Renalde Prymelia


Renalde asks when Prymelia is going to put her talents to a proper use.


It is morning of the twenty-second day of the second month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Ice Fields- Kitchens

OOC Date


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A kitchen. It's HUGE and seems oldtimer-modern rather than nowtimer-rustic. Tons of space. Tons of knives.



If there is one place where the similarities between weyr and hold end, it is here in the kitchens. For rather than having a feel of age to it, newness gleams in every corner (why DO they have all those knives?) The wide fires which serve to cook the hold’s basic staples of stew, bread and tubers gleam with newness still, having had little time for the dingyness which comes of long use. This fact in particular seems to please the Southern Headman, who is currently delivering a rather long and detailed explanation of the proper way to keep those fireplaces spotless for turns to come. It is a tableau which is familiar to many with only two exceptions. First, Renalde has not picked up a scrub brush to show the young man he instructing the best way to do it. Second, he stands a good foot away from that fireplace, his crutches bearing his weight and taking inches off of his height. Finally his lecture winds down and the young man in question picks up his brush to begin the task under Renalde’s gaze.

Being as how it had been candidate capers occurring at the time of Renalde’s injury, word had gotten around but with one thing and another, Prymelia is only now tracking the Headman down. “If I were you,” says she coming in on the end of the be-crutched man’s lecture, “I’d do exactly as he says. See you his leg?” Yes, yes, she’s just drawn attention to your gimpy leg, Renalde. “That’s from how hard he kicked the last chap that didn’t scrub the fireplaces correctly.” The picture of truth holds to those lightly freckled features as she drifts up to the Headman’s side tilts a smile his way. “I bet the ladies must be hovering around in you droves to offer aid and comfort, hmm?” Hazel regard holds a teasing glint to it.

“Prymelia, my dear, your impudence grows in leaps and bounds. I rue the day that K’ane destroyed your wagon and stranded you without an outlet for that tongue of yours.” Renalde turns away from the young man cleaning the fireplace (who after giving Prymelia a WIDE EYED LOOK of YOU ARE CRAZY GIRL gets to that cleaning) to cast his cool gaze over the trader-turned-candidate at his side. There doesn’t seem to be any particular malice in that rebuke however- Prymelia and Renalde have an agreement of sorts. Unspoken. She sasses, he ignores it, because in the end, she will do the right thing regardless of how she talks. That does not keep him from utterly ignoring her question however, to pose his own. “I had not thought that you were assigned to the kitchen today.” Carefully Renalde steps away, moving towards a chair set in the corner of the room where he can set aside those crutches.

The very, very, sweetest of smiles is Renalde’s reward for surely that was a compliment sent her way? Well, that’s how Prymelia is going to take it any way. “K’ane,” the bronzerider’s name a purr of sound, though not in the sensual way most females would roll it around in their names. No, no. There is cunning in the way she says it. “Is building me another in return for which, I ensure that ego of his doesn’t get too puffed up.” So helpful isn’t she? Following along beside the Headman, there in case he needs her but not hovering as if he were an invalid – Not openly any way – there’s a light laugh for the observation. “I’m not. I’m assigned to you today.” Ta daaaa! His very own nursemai…erm, assistant for the day. Self appointed.

"So I have been informed. The smith's were displeased to hear that their prior work had been destroyed." An eyebrow raises upwards as she follows him to his seat. The laugh only causes it to grow higher as his hands very carefully intertwine themselves into his lap. "Really now. I was unaware that an assistant had been assigned to me. Do explain who appointed you so that we can get you back to a useful set of activities." There is a particular coolness in his tone that bespeaks vast displeasure at this l. Perhaps even hinting that this attic has been attempted before with less than stellar results.

An odd little expression crosses Prymelia’s face when the Headman comments on the smiths’ reaction to the destruction of her wagon but is soon tucked away behind a quick smile. “Tsk,” the cluck of tongue is soft, “helping you is a useful activity. I’m pretty sure you’re not able to crutch around and carry a clipboard at the same time. Besides, what if you need to check up on something on one of the upper or lower levels, hmm? It’s going to take you forever to get up and down there and you’ll tire yourself out needlessly. Besides, it will give me a chance to catch up with my favorite Headman.” Conveniently the matter of who assigned her, is glossed over. “Shall I organize us a flask of klah to carry about?” Efficient when she has something to do that doesn’t bore her to tears and back.

Renalde arches an eyebrow in a clear 'I don't believe you' expression. For long moments he sits in that chair and ponders the young woman. "Are you calling in to question the ability of my staff to perform their tasks without my direct supervision?" His tone is mild, and without the sheeting of ice upon it. "Or have you finally decided to forgo your trader dreams to put your natural talents to a proper use as my assistant headwoman?" Then she would get DEDICATED Renalde time.

In this, Prymelia is completely honest in pointing out the flaws of his not having a reliable gopher to pop about the place while he rests up. “No, Sir. But I know that you like to keep a direct finger on the pulse of what’s going on around you.” Derived from having observed Renalde around the Weyr. Its what the Headman says next that draws the former trader up short and finds her staring at him a little like a simpleton might. “You would offer me assistant headwoman?”

If Renalde was a man to gloat, he might do it here seeing that rather dumbfounded look upon her face. But as he isn’t, he simply settles back into the chair as a very small smile settles upon his lips. “Your abilities to organize and motivate individuals are quite exemplar. You are steady and reliable, if a bit too progressive in your views. I find little to criticize in what you do, and that which is flawed you seek to fix. Other then the matter of your current status as a candidate, is there a reason I would not seek to have you on my staff, either here or, as I would assume you would prefer, at the weyr?”

Oh Renalde, if only you knew. And maybe its guilt or maybe it’s the chat she’d had with Hannah that does it but Prymelia, inhaling a steadying breath, delivers up a confession. “I…I might have told a patron in the dining hall that we had only lumpy mash, rancid pork and cold gravy on the menu.” A pause and then she adds: “After he assumed I was a whore.” And than another hasty addition is quick to follow. “But I did then bring him a large plate,” THIS BIG, “of roast meats and our finest fare and he was most complimentary.” And there she falls to silence, staring at the section of floor between her feet and the Headman’s. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” It probably will but she’ll probably also be quick to make amends too.

Renalde has a rather strange double standard around the word ‘whore’. Really, only he is allowed to use it, and no one else. The admission of her misdeed is waved off when she gives the explanation of his behavior, though his lips tighten with a repressed flash of displeasure knowing that someone in his hold would call a candidate of all people such. Allowing his elbows to rest on the arms of the chair, Renalde leans forward. “As no such report of rancid food has reached me, I will allow that perhaps you overreacted to his improper assumption. It seems that your misstep has been fixed as no particular complaint has reached my ears. I assure you, my offer is no way affected by this incident.” An eyebrow raises again, his tone very, very mild.

“It wasn’t his fault.” Prymelia quickly observes. “He’s not from around here and someone had misled the poor man as to what constitutes a working woman.” She needs Renalde to know that before some poor sap catches a mouthful for fault not his own. Then, and only then, does she address the fact that his offer still stands. “It would be an honor to serve you, Sir. Either here or at the Weyr. But I must ask as so much time, effort and expense has gone into it. What of my new wagon that K’ane is building. May I still keep it?”

"As it is your personal possession, I can, of course, not take it from you without your agreement. I would hope that you would allow the weyr to utilize it however, it would remain your home for as long as you choose to rest within." This is said very slowly, like perhaps he may be speaking to someone who is not quite listening properly. "I am going to assume you will wish to stay candidacy out before accepting your new position?" Renalde's tone makes it clear he really would rather she did so immediately.

“If I am to serve at the Weyr,” Prymelia begins after having given the Headman’s words some thought, “I think I would like to live in it. However, if it comes about that I am to serve here, then perhaps hiring it back to the Weyr would be best with the proceeds for the rental going to K’ane to compensate him for the cost of materials.” Even if it was his dragon’s big butt that squished her original wagon. “Yes sir,” there is given a firm nod of head, “I have vowed to Dhioth that I will stand on the sands and I won’t go back on my word. But once that’s all said and done, I’m all yours.” A fierce little smile appears, challenging of the bronze dragon that had intimated she doesn’t have the chops to see Search through.

A flash of deep satisfaction rolls across Renalde’s features before they steady again into simple neutrality once again. He nods in assent with her desire for the wagon. “Very well. You will be assigned to the assistant headwoman’s room rather than returning to the dorms should those dragons very prudently pass you by again.” At least there is no doubt about how Renalde feels about how he would arrange Prymelia’s future. (And that he thinks he would do a better job of it than a baby dragon.) Leaning forward he reaches for the crutches and rises to his feet again. “Until that time however, you are still a candidate. Thus, I have no intention of keeping you from the chores you are rightly to attend to. I believe that they are mucking out the stables today.” An upraised eyebrow, to see if she would protest being sent away again.

“Thank you, Sir.” Graciously given for she’ll face the battle of preferring to room in her wagon rather than indoors when the time comes. As for what chores Prymelia is supposed to be attending, she merely offers an impish smile. “I believe they are.” As to whether she intends doing so too? That’s anybody’s guess given that this is a woman that marches to her own drum. Even in candidacy. “You take care of yourself, Renny.” Fondness in tone and expression when she boldly steps forward and plants a chaste kiss to the Headman’s cheek. “We all still need you about for a good many turns to come.” And then she’s dancing away, shooting him a triumphant little grin as she takes her leave.

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