==== November 22nd, 2013
==== Prymelia, T'ral
==== Mud cat and ink mouse.

Who Prymelia, T'ral
What Mud cat and ink mouse.
When There are 0 turns, 7 months and 27 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

Prym%2010.png t-ral.jpg


living_caverns.jpg

Living Caverns
Grand and spacious, the cavern curves high aloft in naturally-vaulted ceiling that soothes any sense of claustrophiba. Rich woods line the cavern floor, varnished and stained a rich mahogany, while round tables scatter about candlelit and intimate. The largest table lies southerly next the sideboard, long trestles that seem oriented to providing for the weyr's youngest. The rich blue of Azov can be seen from a distance in good weather, when the heavy stone doors covering the entrance are allowed to stand open.

Weyrlings and weyrfolk are enjoying a break in the Living Caverns. There is some extra cheer tonight, the weyrlings have been given leave to look for weyrs and responsibly enjoy loosened behavior restrictions. Yules, E'don and T'ral are in a quiet corner, talking. T'ral is perched on a stool, playing and listening to the others. Not coincidentally, this perch gives him a good view of the arched entrance of the caverns. So, when Prymelia arrives, he notices. Strumming and singing stop abruptly. "Excuse me." He slips off of the stool, leans the gitar against it and makes a beeline for the lady Trader. Almost to her, T'ral's arms shoot up into the air, accompanied by a wild, hoarse shout, "Whooo!" If Prymelia yelps as he sweeps past pulling her along out of sight, well, no one can blame her.

With the weather being as gloomy and wet as it is, Prymelia hasn't been able to venture out with her wagon, the risk of getting stuck in thick, cloying mud, all too real. Instead, her days have been spent running errands and messages astride her willing runner as the Headman has seen fit. Wet, muddy and uttering colorfully descriptive oaths about the weather a long hot soak in the baths has helped to lift her demeanor somewhat. Thus it is that the trader enters the welcoming warmth of the caverns with long tresses still damp and positively starving! With barely a moment to register the presence of the weyrlings, one in particular, said blue weyrling suddenly appears right before her with a happy whoop and sweeps her along with him. There's a yelp alright, followed by what could be a nervous giggle. "T'ral. What are you… where are we…" hazel eyes narrow suspiciously. "Have you been drinking?"

T'ral doesn't wheel Prymelia far, just out of sight a bit from the bustle of the caverns. He's still holding one of her hands and dips forward to take the other, holding them lightly, her fingers across his, thumbs brushing the backs of her fingers. He's grinning like mad. "Nothing. Nowhere. No." His brows furrow -something strange registering- and his hands still. "Prymelia! You're cold!" He blinks at her and - dur - notices the misting of raindrops on her hair and clothes and the high color in her cheeks. He takes one of her hands between his own, chafing heat back into it. The great doors swing open and a damp, chilly gust skirls in with new arrivals, stamping their feet. He winces at the door, "Let's get you warmed up!" He throws an arm across her shoulder pulling her close as he steers them to the hearth.

Prymelia's all still a bit flustered by the whole swoop and snatch affair. Especially given the one doing said swooping and snatching. From, 'I can't be around you, please leave.' To this. And she's having a hard time trying to catch up. Dumbfounded, she merely nods, those coming and going and the cold blast of air barely registering every part of thought both conscious and not, zeroed in on T'ral. The ink smudging across his face, the warmth of his hands and then, being pulled in close against him and steered off somewhere… she's not sure where, she's in a daze here. Finally she finds her wits and voice enough to venture a sidelong look at the grinning bluerider. "T'ral, are you sure you're okay? Have you been getting enough sleep?" There's concern in the quiet lilt of husky tone. Perhaps he's received bad news? But no, he's smiling like a man who's just inherited a fortune. What then?

nighthearth.jpg

Nighthearth
A comfortable nook, this natural extension of the living room is cozily attired with overstuffed chairs and a couple of well-worn loveseats. All have been covered in various shades of green, giving the very incongruous appeal of a miniature forest hidden away inside… a grove of man-made proportion. Fish stews and spicy white-wherry chili are often kept hot on the minor hearths east and west of the main, for those whose hours defy when meals are kept. Ornate, the largest hearth towers high, rich with carving and utilitarian in fashion: it holds court by providing the weyr with rich klah, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon wafting.

Well, clearly SOMETHING is different, because T'ral can't stop touching Prymelia. Not grabby-grabby, come on, he's not a jerk. And, uh, they're in public. And he doesn't wanna get busted, because the restrictions can be lowered. But she's right here and restrictions are lifted and … well… Clearly that hair needs to be tucked behind her ear, he smiles, knuckles brushing her cheekbones as he tucks the hair back. And those hands are still cold, he'd only gotten to warm up one of them. He takes the other and rubs it between his palms. And there's a bit of loose thread on the embroidery of her bodic -whoa- leave that! And now, she needs to sit and tell him stuff. T'ral takes Prymelia's hand to invite her to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs. "I'm exhausted," he grins and squeezes her hand and lets it go to drag a short stool (tall ottoman?) over and scoootches it close. Scootch, scootch, scootch. "Never enough sleep." Circles under the eyes tell that story. And inksmudges along his jaw and one side of the bridge of his nose. Maybe he's gone around the bend. "What have you been up to?"

Touches of work hardened hands, feather-light yet sure and confident. It's almost more than Prymelia's brain can catch up with. Internal responses are swift and burn bright with a smoldering flame she does her level best to smother though finds herself unable to halt that minute turn of head toward the hand that brushes her cheek. Hers, caught in the warming capture of T'ral's sends a web of sensation spidering along neural pathways. Led to the chair in somewhat of daze, warmth floods through the trader and she watches in fond amusement as T'ral scootches as close to her as he can possibly get while still observing the parameters of public decency. Fingers twitch. The need to wipe at the ink smudges lining his jaw and bridge of nose suddenly overwhelming. To touch in any small way. Burning! But no. There are rules and boundaries she is completely unfamiliar with and thus, for the first time since acquainting herself with the seductive art of flirtation, Prymelia is at an utter loss. And so, tucking her legs up to one side and arranging skirts to cover shapely calves in a demure gesture, she tilts her head to one side and fashions a warm smile. "They work you too hard," she murmurs far softer than she'd mean to. With a clearing of throat features and tone brighten. "Nothing exciting," is the reply given to T'ral's question. "Just running errands and carrying messages for the Headman. This infernal rain has kept me pretty much Weyrbound." A flick of frustration flecks hazel eyes.

His heart skips. Did she just lean into his hand as he brushed her hair? Yeah. She did. She totally did. Didn't she? T'ral is sitting perched on the stool, leaning forward, elbows on knees, his hands in Prymelia's lap, holding one of her hands in both of his. He turns her hand one way then another and lifts his eyes to hers. Eye contact is nearly physical and his gut tightens, hands stilling, smile faltering. Then she's looking away and adjusting in the chair, he drops her hand so she can tuck skirts around her -woof- lovely calves and… oh no! "Prymeliaaa-aaww. Your shoes are-!" T'ral stands suddenly, stool skidding back. "-muddy." He winces, holding a hand out to help her up.

The fact that her hand yet remains clasped in the solid warmth of T'ral's is making it very hard to think. Very hard indeed. And then he turns those gorgeous blue eyes of his on her and Prymelia is done in, the smile that emerges strangely tentative for her yet no less threaded by a sultry edge. Suddenly T'ral's standing and yanking her to her feet. Blink. What!? For a moment or two she merely stares at him, drinking in every aspect of his ink smudged features and then her mind catches up and she glances down at her sandals. A look back at the overstuffed chair where a distinct line of mud has been deposited and her expression turns sheepish. "It's just mud," Prymelia tells him with a shrug of slender shoulders and a sheepish look in place. "Nothing a bit of drudge won't fix. Besides," T'ral is set with a teasing look, "You can hardly blame a woman when she's just been swept…" off her feet? "away before she's had a chance to catch her breath." Yes, because it's all his fault. Not that she's complaining, mind. Quite the opposite in fact going by the lopsided grin that's teasing about her mouth. Leaning toward him, it holds in place as she lowers her voice and shifts her head toward his ear as if about to impart a deep, dark secret. "I won't tell, if you don't tell."

T'ral is already not thinking with any clear direction, so in that regard he and Prymelia are neck and neck. And now he's pulled her up and she's close. That sweet, flowery smell. Those eyes, amber-flecked hazel, light and alive and… looking down at sandals. And mud. And at him with a heart-wrenching sheepish look. I'll fix it. He's patting his pockets, front, back, shirt, back… ah! Neckerchief! He pulls the blue cloth out and bends to wipe the mud, stopping. Not with this, dolt. He turns his head to look over at Prymelia, his eyes don't make it to her face. They widen a bit somewhere around her upper thigh and he winces, "Your skirts." There's mud. "Uh. Hang on a tick," he dashes out of the Hearth.

The moment that neckerchief comes out of T'ral's pocket, Prymelia experiences a surge of delight that he's carrying it on him followed by a swift gasp of horror when she understands what he intends doing with it. Automatically she reaches out to put a staying hand on his arm but then he's eying her skirts at right about thigh height and making a comment about mud being smeared there. Glancing down, Pryemlia frowns and attempts to wipe at it with her fingers, merely making the smudge worse. "Oh its nothing. It'll come out in the…T'ral. Wait. It doesn't mat…" But he's gone. Widened hazel eyes follow his hurriedly departing form. Was it something she said?

T'ral comes back with -what else?- a gitar case. This he sets on the ground carefully, before brandishing a fistful of cloths. It's the Living Caverns, there are napkins everywhere. Some are damp. He looks at the mud on Prymelia's rump upper thigh and at the napkin in his hands. Thigh. Hands. Ears coloring he hands a damp napkin to Prymelia and sets to on the chair. After a few, moments, he calls it done -tada!- and turns back to Prymelia.

Mahogany brows perk upward at the strange accompaniment of items T'ral returns with. Immediately, the napkins are given a response with Prymelia lending him the pretence of a disappointed pout. "What? No food? Napkins are for after you know," she explains flashing a grin and taking those held out to her. Noticing to where it is his eyes dart, she ducks her head with a tiny smirk playing about her lips and swipes and dabs at the mud. No doubt her skirts will need a good laundering but they look better than just a few moments ago. Lifting her gaze from her completed task, hazel meets blue and breath catches. Um. Then a disgruntled grumble from the region of one rather empty stomach weighs in with its opinion and Prymelia flushes with embarrassment. "Uh… I uh… haven't eaten yet," she tells him attention now drifting to the gitar case. She has yet to hear him play, let alone sing. But she is positively famished.

T'ral watches Prymelia dab at the mud. Much better. Oh, wait. No. There's still some there… His index finger twitches, uncurling to point, twitching, stalled, On your… T'ral swallows, adam's apple bobbing. Blink. At the growl of Prymelia's stomach, he absently puts a hand over his belly. "What?" Eyes snap up, he straightens. "You haven't eaten?" He ate in the barracks, but, bleh, barracks food. He takes the muddy napkins from Prymelia and offers her his arm and a lopsided grin, "That's easy to fix."

Hazel eyes widen yet again at the non-verbal pointing of his finger. But when word isn't put to gesture, Prymelia shrugs it off, glances down at the muddied napkins in her hand and the arm he so politely offers her, then up at the endearing smudge of ink lining strong jaw and bridging nose. Seeing as he's been so vigilant in helping her clean up her mess, she may as well return the favor. "Hang on," she says and plucks one of the damp and less muddied napkins from his hand and turns in toward him. With one hand she gently grasps his chin in her fingers and with the other, carefully wipes at the dark smudge along his jaw. "Did you fall asleep with your face in the hides?" she asks of T'ral, teasing then frowning when the mark reveals itself to be stubborn and requires a little more effort to be put into removing it. His nose is next, hazel regard shielded by the downward sweep of lashes. Lips, so close. No!! The rapid flutter of pulse in the hollow of her throat isn't quite so easy to hide but then it likely goes unnoticed what with a napkin being flicked in and out of his field of vision.

Instinct requires that he toss his head at someone trying to trap it, but that's clearly given a second thought and Huh. Prymelia kept hold of his face, like she might the head of a fractious runner. His brows rise a bit. Stronger than she looks. He's scrunching his face under her ministrations, brow furrowed, body tense and still, but -braced- and leaned away. And then it dawns on him how very close she is. Her face turned up to his, hazel eyes lash-shrouded. A serious little frown as she scrubs. He chest tightens, heart thumping. Braced against and leaned away shifts, a subtle realignment of balance, weight, posture and then T'ral is leaning into Prymelia. Dark eyes intent on hazel. Lips parted, pulse heard as a flutter in light breaths. One hand comes up to still her hand, "Several times."

A short flare of amusement curves lips upward when T'ral initially tries to break free of her grasp. Men. So independent on the one hand and yet in need of looking after on the other. Not that she's consciously aware that's what she's doing. The moment his hand closes about hers, breath catches and thick lashes swiftly lift. Hazel locks to deep blue and time appears to stand still, every nuance of body alignment, contact and rise and fall of shallow breathing suddenly magnified. Swallowing slowly, Prymelia's mind becomes a blank canvas of coherent thought. Eye contact is broken when he speaks, dropping passed the bridge of nose she'd just been so intent on swiping free of ink and falling to the way lips part and curve to form speech. Moth to a flame. "T'ral" his name a softly breathed utterance and then it's she that breaks the spell and takes a step back. "I'm starving," Prymelia declares in a stronger voice and flashes a shaky smile his way. "If I don't eat soon, I'll wither away and turn to dust." Dramatic but spoken with a teasing if not somewhat flustered edge to the words.

"T'ral." Her voice raises the hair on his neck. Hungry things must eat. She steps away and he's drawn forward a moment, pulled in her wake and then rebuffed. He recoils lightly, turning loose of her hand, breath whuffing out. Widened eyes relax, blinking. Slowly T'ral comes back to himself. "Dust." The word means something. Somewhere. He swallows, throat dry, "Right. Food." He clears his throat and offers his arm again.

"Dust," Prymelia confirms with a strange little smile and tucks her hand into the crook of the arm offered. With supreme willpower she tries very hard not to think about the warm skin beneath her fingertips that rolled up sleeves don't quite cover, or the fact that T'ral is just that perfect bit taller than her. Or for that matter, that intent look he'd caught her with. Nope. Not thinking about any of that. Tubers, roast herdbeast, salad, bubblie pies. Yup. Fooood!! Mmhmm. "Lead on, dragonrider." And she does make that sound terribly grand.

(Continued in Muddled II: Full Muddle Jacket)

Add a New Comment