K'vvan, Prymelia Teyaschianniarina


K'vvan gets Prymelia mixed up for Cha'el's non-rider lover and decides to search her so she doesn't have to get married. Teya is more than willing to help out too!


It is evening of the fourth day of the third month of the first turn of the 12th pass. — After the clutching.


Caravan Grounds

OOC Date


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Caravan Grounds

Deep grooves in the hard packed earth criss-cross a large patch of denuded ground, bearing mute testament to the caravans that frequent this area. Despite the midden holes set back a ways from the main center of traffic, the air is sweet, redolent with the sagebrush that forms a loose perimeter around the flattened expanse. In what is as close to its center as the vague boundaries suggest, a stone ringed fire pit has been dug and surrounded with the odd log or two, ash overflowing from its darkly blackened core.
It is the fourth day of Spring and 52 degrees. The storm finally reaches the weyr as rain pours down in hard, biting sheets. The wind is fast and hard.

It's a good thing that spring has finally broken upon the desert weyr. Good because it means that K'vvan isn't courting hypothermia this time when he takes his drinking binge to an extreme again. The alcohol hasn't quite hit yet, but that wineskin was totally full just a few minutes ago as he stomps through the pouring rain towards the caravan grounds. "F*king Southern bronzeriders!" His muttering is more than indistinct. As the rain begins to come down just a bit harder he stops under the overhang of one of the nearby wagons, lifting the skin to his lips again.

A raining, windy evening finds most of the residents of the Flynn clan tucked away in the warmth of their wagons. Most, but not all. From the side of the lead wagon, a treated tarpaulin has been stretched and there beneath it, a small campfire is lit and several men are grouped about it in deep conversation. Several men and a young woman with deep red hair huddled up against the side with a shawl pulled tightly about her shoulders. "Prymelia, more whiskey." One of them calls out without even so much as looking at her. With a sigh, she peels away from her position and ducking out from beneath the shelter of the tarpaulin, makes a dash for a wagon just over the way. The one that the greenrider just so happens to have taken shelter under.

K'vvan doesn't make room under his tarp for the female, mostly because he doesn't realize that there is a sudden FEMALE who is going to invade his space. Okay, her space, but the one he is claiming at the moment while he drinks down the last drops of the wineskin. "HEY!" When realization suddenly hits. "What are you doing?"

Having not expected anyone to be out in the abysmal weather, let alone hugged up against the supply wagon, Prymelia, losing her footing for a moment on the muddy ground almost skids right into the wineskin sucking man. With a squeak of alarm she throws out a hand towards his shoulder in a bid to stay upright. "Who the shards are you!?"

She so didn't just touch him did she? SHE DID. K'vvan flinches out of the way of the sudden physical contact, sliding in the mud a bit himself as he yanks away. Hopefully she doesn't fall down into the mud altogether, that would just be really bad. "A f*king rider, who the f*ck are you?" He'll glower down at the woman and maybe even reach down to offer a hand if she has fallen. Because, he isn't that bad. Or drunk yet.

She's cold, she's tired and she would rather be in bed than serving her father, Dargle and the three men from Bitra. Thus Prymelia's temper is in short fray this evening. The fact that K'vvan jerks away and entirely messes with her balance on the treacherous ground, does little to improve it when she slips and lands butt first in the mud. Glaring up at him, she brings a muddied hand up and swipes a thick lock of hair from her eyes, smearing mud across her cheek and the bridge of her nose. "A fucking trader!" She growls in return, taking the offered hand with her muddied one and hauling herself back up again. "We don't serve drunks," she then goes on to state primly, wrinkling her nose at the smell of wine lingering about him. "That's what the Cantina is for."

"I don't f*king need your drinks. And I'm not drunk yet. When I am you'll f*king know. Why the hell are you running around bumping into a sharding person in this f*king weather?" K'vvan releases Prymelia's hand as soon as she is steady on her feet and leans back against the wagon. His words are not at all slurred, so it is totally possible that the wine hasn't completely hit his system yet, but just wait. It will.

"How?" Prymelia presses on knowing whether he's drunk or not her mouth twisting about a sardonic line. "Will you try to kiss me?" Snort. With her hand released, she palms it down the front of her skirt leaving a muddy trail. "Doing my father's bidding so that he can impress my intended with what a good girl I am." Heavy on the sarcasm there. "What are you doing skulking about wagons in the middle of the night?"

"Why would I f*king kiss you?" K'vvan looks Prymelia up and down as if he's actually seeing her for the first time. "I am not skulking. If you haven't noticed," He waves a hand out to where water POURS from the sky, "It's f*king raining. And here," he flails his arm at the covering he stands under, "it isn't f*king dropping water on my hair. How does sharding running through a rainstorm impress someone? That's stupid."

Slender shoulders lift and drop in a shrug. "Drunk men are stupid." Prymelia counters narrowing hazel eyes onto the rider then flipping a look up to his hair to see how whether its style requires saving from the rain or not. "Aye, well tough. You can't stay here. If my father sees me talking to a rider he'll throw a conniption." That said, she tries to shoulder passed K'vvan to the short stepping stairs set just under the door to the wagon. "Doing a man's bidding when told is considered a sign of a well bred trader woman." She tells him fishing for a key in her pocket. "And I'm meant to redeem myself from disgrace." Pause, scowl. "You're in my way."

"F*ck him." Maybe that alcohol has finally settled somewhere in the angsty greenrider's bloodstream. "Wait. Why the f*ck will he get mad at you for talking to a rider? You're at a sharding weyr, and dragonriders are in weyrs." His words slow down as if he is actually trying to explain something that the girl might not understand. "I'll f*cking stay here for as long as I sharding well want to."

With a huff of annoyance, Prymelia stops and eyes K'vvan as if he were perhaps some kind of special idiot. "My clan is here for the bazaar, not the Weyr. And as for my father not wanting me talking to riders…" There her words trail and elegant brows knit toward one another, much of the heat escaping the redhead's flare of disgruntled temper for a moment. "He found out I've been seeing one." Trying to gain composure in front of what equates to a stranger, the trader woman pulls the spit and sizzle back about herself like a comfortable cloak. "And if he sees me talking to you, you're the poor sod he'll assume is the one messing with my contractual obligations." The last sardonic mimicry of said parental unit. "So you have to go." Just then, one of the men grouped about the small campfire glances over. Catching the line of his attention, the steady rumble of male voices dwindles and then stops as the tall hard faced wagonmaster shoves to his feet.

"The f*king bazaar is the weyr, how do people not sharding get that?" K'vvan mutters this to himself, more than to the girl. But her story is stirring something in the back of his quickly becoming wine soaked memory. "You and a rider? And you are having to get married. But you don't want to get married because you have a thing for this rider." K'vvan pauses to check the facts, ignoring the sudden silence from over there. "Does this rider," what is that word that people in relationships use, "love one another?"

Prymelia's thoughts are exactly echoed in K'vvan's mutter but she lets it rest there and instead, arching a brow, eyes the rider as he pieces her situation together. "Aye, now you're getting it. I don't want to get married because I want the right to choose who I marry. Not be told who I'm going to marry because the fat bastard has three teams of bullocks and an open route to Bitra." With an expressive roll of eyes she skitters a sidelong glance to the ground at the last and nods mutely on the matter of love and then sighs as hazel eyes return to K'vvan. "Love is a luxury for others not afforded those of my clan." But then she catches movement from the corner of her eye and freezes. "Shit! That's my day. You have to go now." - "Prymelia! Go to your mother and don't leave the wagon until I say so." Cold blue eyes touch disdainfully to the rider. "You sir, are overstepping your bounds. What business have you with my daughter?"

Why the shell is Teya out on the caravan grounds in this kind of weather? Faranth only knows — but the brownrider is, her riding leathers about the only thing keeping her from being entirely soaked to the skin. She doesn't, uh, manage not to look like a complete drowned rat, though, given the way her usually-curly hair is COMPLETELY PLASTERED DOWN over her eyes and ears and wet down the back of her neck, and she is dashing - uh. She is dashing into the shelter of the wagon nearest the K'vvan-Prymelia-angryparent confluence, which probably isn't the caravan she's actually looking for at all, but. It's wet out. Like, really really super insanely ridiculous wet, and she is scrubbing her hands over her face and her hair to get it OUT of her face and, "Shards, sorry, I'm not interrupting am I, I'll be out of your way in-" she glances up at the sky, adjusts her tune to, "-soon. Soon."

"You realize that riders don't f*king marry right?" Prymelia might try to escape, but K'vvan is doing the unthinkable and will reach out to grab her arm. Teya's appearance is actually welcomed (for once) by the greenrider, as he pushes the trader girl at the wingleader of Mirage (hey, when did that happen?) "Don't let her go anywhere, she's f*king coming back to the weyr with us," and advances on the angry father. "You f*king stand her on f*king WEYR LAND, and f*king demand to know why I'm talking to your daughter? Who the hell do you think you are?" Angry K'vvan… actually manages to look slightly scary in the dark and rain, as a helpful flash of lighting flickers overhead.

Prymelia blinks at K'vvan as if he may have grown another head. "What!? Of course they don't why would youErk." Cut off when she's suddenly shoved at an unfamiliar woman. "Hey!! What the fuck is your problem…." Oh hai, daddy. Almost immediately the trader woman goes mute and tries to take a step away from the pair of riders. "This is Flynn ground," the wagonmaster returns, eyes narrowed to slits, "And I'll ask that you not fraternize with my daughter. Prymelia. Wagon. NOW!!" Which is enough to have the redhead glancing uncertainly between the pair of riders and her sire. Which to obey? The denizens of the Weyr or the man that can and has thus far, make her life a living misery. "Da," she begins softly and reaches out a hand to touch Melian's arm, "it wasn't anything. He was just taking shelter. The Flynn don't turn those seeking shelter away."

Teya catches Prymelia rather wetly, with a little bit of a stagger and a splash and some, "Oh!" because, woah, totally in the middle of something here. "The Weyr allows the caravans-" gets cut off by a cracka-boom of thunder ROLLING A SIX in the wake of K'vvan's convenient lightning-flash, and the rest of what the (newly-minted, totally newly-minted) wingleader has to say about THAT. But she's also looking up, then down, assessing - measuring, even. With her eyes. Then she's clutching Prymelia a little bit TIGHTER and dragging - sorry, Pry - the trader out into the rain. That is - out from under the shelter of the Flynn wagon, and the possibly-maybe Flynn ground, and out into the open. "Do you accept," she is maybe kind of having to yell it a little bit, 'cause now the rain's a lot louder, "Search. Standing. For Elicheritath's clutch also there's a GOLD EGG," that's shouted a little bit louder, you know, just in case this is a selling point for anyone, "also it will get you out of here come on say yes," is quieter, almost lost as it's hissed for Prymelia's ears alone.

Generally a hellion on two legs when her dander's up, Prymelia is just BEFUDDLED!! From a boring and cold evening serving drinks to her father and Dargle to all out confusion and then being dragged out into the rain by a woman she's never seen before. "What? Yes, I'm sharding standing." And as if to demonstrate she lifts first one muddied boot and then the other. "Real glad for Elicherry-whatsit. You must be proud but if I don't get to that wagon," the over there that she flings an arm out to where four hulking examples of males are watching with tight expressions, "My da's gonna make it so I only leave to pee." Excuse her, she doesn't get it. In the meantime, seeing his daughter dragged even just a few steps away by a dragonrider, draws a silent snarl from the wagonmaster. "Unhand her at once!!" - "Wait. What!?" Prymelia goes wide-eyed when K'vvan weighs in with threats and talk of Weyr ownership and casts a desperate look up to Teya. Slowly. One by one like pennies dropping into a well, it begins to dawn on her and a grin, wide and cunning peels into place. "Yes! YES! I'll stand." Melian's attention switches from the snarling greenrider and darts to his daughter. "Prymelia, NO! If you go with them…If you say, yes…That's it! I'm done with you!!" Hands swipe together as if he were washing his hands and with a last glare thrown K'vvan's way, the wagonmaster stalks off into the rain, stiff as a board.

"Good," Teyaschianniarina pronounces soundly, "wonderful, here," she is still holding on to Prymelia, still keeping them both out in the rain, dear Faranth, but she's only doing it with one hand now, her other's in her pocket, digging. Then pulling out a white knot that QUICKLY soaks through, "Congratulations now come on let's get," she frowns at the stalking off of Prymelia's parent, pronounces this to be, "Rude," and then yells, "Wingsecond," at K'vvan, "come on. Let's go." It is WET out here guys.

"He can go F*ck himself." K'vvan proclaims loudly, turning on his heel to squelch out into the mud. An arm reaches out and he'll totally grab Prymelia's arm to help Teya drag the woman up to the weyr if she doesn't dog out of his grasp. "Your f*king rider had better appreciate you not having to get married now. And f*king go see him. He misses you." This comes out in a gruff slur, K'vvan really is starting to feel he effects of the wine he drank.

Still somewhat bemused by it all, Prymelia takes the white knot and simply shoves it into a pocket, her attention latched to the wide sweep of her father's back as he declares her washed from his hands. Freckled features pale, any tears that fall, mingling with the rain and thus unnoticed. Little by little the trader's expression hardens and flicking K'vvan a look that could kill because he started it all (she'll probably thank him later), she nods at Teya in a drippy grim-lipped sort of way. "Yes, ma'am." She'll worry about how to get her clothing later. And then she's being grabbed at the other side by the greenrider. "What!? How did you…You knew all along who I was!?" Shock etches into place as she's dragged away without so much as even a backward glance. Under the tarpaulin, there's a large, bald man in his mid forties needing to be restrained from going after the trio.

Candidate Barracks
Hopes, dreams, and fears are contained in these cramped quarters, full of small cots and smaller trunks; thin ragged curtains barely provide privacy between the bunks, shining patches in the material suggesting one too many mending attempts. The minimal floor space is kept clear of debris and personal possessions, wide enough for a single broad table often used for study in the art of dragon care. Here, too, humidity has gathered into high corners, running down the walls and creating a slightly unpleasant atmosphere of damp and mildew. Near the entrance, one cubby exists, large enough to contain a bit of luxury for an adult overseer of the candidates, and a desk — for once in reasonable shape — is set to the left of the entrance, conveniently placed for the monitoring of comings and goings.

"I didn't f*king know who you were till you f*king said you were about to get married and you wanted to be with a rider." VAGUENESS IS VAGUE. K'vvan drags Prymelia up and into the weyr itself, not stopping a single second to let Prymelia change her mind about maybe being it. "Rules. No f*king, not even if he wants it or looks at you with those eyes of his," ew, gross, K'vvan, stop it. "And no drinking." K'vvan doesn't even look around to see if Mayte is here, instead the second the candidate is shoved through the door he is turning and storming off back out into the rain, perhaps to verbally berate someone else.

"And no leaving the weyr without a rider-escort," Teya, muddy of boot and dripping of hair and otherwise entirely bedraggled and rain-soaked, adds in K'vvan's wake. She at least sticks around - and drips on the floor. Sorry, candidates.

"Candidate." Prymelia echoes the word as if she's a little slow. "Teya. Hi." Uncertain as she sneaks a water glance the female rider's way. Gold eggs, welcomes to candidacy and apologies for wingseconds and weather are all heard by not quite yet processed as K'vvan catches her with that comment of his. The newly-minted candidate blinks, opens her mouth and then snaps it shut again, a deep rosy hue creeping across her cheeks. "Um. Yeah. I know the rules. Was in Southern when…" And then K'vvan is stomping his way out again and she's left blinking owlishly at her new surroundings. "No leaving." A nod and then a glance down to the pool of water collecting about her feet before she glances back up to Teya. "I ummmI'm sorry about my da. He uh, he doesn't like riders."

"Rude," Teya also adds in K'vvan's wake, with a frown and a shift on her feet. "Mayte," she addresses their other capti- candidate, "this is - I never caught your name, actually, I'm sorry. Mayte, meet the first of many. Lady-trader, meet Mayte. Really sorry about the weather." Which is when she makes her (squelchy) exit, called away on Important Weyr Business (Or At Least Dry Clothes).

So much noise. Mayte eyes the Trader with a flash of curiosity and even says, "Welcome." Teya's departure gets a nod, and Mayte mutters something about the weather, as her head lolls back onto the pillow. In approximately ten minutes, Mayte will fart. She should probably provide a warning.

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