Prymelia, T'ral


Prymelia is in the archives making good use of a day stuck in the Weyr due to weather. She is, until T'ral comes along.


It is midmorning of the twenty-eighth day of the sixth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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Where once books reigned supreme, this open space is now dominated by a stalwart skybroom reaching to the sky through a broken ceiling. What was once evidence of collapse is now ornately carved with engraved ivy, matched by a clever contraption of stone that allows the gap to be closed in inclement weather. A small garden occupies the space around the tree-trunk, all manicured bushes and flowering shrubbery enclosed by a grated gutter. The walls are lined with bookcases, while a spiral staircase leans on the western wall to wind upwards to the second level. Tucked in the corners and scattered in the main areas are tables and chairs, cafe-style, and comfortably worn overstuffed armchairs. It is the perfect place for individuals to gather, to enjoy the offerings of the food-cart or a spirited conversation.

It is the twenty-eighth day of Winter and 50 degrees. The day is dreary and overcast. A chilly winter rain is falling down in soft drizzles.

Surely at this time of the morning weyrlings should be out and about either involved in PT or ground based drills? While K'ane and his team are hard taskmasters, sick weyrlings won't do anyone any good and so, with the weather foul with rain and colder than a dragon's arse in Between, Prymelia is to be found hogging an entire table in the Library. All about her various books to do with everything they've learned thus far are spread about her while right in front of her, is a piece of hide with very strange looking doodles scribbled across it. In between sips of klah, she's also clearly in conversation with her green for she's muttering under her breath. "No, that's not how it went. That was the other one."

If they're hard taskmasters, K'ane and his staff, well, it's not high tea they're preparing the weyrlings for. But, yes, sick weyrlings are the worst. If only because contagion sweeps through the barracks faster than Igen goes through goldriders. With the weather as nasty as it is, much of the Weyr has turned out indoors and, true to form, T'ral has sought out the shelter of this, his favorite place in the Weyr. Along with everyone else. T'ral, with an armload of books, searches the tables for a place to park. Ah! There. Someone's got a whole table to herse— Ah! Prymelia! T'ral, be-book-burdened, heads towards her table and pauses to peer over her shoulder at the strange doodles. "That's not how what went?" The bluerider grins and leans out to peer at the weyrling. "Mind if I, uh," he's already reaching for a book to make room, "Consolidate some of thi- Oh. T'gar and Wellech's On Thread. This one's good." A strange pairing, that, T'gar a bronzerider out of Telgar and Wellech a starcrafter out of Southern, who by all accounts hated one another, but had produced some of the best -and most readable- accounts and analyses to survive the last interval.

"It was this one here aaaaand…" The stylus scratches through a doodle that MIGHT be that of an armchair, "that one there!" Prymelia quickly sketches an item that appears to be a mirror. So engrossed is she in what appears to be weyr decorating on hide, that she squeaks and almost spills a splash of klah over her work. "Faranth's arse!! Look what you almost made do…" Up, up, up her gaze lifts coming to rest on the assistant weyrlingmaster's face, a sheepish cast tilting across her features when she recognizes T'ral. "Don't touch that one!" The weyrling scolds of the book he's about to move. "It's the lake." Has she finally lost it? "You can move that one," another book pointed at, "I don't need the Hold any more."

"Heaven forfend!" T'ral takes a smiling backpedal backwards, his free hand flaring to emphasize his innocence. "The lake?" T'ral's hand tents on the cover of On Thread. He peers at Prymelia and the books. Prymelia. Books. The Hold? Oh. He cottons to something of what Prymelia's doing. "The lake is hardly a fitting use for so august a work. This," He reaches to put 'the Hold' where 'the Lake' had been, but espys the title… it's the driest of dry tomes on medicinal herbs, "Hey, I was looking for this!" Crap. He thunks the pile of books under his arm on the edge of the table and picks up On Thread and Snooze in a Dusty Leather Jacket and peers at them. Conundrum. A grunt, "I need this," he waggles Snooze at Prymelia. "But clearly On Thread can't be the lake." He leans over to peer at the arrangement of books sprawling across the table, "Um. Is there a Weyr?"

Glancing up as T'ral backpeddles, Prymelia catches sight of the top book of his stack and lifts a brow. "A little light reading?" But then he's moving her arrangement about. "Hey, don't…" Too late. Frowning, the redhead sets her stylus down and leans back in her seating fitting the assistant weyrlingmaster with a long look. "Of course. That would be this one here." Her stylus taps at a volume ironically titled 'As The Weyr Turns'. Its either one of those bodice rippers suddenly so popular amongst the female population OR, its actually a guide meant for goldriders with advice on the economics of running a Weyr. Whichever it is, T'ral will notice that each book has a piece of ribbon peeking out of it somewhere working as place holders. Surreptitiously, the hide she'd been doodling on, is slid under a volume entitled 'Seven Spires, Seven Wonders'.

'As The Weyr Turns' is duly swapped into the lake position, "Crap. 'As The Weyr Turns' fits ther- Hmm?" The bluerider's eyes track to his stack of books, "Oh, yeah. Anatomy studies. Fascinating, if a bit chilling to think of how the illustrations were made." He shifts weight, picking up a third book now, 'The Lake,' 'The Hold' and 'The Weyr' all held uncertainly. Sharp eyes note that surreptitious sliding of furniture doodles - he noticed! "What's that in the cellars of," he cocks his head, a lopsided grin tossed at "'Seven Spires, Seven Wonders?'" Hmm? "What are we doing exactly?" The arrangement of Hold, Weyr and Lake aren't ringing any bells.

Narrowing her eyes at T'ral as he rearranges her carefully laid out plan, Prymelia quietly exhales a long-suffering sigh. "Well…if you must know, until you moved everything around, I was working on understanding the rotation of greens and blues in a Fall taking into consideration," she turns a book over entitled, 'Understanding thermals', "the way the winds change at high altitude over the various locations." Ha!! She has a BRAIN beneath all those smart aleck comments of hers. "This," the hide is slid out from under 'As The Weyr Turns', is representation of the colors in Catmint." There the bluerider will see armchairs, mirrors, glowbaskets and rugs laid out in a manner that makes no sense in terms of furniture arrangement. "Usually, we practice with rocks." Anyone notice the oddly painted rocks piled in a corner of the training grounds that had appeared over the past couple of sevens? "But it's raining and they won't let me have paint in here."

"Don't sigh at me, missy. You said you didn't need 'The Hold' any more," T'ral waggles Snoozefest at Prymelia. And he does, so, stick it. "I simply object to On Thread being relegated to the Lake." 'As The Weyr Turns' goes to the Lake, placed Prymelia might note, precisely where the previous 'lake' had been. On Thread takes 'the Weyr' spot, also precisely placed. Voila! T'ral has the medicinal plant book on his stack (zzZZZzzzzzzzz) and Prymelia's 'landscape' is returned to 'normal.' He slides the furniture hide across the tabletop towards himself, studying the arrangement. Stones at the Training Ground? Yes. There was a pile. He'd assumed K'ane had stacked them there for some arcane future-torture of the weyrlings. "Why would you hide this?" He's bought it. Though some suspicion lingers, because she HAD hidden it. It's no room layout. That's for sure. If he could recall, T'ral would know Prymelia's a far better interior decorator than THAT.

"Yes but then you put it…Hey! I need that one too." She says of the medicinal herbs book. "I was studying the different plants that can be used for…" ZIP. Her mouth snaps shut, the clack of teeth almost audible. Ignore the faint blush. When T'ral puts her 'furniture' arrangement under closer study, Prymelia sinks lower in her seating and eyes him over the top of her mug. "I'm the party girl, remember?" He probably doesn't. "I've got a rep to maintain." Cue the faintly sardonic smirk to her lips when she swallows and the mug drops away.

If only T'ral could recall how Prymelia had chafed at not being taken seriously by her father and brothers for the undeniably sharp mind that rests in that irascible noggin of hers. But, in truth, he doesn't need to. "Used for…" T'ral's ears perk and he straightens slightly. Ribbons in each book, eh. What had the nerd-in-hiding-self-avowed-partygirl been looking up? He siiiiidles to the snoozefest on his pile of books and, with a Shush Finger deployed Prymelia-ward (and thanks for that, Q'fex - T'ral's time in the Dragon Infirmary had not been wasted). Eyebrows up T'ral, traces the page edges and flips the book open to its duly marked page. Browsing…

Aaaah, if only. But then, Prymelia is probably counting on exactly that blank patch in T'ral's memory to maintain her ruse. "Tea." She quickly supplies and jerks forward to try and grab at the book before he…DAMMIT! He got to it first. Perhaps if pulls the ribbon out. Lunging across the table, several books and her stylus knocked to the floor in the process she snatches at the end of the ribbon only for the assistant weyrlingmaster to already have the book open at the page listing a variety of different herbal blends identified as being potential contra*cough*cep*cough*tives. "Oh that's the wrong page," she blurts and tries to flip the page which is no help at all because there in bold hand are various remedies for impotence. "Oh for fu…flames sake!! That's not it EITHER! I was looking for the name of a plant used to treat firehead." Mmhm.

T'ral laughs aloud, ears coloring a bit, and louder when the page falls open to more mortification. He looks entirely innocent, "As I recall," he doesn't, "You favored a redberry tea, was it? Very bitter." He'd run afoul of it once. Notably. And the tea (and the aftermath) had been bad enough to make it into the Chronicles. "Ready for restrictions to be lifted, eh? As I recall," he wishes, "That was momentous." He closes the book with a snap, a forlorn flicker in dark eyes there and gone so fast it could just be shadows in the greyling light filtering through the rainwashed skylights, before handing it back to Prymelia, "I'll make that K'ane doesn't call any 'all hands' meetings." Wait… does he remember? He stoops to gather the toppled materials, stylus and books. "Firehead isn't treated… by herb." He squints at her, "I mean, I… is it?" His hand twitches for the book, surely the index would mention…

"What?" Prymelia goes quite still and stares at T'ral as if she's just seen a ghost, freckles stark against skin paled slightly. "How do you even know that!?" Clearly she has little understanding of just how detailed these notes of his must be. But then he echoes an event all too clearly remembered and the green weyrling slides back to her side of the table and begins to gather her books and hides up in strained silence. "My grandmother once mentioned a remedy that could help to soothe the effects." She states, leaving the book of medicinal herbs in his possession. "But she never told me the key ingredient. Said it was a family secret that she'd pass on when I got married." Everything neatly gathered together, she stands and takes up her mug. "And then she died."

"Whoa, whoa." T'ral straightens, a hand going to Prymelia's elbow, "Hey. Sorry. I was sick for two days and couldn't tell anyone why. It was… funny." He hands the gathered stylus and books to Prymelia, eyes dropping, "I mean, my account of it made… it seem… like it was funny." Words trickle off to a weak falter. T'ral journaled daily. And -apart from the amnesia- has a mind like a steel trap. He puts snoozeherbtome on his stack, "Prymelia. Should I not joke?" He shrugs, "I got nothing else." Just the wisecracks. "I'm sorry." He holds up a hand, "Stay. I'll get out of here." Plenty of other… places. Nope. He can crash Renalde's office. The headman isn't using it.

Lips part and then press tightly closed again with Prymelia turning her face away, gaze dropping to an indeterminate place on the floor to the side of her. "I…" elegant brows press toward each other. "Didn't know you'd kept such…detailed accountings." There's a pause in which she glances upward and then away again. "It just freaks me out." For she's more of a live-in-the-moment kinda girl. "And I don't know what to do with it." And there it is, the honest truth. "No, its fine," she says to staying. "I promised that kid from Telgar I'd help him brush up on his anatomy. I need to go any way." There's a quick upward tilt at the corners of her mouth. There and gone again. "Any way. I um…I'll see you at lectures this afternoon." And off she goes, head down and books held to her chest, hunching her shoulders to protect them from the steady drizzle outside.

"They're not detailed so much as…" a lightly exasperated grunt at his inability to describe what passes as his memory. "I wrote every day. And…" T'ral shrugs again, fingers fiddling with the corner of a book, "You were a big part of my life." It stands to reason that events large and small made it into his recountings. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't feel any of," he waves a hand at her, "That any more. But," he smiles lopsided, "I sorta feel like I know you. Like," he laughs, "It's lame, sorta like I feel like I know characters from a favorite story." T'ral read a lot as a kid. "I'd have written a different ending, but, whaddya do?" he smiles, heartfelt, a shrug, eyes dropped. Right. Leaving. Of course she's leaving. Anatomy. Telgar. "Watch out for that one. He's handsy. And, uh, the subject matter may not discourage him." T'ral's still not looking up, that book corner sure needs some work. Time for another Great Book Swap. He glances up.

She's already gone.

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