El'ai, Prymelia


Ripples are sent across Prymelia’s pool of tranquility resulting in a theft.


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


Southern Weyr, Baths

OOC Date


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The steamy fog of the baths could be an entirely different world, transitioning from the well-lit brilliance of the inner caverns: a different world entirely, one wrought in dreams and humid fog. Steam lifts from hot waters, obscuring those who bathe within, drenching any who dare enter. Well-maintained, well-stocked, the baths offer pre-netted portions of soapsand in various scents, fluffy towels in orderly rows, and five separate spring-fed pools, all of differing temperature: from scorching hot to soothing chill.

Life is great, until it's not. The cold, Southern night has seen fit to drench the bodies of all who venture into the starless depths, and El'ai — not having high enough rank to warrant a weyr with its own baths — is forced to find refuge in the steamy warmth of Southern's public baths. Unconcerned about whomever might be lurking within the swirling mists, the bronzerider's arrival is in a flurry of activity. Wet hair is shaken like a dog, fingers rifling through it to shake the excess water from it before clothes are dropped in record time. Uncaring as to others, the boy leaves his clothing in a wet and soggy trail just before his naked, tight ass splashes into the waters. "FARANTH. Even my BALLS are frozen." Oh whups, did he just yelp that out when the warm water hits frozen dangly bits? Maybe. What? The old, shriveled auntie is given a charming, quirky grin. El'ai has NO SHAME.

Mmmmm yes! Nothing quite like a long hot soak to ease sore muscles after a day of horrid cold that seeps into your very bones and…dangly bits it seems. On the verge of reluctantly dragging her ass out of the bathing pool with fingers and toes already pruned, Prymelia is stalled from doing so by El’ai’s rather loud and splashy arrival. Hidden within the shadows at the far end, a devious smile crooks about her mouth. Soft the clucking sound that spills from her tongue. “You’d think by now you males would have devised some or other third sock affair to keep your um, extremities,” careful word selection there, “from getting frostbitten.” She idly notes sinking down lower into the water.

Freezing half in the water, half out of the water, the line arrested just below his ribs. With each swish of the baths, a little bit more of his skin gets wet as the water waves about him. El'ai casts a look over one bare shoulder to find the voice in the shadows. Bright is the smile — and arrogant too — flashed to Prymelia. "Then it wouldn't be fun to warm it." Brows waggle as the incorrigible boy splashes neck deep into the baths. "Weyrling," it's a kind of greeting. It's been long enough since he last saw her that any lingering embarrassment has fled or is well hidden. He gives a jerk to get wet strands of too-long hair out of his eyes. Wicked is the grin that comes to play with the scoop of sweetsand that's haphazardly patted over dirty skin after a good rinse. He's got grime and mud in all his 2000 parts. Soapy fingers are wiggled in Prymelia's direction, "My fingers are frozen too." Hey, they are totally extremities!

El’ai probably won’t see it but there’s an expressive roll of eyes from Prymelia in response to his first. Though she can’t help an amused shake of head for that waggle of brows. Weyrling. A soft snort to that for she takes it as his attempt to one up her. “Bronzerider.” Returned with the inflection of a smirk for his ilk and then she’ll openly watch him bathe, perhaps hoping to rattle his incorrigible cage a little. “That’s why we wear gloves, sweetie.’ The redhead replies failing at hiding her humor. “And socks on our feet and a hat on our heads.” She totally wins this one.

If Prymelia is hoping to put him ill at ease for watching him bathe, El'ai is bound to disappoint. He is as confident and comfortable in his own skin as a scrappy alley cat. The look he gives her is droll and rife with the sense of Please, before turning back to his bath. Bawdy does he belt out to the chagrin of the old crone, "RUUUUUBBBBB," wait, Pern doesn't have 'rubber'. "LEEEEEATHER DUUUUUCKIE. YOU'RE THE ONE! YOU MAKE BATHTIMES… SOOOOOOOO MUCH FUN!!" That's right. He's singing the rubber duckie song. Maybe, maybe someone's gotten into his alcohol a bit early into the night, this one. "Darling, I'm clad neck to toe in leather," finally does he break from his belting to give her a look. "In the skies, in //between, the cold seeps into your bones and reminds you of how frail life is. All it takes is — " Wait, wait. Have they learned between yet? Whups. Ass. "Anyway. It's fucking cold out there." Oh yeah, bath time's going south. Hubba bubbles.

Wide go Prymelia’s eyes when the young bronzer begins to sing and then, she just throws back her head and LAUGHS! Or maybe she’s laughing at his dangly bits. Hard to tell. “I bet your paid ladies would be thrilled to know that you refer to them as leather duckies.” Smirk. She’s totally going to refer to them as such from now on. On that he can count. Although, the moment El’ai starts to talk of the fragility of life Between, humor slides right off and drowns in the water swirled about her shoulders. Gathering long legs beneath her, the weyrling stands without a care for her wet and naked self on display and with as much nonchalance as she can muster, sashays right passed the bronzerider. “Missed a spot.” She says and will poke a finger toward his ribs if he doesn’t jump out of the way, the comment about Between, conveniently ignored.

"Ehhh, I haven't gone for that in a while. Call 'em what you want. They won't care." What?! El'ai?! Celibate? When she passes — and he looks, he's a healthy male and she's an older woman — he gives a hang-dog shake of his head just to be bad. "Come rub it for me." Her finger poking goes RIGHT for the dip between the muscles of his abdomen which tighten as he pretends to flinch away. "YOU DISEASED ME!!" Pure affront curls through his wicked expression. Oh yes. He's being bad. Not that Prymelia is being good, but then again, she's on the cusp of graduating, her dragon isn't that fragile and El'ai is a little drunk. Alls fair, here. ALL IS FAIR. Those flushed cheeks give so much away. "Hey, don't be jealous cause I can get some and you can't now." That sits for all of two seconds before he's adding, "Booze, that is. I can get all the booze I want."

Paused in her outward path, Prymelia fits the rascal with a browlifted look. “They might charge for it, but they’re still human beings with feelings, El’ai.” That having been said she puts an openly assessing look over the naked male and smirks. “You. Celibate. Right. And I’m Lessa in disguise.” She ain’t buying it. And she might have continued on by if not for that complaint of now being DISEASED!! Without thinking how her actions might be interpreted, the weyrling slaps both hands to his chest, smooshes them around in the soapy suds and then swipes them….all over his FACE and those flushed cheeks of his. “NOW, you’re diseased!” She declares with a smug look of triumph. But that tease of his. Oh that TEASE!! SO cruel. But well hidden behind the snort used to cover it. “That’s what YOU think. Aren’t you the one that said that rules were meant to be broken?” Flutter-flutter go dark mahogany lashes as she quickly darts away toward the steps leading out of the bathing pool. And yes, that is a very definite sway of hips put on because he’s not the only one that can be a brat.

"I am not the one threatening to call them names," El'ai happily points out. "I just commented that they probably wouldn't care." Beat. "You know." Again, pause. "Because they're halfway across the world." Her disbelief just gets the wicked smirk curving his lips. "Y'don't know me, weyrling." More drunken wit is about to fall out of his mouth when she's suddenly TOUCHING HIM. Yuck, yuck — yes, yes — YUCK YUCK, GIRL COOTIES!! That gets his own hands slapping at her like a five turn old. If they happen to connect to all the soft parts? Totally coincidence. For real. Keep believing that, El'ai. "Ugh! Woman! Keep your hands to YOURSELF! My junk's gonna rot off now." Really? "Heh. Well." Okay, so she's flummoxed him for a moment, dripping soap and water and of course he's watching the sway of those hips. Wait, they were talking? "You don't seem to be a rules follower." El'ai, for all his sharp wit, can be like every other male out there — a little dumb when it's unwrinkled, youthful female flesh on display. And hey, she's not a butter face, so it's win-win, right?! "Yeah, well. I got my own place. I don't gotta listen to other weyrlings farting all night." Neener.

Damn you, El’ai, for being so sharp!! So says the narrowed look Prymelia bestows upon him for his first. That feline-that-got-the-cream smile returns in short order, however. “Oh sweetie,” she all but purrs, spoiled by a squeak of indignation when slappy hands connect soft flesh. “If I had touched your junk. You’d know ALL about it!” A glance to the waterline where said dangly bits are hidden beneath, a wicked little smile and she’s out of the pool and grabbing up a towel to wrap about herself. All gone! “I follow the rules that count.” Comes the weyrling’s reply as with her back to him she scoops up another towel and deftly winds it about her head, his last earning him a laugh, “Touché!” For she can’t rightly dispute that. A dab hand at dressing without revealing more than necessary – What? He’s gotten his eyeful for the day – she wriggles into a clean pair of entirely feminine pink panties and dropping the towel reaches for her trousers only to grab up a handful of jacket that isn’t hers. It takes but a few moments for a conversation with a certain weyrling to be recalled and a smirk ever so sly, crooks about her mouth. Jackpot! “Be sure to scrub behind your ears now,” Prymelia calls out over her shoulder, patting his jacket to find what she’s looking for. “I think I saw a family of head lice having dinner back there.”

El'ai is unconcerned with his clothing. Those blue eyes of his might be ogling the goods the girl has, but he's sharp enough to sense that Prymelia is up to something. Arrogant enough to not particularly care, he goes back to washing off all that soap. And hey, if he's a bit more exaggerated about it? It is simply because he can be an ass. Okay, the little pink panties will slay him. Does anyone blame him?! "I'll be sure to polish all of my necessities, never you mind that, girlie." If she's aiming for that little silver flask, she'll find it and it'll deliver an unexpected punch. "Oh and," cue the rakish look of the predator that's suddenly found his jaws about the delicious canary, "you're assigned to me tomorrow. You know. As my mentee for the day." Given the sly expression, he is dirty enough to use this to his advantage and take out a pound of flesh for her devilish little antics. Wide goes the boyish grin. "If you break the rules, try not to let the hangover show." Does he know? Or is he picking up the threads of the earlier conversation? Who knows! Oh and: "I do not have nits." Cause seriously, Prym, that's gross. CUE THE LOOK.

Oh, El’ai. This girl has very swift, VERY talented fingers. For lifting things that don’t belong to her, that is. If she’s aware that he realizes she’s pilfering his booze, she doesn’t let on. And yes, that comment of his does indeed have Prymelia glancing once again over her shoulder, amusement glinted in the amber flecks of her eyes. “Careful. You know what they say about over polishing and excess hair.” Yes, she went there. “No, you don’t.” She agrees on nits. “You have lice.” The redhead so sweetly supplies slipping the flask out of his jacket and into the pocket of hers. Then it’s that weird wiggle-hop thing that girls do when trying to get their wet legs into close fitting trousers. On goes the matching bra and next the tunic though Prymelia is that surprised by being assigned to El’ai the following day that she turns with her arms and head still stuck in the fabric. “Oh please. I was nursed on whiskey and milk.” She quickly responds. “Besides. Where would I get booze from? Unless of course,” tug, tug, tug, her head and then her arms pop out, “you’re offering?” What she’s already taken. Semantics. And she’ll even go so far as to make that sound like she’s not talking about booze at all as she sits her shapely ass on the bench and begins to pull her socks on.

El'ai gives her a LOOK. "Semantics." It takes only one quick dunk to get himself free of all the soap and then he is also leaving the baths. It is apparently the night for a quickie. He dons his clothing the same way he took them off: in a whirlwind of lazy motion. The tunic sticks to his skin, half-buttoned right, half-buttoned wrong. Trousers hang low on narrow hips and his hair hangs in ragged, wet locks about his head. Not bothering to tie his boots, he lets the things flap about his feet while scooping up the jacket. "Hey, if you don't tell, I got something that'll put you on your ass. White lightning." Dark, wet brows tick upwards as water drops off his chin, "Water of life, I like to call it." His clothing sticks to him in wet patches, the material folded oddly on his back where it's partially stuck between his shoulder blades. That is until he rolls his shoulders to shake it free. He's totally not (he really is) looking at her put her bra on. "But then. You're a weyrling who doesn't dare cross the rules, eh?" Jacket is shaken at her as he half-assedly tucks in his shirt. The curve of hipbones can be seen. "Neener, neener," this he taunts with a lean towards the weyrling, wicked glint in blue, blue eyes and the gloating curve of lips, "Interested, Prymmie-girl?" It's a taunt. A taunt he's giving her just before he saunters his right on out of the baths. Hah! He beat her out the door. Girls take way too long to dress. Well, that and he drips as he goes. Drippety-drip.

The picture of innocence those lightly freckled features and wide hazel eyes turned up to El’ai as he exits and dresses without bothering to towel off. Bent over to tighten the line of lacing up the front of her boots, Prymelia eyes the bronzer from under lowered lashes then mutters a quiet, “Shut up.” Probably not pointed at him but rather a nosy green who has had some or other sly comment to make. Standing, the redhead with hair a tousled mess of damp locks laughs and shakes her head. “And just what are you going to make me do tomorrow to earn it, hmm?” The light of challenge shimmering in her eyes making it clear that she’s up for whatever he might try to lay on her. Oh yes, her attention dips to the sharp curve of hipbones as he wrestles his shirt into place and her hands itch to correct the horrendous job he’s done of buttoning it, but if there’s one thing weyrlinghood has taught Prymelia, its self control. Scooping up her dirty clothing and shoving it into a carrysack – she’s far more together than he is – she slings it over her shoulder and fixes El’ai with a deep smirk as he leans in closer. “Depends, sweetie. Can you handle the consequences?” Of her breaking the rules? Or, of having her assigned to him for the day? Some from column A and some from column B no doubt. And she’ll let him leave first because truthfully, his drippy self is rather worth watching saunter away. Not that she’d ever feed into his ego and let him know.

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