Quentin, Prymelia


Two candidates on serving duty in the dining hall slip away from their chores and get to know each other a little better in the stables.


It is midmorning of the sixteenth day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th


Ice Fields, Dining Hall

OOC Date


quentin_default.jpg prymelia_default.jpg

Dining Hall

A space where people come and eat. There are tables and chairs, and it is server-style: there isn't a buffet in sight. Come in, sit down, order some food. There's a menu in the corner announcing what is to be had daily.. there's a lot of fish soups and caribou roast. And tubers. Lots of tubers.

Mid-morning means that most of the workers busy turning this series of caverns into a living, breathing Hold are already done with their breakfast and off to work, but enough of the staff and visitors have just risen from their virtuous beds that there's plenty for the Candidates who have drawn serving duty to do. Quentin is among them, looking slightly ill at ease pressed into clothing a touch less shabby than his normal, 'I don't care if dogs jump on me' attire. He approaches an older man who has just taken a seat and offers him a sunny - if slightly sleepy - smile. "Good morning, can I get you something to drink?" The order of klah could almost be anticipated, and the boy's off to pour it.

Prymelia is right with her fellow candidate on the sleepy-face. In fact, given how she came rushing in, still hastily tossing on her apron and her thick braid with a few flecks of straw caught in it looking like it needs a brush taken to it, one might wonder just how many candidate rules have recently been broken. A smile, the picture of innocence is flashed Quentin’s way and then she shares it with a surly looking Starcrafter hunched into his seating. “Klah? Tea? Or maybe a nip of the hair of the canine that bit you?” SCOWL. That’s what she gets back in return. “Scrambled eggs n bacon. With a breadroll. And put that on a separate plate and make sure the eggs aren’t watery.” The middle-aged chap delivers tersely. Sheesh! What crawled up his butt?

The signs go over Quentin's head, oblivious as he is, and the smile he sends back towards Prymelia as the two hurry past each others' paths is full of sleep-stained cheer and just a touch of sympathy for her rumpled state. Hey, as far as he knows, maybe she had foal duty last night? It would make sense to him. He pours the klah, adding sweetners to specification, and winds his way back through the throng, stepping carefully to avoid spilling any. He places it before the old man, then steps back, head tilted to one side. "Anything to eat, sir?" When he's waved off, he bobs his head and moves on to the next table in his section - this one with a young woman whose gown looks a bit out of place for breakfast dining. "Would you like something to drink?" This earns him a look down the woman's rather prominant nose. "Is the fruit juice fresh? I cannot drink anything but the most freshly pressed juice, you understand. Even if it has been sitting out for an hour - a half-hour - it is too old. Do you hear me, boy? Go back and tell them to squeeze me fresh juice! And no pulp, or seeds! It must be strained clear, do you hear me, boy?" With a fixed smile on his face, Quinn leaves for the kitchen, certain he'll be tired of that phrase before too long.

The Starcrafter’s order is place with the kitchen and then instead of returning to the patrons waiting to be served, Prymelia suddenly disappears from sight behind a pillar. There’s a soft little moan, the sound of clothing rustling and then a slurping sound. “Hey. Pssst. You. Quentin.” The stage whisper gets hissed from the shadows once he exits the kitchen.

Whispers from the side, and shouts from the rear, as whoever's in charge of cooking this morning gives Quentin an earful about his 'special request'. Looking just a bit harried, the boy pauses mid-step, twisting his neck to try and catch sight of whoever's calling him. "Eh?" Taking care with that precious glass of juice, the boy sidles off to the side. "Who-what?" The way it's rushed together, it sounds more like "Whoot" than anything else.

The shadows eye that glass of juice. “Tsk. Go give Lady Snootyskirts her juice and then come back here.” Sluuuurp. The scent of freshly brewed klah with a wisp of something ‘whiskier’ wafts out to taunt at the harried Quentin’s nose.

"Erm. Okay." Clearly a bit lost and confused, Quentin hurries on to deliver the juice - and find himself berated for being too slow, for it being too cold, the juice not being clear enough, the Hold being too drafy, too unfinished, too cavelike… Fortunately for him, the young woman is clearly so in love with her voice - rather shrieking and tonal as she complains - that he's able to mumble all sorts of nonsense and slip away as she stopped to take a sip of her juice. From the way her voice rises behind him - but isn't directed at him, she never even notices his departure, and he's free to return to the pillar. "'K," he says laconically, rubbing at one tortured ear. "Now, what?"

The Starcrafter is just going to have to wait as far as Prymelia is concerned or she’s forgotten about him. Either way when Quentin returns, she takes a half-step forward cast in both shadow and dim light. “You look how I feel.” Shyeah right, he looks way more together than she does. Details. “Here, have some of this. It’ll perk you right up and help take the edge off of,” peering about the column she eyes Lady Snootyskirts, “that harpy.” The mug of klah is then held out to the younger lad. Sure there’s a little snifter (where did she get it from!?) of something illicit in there but hey, its COLD!

Glancing down at himself, Quentin shifts uncomfortably. "I'm not used to wearing stuff like this," he confesses, brushing at the tunic and slacks someone had pressed him into this morning. They're a bit big and baggy for the slim, short boy, but it's barely noticable behind the apron. Wait - is that a comment on the fact that she feels great, or that he looks unkempt? He eyes the mug thoughtfully, catching hint of the addition as he sniffs. "I shouldn't." That doesn't stop him from reaching out and taking it from her, sipping cautiously. "Is good." Is that surprise? Another sip, then he passes it back, though not without a hint of regret. Maybe there's just a bit too much of his father in him, at times. "I suck at this," he confesses softly. "Druther be giving runners breakfast than… people." He says the last word in the same tone usually reserved for the word 'herdbeasts'.

“Aye well, homeless woman with,” she shifts her apron aside where a dark stain of what looks to blood can be seen and then drops it again, “blood all over her isn’t exactly my look either.” Sympathy, Quinn, she has it. Tucking her hands behind her back, Prymelia leans against the pillar, and then quickly shrinks into the shadows when the kitchen door opens, tugging the lad with her. Finger to lips in a shushing gesture until they’ve passed by followed by a pleased smirk when he declares the illicit klah good. “Aye, shouldn’t. Shouldn’t be serving fatuous fools like drudges.” Slender shoulders shift beneath the thick and rather secondhand polo neck sweater she’s wearing. “Runners?” The former trader’s attention perks. “Hey, you want to sneak out of here? I’ve got something to show you.”

"Blood?" Concern flickers in Quentin's gaze as it falls to the stain, and he reaches out as if to grab her wrist, then drops his hand again, darkening slightly. "Did you hurt yourself?" His voice falls silent as she tugs him behind the pillar with him, and he eyes her, wary, but obediently silent. Once she speaks again, though, he opens his mouth to reiterate his question - then pauses. Surely she wouldn't be this cheerful if she were injured, right? Instead, he clamps his mouth shut and hears her out, then twists to peek out around the pillar, gaguing the dining room. And catching sight of The Harpy. That decides him: "Yeah, sure. Let's go."

Prymelia doesn’t answer the lad’s question though there is a slight tilt of lips for the concern he exhibits. “You’ll see.” Is all she whispers enigmatically and begins to edge her way back toward the kitchen. Scowly Starcrafter will just have to grab some other poor soul for his breakfast. Grabbing up a bowl of…something as they enter so that she looks like she’s meant to be there, she leaves Quentin with the doctored mug of klah and swiftly exits out the back way. Down passageways, round corners and then they step out into the bright morning sunlight of the courtyard. “Almost there.” She assures aiming toward the stables.

Quentin shouldn't be doing this. He knows this. He should also feel bad about doing it. He knows this, too. However - he's not exactly the most people person, er, person, in the world, and his experiences this morning taught him quite well that serving is definitely not his forte; this is a chore likely to go on his short list of swap assignments. Carting the mug - and sipping from it occasionally, he follows in Prymelia's footsteps, perking up slightly as they near the stables. Now this is a destination he can get behind. Inside of. Whatever.

“Don’t drink it all,” Prymelia warns suggesting she might have eyes in the back of her head as she leads the way. As for her shirking chores and THEN coercing another into doing so? Call it a mini breakout from one who thus far has diligently towed the line. Besides, having been awake nearly all night helping the stablemaster totally allows her a short reprieve, right? Slipping into the stables, the bowl of whatever still in hand, the former trader slows and drops a wide smile to Quentin before nudging him forward to a stall just three down. “Go see.” And what he’ll find is a spindly-legged newborn foal of chestnut coloring with two white socks and a white patch over one eye. “Isn’t she beautiful!?”

Lowering the mug just as he was about to sip, Quentin gives the back of Prymelia's head a suspicious look. Clearly a female type, to be able to see what shouldn't be seen. Hrmph. Trailing along behind the other Candidate like an obedient little duckling, the boy takes a deep breath as soon as they enter the stables. Straw, muck, and that unique scent of runners - this is where he's supposed to be. And when Prymelia points out the foal, he shoves the mug at her - barely waiting to make sure she has a handle on it before he's leaning against the stall door, staring down with pleasure. "She's lovely. She'll grow up well, I think. Maybe fifteen, sixteen hands. Hope they're going for a hunter line, because she's got the look about her." He chirps softly to get the foal's attention. "So you were doing foal watch last night," he adds smugly, still raptly gazing at the runner. "Thought so." He's probably the only one who did.

A female type with younger siblings. There’s a light laugh when the mug gets shoved at her and Prymelia closes her free hand about it, sipping from it while eyeing Quentin’s reaction from over its rim. Meandering closer, she leans her elbows on the top of the half door, smitten by the sweet fuzzy baby. “Aye. She’ll be a strong one. Got an intelligent eye to her too.” A soft sound, somewhere between a snort and a chuckle is breathed out, echoing in the rapidly emptying mug. “Well I sure as runnershit wasn’t rolling in the hay for fun.” And she doesn’t look in the least bit perturbed that other candidates might think otherwise though the lad at her side is awarded a warm smile. “I wish we could be assigned the chores that fit our skillsets and interests but apparently we need to ‘broaden our horizons’.” And doesn’t she sound like a stuffed shirt there with the affected tone she puts on. “You wanna swap with me? I’m supposed to be back this afternoon again but I don’t mind if you’d to spend some time with her.”

"Are you sure? You helped bring her in to th' world, it's only right you get to help care for her." Despite his heroically-stated words, Quentin looks yearningly towards the foal. "I like runners well enough - should, I grew up with them," he adds, grinning. "Though I prefer canines. Wonder if they'll put a kennel in here? Especially if I can convince th' Journeyman to come." He chirps again, reaching down a hand to let the foal decide whether she wants to involve herself with this oddly-shaped creature peering down at her. "I got broad horizons," he snorts. "I can deal with jus' about any animal you put before me. Even a herdbeast." Scathing, that word. Someone really dosn't like them. "They keep makin' me deal with people. I don't like people. They're noisy. And chaotic. And you can't just give them a piece of jerky or some suet if they do what you tell 'em to, nor can you flick their nose or splash 'em with water if they misbehave. Though might do some of them good," he mutters, smirking. No doubt thinking of The Harpy.

“Aye,” Prymelia concedes. “But I can come down and see her after chores. You were a herder before they scooped you, aye?” Yes, she’s taken the time to get know a little about each of her fellow candidates whether by eavesdropping on conversations or asking surreptitious questions of others. That the former Weyrleader is Quentin’s sire, appears to be neither here nor there in importance to the young woman. “Canines?” Interest peaks and is shown in the small tilt of head. “I’ll be honest. They sort of scare me a little.” Compassion is next to warm lightly freckled features. “Aye, people can sometimes be bigger asses than the ones on animals.” A soft laugh before agreeing: “There’s a few in the barracks whose noses I’d like to flick or throw water at but if you approach people the same way you do animals, you’ll be surprised how much the same they are.”

"Did the stablemaster ask if you wanted to name her?" Quentin asks curiously as the foal teeters over to the stall door and presses her nose to his hand, sniffing. The mare lays quietly in the back of the stall, watching the boy and foal warily, but not interfering. Yet. "My grandfather would do that, if he had someone assisting with the birth that wasn't part of the stable crew and it was just one of the Hold's common herd. I know a lot of the runner herders will let the apprentices who have foal watch help name the Craft's runners, too." He rubs the foal gently between her ears, smiling slightly as her eyes close in pleasure. "People don't always react th' way you expect them to. Animals, they're pretty predictable. Do A, get B response. People, you do A, they may respond with B, C, D, or Y. Lots of Ys, especially from kids." He grins at his own, albeit paltry, pun. "I should introduce you to the tunnelsnake terriers at the Weyr. They wouldn't scare a fly, but they're death to snakes."

Somewhat sleep deprived, Prymelia blinks owlishly at the question before taking another sip of fortifying klah. “Uh, no. He didn’t. But that’s a rather lovely way of saying thank you.” With both her hands full she merely watches on fondly while Quentin affords the fuzzy faced foal pettings. “If you had to name her, what name would you choose?” There’s given a wrinkle of nose next for people and their responses. “I can’t argue that. Some people are just…” With a light frown the topic is set aside and the younger lad eyed dubiously. “That’s what the woodcrafter said about his canine and then it tried to bite me on the butt.”

"Maybe it liked what it smelled?" Quentin turns wide, innocent eyes on Prymelia - well, innocent but for the gleam of humor lurking in dark blue depths. He's got a tongue on him. Saucy. "Terriers are small, and these two are very sweet-natured. The only thing you have to worry about is having your face licked. No bites." He doesn't promise, though. After all, some people just don't do well with canines, no matter how careful they are. "Name?" He looks down at the foal, rubbing his fingers lightly under her chin, along her jawline. "With that patch, and those socks? Not to mention," he adds with a grin, as the foal nudges her nose into his hand and looks up at him imploringly with limpid eyes, "that disposition? Coquette, I think. She's going to grow up a flirt, I'll wager."

“Are you saying my butt smells like bacon!?” Prymelia pretends indignation, wide eyes and everything. And then laughs and ruins the effect. “It was probably the jerky I had in my pocket but since then when a canine comes running at me I generally want to turn and run in the other direction. Even the camp curs kept for hunting…” A light shiver runs through her and then Quentin is set with a browlifted look. “Lick my face? But…they lick their butts too.” Someone clearly has never cuddled a puppy. “Coquette, huh? You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Flirting that is but she doesn’t clarify and nudges the mug against his arm, silent offer to finish what little remains.

Accepting the mug, Quentin downs the last of its contents, then sets it to the side, on one of the stall posts - marking it quietly to make sure its retrieved before they leave. "Canines have very clean mouths," he replies solemly as he finally withdraws his hand, trying hard to ignore the woeful look aimed at him by the foal. Brushing his hand along his pants - and ignoring the way tiny hairs cling to the fabric, he continues, "Yes, they lick themselves to clean themselves, but there's something about their spit that keeps their mouths clean. Seriously. We get back to the Weyr, I'm introducing you to them. I'll show you not all canines are bruisers." Oh look. A Mission. Stubborn jaw set and all. "Bad thing?" distracted, he blinks at her. "No, I like the name Coquette. Flirty mares are good - they tend to be eager to please and so easier to train. You just have to watch them around an uncut stallion and they tend to shy easier when something startles them." Oblivious.

Clean mouths. Riiiiight. Heavily dubious!! But, Prymelia isn’t one to shy away from a challenge even if she does size Quentin up in a manner that suggests she might try to tie him into a pretzel if he’s wrong about the canines back at the Weyr. “Fine. But if I get bitten, I’m going to bite you.” And if you ask that nice gelding over there he’ll tell you that yes indeed, she bites. Flirty mares, eager to please needing to be watched around uncut stallions? Quickly, the former trader turns her head away with a choked sound and her hand fisting to her mouth. Coughing fit. Yup. Definitely not trying to quell a snickerfit the oblivious lad’s words have induced. Inhaling a calming breath, haze eyes glint suspiciously with moisture but her expression is mostly composed. “Perhaps it’s the uncut stallions that need the watching.”

Quentin's expression is placid as he watches Prymelia size him up, his expression offering nothing but a quiet surety that he'll prove her right. "If you get bitten, you are welcome to bite me in return." Clearly, he's not worried about having her teeth marks on him anytime soon. Poor kid. As she begins to cough, however, he leans forward, one hand poised to reach around to slap her back solicitously. "Something go down the wrong way? I hate that. Always hurts. And yeah, uncut stallions always need watching. They'll mount anything they even think is in heat - whether the mare wants them or not. S'why most hunters or racers are mares or geldings. Stallions are really only good for breeding. Too temperamental and easily distracted for any real work." He has Opinions. "You get a few that are placid, of course, or that take well to training, but the majority…" He trails off, flapping a hand to dismiss them.

“Deal.” And Pyrmelia even goes so far as to hold out her free hand to shake on it. But then…then Quentin just has to go on and further ‘educate’ her on the way of uncut stallions and mares in heat and soon the young woman is biting her lip so hard that she’s in danger of drawing blood. “Quentin.” She starts out in as sincere a tone as she can manage though there is a wobble of mirth that sneaks in. “You have just described every randy rider I have ever come across. Now, will you please…” laughter bubbles up but is quickly swallowed down, hazel regard shimmering with its influence, “please concede that there perhaps there are times when animals and people aren’t so different.”

Quentin eyes the extended hand before offering his own, giving a firm shake before withdrawing into his own Personal Bubble of Space. "You'll see," he says confidently, though his smug expression quickly dissolves into confusion at her lip-biting and mirth-ridden words. "I don't…" He trails off, brow furrowing as he considers her words with all the seriousness of a Journeyman's lecture. "I… suppose. I don't really… pay attention to such things." His withdrawl is subtle, but there - a few steps away, a slight hunching of the shoulders he shrugs uncomfortably. "But if you say so, I'll take your word for it. I suppose it makes sense - even if I still say four-feets are easier to deal with than two."

It takes a few moments for Prymelia to realize that Quentin has gone from sweet kid sharing his knowledge with her to withdrawing into a discomforted hunch of shoulders. And when she does, the last drizzles of amusement melt away. “I’m sorry, Quentin. I didn’t mean to tease. Honestly.” Carefully she takes a step closer not wishing to cause him any further distress. “And I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at the men that conduct themselves like uncut stallions and the silly mares that are sometimes just a little too eager to please.” A small smile appears and she ducks her head trying to catch his eye. “Coquette is a lovely name. One I’m sure whoever gets to own her one day, will love.”

It's not as if Prymelia could know - hell, even Quentin isn't entirely certain what it is about this particular subject that causes him such discomfort. He doesn't back away as the other Candidate approaches, but neither does he pull out of his shell. "It's okay," he says, with just a hint of caution. "I should probably be used to it by now." He hears about it often enough from everyone else around them, after all. "I just don't… understand." His hand motions are vague, and could honestly indicate anything. "You should suggest it to the stablemaster, if you like it," he states firmly, stepping back onto the firm ground of a subject he can comprehend. "You helped birth her - he might just take your suggestion."

Quiet for a good few moments, studying Quentin from under lowered lashes during that period of silence, the young woman chances a gesture and unless he pulls away will pat him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re good people, Quentin. Anyone that loves animals the way you do, must have a good heart.” And Prymelia means that. But there’s something else, something he says that has her setting aside the matter of naming the filly to slip a quizzical look his way. “What…don’t you understand? The similarity between humans and runners when it comes to their danders being up?” Come on, his father is Q’fex, surely the man has given his son The Talk!? Right? Prymelia currently isn’t so sure of that. “You can talk to me, you know. I won’t laugh.” Contrary to her earlier reaction. “I do have younger brothers.”

"I'm a herder, Prymelia," Quentin replies dryly, accepting the shoulder pat stoically. "I understand the concept of breeding, and am pretty well able to translate that over to humans. I just don't get the big deal." He shrugs as if it's no major thing, but there's a hint of wariness in his gaze, for all he keeps his eyes even on hers. "People seem t' talk about it all the time - even the Candidates who can't do anything - but I just… I dunno. I don't get it." From his protective posture - not to mention the look in his eyes - he's aware how this particular attitude sets him apart. Especially with a father like Q'fex.

Nope. Prymelia isn’t laughing. She’s not even looking like she’s shocked. Instead the look she fits Quentin with is cautious curiosity. “You’ve never met a girl or a boy,” because hey, each to their own, “that made you take another look or had your heart flip over in your chest?” A pause in which a warm smile appears. “You know, just because you’re not interested in all of that right now doesn’t mean you’re weird. If anything, it shows a strength of character few possess.”

"No." Quentin's tone is not short, nor sharp, but simply matter of fact, and the single word is accompanied by a shrug. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I can appreciate a pretty person as much as the next, but none that have made me act…" He trails off, reddening slightly, and it might well be that his next words might have been a bit unflattering towards the rest of humanity, "like a stallion," he instead finishes a bit lamely. Reaching up, he rubs at the back of his neck, avoiding Prymelia's gaze. "Doesn't really bother me, 'cept when some people," and his exasperation is clear, "harp on about it." Obviously, someone - or someones - has done so previously.

“Aye well, you’re what? Fifteen, sixteen turn?” His short answer taken as intended. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you still.” And doesn’t she sound just like an old aunty. “It’s not a competition, Quentin.” Although most males would probably beg to differ. “There’s no expiry date or deadline by which time you should have acted like…” a small twitch of lips, fond for the term he’d used, “a stallion. And if anyone says any different, you just point me in their direction and I’ll sort them out!” Vehement this one when it comes to the protection of those being given a hard time.

"Fifteen." And look, Quentin doesn't even puff out his chest or add the inevitable 'but almost sixteen!' to it. He really is an odd duck - but not a bad odd duck. Just an odd one. "Like I said," he says, a bit patiently, "it doesn't really bother me. Bothers them, but they can… get over it." He's so polite. Unless he's drunk. Maybe she should have put more encouragement in that klah. "An' they will," he muses, with all of the sunny opitimism of someone who has never - and will never - be a student of human nature. "Sure something else will come along for them to poke at, and they'll leave me alone. But thanks," he adds, with a hint of a shy smile.

Prymelia, at twenty-three and having run her own wagon trips into and out of the jungles, has seen and experienced enough herself to know that Quentin’s statement is hopefully optimistic at best. But why bring him down. And so, with a little smile and a nod, she relents. “Well, you know where I am if ever you just need to talk, aye?” Taking up the mug he’d carefully set aside she turns to head out again. “Growing up is inevitable but never compromise who you are.” Because odd duck or not, she rather likes him just the way he is.

"I like myself." This is a statement few, if any, teenagers have ever made before, but Quentin doesn't just seem to be talking to reassure the other Candidate. He truly seems quite pleased with the young man he is. A very odd duck, indeed. He takes one last moment to check the mare and foal again and ensure everything is going fine after their recent trauma - the mare seems healthy, having come to her feet so that the foal could begin suckling. Chuckling, he moves to follow Prymelia out. "I like talking to you, though. And like I said, soon's we get back to the Weyr, you're meeting the terriers." Nope, he hasn't forgotten.

Add a New Comment