====September 25, 2013
====Prymelia, Stable Master Garrick (NPC), Alberon (NPC)
====Intent on buying the first of the four runners she's going to need, bargaining begins and Prymelia winds up with a dinner invitation from a much older man.

Who Prymelia, Stable Master Garrick (NPC), Alberon (NPC)
What Intent on buying the first of the four runners she's going to need, bargaining begins and Prymelia winds up with a dinner invitation from a much older man.
When 1 turn 1 month and 21 days until the 12th pass
Where Stables, Southern Weyr

Prym%201.png Alberon%201.png flickr:7462553448


Rehabilitated, the stone stables of Southern sweep grandly in arches and valuted ceilings. A half-loft in the back shows openly the hay piled in sweet-scenting mounds. Beneath, broad box stalls house inhabitants safely away from the purview of dragons… nickers and restless stompings fill the air to blend in with hay and runner-sweat and leather: sweet nirvana.
You see Galeros, Pollux, Pride, Wrath, Envy, Gluttony, Karo, and Pecan here.
Daren is here.
Obvious exits:
Gate Stone Archway

Stable Master Garrick is rubbing down a good sized stallion with a soft brush, combing out the last of his shaggy winter coat now that spring is well on its way. His sharp eye keeps the stableboys darting here and there on their appointed tasks. His expression is entirely at odds with the tone of his voice as he speaks nonsensically to the stallion quivering under his hands.

Looking quite a lot less disheveled than she did the day before when she’d arrived, Prymelia has managed to give her scowling shadow the slip. At least for now that is. With thick mahogany tresses secured in a braid down her back and wearing a pair of well worn fawn trousers that look a size too big for her, with scuffed boots of deep brown that reach to just below her knees, she inhales a deep breath and lets out a sigh of appreciation. There’s a warm familiarity to the scent of runners and straw, leather and sweat. Sidestepping a stableboy, she does her best not to look quite as lost as she feels. “Master Garrick?” The name called out with husky inflection for any that care to answer her and point her in the right direction.

Stableboys anywhere around her when she calls out the name of the Stablemaster give her startled looks and dart nervous glances at the old man who is working the stallion into calm. One boy that darts past her to make himself scarce mutters, "You're daft, girl …" and is gone, as are all the others. Master Garrick turns a rather jaundiced eye on the girl and sneers down his nose at her. "What're you wantin' in m' Stables, girl?" his harsh voice asks quietly as he leads the stallion he's finishing with into his stall and closes the gate with a thud.

The moment a look is darted in a defining direction, keen hazel eyes follow it. Giving the owner of the name and title a quick once over, Prymelia draws herself up to all of her five feet eight inches and squares her shoulders. She’s not in the least bit intimidated. Not coming from the brash almost brutish family of males that she does and certainly not with a grouch for a chaperone dogging her every move since they’d arrived. “Looking to buy a runner,” she returns with a determined lift of chin. “Something sure and sturdy that’s not a hearbeat away from being made into glue. I was told you’re the man to talk to.”

Garrick listens to the girl as he strokes the stallion's muzzle with a gnarled hand, hard and calloused from nearly 45 Turns of handling animals. "Hmmph. A runner, is it?" he asks gruffly, giving her a curt gesture to follow him. He leads her to a line of stalls where runners of all descriptions and ages look out eagerly from over their half-gates. "The Weyr has a few that be for sale. Got some good geldin's on this side … two on th' far end be stallions. Mares on t'other." He settles onto a bale of straw and lets her take her time looking at the runners she's interested in.

The stallion Garrick favors with attention, is given a longing look. Oh to own such a fine and magnificent beast. But no, such frivolities are simply not on the agenda. It’s the same sentiment echoed in her clothing. Clean, neat and functional. Prymelia can’t help the small smile that slips out in response to whiskery muzzled greetings but is sure swipe it from her face before Garrick can see it. And take her time she does, running a practiced eye over what is on offer until eventually she settles on two geldings. Turning to the old Stable Master, she gestures toward them. “Could you take them out so that I can see how they move?”

Garrick nods as he pushes himself to his feet. Taking a lead line off the hook outside the stall he slowly opens the half-gate and slips inside with a low, "Whoa now … there's a lad." He clips the rein to the bay gelding's halter and carefully leads him out. The gelding follows on the lead without tugging and actually rubs his head up and down the large Stablemaster's arm, almost in affection. He leads the runner and the girl on out of the stable, grabbing the arm of a boy on his way out. The kid freezes, almost in fear, as the old man holds his arm and listens closely. "I want the piebald gelding in 17 on a lunge. Bring him out and tie him off to the ring on the post so I can show this girl his paces in a bit." The Master's voice is low and gruff but not overly angry or frightening, he knows better in front of his animals.

Every movement the bay gelding makes is taken in with a critical eye, the friendliness displayed marking a notch in the runner’s favor. Determined to be taken seriously, Prymelia matches her pace to ensure she keeps abreast of beast and handler smothering the smirk that blooms when the stable lad garnered looks about ready to wet himself. Waiting until Garrick is finished giving his orders and the stableboy has hustled off to do as bidden; she clasps her hands behind her back and juts her chin in the bay’s direction. “Either one of them ever been put to harnass?”

Garrick nods as he clips the gelding onto the mechanism the Smiths had built him to excercise more than one runner at a time. He touches the gelding on the hip with his long whip which sends the young runner into a clean trot that keeps his feet well off the ground, nearly a rocking prance as his back remains perfectly level. "Aye, all the runners the Weyr sells are broke to saddle. None are wild and none are lazy. All are of good temperment too." the man says, all business despite how he feels about women having anything to do with animals of any kind. "Ye'll see anythin' twixt four turns an' about 13 turns. Any older than that and we gotta start thinkin' o' turnin' them to dragon-fodder if they's geldin's or breedin' em if they's mares." He glances at the girl and asks, "Well? Ye like this boyo or ye wanna see t'other?"

Unaware that the Stable Master holds to the same views the men of her clan do, Prymelia takes in the information he provides with an acknowledging nod, her gaze remaining latched to the fluid movement displayed by the bay with comment reserved for the time being. But she has another question before answering to whether or not she wishes to see the piebald that waits his turn to be put through his paces. “They trained to haul goods too?” She may not yet have a wagon but there’s no point in laying down good marks on an animal with limited use.

The Stablemaster turns a frown on the girl as he calls the gelding in to his hand and rewards him but a fingerroot top. The greens disappear into the crunching mouth as Garrick gently scratches under the runner's chin. "You said you was wantin' a runner. You din' say nothin' bout wantin' a runner as hauled wagons too." he growls at her as he leads the gelding back to the piebald and switches their leads out and takes the piebald back to attach him to the mechanism and send him round at a good clip just shy of a canter. His trot is a bit more rough than the bay's but his speed and conformation during the excercise is much better.

An arch of elegantly cast brow meets the frown bestowed upon her. Really? Has he -met- Alberon. Thankfully not for the two of them would likely compare notes on why women shouldn't x, y, z or a, b, c. "I asked if they'd been trained to harnass," Prymelia reiterates, a challenging light entering hazel eyes, "you said, yes. Perhaps that means something different down here but where I come from, it's a clear indication of a runner trained to haulage as well as the saddle. I need one," actually four but her marks won't stretch that far just now, "that is cross-trained across both disciplines. However," her gaze latches to the piebald, something about the rough gait on him drawing her interest, "I'm not adverse to training it myself, if" and there finally the crafty mark of her trader roots cuts across her expression, "the price is right."

Garrick snorts and turns to call a boy to him. The stable boy nods as he stops before the old man and blinks nervously as he gets his orders. "I want Soot and Tam … bring 'em right quick, then you can take the geldin's back to their stalls." he says, calling the piebald in to him and rewarding him as well. When he looks at the girl again, there is a hint of approval in his expression as he crosses his arms and leans against the post while he waits for the two runners he'd asked for. "I got a couple that're trained for both saddle and haulage. Most females as come out here don' know the difference so … guess you've showed me, eh?" Soon enough a large black runner with a barrel chest and strong but slender legs and nimble hooves is led out of the stables to Garrick. The big man strokes the black gelding to settle him and claps the black's neck affectionately at the headbutt in the chest. "This be Soot. He's half runner, half burden so he's got the stamina and strength to pull but he's nimble and long enough in the wind t' get you from one point to another at a decent clip."

While there may be those that would be likely to flash Garrick one of those annoyingly self-righteous looks, Prymelia isn’t one of them. That he acknowledges that she might know what she’s talking about and what she wants in a runner, is enough for her. Which isn’t to say that she doesn’t experience a surge of triumph. She’s just very good at hiding it though she does lend him a cautious smile. “I have an unfair advantage over most of my gender,” she admits, “one of our clansmen breed and train runners up Keroon way.” At the appearance of Soot, Prymelia all but swoons in a way her mother can only dream of her doing so over a man. “Oh, he’s beautiful!” She breathes, expression displaying open admiration for the burly beast as she steps in closer, slender hands offering her scent to velvety nostrils to consider. Forgetting that she’s supposed to be driving a hard bargain, the words tumble from her lips before she has a chance to stay them, “How much?”

Garrick is well known for his gruff and mean personality but he's also known for knowing his animals. His eyes glint as the girl reacts to the black the way he'd expected her to and shakes his head as she holds her hand out to the big gelding. Velvet nostrils huff gently against her palm, upper lip scraping across her flesh without the hint of teeth. "Ah, lass .. I can' offer ye a price on this boyo til ye see Tam." Garrick says, glancing over his shoulder and nodding. "There she be." A stableboy leads a prancing dun runner, fully as large if not slightly larger than Soot, toward the pair to place the lead in the Stablemaster's hand. The runner dips her head to rub her nose hard against the front of Garrick's stableapron and then turns intelligent eyes on Prymelia, well formed ears flicking forward and back. Tam is a lovely specimin from the points of her ears all the way to her black stockinged hooves and long black mane and tail. Broad chest and hindquarters, strong legs and slender hocks show good breeding in every line.

For a young woman trader born and bred, Soot and then Tam are a veritable feast for the eyes. While a trading clan relies on plying their trade and selling their wares, they are nothing without the willing beasts that make movement of their caravans possible. Highly revered and sometimes better cared for than their women, a trader fails or succeeds on the back of his runners. It’s safe to say that Prymelia is smitten. Utterly and completely the object of her desire made known with a firm shake of head. “While she is without a doubt the frosting on every cake I’ve ever laid eyes on, a mare in season is unpredictable. No,” her voice drops to a husky murmur, a hand reaching upward to sift fingers into the black gelding’s mane, “he’s the one for me.” Declared as surely as if she had just accepted a marriage proposal. “But,” and there always has to be a but doesn’t there, “if you can offer me a good price, I’ll put a deposit down on her too.”

Stablemaster Garrick chuckles gruffly as he fondles Tam's ears while he considers the young woman before him. "Hmmph. Well, if I took Soot to the Gather Sales up north … he'd easily go for 'bout 20 or so good Herder marks." He peers at her from under beetled brows as he gestures for a pair of boys to take the two beasts back to their stalls. He simply waits for her to watch the beasts leaving the area and to absorb the value of the two she's looking at. "They both trained to haul and ride, come with saddles and bridles as fit em. They's both got good tempers and Tam'll only take a chunk outta a stranger when she's in heat … and that only once iff'n ye put a fist in her teeth to show her who's boss."

“Aye,” Prymelia readily agrees, “but to take them up north there’s the shipping fees and the fodder for the journey over, not to mention the pay of the ‘hand to accompany them and yard taxes once you get there.” Someone’s done her homework! She tries, she really does to keep her attention foursquare on the gruff Stable Master before her but the sway of sturdy soot black and dun hindquarters are a siren song she’s having difficulty resisting. “Fifteen herder marks for Soot and five as a deposit on Tam,” the willowy redhead offers, forcing her focus back to the business at hand. “What!? Are you outta your sharding mind!? See this is why a woman has no place doing a man’s job!” A voice suddenly explodes from behind her, the growl and grate of it familiar enough that Prymelia visibly winces but she doesn’t turn. Neither does she acknowledge the brooding ginger-haired man that’s crept up behind her, the lines of his craggy face marking him a good twenty turns older than she.

Stablemaster Garrick doesn't approve of loudmouthed swags in his stables and stands to his full height with his fists planted on his hips. He does no more to acknowledge the man that appears on the scene and keeps his gaze on the girl before him. "Aye … ye'r right and with the Hatchin' t' come soon, I really don' have no one as can travel wit' 'em." he sighs, running a hand through the inch long hair on his scalp. "I gotta look out f'r the Weyr though … I might consider that bu' … whatcha got t' offer the Weyr?" He gives the girl the idea that he might knock a few marks off if she can trade a bit of substantial material goods to benefit the Weyr.

Pale blue eyes narrow in response to the physicality of the stance Garrick takes but Alberon isn’t a fool. He’ll bide his time and make his opinion patently clear to his niece the moment they’re out of earshot. Instead he simply stands there, broad shoulders hunched as if he’s preparing to charge at any moment, his hard gaze boring into the back of Prymelia’s skull. With supreme effort that results in a tight grind of jaw, the young woman works hard to ignore her shadow. “Spices,” she replies to the Stable Master, “the likes of which I can guarantee will have your tongue thinking it’s dancing a jig at a Gather. There is one other thing I’m interested in procuring that I have a feeling a man in your position might be able to help me with…” – “Prymelia,” the growl comes low and threatening. Only then does her head turn a fraction over her shoulder. “Invite me to dinner,” she murmurs to Garrick, her lips barely moving about the words that slip lowspoken from them. Say what?

Garrick notes the man standing behind the young woman and dismisses him with a flick of an eyebrow, all his attention on the one he's bargaining with. The big stableman grunts at the offer of spices and lifts a hand to stroke the stubble of his jaw. "Well … I'd need t' speak with the Headman and the Head Cook t' see if they be interested in tradin' a runner for spices, but … I hear tell that the new cook's one for using different spices." he says thoughfully. He cocks his head at her and raises an eyebrow before continuing, "Perhaps … you'd join me for supper an' we c'n talk to them together … you can get a idea of what they's lookin' for and we can finish our bargaining tomorrow."

The Headman and the Head Cook were to be her next port of call but it appears that Prymelia has hit a home run with having made her first stop at the stables. Three avians, one stone! Only when Garrick capitulates and following her lead lays out an invitation to dine with him does the willowy young woman release the breath she’d been holding. A surge of relief mixed with a dash of triumph sweeps through her, culminating in a radiant smile few are ever treated to. In turn, the glowering hulk of a man behind her utters a grunt and takes a step back, the situation diffused. For now. “It would be my pleasure, Master Garrick,” Prym replies her tone skillfully crafted about gracious inflection. “In fact, it would be my honor to cook for you. Give me a chance to display my wares, so to speak.” And yes, despite the fact that he’s probably old enough to be her grandfather, there’s the tiniest whisper of a flirtatious tease there for what could be taken as innuendo.

Garrick hmmphs at the girl and shrugs his shoulders. "Well … iff'n ye wanna cook f'r me, I wouldn't mind not havin' t' brave that hoard up t' the Weyr come supper time." he says, rather more pleased than he normally would be. His eyes actually roam up and down the young woman's body … this time with more than just a little leer and speculation in them. "I got work t' finish … Where shall I meet you when I be done?" is the question he asks, getting ready to head back to his duties.

Although it means playing to the stereotype she’s trying so desperately to escape, Prymelia is prepared to make concessions if it means another step closer to her goal. And so, tucking away the amused smirk that springs to her lips when old black eyes go slipping across her frame, she presents a smile instead. “How about the beach? I’m pretty good with campfire cooking. You bring the drink, I’ll bring the food. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.” That having been said and with a ghost of something indefinable shimmering in hazel eyes, Prym steps back and with a wiggle of fingers in a totally feminine gesture of farewell, sweeps passed her glowering chaperone leaving him no choice but to toss Garrick an unreadable look before following like a loyal guard dog behind his charge.

Garrick raises an eyebrow as she turns and walks away. Her guardian gets a definite smirk as the leer returns to the girl's figure. A loud "Mmm-Mmm!" follows her out as he turns to get back to his own chores.

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