==== October 12, 2013
==== Prymelia & Kynedir
==== Getting a lay of the land, Prymelia happens upon a Miner-Smith and makes him an offer

Who Prymelia & Kynedir
What Getting a lay of the land, Prymelia happens upon a Miner-Smith and makes him an offer
When There is 1 turn 0 months and 0 days until the 12th pass.
Where Savanna, Southern Weyr

Prym%206.png kynedir2.jpg


Verdant reaches of jungle are a thing of memory here in this dry, scrub-filled plain that reaches into the far distant eastern stretches of the Southern Continent. As the shoreline stretches away, the plains themselves seem endless, broken only by the mesas that litter the landscape. Dry, dusty, and hot, little human habitation occurs here, though herds of beasts roam untamed which only makes this stretch of land a favored spot for feeding hungry dragons.
It is Summer and 89 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.
Kynedir is here.
Obvious exits:
Cliffside Path Towards the River Cotholds

The intense rays of Rukbat beat down on the flat expanse of the plateau with little mercy making heat shimmers to rise above the waving grasses. The only tangible relief being the nearly constant blowing of the breeze from off the Sea of Azov. A young man of average height but substantial width of shoulders stands relaxed and confident in the middle of that sea of grass, gazing into the distance. Kynedir's sharp eyes gaze out toward the mountains well to the west as he heaves a gusty sigh with the sound of a bellows. "Gotta be a way to get there." is whipped away by the passage of the wind.

Runnerless this day with Soot in stall having a thrown shoe replaced, Prymelia is on foot. Although her very presence at the Southern Weyr bucks the tradition of her clan she has as yet, been unable to bring herself to adopt the skimpier style of dress favoured by the locals. Instead, layers of wispy lightweight fabric shaded in hues of palest mauve to deepest purple are worn beneath a tightly cinched bodice of gunmetal grey - A gay flower amongst a seemingly endless stretch of drab plains. Although hemlines flirt about slender ankles, arms are left bare in deference to the scorching heat, the wind whipping her attire flat against her body and then billowing it away again. A man of Kynedir’s size is not hard to miss and so it is, coming up from behind him amusement turns about her mouth when the wind tosses his comment back to her. “For a price there’s a way to get anywhere you want to,” the trader-woman quips.

Kynedir's normally sharp hearing has been foiled by the sussourus of the blowing grasses it seems because at the sound of her voice, the young man spins lightly on the ball of his left foot into a fighting crouch. Blue-green eyes glare and expressive lips are thinned against his briefly bared teeth, making him look quite feral before his brain registers the presence of the trader-woman instead of the imagined predator sneaking up on him. As soon as he realizes there is no threat, he stands upright once more with a softening of features into a pleasant, charming smile. "Perhaps so, but sometimes the price can be too high when one is unsure of what is to be found at the destination." he says, turning back to gaze toward the mountains once more. His gravelly, harsh voice is at odds with his apparent age, as if he's spent his entire life breathing dust or smoke … or possibly had his larynx damaged in a fight. Now that she's closer, minute scars can been seen on face, neck, hands and forearms … where ever his clothing doesn't cover, at least. The marks of a working man's life on such young flesh seems incongruous at best.

Alarm flares in hazel eyes and the traderwoman’s hand drops to the dagger concealed at her side, sure that she’d just happened upon a misplaced man of the mountains. She’s heard the stories whispered by the other girls late at night. Even once he fits her with a smile fit to have a maiden swoon, her frame remains rigid, caught in the hesitation of fight or flight. The scarring she sees does little to ease anxiety and suddenly the comment she’d made to her adopted brother springs to mind – I wouldn’t stand a chance against a man the size of a herdbeast. Oh. Shit. Um. When he turns, she takes a step back, sizing him up like a calf eyeing the hungry dragon bearing down on it. In the end, tenacity shines through. “Without risk there is no gain.” She finds her voice to toss back wariness straining husky edges to her tone.

At the strained sound of her voice, Kynedir turns to look at her with appraising eyes. A quick glance at her face, the hand hovering at her side, the slightly rigid posture causes a flash of regret to flicker in his eyes as well as across his face. "I apologize for frightening you. It is … dangerous up here and you startled me. One does not live long if ones senses fail them and mine did in the sound of this blowing wind." he says, attempting to appear as harmless as a man of his size can. He clasps his hands behind his waist, well away from the long dagger at his belt. There is a small pack with a half-sized shovel and pickaxe strapped to the outside at his feet, appearing a bit bulky and the top opening to show a small collection of fist-sized rocks. "Life itself is a risk, one just has to know which part to grab." he quips, amusement glinting in his eyes.

Mountain men have been described to her as being akin to herdbeast – big, dumb animals capable of doing little but making grunted comments. Whereas this man - Prymelia tilts her head to one side absorb his patterns of speech and grammar – carrying an accent not associated with what she’s heard of the Southern ones, is at least capable of literate speech. Hazel eyes drop to his feet. First his pack is eyed, the rocks within peaking curiosity then her attention drags upwards from sturdy legs to the weapon on open display, lingers on his hands being held well away from it and then skip up to those blue-green eyes. “You didn’t,” Prymelia denies having been scared with a little lift of chin, “you just startled me.” Yeah right and whers are just misunderstood dragons in disguise. She can’t however but help being drawn in by his amusement and while she keeps her distance at least some of the tension leaks from her posture. “And you want to grab…a mountain?” The traderwoman queries flicking a glance in the direction he’d been staring.

A sound of rocks tumbling in a barrel grates out of Kynedir's throat as he too turns back toward the mountains. "I want to see what is in the mountain." he says as she finally relaxes a bit. He releases the clasp of his hands to extend one toward her in greeting. "I'm Kynedir, Miner-Smith Apprentice, lately of Bastian Minehold out of High Reaches." Once she either shakes or ignores his hand, it is tucked into the pocket of his trousers. His head cocks slightly as he finally asks, "What brings you here to the wilds of the Southern Continent?"

Intriguing. The only word Prymelia is able to come up with to describe the boulder sized man, the grate and gravel of his voice eliciting an effect she studiously ignores. “In the mountain?” Amusement brightens her tone flecking glints of humor to her eyes. Now there’s one she’s not heard before. “Whatever fo…” Kynedir’s introduction catches up with her as does the large hand extended her way. Hesitantly she takes it, her grip firmer than her willowy frame might suggest, and shakes it. “Oh. Well met. Prymelia. Clan Flynn out of Igen.” As to why she now finds herself on Southern soil, a crafty smirk belies the truth of her reply. “I was tossed out for civil disobedience. Apparently mooning the Weyrleader is frowned upon.” What!?

Kynedir's grip is quite gentle for such a large man, his fingers squeezing slightly before releasing her hand to tuck his own into his pocket. "Well met, Prymelia." he says, eyes flashing with amusement at her pert answer. His blue-green gaze wanders down her body, taking in the curves and willowy slenderness, a sensual smile curving his lips just short of what could be considered a leer. "Sharding Weyrleader must be blind then." is his only comment, hinting that a mooning should have had the man begging for more … if he were at all perceptive. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he tears his eyes away from her form to the horizon once more. "I'll get there … someday. I'll find out if there's firestone or coal … something the Weyr can use. Perhaps another spot to establish an additional Weyr here in the South." His tone takes on a slightly dreamy tone, totally at odds with his looks.

The story a lie, of course, Prymelia flashes Kynedir a grin for his remark though she notes the meander of his attention with smug amusement. Men. Such simple creatures. Feed them, clothe them, sex them and you’ll have them tamed and trained in no time at all. Her view of the male gender an oversimplified example of a woman who has never had her heart broken. A soft tsking sound, agreement to his assessment of the Weyrleader and his apparent lack of appreciation slips onto the wind tossed air. “That’s what I said,” she adds with an exaggerated sigh. Its what the big miner-smith says next that really captures her attention, the dreamy inflection of gravelly tone lining up with her earlier assessment of the man. Immediately her wily mind gets to work reflected in the slow smile that makes an appearance. Information is tucked away, a hook baited and tossed out into the open. “What if I told you I can get you there?”

Kynedir turns slowly toward her, eyebrow rising at her words. "You can get me there?" he asks, somewhat surprised and skeptical. "I very much doubt that. I've been informed that there are no planned expeditions in that direction anytime soon." He sighs gustily again and shrugs. "I've explored all the likely places within a sevenday hike and haven't found more than a dozen or so bags of Firestone just laying on some undiscovered beaches I've come across." A few bags here and there don't do much for a Weyr this size but any little bit can help. One hand comes up to rub the back of his neck and through his hair as he thinks about what he might find. "I think it's possible … some records I've come across seem to indicate there might be a mine in that direction …" He's rambling, his thoughts just tumbling out of his mouth.

Each little nugget of information that Kynedir drops is scooped up and added to the box tagged ‘Plan A’. Lifting a hand to catch an errant strand of mahogany hair being teased by the wind and tucking it behind an ear, Prymelia fits the Miner-Smith with a determined look. “Not yet, but soon,” she replies on being able to get him where he wants to go. “You’re a fighter,” she then notes, sweeping an assessing look over his broad frame while recalling the instinctive way he’d whirled at her when she’d surprised him. “Perhaps we can work something out. You scratch my back, I scratch yours and together…we scratch the Weyr’s.” Cunning the way lightly freckled features pattern, mirrored in the sly curl of her mouth.

A snort flares Kynedir’s nostrils, much like a male herdbeast getting ready to charge an unwary predator. "I'm not a fighter … I'm more a brawler. I can take care of myself and I know how to use my daggers but … not a fighter." he says with a shrug. Fighters being more accquainted with sword-length blades than this young man. He glances at her, noting the somewhat determined look she's given him. "If you can, I could probably get permission from my Craft leader for a trip that direction. Though I doubt anyone would give permission for less than a caravan …" He shrugs once more, somewhat downcast that he won't be able to get there anytime soon.

Fighter, brawler, its all the same time to her. Shown in the shrug of slender shoulders. “Aye, and so do I,” she replies on being able to use a set of daggers, “but you’d have me on my arse before I could blink. So which one of us do you think would fare better against one of them mountain men, hmm?” A dark mahogany brow arches pointedly. Setting that topic aside for the time being, Prymelia turns to the matter of expeditions and permissions. “A wagon and a supply cart,” she says outlining the size of her caravan, the one she doesn’t yet have. Yet. “You can sleep in the supply cart.” Added just in case he had any ideas of sharing her living quarters with her. “Two squares a day in exchange for all that…” a hand wafts up and down his solidly packed frame, “brawn should we find ourselves in a compromising position.” Which might sound very much like a proposition of another kind.

Kynedir's gaze turns speculative as he turns his gaze from the mountains back to her. At the offer of sleeping in the supply cart, he chuckles softly. "If I slept in the supply wagon, you'd not be able to carry all the supplies the trip would need, now would you?" he says a bit ruefully, knowing he's not a small person. "I'm used to sleeping on stone at need, under the wagon would do." One large hand rubs his chin thoughtfully, the mental wheels almost visible as he calculates time away from the Weyr against the possibility of actually fulfilling one of his assigned tasks. "You, me and … who else? You got a team of traders or guards?"

A small ripple of irritation prickles along the back of Prymelia’s neck when the Miner-Smith correctly points out how his size would displace much needed supplies but she’s not about to let him know he’s thought of something she hadn’t. Pride. Such a wonderful thing. Not. “Fine,” she gives back affecting indifference, “If you want to sleep under the wagon be my guest I hear it can get cold the further you move away from the coastline.” Then Kynedir goes on to question the team she may or may not have at her disposal. Hazel eyes narrow slightly at the corners, the only indication that once again he’s come close to catching her tail in the door. “My brother,” the traderwoman returns with a challenging lift of chin, “though he might choose to remain behind and concentrate on his studies.” That made to sound so very important. “Guards cost marks and will only slow me down. Look,” the tiiiiniest sliver of temper shows through dashing a flame to expressive eyes, “come with me or don’t. Either way, I’m the only way you’re gonna get there unless you can sprout wings and fly yourself there.”

A slow nod, calculations and speculations slowly resolve themselves within Kynedir's mind. "Fine. You and me, your brother if he chooses, two wagons." he says, enumerating the possible contents of the caravan and nods once more. "I can work with that. You let me know when you're ready to leave … I'll square it with my Crafthead." He spits in the palm of his hand and holds it out to her, an old-fashioned way of Miner's sealing a deal with those outside their own Craft.

Again there’s that flash of annoyance that streaks behind hazel eyes but its there and gone so quickly it’s barely detectable. The nerve of the man! Speaking as if he had a say in who does or doesn’t accompany them on the expedition. The spat in palm being held out to her is eyed. Its not a custom unfamiliar to her, she’s seen her father do it a thousand times over but has never personally been the unfortunate recipient thereof. Suppressing an internal shudder, Prymelia follows Kynedir’s lead. Wetting her palm as he had she grasps his hand and gives it a firm shake. “Deal. I’ll send word to you as soon as I’ve wrapped up a few things.” Releasing his hand she restrains herself from wiping her palm on her skirt and taking a step back nods to the sack of rocks at his feet. “Happy rock hunting.” A strange smile and turning she heads back the way she’d come, her mind awhirl with plans for the future.

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