Who

Rhuysarr, Prymelia

What

Two people from completely different sides of the jungles meet on a rain soaked beach and find common, if not sombre, ground.

When

It is late night of the twenty-second day of the third month of the fourth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, Beach

OOC Date 02 Mar 2015 22:00

 

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"I'm not ready."


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Beach

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.


Prym's Song: Leah - Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

No one should be out at this hour. The sun is long gone from the sky, and even the moons seem to quail to show their faces in the near pervasive darkness. If those missing night guides weren't enough, there's a steady trickling of rain that's just enough to distort the night even further. But there's one on the beach foolish enough to venture out into the dark, braving the remains of the weather. It's a rain-slicked Rhuysarr who stands where the waves break against the damp sand. He looks rather like a drowned animal with his hair plastered to the side of his head, a testament to the fact that he has likely been out here for some time. Like a sullen statue, he stands with his boots almost catching the tide, staring out at the black waters. Quiet words slip past his lips, spoken to some invisible listener.

It would seem there is more than one foolish soul on the desolated, rain soaked stretch of beach this night, for along the way, moving from the Weyr side of things, comes another. With an umbrella striped in colors more fitting for the daylight hours of sunny strolls and pretty drinks, the one that approaches, is clearly female. Unless of course of one of the Weyr's more effeminate men has taken to wearing skirts. Closing fitting about flared hips, they swoop outward from the knee in a flirtatious swirl of cloth about legs. A shawl tugged about her shoulders hiding any knot, the redhead is singing a song, soft strains of which are dampened by the inclement weather. Apparently, no one has told Prymelia that firstly, she shouldn't be out on her own at night right now and secondly, miserable weather is nothing to sing about. Then again, there's a certain melancholy to the rise and fall of her voice as she draws closer to where Rhuysarr stares out over the darkened water.

"Rhyssa." The name falls softly from his lips and tumbles to the sand at his feet, where the tide sweeps up and washes it away as though it had never been spoken. Clad in all black, he's difficult to see against the backdrop of a midnight ocean. His clothes stick to him as a second skin; the half-drowned look of a man who couldn't be bothered to find shelter when the skies opened, and now sees no reason to fight his damp fate. The ocean breeze catches Prymelia's melancholy tune and spirits it towards Rhuysarr's frozen form. His spine stiffens, proverbial hackles raised by the intrusion upon his solitude. "Not safe here at night." If she hadn't heard it before, he's ready with a warning. The words are spoken toward the waves, his voice lifted just loud enough to carry.

"Is a pretty name," the redhead declares in a voice that still sing-songs a little, her umbrella graciously tilted over Rhuysarr's head which means she has to step in closer in order to stay dry herself. His warning disregarded for what it is. "Then its just as well you have me to protect you." She goes on to say, tilting a pert smile out. She's just that daft and naïve to assume this man in black to be harmless or, she has a backup he's not aware of. "What are we doing?" Her gaze follows his outward, simply inviting herself to this lonely, wet vigil of his. "Waiting for your ship to come in?"

Rhuysarr laughs, but the sound is dark and cold, with all the humor drained from it. The rain above him seems abruptly to cease while continuing to fall all around, and the wildling man has to tilt his head back to stare at the contraption above his head. "What-" The question is begun but seems to have no end - at least not one that bears speaking aloud. The umbrella inspires such contemplation that he almost, almost forgets to scowl at the suggestion that this intruder might offer him protection. "Nothing." The word is sharp, cutting through the night with undue anger. Then, less caustic, "I have no use for ships. Go home."

Okay, so maybe the essence of that laugh does send a flicker of doubt across lightly freckled features but its not enough to save Rhusyarr's space of brooding. Continuing to remain exactly where she is, umbrella shared between them and shoulders possibly touching so that Prymelia can remain within its shelter, she slides him a slightly narrowed look. "Was she very pretty?" Seemingly out of nowhere this query comes, his demand for her to leave, ignored.

The quarters are too close for Rhuysarr's comfort and he flinches the first time her shoulder brushes against his, like a skittish animal shying away from a proffered kindness. Perhaps it's the hour, or the way the rain seems to have soaked beneath his skin, but he doesn't step away from the sheltering span of the umbrella. A muscle works in his jaw as shoulders touch again, but this time he doesn't flinch. For a lingering moment, there's no hint that he'll respond. He doesn't so much as draw a breath, let alone part his lips to answer. "Yes." It's the final, simple answer that escapes in almost a whisper. "Your song?"

Prymelia isn't perhaps as oblivious as the initial impression might mark her to be yet she doesn't withdraw when Rhuysarr flinches. Instead, she keeps herself very still. Much like one might when trying to befriend a spooked runner. Drawing her shawl tighter about her shoulders with her other hand, there's a soft intake of breath for the manner of her query about pretty girls hadn't been intended in the manner in which its answered. It warrants a few lingering moments of thought, with elegant brows slightly puckered toward one another. And then: "You miss her." Statement not query, quietly spoken followed by a short smile for the one put to her. "Aye? Its a…song of farewell." A soft pause. "My clan sings it when we someone dies to remind ourselves that they are not truly gone but continue on in our hearts, in the wind, in the sun…in the rain." Words trail away and Prymelia shrugs fitting the brooding man beside her with a lopsided smile.

The manner of his response might lead to some erroneous conclusions, but Rhuysarr allows this stranger to draw what impressions she may from his scant answers. The truth of her simple statement is acknowledged with the slow tilt of his head and the hard swallow of a man quelling even the threat of emotion. His eyes have found a home following the slow rise and fall of the waves once again, searching out the comfort of repetition. Brows draw together in a frown that's soon smoothed over as she speaks of farewell, reminding him of deeds done at night for that very name which he spoke so softly. "Why do you sing?"

Effervescent, gregarious, oft times with a short-fused temper, Prymelia is a many layered creature. A veritable onion on shapely legs. Thus, is she is capable of compassion and doesn't intrude upon Rhuysarr's pain, respecting that which is laid bare in the undulation of throat and acknowledging tilt of head. "I sing for loved ones lost. Friends, family, those whose faces I never saw but whose screams we felt. Everyone has someone that mourns them when they're gone." Beneath the downward sweep of thick mahogany lashes, hazel eyes slip sideways to Rhuysarr. "Death is a dagger in the heart that must be slowly withdrawn lest we spill too much of ourselves onto the thirsty ground for the pain of their loss." The way these words are delivered, grave yet quietly given, speaks to a recitation learned early on at the knee of an elder. "And so we sing," a refrain from earlier lifts up touching the damp, dark air about them: Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep. When you wake in the morning hush, I am the swift, uplifting rush.

For a short span, Rhuysarr's gaze turns away entirely, hiding his face in shadow and leaving only rain-plastered curls in view. Loved ones lost. For just a moment, the wildling feels the stain of blood on his hands for the first time. Without any conscious urging, his hand slides from beneath the protective overhang of the umbrella. He holds it there beneath the falling droplets, as though the rain might wash him clean. And is that his baritone haltingly humming along with her tune? No, it can't be. It must just be a strange, musical rumble from the storm, or perhaps the crashing waves.

Unaware of what blood he may have on his hands – perhaps thankfully so – Prymelia's mouth turns about the last word, hitching toward the idea of a smile when there's musical accompaniment, of storm's origin or otherwise. "Would you like to learn it?" She asks once the last word has died away. "You're not of my clan but I don't think my grams would mind. She always did say that life is better shared than divided up." A pause develops in which her free hand disappears under her shawl and when it draws out again, there's a strange little doll made out of red yarn in her palm. "You can have this if you like. For…Rhyssa." A light upward lilt marks query for she's not entirely sure she remembers the name properly that Rhuysarr had so quietly uttered. "I met a wildling." Clearly unaware of the man's status that stands beside her. "He told me his people make these dolls in memory of those they've lost. His had hair," real hair. Don't ask! "And these sort of pretty leafy wings but I figured it maybe doesn't matter so much if mine is different, aye?" To Rhu her palm extends with the doll and its tufty, yarny hair lying in it. "I think you're supposed to let it go on the river but maybe the sea will be okay too."

There's something familiar and comforting in this talk of clans, even if Prymelia isn't one of his kind. At least she seems to understand something about a shared history among a family that these northerners seem to be lacking. "I might." From Rhuysarr, even that indecision is something. His gaze drops as she begins reaching for something, his shoulders immediately tensing in anticipation of a possible threat. But instead of a knife, it's a… doll. It's a symbol he recognizes, even if its form isn't exact. Practices thread their way through wildling culture, varying from clan to clan, but even when details vary the heart behind it stays the same. For the first time, he looks directly at Prymelia, sweeping his gaze over her face in search of some ulterior motive. Some hint of a meaning that would make this anything other than a kindness. "We do." he agrees, betraying his allegiance. His entire body seems to hesitate, frozen in indecision until it finally shatters as he reaches out to take the doll. His thumb brushes over its tuft, back and forth, back and forth, as his eyes turn toward the sea once more. "I'm not ready."

There's a quick flash of pleasure in those watchful hazel eyes for even indecision is better than a flat out 'No'! "I think you'll have a lovely voice." Prymelia goes on to declare. Yes, Rhuysarr, she knows it was you humming along. Hints of that impishness that's as indelibly a part of who she is that its probably etched into her very DNA begins to make an appearance but makes a quick retreat at his admission of fealty. "Oh." And she almost takes the doll back, her cheeks darkening slightly for being aware of what a poor facsimile her offering is in comparison to what she'd seen Koa had made with her hair. But fingers that had started to curl over it, jerk straight out again when Rhu plucks it from her hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you were…" Whatever she was going to say drifts away, bled into obscurity but those last three words of his. "I don't think we ever really are." Small the tilt of lips, more of an indentation to the corner of her mouth than truly a smile.

It's the wind that was humming so awkwardly, not Rhuysarr. Really. And since he clearly wasn't to blame, it shouldn't come as any surprise that his only response is a grunt and a brief shake of his head. He seems not to notice - or even understand - her reaction to his admittance, his attention too singlemindedly focused on that doll. It doesn't have the deft touch of practiced fingers, but he still studies it with the faintest of smiles. "Like a child." Yes, that's right. Her handiwork is just as good as that of a child. His thumb runs back and forth along the yarn body, brushing over fibers and unconsciously sheltering the doll from the threatening rain. "I will keep this." He gives her just a moment's pause to disagree before tucking it into a pouch upon his belt. "Until…" Until I'm ready, is the unspoken end. He ought not to take anything from these northerners, but there's a certain lure in the familiarity of the custom. Eyes stray toward the waves again, as the air beneath the umbrella begins to feel stifled by those feelings he has worked so hard to keep hidden. "Thank you." The words slide quietly past his lips with a nod of acknowledgement, before the wildling steps out from beneath the protective shield of the umbrella. Without glancing back at the night's strange companion, he strides off the beach, allowing the rain to wash away the last vestiges of vulnerability with each step he takes.

Like a child. Under any other circumstances, Rhuysarr might have met the sharp edge of Prymelia's tongue for that but as it is, she's all too aware where her attempt at a mourning doll has failed. And so instead, there's a quick smile and duck of head. At least he didn't drop it to the ground and stomp it to death. Another of those quick smiles of hers is accompanied with a dip of head. "Until." She gets it. "You're welcome." Sent after him as he steps back out into the rain. She'll linger there a few moments longer watching the rain soak away his footprints and then turn and slowly make her way further up the beach where a lovely celadon green has just landed ready to whisk the former trader to their weyr, dry and warm.

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