Oh, to be clean — to remove the sweat and detritus of sweeps, the soreness of muscles overtaxed with the physical activity of riding an athletic dragon. Sunk to his neck in hot water, C'ren rests his head on the lip of the pool with a low groan, heedless of other Bath residents as the warmth of the water works its magic.

Prymelia doesn’t have the athletic dragon to worry about. What she does have, is basket filled with a strange assortment of items that she’s lugging inward, puffing a stray lock of hair from her eyes. A victim…erm, test subject is required. Hazel regard sweeps back and forth, back and forth, back and….A bather! How utterly perfect. And so she trots over C’ren-ward heedless of whether he’s wanting to participate or not. “That sounded really, really dirty.” Give her a minute and she might explain. Or not. This is Prymelia.

Wait, what? He's hearing voices, now? Suspiciously, C'ren cracks open one eyelid, raising his eyebrows as he slides a look toward the bearer of the ominous basket who has invaded his peaceful little sanctuary. "Really." Mild disinterest with your breakfast? But of course. That eyelid droops again, and arms hook over that little bath-ledge as C'ren further slouches. "S'pose it might; you Weyr-bred do tend to think with your genitals." And with that, Prymelia is lost; the luxury of a good long soak occupies him.

Up pops a pair of mahogany brows, elegantly shaped and then down they go crashing first into a frown and then sliding about a crafty line. Into the basket, Prymelia’s hand dips and out it comes with something fisted in it. “Firstly,” plunk, something lands in the water near C’ren and begins to make a wild fizzing noise, “I’m not Weyrbred, I’m traderborn.” There’s a difference. “And secondly,” another plink and more fizzing effusing quite close to where said genitalia might rest beneath the water’s surface, “I was referring to your state of hygiene not your state of whatever you were…” The trader woman suddenly goes veeery, very still and tilts her head to one side. One hand, two hands, both above the water. “Were you farting in there?” Perhaps that’s what the groan had been about.

And, cue scalded-cat leap from the water, and a possibly unwanted sight of a naked C'ren glaring at Prymelia from the — hopefully safer — ledge. "What the fuck did you just drop in there!" His teeth are bared, all trace of the indolent and exhausted rider gone. Squint-eyed, he crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring the water dripping onto the floor and creating a small hazard that Renalde will not appreciate in the slightest. "Is this how they teach Traders to behave? Faugh!" He makes a cutting motion with one hand, not even bothering to answer her question — an offense to his dignity. "I ought to — " He can't even. He just can't.

Does Prymelia look repentant? No she does not! In fact, she looks thoroughly amused and openly surveys what might be on view to peruse with idle interest. "Huh. So that's not gonna work." A clipboard is pulled from the basket and a note made before she drops it back again. Arms fold beneath the pert line of her bosom in near mirror of C'ren's posture except she's not looking like a pissed off feline. "Ought to what?" She taunts with a little smirk twitching about lovely lips. "Oh!" Train of thought discarded. "I know! Perhaps this will work better!" Quick as a wink she dives for her basket again, produces something big and fluffy and dusty looking and without a qualm invades the naked bronzer's space and promptly begins to whisk it across his chest, folded arms and shoulders. The powder, scented like Lily of the Valley clumps the moment it hits water beaded skin. "Aw crap. That's not…You need to dry yourself first!" She chastises because its all C'ren's fault! He's RUINING her experiment!!

C'ren stares in disbelief for a long, long moment — she's dusting him with girly scent. And then he's all motion again, swatting at the offending fluffy thing and trying to get the clumping mes off his skin. "What are you doing, you damn fool woman!" He backs all away, arms thrust out straight before him to ward her off. "I'm trying to get clean, damn you! This stuff stinks." His nose is wrinkled in distaste as he runs hands over his chest again, knocking off more bits of — "What is that crap, anyway." Although he's sure he doesn't really want to know, the question just has to be asked, in case it's poison. One must never trust a trader. NEVER. He edges farther still, seeking a space where Prymelia can't get to him with all her ominous, feminine fripperies. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Prymelia is either a little slow or just that determined to carry out the task set her by Bailey that she doesn’t even flinch at the batting motion and stalks after C’ren as he backs up. “Oh. Oh. That’s GOOD! Keep doing that!” Back to her basket she dances and out comes what looks to be a baby’s nursing ‘skin with the hole at its teat cut a little wider. “Tsk! Stop being such a baby. You smell NICE now!” Guy-whose-name-she-doesn’t-know. And maybe it IS poison and maybe THIS is how Ja’kai died – Bathing by Trader! “Now,” she states holding the adapted skin out before her like the nozzle of a flamethrower, “I’ll squeeze and you dance about and yell. And then when you’re covered, I’ll use this!” And out comes that self-same long-handled brush she’d pretended to scrub Lendai with. “Ready?” Is he? Tough luck if he isn’t. SQUIRT, SQUIRT, SQUIRT. Out comes lavender scented soap, boiled down and mixed with water to create a liquid. “I’m bathing you! What else do you think I’m doing?” Prymelia explains dancing around behind the poor naked bronzer. “You’re smell so pretty when I’m done that ALL the wildlings will want you and shine so bright you’ll put the stars to shame.” VERY pleased with herself she is.

C'ren would back away further, except there's that inconvenient wall that prevents him from escape. Prymelia's determined assault is met with more roaring objections and ward-off gestures of the hands. "I can bathe myself." More dance-away, this time to the left, trying to avoid the stench of lavender aimed at him as one arm is thrown up to cover his face — possibly the most useless gesture ever. Where, oh where, are his clothes! He must escape this madwoman. "I don't bloody want help. I don't bloody need wildlings chasing after me. Why don't you effin' go find them and chase 'em around!" And finally, there's a possible escape, as Prymelia dances behind him. He makes a break for it, heading toward the opposite end of the bath, and possibly, a way out, away from the long-handled brush she's wielding like a weapon.

"You can." Prymelia acknowledges. "But clearly the wildlings can't. And I need to practice so I can show other people how to do it when the time comes." It's all so very simple, see? Oh Poo! Now C'ren's running away. Like a GIRL!! Exasperated: "You men are all the same!! All big and tough when you've got your pants on but take them off and have your precious dangly bits on show and you get all…well…like a shy firelizard scared of its own shadow. I've seen it all before you know. Hey! Come back here!!" And yes, she will most certainly go after the bronzerider, brandishing her long-handled brush like a weapon of doom. "You need to rub the soapy stuff in, then I scrub you and THEN you can get back into the pool."

Having managed to get his shirt in his hands, C'ren turns to glare ferociously at Prymelia. "Ever fucking occur to you to ask me if I wanted to help with your — " Chin-jerk at her… supplies. " — experiment?" His lip curls in utter disdain, his glance scathing. "You women are all the same. Think you have a right to just… assault a man any way you please, and expect to be obeyed. Practice, hell. Go practice on someone else. 'M sure a damned greenrider wll be all too happy to assist you." And he almost — almost — jerks his shirt over his head; only it isn't clean. And neither is he. Dropping the shirt with an annoyed grimace. "Damn it, I'm still not clean. And all this shit you dumped all over me makes it worse. Bloody hell." Apparently, he doesn't care if his dangly bits can be seen — if Prymelia wants a look, she can have a look, says his shrug at her jabs. "Pff. Don't really care how many 'bits' you've seen, girl. That's your problem, not mine."

“If I fucking asked you,” yes, she can cuss too, “it would ruin the experiment. I need to know how to handle someone who doesn’t want to be bathed.” It all makes sense when you’re a Prymelia. With one hip cocked, her foot tap-tapping with impatience, the mahogany-haired young woman waits for C’ren to finish his grumping. “Oh please. If I had assaulted you, you’d know all about it and you most certainly…” yup there goes those crafty eyes of hers uuuup and down bare-arsed bronzer, “would not be complaining.” Cue the bright smile. “You see? You see? If you would just le me help you, you’d be clean by now. But noooo, you have to go running around with a stinky shirt hanging around your neck like a manky scarf. Really.” She huffs the last bit to herself. “Men are just so unreliable. Lendai was much better at this!” Oh oops. Did she just say that out loud?

Consider the experiment a success, then, for C'ren is keeping as far away from Prymelia as he possibly can without leaving the baths. "You've nothing I could possibly want." Again, with the lip curl, the dismissive, scathing glance over her form. The shirt is forgotten and forlorn on the floor, now, and his eyes are rolled ceiling-ward. "Here's an idea for you, then — go chase Lendai, since you enjoy her so much." Smirk. The possible scenarios that would involve apparently gives him a good internal laugh. Again, he edges toward a bathing pool — hopefully not polluted with all manner of girl-muck — while keeping a wary eye on Prymelia. "Enough of your games, girl. I don't bloody like that crap you're trying to smear on me, and I don't bloody want to be a aprt of your damned experiment. Let me bathe in peace, now. You've had your fun, now go away."

“Oh good. At least we can agree on that.” Prymelia airily retorts, dismissing that scathing look with a little waft of slender hand in the air. Plenty more where he came from. She doesn’t get the double-edged suggestion made of the Senior Weyrwoman. Or maybe she does and chooses to ignore it. “I don’t think Lendai will help again. She seemed really freaked out when Q’fex came in.” And doesn’t that just sound like every man’s fantasy of what must have been going on. In a blessed pause of silence, hazel regard follows C’ren’s venturing toward another pool. “That one’s got Rosemary and Basil in it.” She tells him. What!? Was she trying to cook in the pool? “And that one,” another pool gestured at with the long-handled brush, “has hearth ash and soda crystals in it.” Polishing silver in that one. “This one,” the one alongside the one she’d chased him out of. “Still needs a dash of something.” So….its safe, yes? Maaabye. How brave does C’ren feel?

C'ren growls in disgust. "Does it look like I care about any of that?" Because he doesn't trust this evil female, he sniffs delicately at each pool before settling on the one that apparently has naught in it but water — the very one Prymelia's pointing at with the brush. And so, he moves toward it, edging past Prymelia with an eye to self-protection should she make any sudden moves borne of 'bright ideas'. One toe is dipped into the water, testing the surface cautiously. "G'wan, now, girl. Go find someone else to pester. Q'fex, perhaps." Because he's all about that sacrificial lamb — as long as he's not that lamb.

Oh she is evil. Very, very, evil. And a pretty little liar too. The smile settled about plush lips is a sweet little thing all innocence and light as she watches, C’ren make his way into the pool. Cute butt! Thought not said because it’ attached to a gumpy grouse of a man. As he gets further down into it, he might start to notice an odd squidginess between his toes. Like mud or maybe….what pie apples sliced might feel like? The more he puts his weight on them new floor covering, the more the scent of apples with rise up through the water. Crafty the smug expression Prymelia now wears as she gathers up her basket and turns to head off. “I’m keeping the milk bath for Q’fex.” She calls out disappearing into the shroud of steam a silvery laugh left in her trail as she departs. Has he encountered the fish yet?

Oh, no she doesn't — C'ren's foot is withdrawn with all haste, and he whirls, long arms reaching through the shroud to hook into Prymelia's hair and drag her back toward the squishy pool. "Well, here's an interesting experiment!" Wild laughter ensues, and Prymelia is pushed, pushed right into the pool she'd intended to trap C'ren in. "Let's see how you like your own concoctions, then, girl." Again, that devil-may-care laugh rings out as C'ren, in turn, dances away to snatch up a towel to wrap himself in as he makes good his own escape. "Do tell me how it turns out!" Still laughing, he runs away.

Silvery laughter halts in abrupt, “URGH!” When C’ren catches her by the hair. The basket is dropped spilling its contents all over the place and sending little colored balls bouncing and rolling into other pools, fizz-popping gleefully as their owner is dragged and then shoved into the squidgey pool. SPLASH. For several moments there’s nothing. Just bubbles. Maybe she can’t swim? And then, the creature from the deep breaches the water. “YOU’VE RUINED THE EXPERIMENT!” Prymelia screeches after the bronzerider’s fleeing form like a harpy on E. Actually, if she stopped to think about it, C’ren has just revealed a rather large flaw in her plan - That of easily being overpowered by someone bigger and stronger than herself getting the drop on her. And so, it s back to the drawing board for the inventive young woman.