Prymelia, T'ral


T'ral is getting bandaged up while Prymelia is doing her shift in the Infirmary.


It is midmorning of the fourth day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master.

It is the sixty-fourth day of Summer and 105 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky.

Early morning finds the Infirmary at a gentle bustle as supplies are inventoried and shifts change over. Notes from the night staff are handed over to the day staff and those candie-stripers - Haha - assigned to the sterile environment, are ushered inward. Amongst them, Prymelia who is a little more somber than her usual perky self. Perhaps she's tired. Or maybe it's that SOMEONE DESTROYED MY HOME or more likely, Infirmaries simply make her uncomfortable.

T'ral is suffering the proddings and pokings of a Journeyman, jaw cranked open and tongue deployed as his eyes are rolled skyward and the Journeyman peers into his mouth, "Mmm," says the healer, "And how long have you been having this shortness of breath?" The bluerider's jaw is released and he works it before it snaps shut, nose scrunching as he smacks trying to work saliva back into existence. He shifts, wincing, a hard clench of eyes and a swallow, eyes bright when he opens them again, blinking. The healer moves away and T'ral's torso is a mess. Pale, winding Threadscars and bruises that set off the silvery ropes beautifully. Lots of bruises. "Only just now. At breakfast." He winces, a grunt in his throat. The healer nods and makes a note, turning back, "Well, it's pretty clear you've cracked your ribs," so technical, this healer. "Ease off for a seven," the healer dips his head, fixing T'ral with a look until the bluerider complies. "Yes, Sir." Afterall, easing off is relative. What had he promised, really? The healer snaps his file closed and says, "I'll send an apprentice to bind you up. Sit tight." The healer moves off on his rounds, with a nod for Prymelia as he passes. Tracking the healer's progress, T'ral flinches as his eyes fall on Prymelia, causing him to wince anew as he drags his eyes back to his near environs. Table. That table is REALLY interesting. Look at the… craftmanship.

Memories exist of this Infirmary. Memories of visiting and sitting with a certain bluerider. Until the day his eyes had opened. Then, a certain mahogany-haired trader had been conspicuously absent. Given the task of laying out bandages, needlethorn and numbweed at the various stations, Prymelia is eyes to task as she meanders ever closely to where said bluerider currently has his butt parked. Catching the edges of boots as she drops the little bundle neatly into place in the waiting basket she glances up, winces at the bruises, recognizes a scar and then attention suddenly flips upward. "T'ral! Uh. I mean…assistant weyrlingmaster…" the salute is sloppy and half-hearted at best as the candidate simply STARES. Catching herself doing so, she clears her throat and puts out a friendly smile. "Still getting yourself beat up, huh?"

T'ral would sigh, but it'd probably bring tears to his eyes. As it stands, breathing with a handful of twanged ribs takes enough concentration. He tenses carefully, tentatively, to raise his voice to something Prymelia can hear across the distance between them, "'Sir' will do. Shorter tha-," he grunts, "Shortest." Terse is the name of the game today. He swallows, parroting the question back, "Still?" He can't help but look at her. The biggest missing puzzle piece in his head. The hair, flowing red and brow, the skin. If there were any remembering her, he would. Shards, he would. Well, there was that time in the baths… the blueriders' ears color and he looks away, brow furrowed as the latrines spring suddenly to mind.

Sir. Prymelia fits the bluerider with an odd that's somewhere between amused and darkly challenging. But she has a role to play, and so: "Sir." Unaware of the particular memory he does actually have of her, the former trader drops the little bundle of needlethorn into a separate compartment and then settles the pot of numbweed. "Well, it was more Esanth than you but there was this one time after that rogue…" Words trail off, the completion of the sentence waved off with a flick of hand. "It doesn't matter. What were you doing this time, hmm? Trying to hug a rock? Or did you try to kiss Ardstelle again." Again? The amusement is back on freckled features, she who wears masks so well.

This time T'ral does sigh, "It's a jo-" cut off with a shallow pant, eyes squeezed shut. No more sighing. No more jokes, either. "Joke. Prymelia." The syllables are sawed-off, pain-wracked. After he's ridden out the pain of muscles cramping around abused ribs, he tilts his head down and towards Prymelia, blinking. Rogue… his mind whirls trying to place the time, dig up any reference in his notes. Quietly, "Tell me. Pl…" and his query is cut off by her dismissal. He looks back at that table. It really was nicely crafted. His lips twitch at 'hug a rock.' Near enough. His brow furrows at 'again,' he'd gotten used to folks trying to have him on with false memories, and kissing Ardstelle wasn't on any todo list. He doesn't feel like making light of things, but, he digs… there's something funny. Somewhere. He just hurts. "K'ane," is all he has in answer to Prymelia's quip. And, "Likes it rough." There. Funny. Haha.

"K'ane?" Amusement flares deeper. A joke. This one she gets. "Mmm. I would expect he does. What you need is a lasso see? Man that big? Goes down hard." Cue the wicked little twitch of lips. But Prymelia isn't without a heart and soon enough elegantly shaped brows drop for the obvious pain he's in. "Have they given you anything? A sip of fellis? Numbweed? I could…" She has before. Uncertainly she gestures toward the little pot of the stuff set down. "Or I have something better." And through her clothing she rummages to produce a little pot. "One part numbweed, two parts trader secret," the side of her nose tapped, "and a little dash of something else to take away the smell." If a healer apprentice doesn't come soon to bind his ribs…

"Sparring," a real answer. So it was K'ane. "Lasso?" T'ral's eyes track off towards the healer on his rounds, "No. I think he," a careful inhalation, "Wants the pain," careful exhalation, "Keep me in line." And it's going to. Brilliant and glittering shards of it, stabbing deep. "Too deep for numbweed." He winces. "Thanks." He hitches on the table, wincing, and looks back at Prymelia. He doesn't have any recollection of her binding his wounds. In this very infirmary. Not far from where they're talking now, actually. "Your salute's rubbish." He grunts, "'zat how do it in Igen." He's dropping words, here and there, but the meaning should be clear.

The real answer has Prymelia looking disappointed and so she tosses a one-word reply back at the bluerider. "Wrangling." Smirk. "Oh that's just stupid." She goes on to comment of the pain T'ral is in. "What healer would want you in pain. That is SADISTIC!" The word meant to carry. Tucking her special little pot of tricks away again, the now-candidate's expression briefly shields at mention of Igen, hazel regard narrowing slightly as she toys with the end of a neatly rolled bandage. What does he know? What does he remember? "My salute has flair." She chooses to counter with. "At least I don't look like I have a stick up my butt like Jorly. Yes, Sir," smart salute, "No, Sir," smart salute, "Can I polish your staff, Sir?" SMART SALUTE! Breathy mimicry of a skinny blonde candidate given.

"Wrangling?" Short phrases are all he really has the breath for. Speaking, especially projecting, like he's used to, takes musculature and skeletal structure that isn't trying to make you weep. "Just a guess." T'ral's not an especially compliant patient in regards to regulating his activity. Perhaps the healer knows this. Prymelia herself might. "Salutes not meant," some mashed up syllables, "flair." His eyebrows go up, "Why'sit bother you? Sucking," wince, "Sucking up. Think we don't see?"

"An ass." Smiiirk. Perhaps he can only process short phrases too or maybe Prymelia's enjoying the word game. Either way. And yes, she is well aware of what an awful patient T'ral can be but she's not letting on just yet. "Oh everything can do with a little flair." She counters having just demonstrated that she is quite capable of proper and smart affair. A snort greets talk of sucking up and what the candidate's supervisors may or may not be aware of. "It doesn't bother me." Tone cool. "I could give a wher's arse whose dick she sucks." An elderly healer happening by blanches and gives the young woman a stern look! Ignored of course. "But I do care when she's trying to shift chores onto the little ones. She does it again and bullies Gatreen into latrine duty, I'm going to salute her so hard, she'll land face first down a long drop." Just so's T'ral knows.

"Ass?" T'ral's a patient man in many regards. Teasing information out of a subject is something he enjoys, and so, despite the stars that dazzle his vision when waves of pain hit as he breathes oh so carefully, he trawls the story from Prymelia word by word. Rather because of the dazzling pain. The focus on maintaining his side of the conversation is a welcome distraction. He flushes lightly at that brazen statement, eyes flicking to the healer and back to Prymelia's entirely unapologetic hazel defiance, "Dick sucking. Against regs." He grates, teeth flashing, and then he's hunched, the laugh her outburst spawned and his reply was Very Ill Advised. "We see," he pants, "Violence against regs, too." His head dips down, eyes shut hard.

"K'ane." Prymelia replies which now leaves him with: Lasso, wrangle, ass and K'ane to cobble together into some sort of sensible answer. If that is even possible. The more pain T'ral exhibits, so the lower her brows draw until she stares daggers at the nearest healer to be unfortunate enough to happen by. "Hey! You!!" Forgetting her lowly status as a candidate, the poor young man is collared and shoved toward T'ral. "Fix him before he falls over." Bossy Prymelia, is bossy. Candidate or not. And then back to her colorful conversation she turns, with nary a care that the healer's ears might turn a delightful shade of crimson. "Against regulations maybe. But then she is your regular run of the mill whoring bully." Yeeeah, she doesn't much care for the skinny Jorly with the flat chest and apparently BIG mouth. "It's not violence. It's forcibly helping someone to wash the bullshit off their face." Prymelia tells T'ral with a little sniff of justification.

T'ral's brows knit, "K'ane?" Not enough data, still. He cycles back through the conversation… 'man that big, goes down hard,' and his eyebrows shoot skyward. Tensed, wincing, the rider grates out through a dizzying roar of blood in his ears, "You lassoed K'ane?! Why?!" As it happens, the collared apprentice was the very apprentice sent to wrap up T'ral's ribs and he glowers at Prymelia's rough handling. T'ral? T'ral is angry. Wincing, teeth bared, "Candidate!" T'ral's eyes flash, bright with pain, anger. Teeth stay bared, breath hissed over as he raises his arms for the now-ticked-off apprentice -thanks Prymelia- who despite being angry is swift and sure at the task of binding T'ral's ribs. "Watching. You. Too." The apprentice cuts a look at Prymelia, "Please be still. AND quiet." T'ral subsides. T'ral's eyes fall on his neatly folded clothes. Leathers. There had been something. In his notes. Something she'd planned. In Igen. Something bad. That she wouldn't share. Forensic analysis of his past hadn't yielded anything on that matter. But she was here now. Southern. And how was that? Silent until the the apprentice finishes his work, T'ral murmurs his thanks, seeming more at ease now that his core is supported. Relief is palpable. He slips off of the table he'd been sitting on to gather up his clothes. If she's looking, Prymelia will see more scars than she last knew. A grim collection, stark against his skin and bruises. "How much did you win?"

It's like poetry. A K'ane and Prymelia haiku.

Lasso. Wrangling.
An ass. Ass? K'ane. K'ane?
Big man, goes down hard.

Wide and oh so pleased with herself the grin that appears when T'ral finally connects the dots. "I missed the runner." Prymelia dismisses with an airy little flick of her hand. "He was in the way. I got him instead. He's fiiiine." If you discount the grazes smooshed across the bronzerider's cheek. But she fixed that! So it's all good. In Prymelia world. And then the bluerider is barking at her. Hazel regard narrows and the delicate construction of her jaw tightens defiantly but the candidate says nothing. Doesn't even flinch!! Aaaand doesn't look too chastised either. Holding to silence until the healer has done his job, his glares ignored, she tosses T'ral a, "You're welcome," once at least some of the pain is contained in the supporting wrap of bandaging. Stepping back when he shifts off the examination table, Prymelia pales a little but other than that, allows not a glimpse of anything to show through. "Win? Oh. You mean betting against myself?" A cunning little smile appears - smoke and mirrors - and studying the beds of her fingernails, offhand reply is given. "Enough." Dismissive.

He'd seen the scrapes on K'ane's face, T'ral had, but he hadn't asked after the wound. The man was a rough as a cob and their work wasn't gentle. He simply hadn't thought much about it. 'You're welcome.' T'ral pauses in gather up his clothes and walks the short distance to Prymelia, quicklier than he probably should, there's a supressed wince as dark eyes bore into hers, "These people work hard for little thanks, they deserve your respect. Even the apprentices. Especially the apprentices." He'd seen the bags under the young man's eyes. "You don't get to run roughshod over people just because you feel like it." He sneers at the knot sitting there on her shoulder. It's an ugly face. It doesn't sit well on him. "And not because of that knot. And Jorly's the bully." He snorts, wheeling away, snatching up his clothes, and jerking them on, cursing as he jars his ribs.

About to turn back to the task set to her by the Healer Journeyman, Prymelia blinks when the newly appointed assistant weyrlingmaster gets all up in her face. In a flash, pretty features close and her chin goes up. Assuming the position, shoulders squared and hands neatly folded behind her back, the candidate stares straight ahead hazel regard shielded ignoring the vindicated smirk of the young healer in question. "Yes, Sir." Beat. "Of course, Sir." Molars might be in danger of cracking but she won't move so much as a muscle until T'ral is dressed and has left, a SMART salute given.

T'ral is dressed in a trice, brow slicked with sweat, dues for his haste. He's tugging his jacket into place, eyes cut sideways at Prymelia's rigid stance. Her salute is returned, smartly, "At ease," clipped. A flash of suspicion. Regret. All very fast and with her thousand-length stare, Prymelia may not see it. T'ral's brow furrows, and he fishes in a coat pocket bringing out an envelope, dark eyes scanning it before he closes the distance again. "See that you don't waste them, then." Her winnings. "This is yours. From him." The envelope is pinned against the table where Prymelia was laying out supplies. It's got her name written on it. In T'ral's handwriting. A letter. For her, from him. Before. And with that, he spins, bootheels ringing rapidly as he strides away.

At ease. Nope. Not happening. Prymelia holds to that straight ahead pin of eyes, attention latched to a bump in the opposite wall. She hears T'ral, with only the tiniest tightening of skin around the corner of her eyes when he speaks of her winnings now somehow being returned. But it's only when he's gone, a glance cutting in the direction she'd heard his boots smartly clip that she stirs to life. The envelope is eyed before being taken up and tucked into a pocket without being read. That will happen elsewhere where there aren't so many prying eyes.

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