==== October 26, 2013
==== Prymelia, Renalde
==== Prymelia plucks up the courage and approaches Renalde as Hannah had instructed she do. A deal is struck.

Who Prymelia, Renalde
What Prymelia plucks up the courage and approaches Renalde as Hannah had instructed she do. A deal is struck.
When There is 0 turns, 10 months and 18 days until the 12th pass
Where Headman's Office, Southern Weyr

Prym%2010.png renalde_icon2.jpg


headmanoffice.jpg

Headman's Office
A large desk made of carved wood stands in the middle of the room. Neat piles of papers, each looking to have a specific purpose sit in orderly lines upon it and a line of writing utensils sit ready to be used. A large administrative chair of dark leather, looking not particularly comfortable, sits behind the desk. Behind the desk a wall of bookcases and cabinets stand, slowly being filled with the day-to-day records of the hall. Across from the desk a large fireplace sits awaiting a log to burn against small breezes. One large comfortable chair sits off to one side, easy to converse with, and even easier to ignore if need be. To the left large double doors open onto a small living area complete with bed and wardrobe with an expansive view of the Southern ocean.
Renalde is here.
Obvious exits:
East


The doorway between the headman's room and his office is ajar, allowing watery light to leak in, mixing with that of the glows to cast a rather pale and pathetic light throughout the office. Renalde, typically expressionless as he works wears a slight frown upon his face as he figures up the numbers spread before him in the ledger upon he works. He leans back in his chair, silent as stone, as he runs the figures again- just to be sure.

Its not so much that Prymelia has been avoiding the inevitable meeting with the Weyr’s austere Headman but rather that she’s been reworking her Grand Plan. Or so she’s been telling herself since her meeting with Hannah. However, time is marching on and the scourge of Thread draws ever closer and it can no longer be delayed. Dressed in the same dove grey skirt, soft white blouse and black bodice with matching sandals she’d worn to meet with the junior weyrwoman, she hovers a moment outside the door sucks in a breath and slowly releases it. Knock, knock, knock and wait, hazel gaze settled on Renalde trying to control the nervous rabbit of her heart. He’s just a man. Two arms. Two legs. Has to wipe his butt and brush his teeth just like everyone else. Nothing to be worried about. Shyeah right.

The check on if Renalde is actually a man will just have to be held off for a bit as Renalde looks up from his ledger. The small frown is wiped away, replaced by the cool collected expression he shows to the weyr. He closes the ledger in front of him and stands; it is only a matter of a few measured paces to the door which already stands cracked open. As it swings the man raises an eyebrow. "Trader, can I help you?"

Having expected a call to enter it takes all of Prymelia’s self-control not to squeak in surprise when the door is suddenly swung further open and The Man, is standing framed between its posts. “Uh…” Blink. Get a grip!! Smooth as silk a façade glides into place and a polite smile is mustered for Renalde’s benefit. “Yes, Sir. I’m rather hoping you can.”

Prymelia might just have caught onto Renalde's Master Plan for opening doors, or, perhaps that's just how he rolls. The eyebrow sinks back down to its typical position on Renalde's face as he steps out of the doorway, holding it open for the woman to enter. "Have a seat." Once she is through the doorway Renalde will allow the door to close again, shutting with a faint click which effectivly seals the room off from the rest of the bustle of the activity and prying ears of the weyr. For himself, Renalde retraces his steps to his chair and sits, closing the ledger upon the desk.

Two eyes, a nose, a mouth. Do those teeth look a mite sharper than the usual? Just breathe. Stepping passed Renalde when she’s ushered into his lair…sorry, office, the closing click of door sounds with a disturbing finality to it. This was it. No turning back now. Allowing the Headman to lead the way, Prymelia follows forcing shoulders to relax and bidding palms to stop sweating. And there she’ll wait until prompted to speak like the good trader-woman she is. Ahem.

Renalde's eyes see the discomfort which the woman sits before him. He leans back in his desk, hands calmly folded in his lap. "Well? Speak woman, there is much to be done on this very blustery day."

A miniscule furrow of brows escapes Prymelia’s control at the Headman’s blunt prompt. “Weyrwoman Hannah said to come and see you,” she begins in a voice that displays little of the nerves currently knotting her stomach. Carefully the trader recounts the meeting she’d had with the goldrider leaving nothing out and adding nothing in. A pause is allowed for Renalde to digest what’s just been said and then: “I am hoping that we,” she and he, the Weyr by default, “can come to some sort of arrangement that will benefit all involved.”

Renalde listens patiently to her story, his only reaction being a single tap of his index finger on the dark wood of his chair arm. "The junior weyrwoman is quite correcct. Southern has little to gain by giving you a wagon in order to build these shelters. A joint venture of the Southern Traders would be more suited to do so, in return for the discount she has offered you." Renalde pauses here, and he leans forward, his hands clasping one another and coming to rest on the table before him. "However, an agreement may be reached."

Although Renalde's agreement with the weyrwoman's assessment causes her heart to sink a little, Prymelia refuses to give up on her dream. On her plan. On the future she's dreaming for herself and her adopted brother. Silence weaves about the slender young woman. Disappointment is reeled in and swapped out for determination, showing in the steady level of hazel eyes to blue when the Headman infers that perhaps all was not lost. "I'm listening." Her turn to offer prompt toward completion of thought.

"There is much work to be done still on the structure of the weyr, and many rooms which have yet to reach their full potential. Our workers are moving from morning till night, and thread slowly approaches ever nearer. This causes the workload to be ever larger. This continent is rich with all that the North needs, but we lack the capacity to unlock these treasures with the other business which faces us. We require more man power. Thus, I will offer you two options." Renalde pauses his long winded speech and lifts up a single finger on one hand to punctuate his thought. "You, Daren and any other who join your venture put off your plans for a turn and half. You join the work force of the weyr to serve in whatever capacity which myself or Assistant Headwoman Nora requires."

With growing alarm, Prymelia listens as the Headman outlines the first of the options on offer. Postpone her plans? Work for the Weyr!? Had the man been out in the sun for too long and cooked his brain? She had to move and move now! Before Thread started to fall and sent everyone into full panic mode. Shelters needed to be found and stocked now! Screw a joint venture with Southern Traders! Outrage born of frustration flashes in hazel eyes, her jaw tightening a fraction as she works to school it back. “And the other option?” The trader asks of Renalde, her tone surprisingly calm despite the grind of teeth.

It must be a trick of the watery light in the office must be to blame for the faint hint of humor that crosses Renalde's face when the woman's look of consternation sets in. It must be the light because it is gone quick enough. Renalde, calm as stone, lifts up a second finger. "Second, we do finance your wagon, but you work for the Weyr for the first four months after its completion. Every mark which you bring in goes straight to the weyr's coffers. You run our errands free of any trader markups. You, Daren, and whomever else I choose to go along with you will be supplied by the weyr, but I warn you, it will be little more then survival fare. After that time you continue to pay into the weyr a third of all you bring in for the next full turn."

Hands that had been resting in her lap in a manner befitting a young woman of good rearing, clench, then relax only for the thumb of one to begin worrying at the nail bed of its neighboring mate. Prymelia’s gaze slips away from Renalde and she frowns down at her hands contemplating the second option. So this was what being caught between a rock and a hard place truly felt like. Option one wasn’t worth the breath it had taken to put forth. Option two while shackling her earning potential at least put her on the road and hopefully, with a letter of agreement from the Headman, would get her father off her back and allow her to remain on the Southern continent. From beneath lowered lashes, the young trader woman considers the man who by definition would become her benefactor and then she lifts her head and fits him with an intent look. “And after that turn. The wagon is mine and I’m free to do as I please?” She asks.

This time the smile that flits across Renalde's face is quite clearly there, and he picks up the quill which rests on his desk. "I am sure you will realize the benfits of allowing the Weyr to continue to use your services… and that of your clan which you bring down, after that time." Renalde doesn't quite answer her question, but if she is listening close enough, she'll hear it.

A smile? Prymelia has been rewarded with a smile? Jubilation and Celebrations, dragons rejoice, harpers harp and humans dance. The impossible has been achieved! Dramatics aside, the way Renalde’s mouth shapes about the smile nudges at the trader’s mind, something familiar echoing in its delivery. “It would be my honor,” the trader replies, the upward curl of her lips sincere, “to continue to serve the Weyr in any way I can.” Ah. So she’s not quite the self-serving mark-grubber she might have come across as.

The self satisfaction is going to get a bit hot and heavy in here before too long. One hand reaches out to pull a clean paper towards him. At the top, in clear no-nonsense script he write Prymelia's name, and clan. This paper he turns over to her. "Have this on my desk by days end expressing exactly the expenditures you are expecting for the wagon. I will review and approve or not whatever is needful."

Seeing her name being concisely set to the top of the page, it slowly starts to dawn on her. She has her wagon! And not only that, the full backing of the Weyr! Deep within a girlish squee of joy starts to form, the urge to leap to her feet, fling her arms about Renalde and dance a little jig, finding Prymelia fidgeting in her seating. So she’d have to be the equivalent of a drudge on wheels for four months and then hand over a third of her earnings to the Weyr for a further turn. Big deal! She has a wagon!! She is on her way. The sun has slid out from behind the clouds that had darkened her horizon. Try as she may, the mahogany-haired young woman is unable to contain the wide grin that blooms across her expression. The sheet is taken and a vigorous nod of head given in return. “Yes, Sir. I will, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Renalde rises from his desk. The quill is replaced exactly next to the ledger where it had been first placed. "Anything else trader?" Renalde raises an eyebrow, surely there is nothing else she could want from him?

Worried that Renalde might for some reason change his mind, Prymelia gives a quick shake of head that sends her long braid swishing across her back when she stands. “No, Sir. Nothing else. I’ll have this back to you by the end of the day.” Carefully folding the paper, she moves a few steps toward the door and then, on impulse, spins on her heel and in a show so fitting of the young woman’s spontaneous nature, flings her arms about the Headman’s neck. “Thank you!!” A quick kiss is pressed to his cheek and then she’s away, the door clicking softly behind her with just the hint of a jasmin’y sort of scent left on the air behind her.

Renalde freezes, an ice statue in the middle of the southern heat when the young woman throws her arms around him. She is gone too quickly for the man to have any other reaction, but as the door clicks he shakes his head. "Damned fool of a woman is going to get herself killed with that sort of foolishness out there." Still standing Renalde opens up the ledger again, but does not begin to write again. A small smile does break out again though, as if this little meeting has somehow rearranged the figures before him into something which perhaps something can be worked with.

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