom lip with her teeth and tries very hard to concentrate on what he’s saying rather than where his head is at. Literally. “It takes…” a soft huff of breath catches between the rapid pulse of her heart, “intelligence to be…” Dear Faranth this was a bad, bad idea! “funny.”

This was a great idea. "Mmmm," T'ral agrees. He just sits and breathes and braces against the sway and -somewhat disruptive- jar of Esanth's steady walk. The fluttering huff of pulse-in-breath is in his too. Lost, perhaps in the rustling of clothes, the creak of straps, the pattering drip of collected moisture from leaves.

That humming sound that comes from T’ral vibrates across her skin so that toes scrunch and once again teeth clamp to lower lip. Unlike him, she hasn’t had to spend months and months practicing self-restraint. So this right here, is fast becoming a losing battle. “T’ral…” Prymelia begins, tone quietly beseeching but her thoughts are a jumble and the words won’t line up right.

The quiet, beseeching tone brings T'ral around. He shifts, loosening his arms so he can lift his head, eyes concerned, looking back and forth between hers, brow lightly furrowed, "What? What is it?" He scans ahead, Esanth would have alerted him to anything of note, but it's probably best not to get too distracted up here. A scan completed -they were nearing the Weyr entrance- he looks back at Prymelia.

Both relief and an innate sense of loss flood through Prymelia when he lifts his head. Lips part for speech then close again, mahogany brows echoing the pattern of T’ral’s. And then a sigh and arms unlink from about his neck, palms setting lightly to either side of his face. “You need to ask Esanth to stop and let me down. I can’t… I can’t do this,” she eventually whispers, cheeks dusted with high color and hazel eyes glittering with a strangely feverish light. “Please.” That last so softly spoken and with her head tilted down so close it might appear that she intends beating him to the punch.

His brows furrow. This. What this? Which this? He's perplexed. All the this-es? T'ral dies a bit. She's so close, her hands laid on his cheeks, he could just lean in and… But something's wrong. "Uh. Of course." Is she scared? She doesn't look scared. Esanth hadn't been that rough. Esanth stops, a deep rumbling resonating in his chest. T'ral looks out along the dragon's neck, "Careful now," T'ral urges him. Esanth lowers himself to the ground with as little fuss and jostle as he's capable. Belly-down now, Esanth lets out a gusty sigh. T'ral turns loose of Prymelia, offering a hand should she need one to slip the short distance down. He fumbles around for clips to get unstrapped, darting worried looks at Prymelia. "I'm sorry, it-" he stops, "We can-" he stops again. He slips off of Esanth's shoulder, tense and worried, right hand reached out to cup her elbow. Left hand encumbered by -what else- that gitarcase.

The moment Esanth stops and begins to lay his large bulk down as gently as he can, Prymelia’s regretting her request, already mourning the loss of that close contact that had been doing her head in for want of not being able to follow the instincts screaming through her. Silent throughout the process of dismounting, gaze carefully avoiding those anxious blue eyes, hands that braced on T’ral’s shoulders slip downward and settle palm flat against his chest once she has terra firma beneath her feet. He deserves an explanation. It’s the least she can do. “T’ral…” there’s that pause again except that this time she swallows and forces herself to go on, hazel regard finally lifting to latch to blue. “It's not that I don’t want to…” Fingers fiddle with the toggles of his coat a light frown appearing and disappearing. “It's that I do. So very,” very, “much. But being held like that with your head all…” a hand breaks away and waves a circle around her chest area. “Well…” a crooked little smile appears, “let's just say that I’m not nearly as good at behaving as you are.”

T'ral fairly wilts with relief. Not all the this-es. Just that this. Esanth's head lifts and slews around to peer at T'ral, head canted, eyes swirling a luminous blue-green. T'ral glowers at the dragon, "Shut up, you," he grumbles fondly. T'ral points at Esanth, "That's his 'you're an idiot' face. Because I wasn't thinking clearly." Dragon and man 'speak' for a moment. He nods, thumping the blue on the chest. "Thanks." To Prymelia, "He's gonna meet me back at the Barracks." He rakes a hand through his hair, well-damp now from the drizzle. He's obviously puzzled, unsure how to proceed. The chill of the air seems stark and sudden after being so close. T'ral falls back on mannerliness (that's what it's for, right? smoothing over the awkward?) and offers Prymelia his arm. Once she's taken it, he pulls her close. If not for the gitarcase, he'd cover her hand with his. He steers them through the Weyr entrance. A deep breath, rueful sigh, "I've had a lot of practice behaving these past months." He grins, snorting, "I can recommend thinking of distasteful chores or things. Buckets of entrails are mighty good for squashing, ah, urges." Hmmm… what else, "Any strong, unpleasant odors. Firestone. Firestone reeks." He scowls and sniffs at his shirt, "Ugh, I hope I don't smell like it, I'm sure it's gotten into everything and I don't notice it so much any more." They're through the entrance now and out onto the road that cuts through the clearing. Where Prymelia's wagon is. Prymelia's wagon and DESTINY. T'ral's stomach does a little flip.

clearing.jpg

Clearing
The rise from sea to Weyr is made serene by a charming road winding sand-trodden from beach below to stonecut entrance above. The path wanders among a surprisingly green valley where purple flowers bloom in charmingly unfettered profusion. The meadows themselves are often in high demand as picnic areas, for dragons are not allowed to land in the narrow valley itself. No trees nor cliff lies near to shadow the clearing, however, and the intensity of sun can be unbearable for those not familiar with the humid drench of Southern's summers.

Amusement curls about a tiny smirk when T'ral conveys what Esanth had said. At least she hadn't been the only one not thinking straight. A series of sparks erupt when he covers her hand with his but it's to Esanth that her attention and words go. "I'm sorry, Esanth. You really were quite nice to ride." Ahem. Then back to human half of the pair. When T'ral removes his hand, she takes a step back. Distance is what's needed. Yes, that. Not that it helps too much especially not given the way his hair stands up at odd angles after he musses with it. But then he goes on to offer her his arm. Gentleman. Gentle. Man. Way harder to figure out then a leering, grabby-handed pillock. Allowing him to guide their path through the Weyr's entrance and up towards the clearing where her wagon stands like a homing beacon with glowlight spilling softly from small windows, she listens to the advice given and utters a low laugh. Turning her head, she presses her nose to his upper arm and sniffs, the scent that hits her is certainly not firestone and anything but unpleasant. In fact senses reel to the extent that she may as well have stayed up on Esanth. "You're quite safe," she declares, in a tone far too husky for her own good. "But I think I might get some strange looks if I randomly went about sniffing at firestone or digging around in buckets of guts."

"You wouldn't get strange looks in the barracks," he winces. Continuing the lesson, "The key is creating distance in your head. The more distance the better." He sighs, long-suffering, "Quite frankly, it's a habit I'm happy to shed." They're drawing close to the wagon, each step brining them nearer. Simply being near Prymelia and not having to guard against every thought or touch or impulse has been… a balm. The tingling kind that sinks into the skin - soothing and electric. But as they near their destination a little flappy bit of panic sets in. His palms itch. Sweat. Neck prickles. There're words coming out of his mouth, but he's not totally sure what they are. Wait. Was that something about drills? Mental wince, boooring, Seriously. Step it up. Hair. Eyes. Wagon. Moon! Anything. More drills. Stars. I just fell asleep listening to myself. Come on, man, ANYTHING. Last he was here, bloomers festooned the running board. Ask about that, for pity's sake. 'Why Prymelia, did you get all your bloomers washed?' Better than this drivel. Oh, thank the stars. We're here. And they're there. Water drips off of the roof. Light pools around the wagon, cast from small windows, an oasis in the darkness. T'ral steps briefly away from Prymelia to prop his gitarcase on the step against the door, hands steadying it, a thoughtful smile playing across his lips.

"But what if I don't want to create that distance," Prymelia counters, sending T'ral a mischievous look from under lowered lashes. "Perhaps I like misbehaving." She declares in such a way that her mother on another continent probably just groaned and wrung her hands in utter exasperation. But then he's telling her about drills and her mind flutters away again. He could be talking about rocks for all she cares. She just likes the sound of his voice. Smooth, cultured. Unlike the often rough brogue of her clan or guttural rasp of the sailors' voices on the ship she'd come over on. And then they've reached their destination and suddenly she's hit with a nervous swell of butterflies sweeping through her. Does she ask him to come in? Or does that go against regulation both that of the Weyrlingmasters and his personally? What now? Had he meant what he'd said when they'd stepped out into the chill of the damp night? Uncertainty, a new experience for one that sets her sights on something and simply goes hell for leather until she achieves it, settles awkwardly across slender shoulders.

All right. Show time. He's going over the things he'd planned to say. Long-rehearsed. He turns from the steadied gitar case and stills. Prymelia's standing there, misty in the glowlight, amber eyes wide. Don't want to create that distance. Got it. With a single movement T'ral closes the distance bewteen them and crushes Prymelia to him. No preamble, no hair brushed gently back, no longing stares, no murmured sweetnesses. That speech he'd planned, tatters. A speech. Idiot. He wraps Prymelia from head to toe, making contact along every plane and curve he can manage, pouring everything that he's been holding back through him, over the dam, into Prymelia. Dizzy, and actually needing to breathe at some point, T'ral's arms loosen enough that he can pull away, gasping, to beam at Prymelia, bemused, bewitched, his eyes alight. Very slightly, as he relaxes, Prymelia can feel that… he's trembling. The pounding of his pulse is audible as a flutter in shallow breaths that expand and contract his chest. Close as she's held, his breathing creates a shifting contact telegraphed up and down their bodies. T'ral takes a deep breath, drawing in the smell of jasmine and clean sweat, smoke, rain, soapsand. Arms tightening, he exhales, "Jy het die mooiste oee."

Just when she's decided she'll throw all her eggs in one basket and ask him in, T'ral closes the distance and in one swift move she's caught up tight against him into a kiss that melts bones and turns her brain to goo. That initial reaction of stiff surprise is burned to ash. Arms twine about his neck, fingers sifting into the damp hair at the back of his neck her body melded close against his. This she gets. This she knows. This, she can work with. What she hadn't expected was the intensity or the thoroughness of that kiss. Breathe? Who needs to breathe? Stars prick behind lids slid closed. Oh right. Breathe. Yes, probably a good idea. When finally such fundamentals are allowed for, Prymelia is left somewhat stunned, breath tattered at the edges and eyes flung wide. Slowly but surely a smile patterns across her mouth, one reminiscent of the feline-that-got-the-cream. All T'ral need do now is chuck her under the chin and she'll start purring. That is until he says what he does. Bwah? She understands the tone of voice he uses but the words… concern floods through her. Perhaps she'd broken him and Esanth was having some or other spastic fit in his head. "T'ral?" One arm untwines from his neck and she palms the side of his face. "What the… are you okay?" Oh jays. How, by Faranth's golden arse, was she going to explain this one to the healers?

Well. There are words coming out of his mouth again and -again- he's not sure what they are. It's not about drills at least. Maybe? It might have been. It was… What was it? A strange moment of mental vertigo. A dizzy sense of falling, twisting. He blinks. "You have the most beautiful eyes." That. And she does. A grin breaks bright across his features and he closes his eyes to turn his face and kiss the palm of Prymelia's hand, following that by giving himself a chuck under the chin using said thoughtfully provided hand.

Breath hitches and hazel eyes search blue looking for any signs of… Well, Prymelia's not exactly sure quite what to be on the lookout for and then T'ral speaks again, this time in a way that leaves her in no doubt as to what he'd said. Relief is swift though concern does continue to hover at the edges of his mind. "And you are the sweetest man I know," she murmurs, a shiver slipping down her spine when lips meet palm. The fingers of her other hand continue sifting through short locks of hair, stroking, caressing, in much the same way she'd first greeted Esanth all those months back except now, T'ral's not likely to get all agitated. At least not in a way that's likely to trigger the same amount of confusion as then. "T'ral?"

He goes still at the play of Prymelia's fingers through his hair. It's very difficult to keep his eyes open in the face of that, so he doesn't. He's the one purring. Eyes still closed, he answers. Sorta. "MMmmm?" He re-settles his arms around Prymelia, shifting against her.

Acutely aware of every aspect of T'ral - the wrap of his arms, the texture of his hair, his scent, the set of his jaw against her palm, the intoxicating top-to-toe alignment of his body against hers - each breath taken or shift in stance is magnified and sends a riot of messages rocketing through heightened senses. "Kiss me again."

Blue eyes flick up at amber and T'ral nods, lowering eyes in assent as he kisses her palm again, reaching up to, first, press her hand into his mouth, then, drop it off around the backside of his neck. He straightens and looks down at her, a bemused, mystified look playing across his features. There's a little spray of freckles, across the bridge of her nose, scattering onto cheeks. Those would need kissing too at some point. And the nose. Adorable. Added to the list. The lips. Those curving, expressive, parted… waiting. He leans in, this time a little less desperately. Lips touch, breath shared, tasting, testing. Long delayed, this moment. Long thought about. Long awaited.

If Prymelia thought that first kiss had blown her socks off - Oh wait. She's not wearing any - the second sends a heaping of coals to a fire already on a fast simmer. Given away by the soft whimper she's unable to stifle. Hands slip from the nape of T'ral's neck to splay against his chest and then curl tightly into the fabric of his coat, holding on as if perhaps her knees are likely to give way at any moment. Carnal hunger rages like a feral creature to the point where she's left with one of two choices. Drag him inside or send him away. She knows what she wants. But we can't always have what we want can we? And so, this time, it's Prymelia that breaks away, gasping for breath as she once again flattens trembling hands against T'ral's chest. It's a desperate bid to provide a somewhat insubstantial barricade between that which tempts and the supposedly 'right' thing to do. "You have to leave," she croaks, hazel eyes latching to his mouth then belatedly lifting to catch his gaze with a regretful little smile hooked to one side of her mouth. "Before I start misbehaving."

The trembling… still there. As much as he's pouring into this, T'ral is still holding back. A rolling, twisting ancient thing that breaches and dives, spreading heat, tension, pressure. That little stifled moan sends it spiraling deeper. As Prymelia breaks away, T'ral's chest stays put, but his head follows - there's a new spot, a sweet spot just at the juncture of jaw and neck and ear… it's on the list. It's on the list now. 'You have to leave.' T'ral whuffs out a breath, sending the fine hairs curling in front of her ear fluttering. He straightens, the twisting ancient heat alight in his eyes. The little bit of T'ral that's still hanging in there hears a funny turn in her words, "If you've misbehaving planned, I think I'd rather be here when it starts."

Oh dear, Faranth! Why did he have to make it so HARD with the chasing tickle of lips and the warm spill of breath and… She's trying to behave here, dammit!! Mmhmm. That would be why she's tilting her head just so and offering easier access. "Oh for Faranth's sake," Prymelia groans one part exasperation and two parts… Well, lets not go there just yet. Lids snap open and hands once again curl up fists of coat as if she means to SHAKE some sense into him though she's momentarily stalled by that look in his eyes. Mesmerized. It was always the quiet ones that surprise you the most. But no! "T'ral," his name uttered in a low and throaty growl of warning. "Your 'masters. Esanth." Restrictions. Where do they begin and end?

Even in a deep, blood-humming-in-his-ears haze T'ral can take a hint. That's the third balk. He begins reeling back the long twisting codes for the launch sequence. Breathing slowed. A swallow, a hard blink. He's touched by her concern for Esanth. "I wouldn't be here if Esanth wasn't okay with it. And my 'masters can find their own girls," he gives a sad little smile, it's a weak joke, but the moment's slipping through his fingers. He swallows again, face drawn into seriousness. Three balks. He hadn't thought he was, but he'd pressed too hard. T'ral brings his hands up to take hold of Prymelia's hands balled in his shirt. "I'll go."

It takes a couple of moments for what T'ral is saying to pierce through the gathered haze. And when it does, the little grin that curls about Prymelia's mouth is every bit as wicked as one might expect it to be. All clear for take-off! "Don't you dare!" She swiftly retorts. Releasing his shirt to catch her hands to his, she takes a backward step up for the first of the three stairs that lead to the door of her mobile home. Tugging lightly she inclines her head toward said door. "Want to come in?" Husky invitation set across tone and expression both.

It’s rude to trample people and T’ral is a polite young man. But it’s a near thing as he follows Prymelia into the wagon.

Glowlight from the little windows shifts along the misted grass.

Some time later -sadly, not that long- the door of the wagon bangs open. A growling and half-dressed T'ral nearly trips down the steps, landing hard on the ground, stomping into a boot, buttoning up his shirt. A blanket wrapped Prymelia stands in the doorway. The cold air is shocking on heated skin and goosebumps are instant. Jaw clenched, scowling towards the Weyr, T'ral hops up the wagon stairs, still buttoning, and kisses Prymelia quickly, shaking his head as he hops back down. He flashes her a smile that doesn't really reach his eyes, it's more a baring of teeth. "Rrrr, sorry." He turns and hurries off, gone two paces before he stops in his tracks. He spins back towards her - she's holding out his coat. He hops up the stairs to plant another kiss, "Thanks!" before snagging the coat and heading off again. He's three paces gone this time, almost shrugged into the jacket when he stops in his tracks. Turning back, grinning, he looks at Prymelia in the doorway holding -what else- his gitar case. He slouches back to her and climbs the steps slowly, clump, clump, clump, taking the case from her and winding his spare arm around her waist as he steals a kiss. "All-hands meeting at the Barracks…?" he grates out through gritted teeth. On the night restrictions were lifted. The weyrlingmasters were sadistic. Or someone was pranking him. Him AND Esanth. If that was so, someone was so getting a knuckle sandwich. He braces against Prymelia, forehead to forehead, balanced precariously at the top of the steps. Taking a deep breath of her, he plants one last, rueful kiss on her lips and sketches a salute as he spins and runs off to his duties.

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