==== December 15th, 2013
==== Prymelia, T'ral
==== Prymelia undoes the Nika-Arianne-wrought damage to T'ral's hair.

Who Prymelia, T'ral
What Prymelia undoes the Nika-Arianne-wrought damage to T'ral's hair.
When There are 0 turns, 5 months and 18 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr



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 the forty-second day of Winter and 70 degrees. It is partly cloudy, but still warm and bright. Clouds have started to drift across the sky again. The jungles are almost dry.

Mid-morning. For one who rises with the avians that is, finds a certain mahogany-haired trader, said luscious locks carefully hidden beneath a brightly embroidered headscarf, down at the Boardwalk. In lowheld tones, she appears to be haggling with a vendor who has the most exquisite selection of small colored glass bottles in various shapes and size. "The deal was, ten of those," the bottles indicated with a jut of chin, "for one of these." A jerkin with ferns embroidered along its hem is held up, and "four of these," a slender finger taps at four masks trimmed with brilliant plumage that are laid out to one side of her basket.

T'ral rises with the avians. And flies with them too. Drills are done for the morning and the young bluerider, still in his leathers, has headed to the boardwalk to find some better-late-than-never weyrwarming gifts for his clutchmates. His jacket is open, a pack slung over one shoulder, laden with his purchases. He's going over today's tab in his head… one wood carver to Ista to see his sister, several round-trips up to the Gather and one request for a straight local flight come Spring. His purse is light and his step as he rounds a corner and spots Prymelia haggling with a glass merchant. He pretends interest in the belts and buckles of the booth where he's stopped, fingers idly turning the wares, a fond smile for Prymelia in her element. The leather merchant follows his look, "Very popular with the ladies, that one." T'ral's brow furrows and his eyes flick to the merchant, down to the belt, to Prymelia, belt, merchant. I see what you did there. I'll move along, then. He smiles sheepishly and comes up along side Prymelia, pretending interest now in some of the glasswares. Making a better effort of it, he doesn't want to put her off her game, after all.

The beady-eyed woman Prymelia is haggling with, narrows those tiny piggy eyes of hers at the younger woman, shifts her attention to the items, the trader indicates, then slides them to the bottles gathered together in a tight circle. With a sigh the woman finally capitulates. "Aye, fine. But you drive a hard bargain, trader." With wide smile of triumph and loving stray of eyes over the pretty little bottles with corked stoppers, Prymelia takes a length of sisal from her basket and carefully begins wrapping them up in it. "You won't be sorry, Trixia. I'll make a bet that those masks will earn the wearers more than one kiss from handsome suitors." Only as she's reaching for the second one does movement from the corner of her eye catch her attention. T'ral. The effect is instantaneous, her smile deepening and eyes warming.

At the successful conclusion of Prymelia's hagglings, T'ral grins. At her smile to him he grins more. He leaves off toying with the glassware giving the merchant an apologetic look and recieving an purse-lipped headshake in return. To Prymelia, "Good morning." One thumb tucked under a packstrap, T'ral rakes the other through short hai- what in the world has happened to his hair? "Have you eaten yet?" He inclines his head, seeming entirely unaffected (or oblivious to) the mess that someone has made of his head.

"Hi," the greeting soft, almost shy from Prymelia and she goes back to her task. The last bottle wrapped, one of a deep purple hue, the fragile bundle is deposited back in her basket. "Another mask at one third off if you bring me another customer," she tells Trixia and then taking up her basket, she turns more fully to T'ral, the smile forming freezing in place. Hazel eyes widen in horror. "Dear Lords and Ladies!" She exclaims. "What the shards happened to your hair?"

T'ral cocks his head, "What?" His eyes brows rocket up, "Oh!" He grimaces and squints up to the more… disaster-y side. "Ah… My first dragonhealing lesson." His eyebrows slant down at the outside, eyes merry, the picture of wry and amused misery, "Or some light hazing? They'll fix it next time we train." He shrugs, it's just hair. And he doesn't have any mirrors anyway. So he's not treated to glimpses of it all that often. But people HAVE been giving him looks. Unconcerned with his hair, but definitely concerned with getting something in his belly, T'ral repeats his question, "Have you eaten?"

Blink. Blink. Dark lashes dust Prymelia's cheeks at the explanation given. "Just how long have you been going around like that?" She asks a little astounded that it's his belly rather than his hair-hack that T'ral seems more concerned with. But the more she stares at it, the funnier it starts to become until eventually, she's trying to stifle a fit of the giggles. Catching her breath she lays her free hand to his upper arm. "I'm sorry, T'ral. That was really awful of them but it looks like vermin got a hold of your hair while you were asleep." Swallowing, mirth better held in check now, she glances down the way of the stand that specializes in roasted avian wings. "I tell you what, lets get something to eat from here and take it to the beach and I'll fix your hair for you."

Wincing, T'ral touches his hair, "It's pretty bad, isn't it?" He shrugs at her pronouncement of the awfulness of Nika and Arianne. There'd been a lesson in there. Sorta. He follows her glance down the boardwalk and nods, offering his free arm, elbow crooked. "A fine plan, Lady Trader."

An eerie mirror, the glass-quiet Sea of Azov: the clear waters stretch along the dark-pebbled shores, and along this narrow beach. Here the faintest lap of waves belies the calm beyond; here the rocks have been ground down into finest, softest sand - those observant would mark upon the similarity between it and the sands of the hatching grounds. The soft sand soaks up summer sunlight as a sponge; painfully hot during the warmer months, it is only truly pleasant at wintertime. Rocks rise to east and west, lichen-limned and green against the abyssal darkness of stone.

At the beach, T'ral looks at the skudding clouds and the dark waves, shaking his head. Hard to believe this is Winter. He sketches a salute to Esanth as they approach his rocky perch. Esanth stands and rumbles at Prymelia, thrumming vibrating gently in her mind, a touch so light she might not notice. His wings are stretched, broader, stronger every day, but still managing to be charmingly cattywampus. Clambering up, T'ral drops off his pack and holds a hand down to help Prymelia up.

Having paused at the stand mentioned to buy a small basketful of the sticky winged snacks, Prymelia wanders along at T'ral's side, attention latching to Esanth the moment he comes into view. "Good morning, Esanth. You're looking fine today." Waiting for T'ral to climb up first, she hands him her basket, then the little one with their mid-morning snack and finally takes the hand being offered. Which she doesn't let go once she's up there with him. The wind coming off the sea whips about the edges of skirts, sending the light fabric flirting about slender ankles. "I love watching the sea after a storm," she murmurs.

T'ral's stomach does flipflops at Prymelia's touch. His grin grows solemn, face smoothing as he watches her watch the sea. "Beautiful," he murmurs.

The murmur misinterpreted, Prymelia nods, exhaling a sigh of wonder. "Indeed it is. Now," her attention pulls from the sea, and fixes to his Disaster Do. "You sit so I can see what I can do with this mess," fingers flip through the uneven layers before dropping to playfully tweak T'ral's ear.

Spell broken at the ear tweak, T'ral blinks and nods. Shucking his jacket, he folds it over his pack and sits, dropping easily into a cross-legged pose, back straight, head up. He runs hands rapidly over the ruin of his hair, noting how really lopsided it is under his hands, "Just take it all," he grins, noting the play of fabric over Prymelias ankles.

Crouching to fish a pair of decidedly sharp scissors from her basket, Prymelia makes a small choking sound at T'ral's comment, teeth clamping to lower lip. Running her fingers through his hair to gauge the extent of the disaster, she leans down and over his shoulder. "This isn't going to hurt a bit." Uh oh. "I used to cut my father's hair for him all the time." Has anyone even seen her father. Brave, brave bluerider. But he's not given much time to change his mind for just as quickly the young woman has straightened her hands get busy. Fingers of one hand lift and tug lightly at his hair, while the other snips away at dark brown locks, the discarded pieces caught by the breeze and carried. Working quickly and confidently, in no time at all, she ruffles her hand over the top of his head, then dusts along the nape of his neck and behind his ears with the edge of her skirt. "There you go." She declares, rather pleased with her handiwork even if he has been left only an inch and a half of hair all over.

T'ral sits very still as Prymelia plies sharp, sharp scissors around his ears and scalp, the wind whipping in off the sea. Even if Melian was known far and wide for terrible hair… T'ral's been going around with this disaster for the better part of a month. So. He's not gonna care over much. When she declares herself done, he rubs hands through the shorter crop. He smiles, shrugging, "It feels better." He takes one of her hands, kissing it, "Thank you." There's no luxury of time. This isn't a restday. T'ral has sweeps later and, ugh, Part Two of 'the Sex Talk' from the Weyrlingmaster staff. As if they hadn't already gleaned much and more from senior riders and chatter. Awkward.

Still, a stolen moment for the two, all the sweeter for its fleetness.

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