K'ane, Prymelia


K’ane drags Prymelia up to the Ice Fields to help corral some runners. An ass is lassoed, a runner is bitten, snarks exchanged and a somewhat civilized conversation held. And K’ane looks good with a bindi.


It is afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Ice Fields, Stables

OOC Date


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See, Prymelia missed out on the whole Tuli/K'ane/flask/candidates ordeal, so it only seems proper that she has to be forced into something comparably bizarre. To wit: K'ane picking her up without a WORD, shuffling her up on Dhioth for a trip ::between: to the hold, and now he's stamping towards the Stables from the courtyard with a DETERMINED STRIDE. The cause is obvious: loose runners are EVERYWHERE, and he has to turn a second to shoo Dhioth up into the air before continuing on. "Here," he calls at Prym before tossing her a rope — a lead rope. It would help if ANY of the terrorized runners were actually haltered.

Prymelia would probably silently thank Faranth she’d missed all of that. IF she knew about it, but the lads had been strangely quiet about the excursion. Thus it is that whisked away without so much as an explanation astride the very creature Home Wrecker responsible for her current lack of FREEDOM, she’s more than a little wary. Especially once they had landed at the Ice Hold. Great. She was going to be sent out into the wastelands to diiiiie! But then. Oh hey! Stables and milling runners all ears flattened and spooked. The rope is caught after another mental dagger lands neatly between K’ane’s shoulder blades. Up goes a mahogany brow. “Trader born not Keroon born.” She calls out eyeing the bronzerider and then his ankles and then the rope in her head, a diabolical planning starting to germinate. QUICK. Distract her!!

"You're tellin' me y'ain't got no clue what th' difference is between th' eatin' end and th' shittin' end?" K'ane's look back to her is somewhat disbelieving; there's no questioning the quiet competence of his confidence as he himself sling a rope around one large fuzzy draft runner's neck, collaring the beast with little regard to the rest mulling around. "There was some kinda happening out in th' pastures, and they broke th' fence. Everyone's out there," he chin-nods out towards the grazing area in question, COMPLETELY unaware of any diabolical schemes Prym's worked up.

Oh Prymelia knows a thing or two about a runner. She did practically grow up on the back of one. But she’s just being contrary. Because she can. “Would the eating end be the one with the teeth?” She asks of K’ane quickly working the rope into a lasso. She is of course quietly impressed by the skill exhibited by the bronzerider but she’s not about to let HIM know that. A quick glance in the direction of the pastures and a duck of head to hide the wicked little smile formed. Through the air with practiced ease swirls the loop of rope, snaking towards its target and unless said target (K’ane. Cough.) moves out of the way it’ll be tightened the moment it drops over broad shoulders and slips to his ankles. Oops?

"I dunno. Normally I would assume that, but it seems like more shit comes out of your mouth'n food goes in," K'ane fires back over his shoulder — but he doesn't look, doesn't see her mischief. The RUNNER he's carting towards the stables DOES, half-rearing with alarm, a solid tonne of runnerflesh and feathered hooves up in a heartbeat. K'ane reacts belatedly, the lead slipping through his hands at the same time Prym's lasso tightens over him — at the elbows, thanks to his half-upraised arms. There's an audible, loud OOF as he tries to move to a side, gets tangled up on the generally icy footing, and goes DOWN with a noise like a house falling.

Usually, when it comes to runners and the danger that can be involved in fooling around when they’re already spooked, Prymelia wouldn’t muck about. But if she’d been unsure of her actions before, K’ane’s quip swipes it clean away. When he goes down, there’s a show of alarm and fingers are pressed to her mouth – to suppress the snicker. There is even concern and a pretty good facsimile of apology that crosses lightly freckled features as she streaks over to the downed rider. “Oh. Oh dear! Did I…get the wrong ass?” Perhaps he won’t notice the fierce look of triumph gleaming in hazel eyes as she quickly works the knot free keeping a weather eye on the big runner and the others now most unhappy. Score!!

And there he is, on the ice, a cheekbone raw and scraped and his arms pinned to his sides. Oh, if looks could kill… Prymelia would never have been BORN. Her parents would never have been born. Her grandparents would have died shriveled in the womb. It's perhaps insightful that he's completely calm in his vocal response, hardwon moderation tempering his voice to something almost pleasant. "You are one of th' worst harridan women I have ever met in my life. You're worse than Alys. You're worse than my mother." Oh yeah, that one's top-rank. At least he didn't call her worse than Zeyta. (Is that bitch ever gonna get laid?) This statement delivered, he returns his forehead to the icy ground beneath him until she works that knot completely free.

Okay, she might feel a liiiitle bad K’ane’s face got all smooshed with the icy ground – sorry girls! But c’mon, his life would be so BORING without a Prymelia around to keep him on his toes. So sweet the smile that appears and she even has the gall to kneel down on the ground and hover her cheek just above the ground so that he can get a GOOD look at that smile. “You know, where I come from,” the former trader states, straightening again to focus on the task of working the knot loose, “those words would be considered a pledge of betrothal.” In a nuthouse maybe! “But its okay.” A slender pats K’ane on the back. “You can't be held responsible for not being able to recognize quality when you see it.” The moment that knot is free, she’s up on her feet and dancing away. “Now quit lying about like a lazy-bones rider and help me gather them up.”

K'ane would comment his life would be hella boring without people around to inflict wounds upon him. It's like.. what he does. Or what happens to him. Or something. "You're fuckin' crazy," K'ane replies, and his voice is tired rather than irate. Heat of the moment is gone, adrenaline after-affects! As he shambles to his feet he GLARES at her for having the gall to say that last bit — "Are y'fuckin.. I don't… AUGH." He throws his arms UP IN THE AIR, scaring at least four more runners, and deliberately angles himself sideways to sloooowly edge towards the one warmblood, a mare who looks sleek and trim besides all the shaggy ponies and hardy-coated draft runners.

Crazy? No. Full of shit? Definitely. And a whole lot more besides. There’s another little lick of feral glee for the exasperation exhibited by K’ane but that is where his torment will end. For now. There’s work to be done. With proper use of the lead rope, Prymelia nabs a broadchested bay with one white sock and a white ear. Leading him toward the stable after soothing the robust runner, the former trader pauses as she draws level with the rider. “When we’re done. I have some numbweed for that,” the graze rubbed raw across his cheek indicated. “Unless of course you think I’ve put avian droppings in it.” And she actually now does appear to be just the faintest bit apologetic. As she leads the gelding into the stables, “You’ve worked with runners before.” Statement of observation made with a hint of query attached.

"Would you?" K'ane's voice is a bit ACCUSATORY about the whole concept of avian droppings in numbweed. He's collared the warmblood, rubbing a calloused hand down her palmswidth blaze to calm her. Ears still flick back and forth as he maneuvers the stable door open and settles her into the first stall on the left. Sorry dudes, you don't get to go back to your real homes because nobody knows who is who. "Eh?" He squints over his shoulder at her as he grabs another lead from the door. "Oh, yeah. I was a cotholder, once." There's a faint smile — of rememberance or for her obvious ease with them despite her previous words. "You too," it manages to be only HALF accusatory.

Settling the big bay into the stall opposite with a fond smile for the nod-nodding and whiskery-lipped nudge, Prymelia utters a soft chuckle. Which is either meant for the runner or in response to K’ane’s accusation. “Guess you’re just going to have to find out, huh?” Amused and not as challenging as he might expect from the unruly young woman. “Its an old family recipe. Works wonders for the swelling as well as pain. Stings like a bitch though.” Turning to head back out again, another length of rope taken out, she pauses and sets the rider with a curious look the half-compliment afforded a small quirk of lips. “A cotholder?” Turned over in her mind when she steps back out into what passes as sunlight and approaches shorter, squatter runner with sturdy hindquarters and a barrel chest. “Sometimes I forget that riders had lives before they were shoved onto the Sands.” Not a dig, merely an observation. “Did you want it? Him.” Prymelia clarifies waving a hand up into the air to indicate his winged lifemate.

"Stings like a bitch," K'ane mutters, to himself instead of her. "Doesn't fit with everything else 'bout you at all." Okay, may not just to himself. The big man busies himself with catching a sly-eyed pony INTENT on using the bigger runners as shields; K'ane has to half-heft himself over a broad draft back to get the rabble-rouser in a makeshift halter. "Don't you pin your ears at me, y'fucker." His eyes shift to Prym at the question: "Oh, aye. I was a cotholder's son, then I did th' guard thing, then went an' did some holding of my own. Late to Impress." Snort: "Dhioth was th' last one on the Sands, actually. When I did." As to her last question, the man flickers his eyes to the trader and gives her a thoughtful look. "I don't know. Wanting… isn't th' word for it, maybe."

The squat little runner is far more nimble than he gives off and just as Prymelia has him cornered, he turns a tight circle and darts off in the opposite direction. Stalking him, K’ane’s muttered comment earns him a tight look but oddly, no snarky comeback. “Sometimes, you have to be cruel, to be kind.” Okay maybe one but there’s less heat in this one. While he’s dealing with pinned back ears, she’s staring down the ornery little brute that looks like he might be contemplating taking a bit out of her. “Bite me, laddie. And I’ll bite you back.” Feinting to the left, the runner shifting in the opposite direction she nabs him with a triumphant, ‘Ha! Got you, you little bugger.’ But then the runner digs his hooves. Not. Budging. “The guard thing?” That picked out. “There was a guard up in Igen that looked like a younger version of you. Rhats, Rhix. Something like that. He still owes me a drink.” That last idly mused as she glares at the stroppy runner on the other end of the looped rope. “But you said yes to Search. So either, you were hiding from something,” like she had done the first time around, “or…You were looking for something new?” Curiosity finds her temporarily losing concentration to fit K’ane with a contemplative look. “You don’t strike me as a man that…OW!! You evil, nasty, son of a bitch!!” That when the squat little runner sneaks up and takes a nip at the top of her arm.

"She will, too," K'ane calls in warning to his fellow jackass. Er. Runner. Whatever. K'ane pauses with his own ornery brat — he's got a steel hand pinching nostrils closed for a second, before the pony drops his head sullenly in submission. "That's right," he grumbles at the paint. "Rhiex is m'brother," he absently comments, offhand. "Don't fuck with him. He's a good kid." Unlike SOME people in the room… "It wasn't my first Search," he perhaps surprisingly states. "But if you want t' hear about that Search… well, I got blackmailed into it. By Lendai an' the weyrlingmaster at the time." A shrug of the shoulder, like this kind of thing happens ALL THE TIME.

Rubbing at her nipped arm, Prymelia steps RIGHT up to the ornery little bugger and shoving his head aside BITES him just off the edge of the soft flare of nostril. With a snort of astonishment, the beast jerks its head away with a high whinny and EYEBALLS his captor. “Like he said. I will too.” Triumphant, she swipes a hand across her mouth and turns toward the stables, the unhappy but partially subdued runner sullenly following behind. “He is your brother?” Surprise and a laugh followed by a snort. “Oh keep your pants on. I’m a candidate remember? He’s safe from the insane trader woman. Besides, he’s not my type.” Mmhm. Back into the stables, Grumpy is settled two stalls down from the big friendly bay. “How on Pern do you blackmail someone into standing for Search? Or…” Amber flecks glint in hazel eyes, “did you sleep with someone you shouldn’t have? I bet that was it. Was it some Lord’s Lady? Or his sweet and innocent daughter?” She’s teasing but at least there isn’t spite attached.

K'ane DOES laugh out loud — a bit startled — at Prymelia's biting of the runner. "Well," he drawls, "That's something you don't see every day…" His gaze goes back and forth between her and the runner and with a shake of his head he maneuvers the balking pony of his into the stables. He just eyes her at the topic of Rhiex. "Uh huh." He's willing to let the topic die, at least. "Well, they had two fuckin' huge dragons an' pretty much told me they would kill me and leave me for th' crows if I didn't go with them," K'ane remarks. "It wasn't fun. I caught 'em poaching on my land an' they didn't take too kindly to it." With a beat: "I did sleep with one of Lady Gar's daughters, once. Back-when."

“He won’t do it again.” Prymelia returns with a smug curl of lips and pauses at the rows of pegs hammered into the wall to take up another rope. She doesn’t continue on the topic of his brother and instead fits K’ane with a somewhat horrified look. “I’m sorry, what? They were poaching on your land and then threatened to kill you if….The fuck? How is that even fair?” Yeeeah, she’s having a hard time pulling that together to make sense. “Was her dragon glowing?” Because she’s seen and heard some pretty strange things when a gold goes all shiny. A laugh greets his confession. “I think I may have been disappointed if you didn’t.” Out in the yard an enormous grey with long shaggy mane and thick sweeping tail has managed to chew a hole through a bag of redfruit stacked to one side. “Oy! Greedyguts! Lay off.” Diminutive next to the big creature, she nonetheless swats his rump. “Why did you stand the second time then?” That to K’ane, not the runner.

"It wasn't fair," K'ane replies, matter-of-fact. "But that's my life, so." He shrugs those broad shoulders of his, unphased. "Wasn't th' first time I'd had everything jerked out from under my feet." By now there's a kid in the stables taking runners as they bring them in, so K'ane deposits the pony and goes to pick up the next. "Nope, Tali wasn't proddy. We were in a famine. It was… a rough time." He has a strange half-smile. "Oh, that was th' second time," he responds to Prym. "I guess it worked out a'ight in th' end, so." A tall black gelding is busy guarding a mare, and K'ane approaches with squared-off shoulders: "Y'bint, even if she is in heat, s'not like you can do anything." BATTLE: STABLE STADIUM. Or something. To Prym: "I don't regret it, even if it was fucked up. I got Dhioth out of it."

Sliding a look sideways at K’ane, Prymelia fishes a redfruit out of the hole in the sack and goes with enticing the grey runner by holding it out in front of her as she walks backwards. Having had recent experiences with having her life jerked out from under her feet – to coin a phrase – her next is quietly given. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, my Grams used to say. But I wonder if sometimes it doesn’t make us harder. Too hard.” That last perhaps lost on the clatter of hooves over icy ground and the activity of the last few runners milling about. Handing the shiny red fruit over to the stableboy and patting the runner’s sturdy neck she’s after the mare of the pair that K’ane is stalking. “Sometimes.” Musing in her tone as she readies a looped rope. “I envy you lot.” Dragonriders. “Having them.” Dragons. “Other times.” Her willowy oddly layered frame tenses in readiness. “I feel sorry for you.”

K'ane is too absorbed in his SHOWDOWN with the high-socked gelding for a moment, though he does snake a look over at Prym for her quiet musing. His face relents — it's an almost-grudging relaxation — and he comments: "I am sorry, y'know. About…" He gestures vaguely. Her stuff. Her wagon. Et cetera. "But you're still a harpy," matter-of-fact followed-up with, a little gruff. He can't be seen gettin' all soft and shit. "Don't think I've ever been too hard." Cue the rakish, ENTIRELY inappropriate grin as he binds the gelding up in a makeshift warbridle to calm him down. "Eh? Sorry for us?" That last bit is more interesting than dirty jokes, K'ane's eyes focusing over to the trader-candidate while he holds the gelding firmly in place to better her odds of catching that mare.

The mare is thoroughly disgusted by having the gelding’s attentions pulled away. He may not be capable of doing anything but what female doesn’t like the attention any way? “I know you are.” Quiet with a half-smile shifted K’ane’s way. “That wasn’t intended as a dig.” Slowly she approaches the mare crooning a serious of unintelligible sounds pausing when pretty eyes are rolled and the whites are shown. “Oh come on. Like that’s going to do you any good. He hasn’t got anything worth getting into such a froth about.” The gelding. Not the man holding him. The mare snorts and paws at the ground lowering her head at just the right time so as to allow the rope to be slipped over her head. Leading her away in a wide berth about K’ane’s charge she tosses him a grin. “And you’re still an ass.” His comment about being too hard earns him a snort and a roll of eyes. “Always thinking with the little head.” Emphasis on little. Into the stables she goes not having answered why she might pity dragonriders.

There's a noise for it not being intended as a dig — a man noise, one of those entirely-decipherable grunts for those initated in vocalizations. This one is an approximation of 'I know, but it needed to be said anyhow'. Since it's not like K'ane could actually SAY that, being a man. He follows Prym and her mare charge with a shaking head, his lips twisting wry. It's telling that the bronzerider doesn't feel the need to be affronted as many men would at the slight against his, ah, physique. He's secure, yo. "So. Why do y' feel sorry for us, again?" Nope, he hasn't forgotten.

Handing the mare over, and watching the sway of taunting rump as she’s led down the aisle passed the males of her species, Prymelia turns and fixes K’ane with an intent look. “When last did someone thank you for laying your life on the line for them? Offer you a drink. A seat at their table? Share conversation and a warm place to sleep in thanks for the life you have given up to save theirs? Mourned with you when you’ve lost friends, lovers and family, sacrificed on the alter of a stranger’s existence?” A far cry from the frivolous, sarcastic harpy she’s shown thus far. “Who holds you safe, soothes the nightmares when they come and fights for you when you’re too tired to fight for yourself?” For longer moments she’ll hold her gaze to deep blue eyes and then take a step sideways and walk back out into the yard. “I promised you numbweed when we were done.” And she, is apparently done.

There's a stillness at the intent look; K'ane hasn't let go of the gelding and doesn't seem likely to at this point thanks to the girl's words. His eyes narrow, a bit, at the words. Not in anger or irritation, but the faintest hint of suspicion, as if he's not sure if she's actually being honest or not. "This morning," he finally states. "My fellow riders are all th' family I'll ever need, Prymelia. I don't need some holder's mealy-mouthed thanks when my family needs me. I don't need a crafter's shoulder to cry on when I've got a sea of green and blue and brown and bronze t' lift me up." And his expression softens, then, at the end, as does his voice: "Dhioth'd fight for me to his death. To my death. To th' end of times. He's th' reason I've fought Thread. He's th' reason I'm here. He's th' only thing I think I've ever loved with my whole heart, even when I hate him. He's th' only reason I'm still alive, Prym." He hesitates, and his last comment is the softest of any: "He's the only reason that counts." Then he's walking past her into the barn, to hand off his charge, eyes forwards.

Quiet throughout K’ane’s answer, Prymelia’s expression is unreadable until he’s walked passed her. And when he does, she tracks his path for a while, a small smile slipping into place its origin undefined. “And that’s why I envy you.” A whisper of words on an exhale of air and then she’s seeking the sunlight and the crisp bracing air to wash away the tightness in her chest.

K'ane shakes his head. The half-smile is pulled out of him regardless. "Fucker," he sideways mutters at Prym as he heads back towards the courtyard, flicking a look behind him to the trampled stablegrounds. "A'ight," he states, voice trailing: "About this numbweed…"

The answer to the question he’d asked. Is still hers. A secret written and stowed away upon a tremble of something unnamed. But K’ane will know never know that for Prymelia is skillful in the art of avoidance. Outside, perched upon a stack of crates, a purloined redfruit in one hand, she fits the rider with a crooked grin, challenge in those hazel eyes. “So you reckon you’ve got the stones for a Flynn trade secret, eh? Alright.” With her free hand she fishes through clothing and rummages about somewhere near her hip to produce a little blue pot. Setting down beside her, she crooks a finger and beckons him over. “And if you don’t cry,” as if he were one of the younger candidates rather than a fully grown man, “I might let you have this redfruit.” Big whoop!

"Are you even serious right now." If K'ane notices any avoidance — which let's face it, he probably wouldn't even if Prymelia wasn't so skillful in the art of it — he doesn't comment, sighing AUDIBLY as he resolutely marches over to where Prym's crooking her finger. "It takes more'n some damned numbweed t'make me cry, kid," he lightly comments. "Though th' redfruit looks good." He eyes it. Thoughtfully. Possibly covetously.

“Its not the numbweed, it’s the avian poop that will make you cry.” Prymelia cheerfully declares and setting the redfruit to one side, opens the pot and scoops out a blob of stuff that looks nothing like the numbweed he’s probably seen before. Its pink! Swirled through with dubious looking streaks of white. Grabbing a hold of his chin she tilts his head just so, unless he jerks away and proceeds to slather the goop across the graze with gentle fingers with brows knit in concentration. Serious business this! “Don’t touch it until I’m done.” She warns juuuust in case K’ane is of a mind to snatch the fruit and make a run for it. The goop doesn’t burn. If anything there’s a rush of icy cold before the numbweed itself sets in though it DOES smell faintly of something entirely girlie.

The greatest thing about this whole experience is that it's very obvious that K'ane was BRACING FOR PAIN, his shoulders set just so, a tension unresolved in the line of the jaw underneath Prymelia's fingers. Up close like this she can get a good look at the scar running underneath the scraped cheekbone, moving in a straight line from the corner of his eye down to just past the corner of his mouth. "Why is it, is that…" K'ane can't even get out a 'pink' before she's slathering it on him. He half-twitches, a full twitch ill-concealed, and then relaxes patentedly. "That didn't burn," he accuses her, eyebrows knitting together in consternation. Then he starts sniffing. "Did you just make me smell like a girl?"

Of course he was bracing for pain. Just as Prymelia had intended he would. Score two!! “Keep still you big baby!” She chides smoothing the ointment to the very edges of the scrapes, attention tracing the line of that scar that he can be sure she will ask about at some point. “There! All done.” And she dots the center of those scowly brows with a fingertip and a little push. “Stop frowning. You look like a wher’s butt when you do that.” Leaning back she eyes her handiwork with a pleased little smile. One pink-cheeked bronzer reporting for duty!! “No. I made you smell nice!” There’s a difference. “Its rose water. Its good for the skin.” So yes, he smells like a girl. A very BIG girl. But a girl nonetheless.

K'ane balefully glowers. "You are th' worst human being I've ever had the displeasure of meeting." He's getting pretty damned good at telling her some iteration of that general phrase, right? "Do I have a pink dot in th' middle of my forehead, now?" ACCUSATORY. "I should just leave you here. You with your damn rose-water good-for-th'-skin." He shakes his head and steps back away from Prym, snatching at that redfruit as he goes. Only then does he smirk over his shoulder, jaunty — with or without some kind of pink bindi being sported — and asks, chipper as can be, "Ready t' go back?"

“You say the sweetest things.” Prymelia counters brushing his grumble off like she would a vtol. “Nope.” The lie smooth about the perfectly round dot in the middle of his forehead. “Oh. Would you? Would you really leave me here?” She coos and hops off the crates, snagging another redfruit for herself from the torn sack as she passes by. “I could spend all day making snow dragons and then defrosting in the hot springs. Best candidacy EVAH!” When K’ane turns her grin deepens that bindi most beautifully situated. “There is not back. There is only forward!” A flutter of hand gestures for him to lead the way FORWARD to the Weyr.

"You're a weird broad." Really K'ane? Really. "C'mon. If I left you here you'd find a way t' ruin your clothes and you'd find a way to make me pay for th' replacements." Grumble, grumbles. Dhioth is just ahead, and K'ane's smile is full of WHITE TOOTHINESS as he gestures towards the monstrously large bronze. "After you, madam." To the weyr and BEYOND.

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