Who

K'ane, Prymelia

What

Two crows squabble over a crust of bread aka K’ane and Prymelia snark at each other.

When

It is midmorning of the thirteenth day of the twelfth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, Clearing

OOC Date

 

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Clearing

The rise from sea to Weyr is made serene by a charming road winding sand-trodden from beach below to stonecut entrance above. The path wanders among a surprisingly green valley where purple flowers bloom in charmingly unfettered profusion. The meadows themselves are often in high demand as picnic areas, for dragons are not allowed to land in the narrow valley itself. No trees nor cliff lies near to shadow the clearing, however, and the intensity of sun can be unbearable for those not familiar with the humid drench of Southern's summers.


He's always running. ALWAYS. RUNNING. Who? K'ane, of course. That disaster didn't stop his normal habits, so here he comes 'round the corner, thunk-thunk-thunk of footfalls on the packed dirt of the path winding through to the boardwalk. He's in the zone. (We know how this worked out LAST time.) Luckily, there's no Dhioth to be seen ANYWHERE.

Amidst the ruins of what was once a wagon, is Prymelia. Muttering and cursing as she hauls back a splintered piece of wood and tosses it to one side, the white knot designating her ‘new position’ in life not sitting neatly upon a shoulder but instead slung about her neck like a noose. Said shoulders are bare you see. At least she has the thing with her. The edge of something hued in jeweled shades is spied peeping out from under another board but is caught about the remains of a wagon wheel. “Stupid…arrogant….fall at their feet…never…happen…” And so on and so forth until that pounding of feet so horribly familiar now, breaks her stream of consciousness. Jerking her head up though perhaps hidden behind a broken round of roofing, she spies the rider of The Destroyer. “YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE!!” She yells, utters another curse and goes back to tugging determinedly at that scrap of fabric.

"I don't think it's s'pposed t'be a necklace, candidate," comes K'ane's voice, dry, as he pulls up next to the candidate and her inspection of the WRECKAGE. He's unruffled by her yelling — it actually pulled him over here, since he couldn't see her before it — and swipes the back of his hand over his forehead to shake excess perspiration away. "D'you need some help?" The slow tone of his voice indicates he thinks she needs far more help than HE could ever POSSIBLY provide.

Candidate. And therein lies a modicum of frustration for the very clear disparity in rank. He be big fish, big pond. She be little fish, big pond now. Biting back the sharp retort that flies to her lips, Pryemlia sets the sweaty bronzerider with a look. “While its all very well and good to bleed for your Weyr, sticking myself with a pin to put it on a shoulder isn’t quite what I had in mind.” And just for effect she tugs at the off-the-shoulder gypsey blouse that’s more suited to a wander along the beach than candidate chores or rummaging through wreckage. Given the slippage off one shoulder, it’s also clearly not hers. “Too late. I was born this way.” She quips right back and instead of trying to shift the wheel snagging on the fabric, she hauls back on it instead. RIIIIP! It tears in half and she lands square on her ass. “FUCK!” Stubborn this one. And so ladylike too.

If Prym actually ever VOICED her opinion on K'ane being a big fish, he would probably laugh in her face. But that comes with the territory of basically being now three weyrs worth of do-boy. K'ane. He has complexes. "Huh. Looks like y'need help. Are those your clothes? Y'look a little…" He tilts his head at her like a canine would. "Mangy ain't th' right word. Skinny? Starved maybe. I dunno. Different." He gestures briefly at ALL OF THAT OUTFIT and then moves forwards to offer her a calloused hand up. "I could have moved th' damn wheel for you," he POINTS OUT.

Emotion stings at the back of her eyes when the damn thing rips but Prymelia will NOT give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Again. Stuffing the thing into a large bag she has with her, the hand offered is taken. Only once she's up on her feet she drops it as if perhaps it were a tunnelsnake but does afford K'ane a dry retort on what's changed about her. "I look…homeless maybe?" And truly she does without a lick of her usual splashes of color. If she had any idea of the complexes attached to the big bronzerider, she might be a little less contrary. Picking through the rubble, another treasure, mostly intact is spied but the little trinket box is caught beneath a flattened section of roofing. She's going to have to ask for help now. Huff. "Okay then , Muscles, how about you do your manly thing and shift that out of the way so I can get in" ducking she peers into the little hollow beneath it, "there. I need that box."

"Homeless. There's a word for it," K'ane replies, his voice ENTIRELY too cheerful. Asshole. "What's in it?" K'ane leans against the nearest still-standing piece of rubble, his eyebrows Expectant and gaze levied on Prymelia. "Anything fun?" Is he just LOOKING to be smacked? He could be.

Prymelia goes very still and levels a long look onto the cheerful bugger. “Do you have any idea what this meant to me? What it represented?” So quietly asked she might just as well be talking to herself again. There’s a lip pursed shake of head and whether he lifts that section of roofing for her or not, she’s going in with a smartly given: “A wooden dildo.” Not! Squeeze, squeeze, wriggle, wriggle and then: “Crap!” As she just doesn’t have the length of arm to reach the little box. “Are you going to stand there staring my butt or are you going to make yourself useful?” For all she knows, K’ane might well have left and there’s now a herdbeast readying to take a bit out of said butt.

"If I think about it too long I'll prolly kill myself t' get back at Dhioth and then you'll never get your new wagon." That's said in a too-neutral response. Was he joking? K'ane rolls his eyes at her response of what's in the box and crouches down to carefully lever up the section of roofing - he makes it look easy enough, all things considered. "I ain't starin' at your ass," he ALSO rumbles over at her; "You're a candidate. It wouldn't be proper." Diving bronze dragons destroying EVERY BIT of someone's life, however, entirely proper. Yep.

The wriggling redhead stills at his reply and probably even tries to look over her shoulder if the THUNK under the roofing is anything to go by. “Ow!” A snort muffles into the small space in response to his comment about what’s considered proper. The moment K’ane does as asked Prymelia grabs for her treasured box and backs up again. Hair all mussed into a halo of escaped strands. The item clutched to her chest, the bronzerider is set with another of those long and unreadable looks from where she’s curled on the ground. “Is that why you’re always running?” Quietly asked and perhaps a question she doesn’t expect an answer to as she settles the box in her lap and opens the lid. Within, nestled on a bed of emerald green velvet is a lock of pure white hair, a gold banded ring and a hair clip with a silver-winged avian on it.

"Watch it," K'ane replies reactively, eyeballing the general area of where that THUNK came from. "I'm sure even your skull could break." Though there's a TINY bit of doubt there… "Even though you're one of th' most hard-headed people I've met." Dubious eyes focus on this risk-it-all box, and when the innards are revealed his entire expression does a strange falling, the rarest flush of embarassment causing him to avert his eyes as if he's just seen something too personal for such an open forum. "Nope," he deadpans in response to her question, his voice forced-cheerful. "I run because my damn lout won't ever give me a ride. It's the quickest way other than hopping on something that is basically moving food, an' prolly a bit less… risktaking."

With some haughtiness attached. “I’m not hard-headed, I’m focused.” Apparently there’s a difference in Prymelia-world. Gently she lifts the lock of hair and feathers it against her cheek, a fond smile making a brief appearance before she sets it reverently back into the box alongside the other two items. The lid is closed and the little lock latched into place again. Hazel regard studies that deadpan expression in silence for a few moments, the reply given turned over and quietly inspected and then she nods and drops her gaze. “I don’t hate you.” She tells K’ane and gathering her legs up under her, stands and stows her treasure box in the bag. “I’m just…mad at you.” Because that’s different. “And running to something, is better than running away. You can’t outrun your own shadow. I know. I tried.” Rueful the smile that appears the somber moment brushed away in the next instant as she produces a slip of hide from a pocket and holds it out to him. “My list of needs.” And really, its far shorter and simpler than one might have expected.

"Maybe focued on bein' hard-headed," K'ane mutters, mostly under his breath. Mostly. Something tightens in his expression again at the care that Prym gives those objects, and he even takes a step back as if to put room between them. Or maybe between him and the box. SURELY IT WILL DIE IF HE REMAINS CLOSE TO IT. Or something, right? He shakes his head as if to clear it and stands tall again, squared-shoulders and fearless-eyed to smirk at Prym: "Well, I'm glad t' know you don't hate me. It'd be a long weyrlinghood, should you Impress, otherwise." He takes the list and scans it briefly before nodding to himself. "I'll see that you have it by th' end of the day. If that's soon enough for you." Notably, he has ZERO words for running away from his own shadow.

Lips part, lips close and K'ane is eyed for that opening comment. She heard you! Does she notice how thoroughly awkward he appears to be in the face of her precious box? Maybe. Or maybe not. Either way, Prymelia pretends like she doesn't and conjures a smirk for his comment about weyrlinghood. "I'm sure you've had many a weyrling fantasizing about putting tunnelsnakes in your bed or numbweed in your boots." Drifting passed him as she spies the edge of a brightly crocheted blanket, the former trader boldly pats a hand to that broad chest. "But I think you're safe there assistant weyrlingmaster, dragons, despite what your clumsy bronze might think, know better than to get hitched to someone like me." That he has no response to the topic of running seems to have been expected. "Oh. And I don't want a manky secondhand pair of sandals with someone else's foot fungus on them either," she says of her list, "I want a new pair. Same goes for the bodice. Those never fit right if someone else has worn it before." Just so he knows. An exhibition of her cricket brain comes into play with a sudden switch of topics: "So when will you start?" On rebuilding her wagon but that might not be clear.

"If tunnelsnakes were th' only thing half of them wanted t' put in my bed, I'd be doin' pretty good." K'ane's return smirk is frankly lecherous. He waves his hand, tsk-tsk, at her declaration of dragonlessness. "Uh huh. Dhioth." That's all he has to say. "He may suck at some judgme… okay, no. I owe you an explanation s'much as anyone is owed anything, I reckon." He squares his shoulders. "Listen." His face is SERIOUS. "He ain't clumsy. He did that whole shit deliberately, an' it had little t' do with you. Well. It did. But you were a convenience. He didn't want t' go back to Igen, an' destroying your little…" He gestures at Prym's old LIFE, CRUSHED, "…was the best thing he came up with for makin' me stick around. So I do owe you an apology. Because he's a fucking asshole." That makes everything better. HAHAHAHAHA. A little more contrite: "If y'wanna go with t' get this, I'll get you out of chores. An' you can pick out your own dumbass sandals."

“Whatever.” Prymelia calls his lecherous comment as bullshit. “You keep telling yourself that, big boy. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Only a few splintered planks and what might have once been a mattress need to be moved in order to free the colorful and now somewhat stretched blanket. “WHAT!?” The word explodes out of the former trader before she has a chance to catch herself. Cue a few moments of fish-mouthing and wide-eyed STARING at K’ane as if maybe he’s just grown another head and then slowly pretty features close behind a tight line. “A convenience.” Bitter the echo of those words ringing with the dull note of a past grievance somewhere along the line. “Just what every girl wants to hear when her home has been rendered little more than kindling. So glad to have been of assitance.” Sarcastic. “I hope Dhioth is REAL happy!” At least she seems to be more pissed at the bronze than his rider now? That’s a good thing right? “I want boots too.” Sullen silence as the blanketed is folded and then stuffed into the bag as well, spilling out over its top in a cheerful profusion of yarny happiness. “Thank you.” Mumbled. That for the offer that she go along and make her own choices in footwear.

"I don't have t' tell myself anything. You can come pull out all th' dumbfuck girls who have tried th' whole 'surprise someone by bein' naked in their bed' trick on me." Instead of sounding proud of that, K'ane just sounds surprisingly weary. Pimpin' ain't easy, bitches. He stands stock-still for the predictable barrage from the girl, seems to take it as his due, nods along here and there and winces a couple of times. "Well. You've got a new home, now, anyhow." K'ane shrugs his shoulders. "I'll rebuild your damned wagon so if y' let some poor little dragon on th' Sands die because of your sheer stubbornness you'll have somethin' to go back to." Because that's how to mend fences, right there. Oh yeah. "Boots? Guess we'll have t' go see Dien." His voice is RESIGNED on that mark.

Well now, that was something Prymelia could never have anticipated hearing from him as is exhibited in the rounding of eyes and the perfect ‘O’ her mouth forms. And then outright mirth ignites amber flecks in her eyes and its all she can do to prevent herself from straight out laughing. “It’s a hard life you live, K’ane. I don’t know how you manage! It must be exhausting.” No really, it must be. All those women and only so many hours in a day? A snort greets comment of her letting a hatchling die on the Sands in favor of hitching wagon and rolling off into the sunset. “Oh go on. Just tell the truth. You’re just dying for an opportunity to boss me around. I tell you what. I’ll make you a deal right here, right now. If there’s a dragon dumb enough out there to hitch itself to me, I’ll shine your boots for a turn and even pretend to like it. Sound fair to you?” That said the bulging bag is taken up – okay more like hefted to a shoulder with a bit of a stagger involved – and she gestures in the direction of the crafter’s complex. “Lead the way oh Inflamer of my loins!” Yes, she’s going to tease every shot she gets about that-naked-women-in-his-weyr revelation.

She is SUCH a brat. K'ane just EYES her. "Uh huh. Laugh it up, fuzzball," he grumbles. "Laugh it up." At her bet, though, his eyes sharpen: "I'll take that bet." He changes from his original direction, heading BACK to the weyr at her insistence. The only thing that can be heard as they drift off: "Your loins are inflamed?" So concerned: "Y'may want t' see a Healer about that. Sounds painful. I'm sure they make an ointment for that…"

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