Bardic Hall Weyr
Grey-black, the walls of the cavern are worn smooth, a darker shade of slate than the stone outside.  Light beckons like a promise from outside, glimmering and playing in lulling silver glints on the tiny 'stream' that winds and murmurs down around the weyr's perimeter.  High-roofed, this cave feels lofty, much like a private Great Hall.  A long, hollowed-out hump of stone serves admirably for a couch, polished slate cupped for dragon's form like a hand for a butterfly.  Echoes tread richly from walls and roof, and rebound again from the 'hollow' in the wall.
P'vias is here.
 

Kym bustles about, stuffing blouses, trous, and the like into a duffel bag with little organizational skill.  Eventually, she plants hands on hips, breathes a satisfied sigh, and throws a glance P'vias' way.  "I'm leaving," she announces bluntly.

P'vias looks up from where he sits at a small, squat table, a plate of rather cold food half-eaten before him. "Why, muffin?" he asks, green eyes widening slightly in an attempt to look sad. Or something. "You haven't had your breakfast."

"Muffin?" Kym snorts derisively, bemusement coloring her tone.  "Because, darling, I don't like you."  Who does?  The greenrider goes so far as to clarify, "You're rude, annoying, and arrogant -- and you don't understand that I'm not your weyrmate.  I'm on vacation."  She stresses the last word, smug smile touching lips.  "I'll go eat in the caverns if I'm hungry.  Or
 back home."

P'vias's brows knit considerably -- he's not that bright, either. "Well... fine!" comes his retort, finally. "You're not a proper woman, anyway!" This outburst given, the rash-acting man suddenly changes his mind: "No. Don't leave. We're in love. You can have my children," he offers graciously.

Kym, hardly perturbed, slings her duffel beneath her arm and allows a little laugh.  "I'm not proper?  How long'd it take you to figure that one out?"  Shoulders give a shrug.  "No, don't answer that.  I don't care."  Eyebrows rise, then, and she peers towards the bronzerider curiously.  "We are?  I'm not.  And I don't want any kids."

P'vias's brows knit deeper, and he frowns peevishly at his short-term weyrmate. "I'll... I'll... I'll make sure you're never welcome in Fort Weyr... /or/ Southern Boll again," he threatens in something akin to desperation. His food is all but forgotten as he watches Kym pack.

Cheerily, Kym responds, "You can't do that." She turns her back on P'vias, then, and marches out towards the ledge and her waiting dragon.  She pauses a moment to turn back and note, "But that doesn't matter.  Because I'm not going to live in either place, am I?"

"I can, too," P'vias retorts so smartly, before banging his thick fists on the table top hard enough to make the plate tremor. "I have /connections/, and, well, if you ever visit those places, well, you'll be sorry." Such frightening threats, eh?

"Sure, sure.  Whatever." Kym's relatively unconcerned with those notions; she does, however, remark thoughtfully, "You know, if you really loved me -- which you don't -- then you wouldn't say stuff like that."  She quirks a charming smile back at him before she carries her bag out to Gwyneth and returns to grab another.

"That's not true--" P'vias begins, but cuts off, only to wrinkle his nose and screw up his plump face. "But... I'll get you back," he finally half-threatens, half-promises.

Kym stoops to pick up her last duffel -- "Oof.  Heavy." Once it's secure in her arms, the greenrider wonders curiously, "How do you plan on doing that?"  She does her best P'vias-leer and informs, "I'm planning on going back to Xanadu and shacking up with someone else, you know."  So she lies a little.

"He'll be sorry," P'vias lies through his teeth, attempting to look every bit the jealous holder-boy; safe to say he probably doesn't have what it takes to actually make another rider 'sorry' in any concept of the word.

"How do you know it's a he?" Kym inquires sweetly.  She restrains giggles and coughs suspiciously before adding, "I'd love to see you try.  I'm leaving, now.  Breakfast down in the caverns is sounding good."  She momentarily releases a hand from about the duffel to wave.  "Have fun tormenting the Fortians, P'vias."

P'vias says nothing; he only splutters on for a moment, glowering after the retreating form of the woman he /will/ get back.