==== October 22, 2013
==== Prymelia, Kultir
==== Kultir presents Prymelia with the first of the pelts she'd requested forcing her to deal with a hard fact of life.

Who Prymelia, Kultir
What Kultir presents Prymelia with the first of the pelts she'd requested forcing her to deal with a hard fact of life.
When There are 0 turns, 11 months and 0 days until the 12th pass.
Where Boardwalk, Southern Weyr

Prym%207.png kultir2.jpg


Ancient-cut stone stretches broad, smoothed by the wind and the weather and the rain to create a boisterous center of commerce. Wood overlays stone in places, patterned and pretty, to attract the eye of those traversing the strip to particular vendors. Though not the size of the tremendous markets of the North, the boardwalk's offerings show the knowledge of ageless crafters: Smith contraptions, Herder-certified animals, Starcraft maps and Weaver textiles are only some of the things that may be purchased, among the spicy scents of beach food and the contrast of bright shells and dark stones from the shoreline.
It is Summer and 85 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.
On the perch is Len.
Obvious exits:
Beach Clearing Docks
You find yourself near the vast, blue expanse of the inland sea.

The slow sink of Rukbat heralds the end of another hot and busy day. Commerce along the boardwalk is winding down leaving the area deserted of foot traffic save for those merchants still packing up. Prymelia isn’t among them for trading at this level isn’t her forte. No. She has bigger plans in mind. Plans that that currently put a faraway look on her face as she stares out over the tranquil inland sea. A breeze coming off of it ruffles and teases at mahogany locks, flirting with the edges of her skirt as she leans with her arms folded against a railing. The perfect setting for silent introspection it seems.

Kultir comes up the steps onto the boardwalk from the beach looking about as weary as he could possibly be. He is wearing a pack, something he's never been see with before, and it is heavy with whatever is in it. He catches one of the vendors before she's finished packing up and gets her to fill his bota with some of her left over juice, passing over the eighth mark with a smile. He lifts the bota to his lips, squirting a stream into his mouth with expertise. Swallowing, he watches the sun slide further down for a moment before he recognizes Prymelia staring out at the sunset as well.

Lost in thought, Prymelia is relatively unaware of those that still linger. So much to think about, plan and do. So much responsibility. So little time. Her gaze lifts from the glassy surface of the sea and scans the skies above. Thread. It was coming. A shiver of dread ripples through her willowy frame. She’s heard the stories and frankly, it terrifies her witless. But she’ll not allow it to infringe on her plans. No. She’ll simply find a way to work around it as documentations states her clan has been doing for hundreds of turns.

Kultir moves closer to the woman who wishes to hire him to hunt felines and drops his pack so that he doesn't startle her too badly when he speaks. "Prymelia?" he asks, wanting to be sure he remembers her correctly. "Got summat t' show ye iff'n ye got the time."

Kultir fails. Utterly and horribly fails for the sudden thump of something in close proximity to her has Prymelia jumping about a foot high and uttering a curse that might make a sailor’s toes curl. “Kultir!!” She gasps, hand to heart and eyes flung wide with shock. “You sneaky bastard!! I swear, I’m gonna put bells on you!” That he has something to show her has been overlooked in the immediacy of adrenaline flooding her system.

Kultir starts back as she literally jumps when the pack hits the boards, shock in his amber eyes at the curse she utters. "I … I din't mean t' skeer ye." he says softly, hand held palm out toward her. He relaxes a little as she teases him but still looks a bit wary as he crouches to open his pack and pull out a small black spotted, tawny pelt to hold out to her. "I got this today. Wanted t' see iff'n this was th' sorta pelts ye be lookin' f'r." is said as he holds out the folded pelt of a two to three moon feline cub.

That she even knows such a curse word is a scandal in itself but then to go on and make use of it? Not quite so Prym and proper as some might think. With the initial alarm wearing off and the fight-or-flight instinct of adrenaline leeching from her system, Prymelia lends the hunter a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually scare that easily. I was a million dragon lengths away.” Watching as he drops into a crouch and rummages around in his backpack, curiosity soars and she follows suit. For a few moments all the trader does is stare at the soft velvety pelts, fingers reaching to sift across one of them. “They’re…rather small?” She ventures, a horrid knot starting to form in her stomach.

Kultir nods at her apology, a small smile lightening the wary look on his face. "Tis fine." he murmurs, pulling four of the small pelts and two much larger from his pack. "They be small cuz they be fr'm cubs." he says pragmatically. "These be th' adults." He smoothes the fur of the two larger tawny pelts, one with a dark long haired mane at one end. "Still gotta cure 'em but they be pretty nice pelts."

Its just as she’d feared. Horrified, Prymelia snatches her hand away. Moisture gathers in her eyes, then spills over in a trail down one cheek, the dying sun glinting across the damp path. “They…they were babies?” She whispers in dismay staring up at Kultir as if he’d just told her he’d drowned a puppy. “You killed the babies?” The pelts of the two adult felines lost from focus just now.

Kultir is still stroking the soft pelts, enjoying the feel against his rough hands. When her words reach him, he frowns and looks up at her. His frown deepens as he sees the tears streaking her cheeks and shakes his head. "They ain't babies … they be feline cubs." he says, voice hardening slightly. "Feline cubs grow up t' cause problems f'r th' Weyr. 'Sides … cain't very well leave 'em t' starve, c'n I?"

Having caught a glimpse of a pair of cubs playing rough and tumble in a gully below during an early morning ride, Prymelia is fairly heartbroken by the very idea of snatching their young lives away. But, she has her pride to consider, the façade of being one tough cookie to maintain and the hard edge Kultir’s tone takes goes a ways to serving reminder thereof. Swiping at her eyes, she nods. “Of course, you’re right,” she tells him in a voice steeled against her personal feelings on the matter. “If you can tan them right, they’ll fetch a fair price at trade.” She’s not that dim so as not to realize the value of the smaller, softer pelts. “These were the paren…I mean, the adults?” With determination she switches her focus to the larger pelts the hunter holds up. “They’re beautiful.” Those she can deal with. Adult felines are full grown killers but the cubs…

Kultir watches the changes on her face as she goes through the whole need to eliminate the entire pride. "I think I be able t' cure 'em good 'nuff. Iff'n these dun turn out, I c'n go find some more." he says pragmatically. He watches as she pulls the larger pelts closer and nods. "Aye, they was. I kinda like th' patternin' on the cubs though …"

Prymelia is trying. She really is but it’s going to take a while for her to come terms with the need to exterminate the cubs too. Logic dictates that it makes sense to do so while her heart mourns their loss. When Kultir mentions them again, she swallows hard and is able to do little more than offer a nod of agreement for the smaller pelts are indeed spectacular. “I don’t suppose there’s any way the meat could be brought back to the Weyr for the dragonets, is there?” She has no idea if the hatchlings would even eat such a thing. “I’d hate to see such a beautiful creature go to waste for just the use of its pelt.” And then she switches tracks, her keen business mind coming to the fore. “How long do you think it will take for a pelt to cure to the point of being ready for use?”

Kultir chuckles softly and nods. "I dun took care o' that. Dun like t' waste it iff'n I dun hafta." he says. "Got th' guards t' bring th' carcasses up while I come back wit' th' pelts." He ponders her question and shrugs slightly. "Eh, think it be a couple sevens 'r so … dunno f'r sure but I c'n find out."

Prymelia is pleasantly surprised to hear that Kultir’s mind had gone along similar paths to hers. “Good,” she states, satisfied that the little bodies of the cubs…Sadness suddenly wells up again and clogs her throat…Don’t think about it. “If you would,” she returns on the matter of curing the pelts, her voice huskier than usual due to suppressed emotion. Stroking her hand across one of the smaller pelts in the manner of an apologetic touch, the trader stands to her feet again. “I think this going to work out rather nicely. Did you get a chance to speak to your weyrmate about going out overnight?”

Kultir folds the pelts away once more, tucking them carefully into the pack and standing once more. He peers at the woman and frowns slightly. "Ye'r gonna hafta get past th' fact that some o' them be cubs, Trader Prymelia." he says. "I cain't take th' adults iff'n I be leavin' th' young t' starve or summat. They ain't firelizards that c'n take care o' theyselves fr'm birth." He shakes his head, half in disgust, half in dismay. He knows she's going to have to take the same journey he had to take as well, it's not easy but it has to be done. "No, ain't had a chance yet … couple days'll gimme an answer though."

That she’s not hidden her feelings on the matter well enough, annoys Prymelia. Show no weakness. How many times had her father drummed that into her!? And now here she was behaving like a soft ninny of a Lady Holder spilling tears over a dead feline cub. Straightening her shoulders, the look Kultir is sent is unreadable, pretty lips setting to a hard line the poor hunter becoming the target of her humiliation. “A fact you’ve already made quite clear, Hunter Kultir. Thank you.” For sounding so much like her father in this instance. “A couple of days it is and then I’ll need an answer.” Aloof, expression shielded. The only way she knows how to cope with being vulnerable to her emotions. “I have a meeting I need to get to. Thank you for your diligence.”

Kultir frowns again as she straightens and speaks so coldly where she'd been rather warm before. A flash of hurt shows but very briefly across his face as he slings his pack over a shoulder. "Aye, gimme two days. I'll let ye know one way t'other." he says with a polite nod. "You are welcome, Trader. Good eve." Oddly, his more formal diction seems to be the more comfortable one for him.

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