Ryker, Prymelia


A pair of foreigners with completely opposing ideals, butt heads at High Reaches Weyr

Language and an adult situation


It is midmorning of the tenth day of the fifth month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.


High Reaches Weyr, Beach

OOC Date 11 Mar 2016 22:00


ryker_default.jpg Prym13.jpg

"It's… extraordinarily inappropriate."


Ancient dunes have been flattened by the endless parade of people and dragons that tramp northwest across the bowl, leaving a mere skiff of sand here along lake's beaten edge. Footprints litter the curve of beach, some left turns ago and caught frozen in the heavy clay earth near the water's edge. As the sun sets, shadows invade, creeping like fingers across the gently sloping ground and darkening the distant ledges on the far side of the lake.

In the time of Pass, dragonriders enjoy more-or-less the privilege of being an independent ruling class — after all, they're there to save the world. Perhaps that explains why Ryker is here, in High Reaches of all blasted locales, following a brownrider who is here for a purpose. What purpose is that? Good question. Apparently it is to meet someone on this narrow strip of sandy beach. Ryker follows along, a mute addition to muscle, gaze roving over those already sprinkled over the spring morning vista with the innate neutrality of a career guard. The Igenite brownrider waits at an assigned spot, and shoos Ryker off with a single darted look; the guard-turned-candidate gives him one flat look but drifts off obligingly, hands stuffed in his pockets against the brisk cool air.

The last few sevens but have been nothing short of gruelling. If Prymelia had thought she was in for a relatively easy time thanks to the turns of dragonriding already behind her, she soon found out differently. There was a reason positions in the High Reaches Weyr search and rescue training program were so sought after and at least a dozen more why it was a true test of will to stay the distance. But there she is, one Southern greenrider among a bunch of Reachians, two Telgari, an Istan, four Benden and five Fortian. Whatever activity they'd been involved in has just broken up with the trainees afforded a half hour break before the next session. The redhead must have drawn the short straw this morning since she's the one left coiling up length after length of rope and dropping them into neat piles while her dragon keeps a weather eye on proceedings.

Ryker doesn't know anything about any of that. He only knows that this is High Reaches, which is pretty much his favorite place ever except not. He embodies Fort comes First, see, and the seven (six and a half?) spindles bother him just by existing. Maybe it's that reason that drives him to wander towards the redheaded woman, his lips pressed in a thin line for the appearance of a woman left to do a man's job. "Do you need help with that, ma'am?" he politely inquires, a slight edge to his beautiful voice, so incongruous to the aura de thug that otherwise surrounds him.

This must be a job that requires great concentration for when Ryker speaks up, Prymelia jumps, drops the rope she's working on and whirls about with hazel eyes cast wide. Jumpy much? "Faranth take me Between!" Head to toe and up again putting the stranger under frank assessment trying to match voice to physical presence. Finally, a quarter smile turns out, "Aren't you the polite one." Meant to be a compliment there is nonetheless a tired tease there. Perhaps she's taken a bit of a beating from the otherwise all male team she's been working with lately. As to his offer of help, only a dumbass would turn it down and she toes a clump of ropes tangled together. "Need to get these sorted out into matching lengths and then coiled and tied with the corresponding ribbon." Equipment maintenance is serious business it seems.

The surprise that overtakes Ryker's angular features shows a different side of the man than traditionally offered, but it is quickly stifled under the neat tidiness of emotionless intensity. "Hopefully not," is what he offers with a swift, lean-manner glint of teeth. He eyes the ropes with a large level of native distrust, but the man's quick to lean into the task, starting to sort with a methodic precision to laying out lengths: the more tangled require patience, though. "Did they leave you with this?" Presumably he saw the tail end of drills, and sharp disapproval colors his vocal tones.

Scooping up the rope she'd been busy with prior to nearly-peed-my-pants, Prymelia coils up the last of its length and then squatting, ties a brown ribbon about it to hold it neatly together. Swivelling on her heels, the helpful stranger is lent a wry tilt of mouth. "Drew the short straw at PT this morning though I suspect," she says, standing again and moving over to a length Ryker's pulled free, "that was more by design than luck of the draw." A quick frown catches the disapproval on exhibition. "But they haven't been able to shake me yet and they're not going to." Determination sets a stubborn line to her jaw. "Wait." Suspicion creeps in and expressive eyes narrow slightly before sweeping across his shoulders searching for a knot. "You're not L'on's replacement from Fort are you?"

Ryker gives Prymelia a longer look, just as guarded as before, but still scrutiny nonetheless: a jumble of traditionalist priorities clamboring for attention behind those murky grey-green eyes, no doubt. In the end, he glances once towards the Igen brownrider still engaged with whatever it is he's doing here, and returns to his sorting. Perhaps even Ryker understands that discretion, when out-weyr, is the better part of valor. So he chooses his words with inordinate care: "I find that incredibly wrong," he mildly states as to by-design vs luck-of-the-draw, and leaves it at that. "What?" incomplete and blank his return expression to her suspicion: "No," he assures her, the word licked with some black humor.

That was clearly not a response Prymelia had expected. Not when she's been gloving up and dealing with back-to-back Nowtimer ideals. It catches her off-guard. Briefly does she follow her helper's glance in the direction of the brownrider while coiling another length of rope over her shoulder. "You can leave if you're not supposed to be talking to me. I promise not to hold it against you. Much." A slight smile emerges and grows a touch, hinting at the joi de vivre currently under tight control. "Good. Because it would be a pity to have to beat you into submission too." She's kidding! Probably. "Name's Prymelia, out of Southern with green Issaeryth over there."

"No," Ryker assures her, "I'm quite the responsible adult," his voice clearly amused: "I think I can well-and-enough speak to whomever I wish." He shakes his head, once, and falls silent to battling the lines into submission; his silence breaks only when he looks up, expression momentarily hard, at her reference of beating him into submission. "I'd welcome the attempt." There's a longer pause. "I meant it was wrong that they would leave you, a woman, to do the heavy labor." He straightens with a particular line and starts to wrap it from handhold to the back of his elbow, obvious familiar with these rope tasks. "Well-met, Prymelia," though isn't it interesting how he doesn't give his respects to her rank or her dragon, "Ryker of Igen." Completely unmatching his Fort Hold accent.

Prymelia opens her mouth, "That's…" then thinks better of it and shuts it. Somebody's learned the hard way to measure her words. "Good." A few seconds later she ends the sentence on a somewhat lame note. Several beribboned coils of rope are taken up and stacked one on top of another forming a pile of red tagged coils. Moving back to begin doing the same with the blue-tagged ones, she's arrested by the change in Ryker's expression momentarily unsure as to what she's said to piss him off. "I was kidding." The redhead states then glances up at him as he stands. A soft snort is freed. "I can't afford to be seen as a woman just now. I need them to see me as one of the team capable of doing whatever they can do." Her willowy frame although hardened to clear definition over the past few sevens, obviously puts her at a disadvantage when it comes to employing sheer brute strength. Lightly freckled features set about tight line. "They work dumb ox strong, I work smart." Pause. "Shit. I'm sorry." For getting snippy for a moment there. She stands and extends a hand in greeting, even managing a smile. "Well met Ryker of Igen." His disregard of her dragon and/or rank allowed to fall to the side. "Your accent…" She begins to ask with curiosity rife in hazel regard and then shakes her head. "Sorry. Not my place to ask."

Ryker is shaking his head even before she's finished the words about being seen as a woman, a clear denial of whatever ideology she's espousing. Dumb-ox-strong doesn't phase him whatsoever, but he presses his lips together in an outward expression of penultimate disapproval - he's not glaring at her, but this is almost as bad - and the rigid lines of his tension stand out as veins and tendons straining in his neck. He looks at her hand for a moment. Just looks at it. It's not really a whole moment, just half of one, and then he does the dumbass nowtimer thing to do, not taking to shake it but moving to bow over it, stiffly, precisely, the way a man should in the presence of a delicate woman flower tawdry greenrider from heathen Southern uppity bitch who thinks she can hang with the men woman. "I went to Igen several turns ago," when he's back to winding coils. "It… suits me."

Prymelia's take on the tension that slings across Ryker, "You disapprove." Crisp, curt and lacking apology for fighting for a place in what has for so long been a man's world. "I'd ask why but I don't think-." The manner in which he responds to her hand extended in greeting cuts her off at the pass and leaves the redhead staring at him in open befuddlement. What? She's not used to such beautiful courtesies, okay? Even if it is him simply following his own internal compass on etiquette rather than any true form of personal respect. "Uh…" So eloquent. Not. She takes her hand back and returns to gathering up the prepared ropes, stealing perplexed glances at Ryker whenever he's not looking. Confusing ruddy male! "I see. And now you're here helping me." Having stated the obvious she falls to silence keeping her familial ties to the desert Weyr to herself. "Is that something you usually do?" She can't help it even though it goes against Issaeryth's internal advice. "Going around saving damsels in distress?" Faint amusement attached. She's teasing again. Its her go to in puzzling situations.

"I do," Ryker indicates succinctly his disapproval. "I don't find…" he starts, then visibly checks himself. Ealasaid, eat your HEART OUT. He busies himself with the remaining labor of the longest ropes, blows out a suitably blowsy breath of exasperation for her latest query. "No," he replies evenly. His cold grey-jade gaze falls to her, the resolve to remain politic shattered. "I would not consider myself a nice man, and I don't approve of women who think themselves dragonriders, much less call them damsels in distress." His lips thin into a line again. "It's… extraordinarily inappropriate." All of that. Her. Here. This job. The color of her lifemate. The knot on her shoulder. His consummate derision is on full display, and will this ever end so well!

And there it is. The very attitude she's been throwing herself against since snatching a place in the High Reachian training program. At first, Prymelia doesn't respond. Not verbally any way but its all there in the stiffness to her spine, the tight set of narrow jaw and the thinning of lips clamped together. The usual explosion of temper that might have occurred a scant month or so back, is held in tight check for the time with the only indication of its existence in the fire that flashes through amber flecked eyes. "Really." Flat as unleavened bread the last coil of rope is dropped and hands plant on trim hips. "And I suppose that if I were a good little trader woman quietly betrothed and popping out babies for some ugly lump of a boor while stirring his dinner over a hot fire, that would soothe your insufferably arrogant, narrow-minded," oh dear, "misogynistic," someone learned the BIG words, "small dicked, shrivelled nuts, teeny-tiny, pansy-ass ego?" At least she's not yelling? Something entirely crude is muttered under her breath. "I should have kicked your ass." Sniff.

Ryker has the grace to look affronted, in how he turns to Prymelia to fully face her for the first time, his face a sketch of oh-no-you-didn't: "Small dicked? I think not." Priorities, people. Priorities.

"Pffft!" Prymelia actually employs a raspberry there, defiant challenge writ in every aspect of her expression. For all she knows he could be some bigwig's son but her dander's up and any sense of caution has been thrown to the winds. Much to Issaeryth's dismay. She'd been doing so well! "Sorry. Bruise your ego there?" Weight shifts and her left hip juts out, Ryker's crotch openly considered for a moment. Hazel regard lifts and pins without apology to the hard grey-green of his eyes, a taunting smirk twitched into place. "Maybe its just shy."

Ryker lowers his hands to rest thumbs a handspan apart at the front closure of his pants, and offers her a corpse-smile, cold and profoundly unwell. "Typically I would show more restraint around a lady, but as you've very eloquently proven there are none of those anywhere nearby…" His mockery has risen, the curve of his smirk innundated with perpetual derision for who Prymelia is and what she stands for. "You're more than welcome to take a look." This gives an entirely new meaning to the phrase 'showing your ass', Ryker.

Prymelia should not look quite so smug about what is obviously meant to be a slur on her character. But there it is, a shiteating smirk that's very close to being a triumphant grin in the face of Ryker's derision. "I would," she drawls letting her Igen accent bleed through the Southern influence, "but I seem to have left my magnifying glass and tweezers in my weyr." She'll even make a show of patting herself down in a fake show of searching for said items. "Don't worry," the heathen Southerner breaks from immobility and dares to brush her apparently crass self passed his shoulder as she goes to scoop up the remaining pile of ribbons, "your secret is safe with me."

Ryker's patent derision fades and resurges and transforms into something that isn't quite anger - it's not that intense - but smooths past into a neutral-faced enduring of her insufferable inpropriety. His smile turns radiantly mocking when she goes to breeze by him, and in a graceful motion that speaks of serious misuse of guard-trained reflexes, pivots to face her, seizing her nearest hand at the wrist and guiding it unerringly to press against the front of his pants. In the same gesture he leverages her arm against her, fetching hard against the height of the greenrider. His breath is sweet and minty, and he murmurs something against the soft sweep of her hair, his lips brushing the gentle curve of the top of her ear.

You overhear Ryker mutter, "… … no secrets, greenrider, and I'm sure … can now … … … … are required for … consideration of … …" to Prymelia.

Ryker's anger, well, his almost anger fans the flames of triumph. Prymelia will snatch that up and hold to her metaphorical bosom like a trophy! First prize for poke-the-bear. Alas, there's one rather vital little piece of information that she might have done well to glean – the man's training as a guard. Unexpectedly nabbed and fetched up against him, she utters an entirely feminine squeak of dismay. Then a gasp of outrage when he guides her hand to his crotch. "You son of a -!" Hazel eyes flare and a rush of colour floods her cheeks. So maybe not quite as bold and brassy as she makes out she is. Humiliated at having been so deftly called out, anger flashes bright in her eyes. But she doesn't move. Barely does she breathe as Ryker presses his point home. Even after his last word has faded and her skin cooled of the warm brush of his breath, the redhead doesn't struggle to get out of his grasp. When movement occurs its swift and comes in the sudden tight squeeze of her hand about the family jewels. With a small turn of her head that to anyone looking on might appear to be her nuzzling his neck, there is a husky laugh and then a reply softly whispered.

You overhear Prymelia mutter, "… … a pity its … … … gigantic …" to Ryker.

There's a surge of very visible satisfaction that roils across Ryker's face when Prymelia finally complies to her female mandate of existence — that squeak, that gasp, the feel of her fingers against his hand. She'll do well to note, ah, an entirely different manifestation of… satisfaction. Ahem. She can't NOT notice it. Is it when she blushes? He is legitimately a pervert. But he's misgauged her, this female greenrider, and his own breath comes in swiftly as he rises unconsciously to his toes at her grasp. "You don't have to damage the goods," he murmurs to her. "But I can appreciate a woman that clearly shows what she wants." Bold words to be so painted with mockery when his balls are literally in her hand.

That would be precisely what had brought that flare of colour to Prymelia's cheeks. But did it dissuade her? No, it did not. Even now, having gained the, erm, upper hand here for a moment, such manifestations are disconcertingly hard to ignore. There's another laugh, low and husky, slightly mocking around the edges, "You couldn't handle the likes of me, Igen." He'll be branded by his current choice of home location. "You're not man enough." And clearly she's not referring to the handful she has of his nethers for that point has already been proven. A teensy squeeze of hand, reminder that she is not without her means and then, if he senses this small snatch for power coming to an end and releases her, the greenrider will in turn release him and step back. "We good?" As in, he's not going to try and tie her into a pretzel or something.

"On that we must disagree," Ryker replies in his voice like quiet silk — on the topic of him unable to handle her. "Especially given how many men must handle the likes of you, month to month," and here his lip curls - literally curls, "Flight to flight." With that last derogatory comment said, he does risk life and limb and genetic furtherance to twist away from her, his expression still a strange mix of repulsion and… well, she's an attractive woman. It's about then that his escort, that Igen brownrider, has come back 'round. "Everything good here?" the brownrider asks, flicking glance between Ryker and Prymelia. The former narrows his eyes and inclines his chin sharply, dusting off his shirt as if he's come in contact with something especially grimy. "Of course. Everything's good."

Prymelia probably should be offended by that and maybe she is for there is the tiniest twitch at the corners of her eyes but all that Ryker will get from her is a saccharine sweet smile, complete with dimples and all. "You really say the nicest things. I almost want to swoon." Hand to heart with fingers fluttering and an exaggerated sigh. Obvious play-acting is tucked away with a roll of eyes right as the Igen brownrider steps up. "Oh aye, its all peaches and cream, sir. Your friend here was just helping me to see the wrong of my ways and setting me back on the straight and narrow." Smiiiile. Shyeah right. "Later, Ryker." Vapid finger wiggle and then the redhead saunters off saying just loud enough for both to hear with a press of hands to her heart. "Oh, Issaeryth. He's so dreeeeamy. I fear I shan't be able to think of nothing else but all the big, strong babies he could give me and all the lovely hot meals I could cook for him and how hard I would work on my knees, scrubbing and polishing and shining…" And on and on it goes until she's out of hearing distance.

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