Logs:Nabol at Home
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 14 February, 2016 |
| Who: H'kon, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: An evening at home results in talk about Nabol. |
| Where: H'kon and Madilla's weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 13, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, Dilan/Mentions, Lilabet/Mentions, Tevrane/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. |
  |
| It's another quiet evening at home; Madilla's back to travelling, now, now that the plague is past and not present, and by some silent decision she's no longer staggering her trips in such a way as to-- just maybe-- preserve a pregnancy. After all this time, perhaps it's not even really a decision: just accepted fact. The travel is wearying, but productive, and tonight-- with Dilan visiting his father at High Reaches Hold, and Raija already in bed-- is an enjoyable change of pace, child-free and cozy while an early winter storm rages outside. "I had lunch with Lilabet," Madilla mentions, curling her feet up beneath the mostly-finished quilt in her lap. "She's hoping she'll be made senior apprentice in the spring." That resumption of schedule might have left H'kon quiet, brooding initially, but now, it's proven to have eased matters considerably. With the pressure off, there is no doubt that the relationship - from H'kon's side, at least - has come easier, been healthier. Which makes for an easy glance up from that limbo area between Arekoth's couch and the family area, where H'kon's forearms glisten with dragon oil almost as much as do his dragon's. "If she maintains her focus," though his tone - admittedly a bit distracted - has little to suggest he doubts this will be the case, "certainly." When Arekoth's elbow is deemed suitably softened, he looks up. "She's well?" More attentive. True since they've (sort of) made up. "She's got her eye on the prize," is Madilla's assessment of the situation; an assessment offered fondly, pleased with her daughter's success. "Especially with Damir out of regular reach, though I believe she's writing." Whether her young swain is returning those teenage love letters is not something Madilla is necessarily privy to, of course. "She's well. She's done a lot of growing up, this turn, I think. She sent her love." The healer is pleased: life is so much simpler when there is the active passing of affection between her daughter and her weyrmate. Damir, letters, those just get a bit of a grunt of acknowledgement from H'kon. But the next, that warrants a smile, soundless but there. He keeps the quiet a bit longer, crawling over Arekoth's one forelimb for access to the other (the dragon barely shifts, but for the tip of his wings), getting oil on his rag. "We've not much been in Fort these days," is the end of whatever series of thoughts took place. "The Weyr," H'kon specifies, though of course that suggests the Hold as well, even with the distance between being the same. "Turn's end, we might go?" Madilla is included in the 'we' in this, implicit in the longer glance her way. Madilla watches H'kon at his efforts, her needle temporarily stilled for it, though surely she could sew with her eyes closed-- if she wanted to. "I'd like that," is a prompt, audibly pleased answer; she smiles. "And I think Lilabet would, too. A good way to close out the decade." Her lips press thoughtfully together as she finishes that thought, as if it has immediately led to another, perhaps one that is less positive. "Dilan intends to be at the Hold again." She'd like that, and H'kon is satisfied. It even starts to show on his face. A little bit. Of course, his face has turned back down, to focus on his dragon's hide. One finger goes to trace something he's seen - but stops, and looks back up. "A boy becoming a man will want to be near his father." Beat. "At this age," is an allowance. "There is little more we can show him without a lifemate. Now especially." That finger poke's dragon hide, and now Arekoth shifts a bit more. Madilla's sigh acknowledges the truth of what H'kon says, but also her own conflicted emotions about it. "He's been at the docks a lot," she tells H'kon. "I imagine he'll join one of those crews, in the spring. A turn on board ship, and then he'll come back, Stand for the brown he's wanted for..." For as long as she can remember, now. "At least with Lilabet, I always knew she'd be safe." "I was at the docks a lot," H'kon murmurs, as much to his dragon, to himself, at this point, as to Madilla, though he's at least not dropped below the audible level. "And on boats." Mention of that brown brings a deep smile, and H'kon rocks back onto his heels, pausing in his work, to consider his weyrmate. "Time was, a son wanting a brown was guarantee of a lack of safety. And for ships." He shrugs, though it's hardly a dismissal. "You can take pride in bravery, when there's some sense and ability to go with it. "He's sensible enough. As sensible as you get with nearly thirteen-turn-old boys." Madilla's initial reluctance warms its way into something more fond; she's proud of Dilan, despite her trepidations. "And I know Devaki will make sure he's on a solid, safe vessel. It's only the things we can't predict that are worth worrying about, except that if we can't predict them... I'll try to stop worrying." "Trust him," H'kon finishes, summarises. The rag finds Arekoth again. "I believe he'll do well." At a lower pitch: "And Arekoth and I will endeavour to know where he is when at sea. Such as we can." Grouched more to his dragon comes, "We've little of importance outside of sweeps these days anyway." The brown snorts, shifts his wings, and gets answered, "Like jabbering girls," with a wry smile. Surely Madilla is accustomed to these occasional digressions, at least. Trust him. Madilla hesitates, and then nods; to the best of her ability, of course, that's what she'll do. Her brow furrows in response to that grouch, for all that it may have been directed more towards the brown. "Tevrane's still no time and attention for you, then," she says, her words acknowledging that that's not actually a fair assessment of how matters used to be. The oil is working into Arekoth's shoulder now. The brown makes a throat noise. H'kon looks away from his work again. "Nor Y'rel." But it's cause for hesitation, perhaps not an accurate treatment on his part. "Reports, rather than anything of consequence." He shakes his head. oiling rag is up to Arekoth's shoulder now. "Y'rel," H'kon offers back, as addition or comparison to Tevrane. "There are reports, the usual sweeps, of course..." But their content - or lack - leaves the bad taste in his proverbial mouth, that somehow here manages to manifest in a grimace on his actual face. "Even I hear rumours that all is not well at Nabol," admits Madilla, her frown undiminished by H'kon's answer. "That she's limiting her attentions to Y'rel does not exactly... improve that impression. It seems such a strange thing, when she was, at first, so... consultative." "Hmm," is as much grunt as response. The oiling pauses once more, a clear hesitation before H'kon begins packing it up. The targeted areas of the night have been seen to. "We've little enough of actual duty to occupy us," is decided at last. "We ought to be spending more time on our sweeps." There's a glance between rider and dragon, preceded by a mighty stretch and yawn and flick-flick-flick of brown wings and ruddy tail-tip. "There are people who know us yet." Madilla's lack of (immediate) verbal response does not seem to be indicative of an opinion one way or the other on H'kon's decisiveness; though if he glances in her direction, he might see the faintest hint of a smile. Her needle works its way through the quilt in her lap and she says, finally, "There's nothing wrong with talking to the people of Nabol, and hearing what they have to say. That, after all, is part of what sweeps is all about." H'kon doesn't turn to her, doesn't see, doesn't need to, even. His mind (and brow) are set, and there's no moving those once that's come about. "So we've always told those we've trained." The oiling paraphernalia is put away. Arekoth click-rumbles something at Madilla in H'kon's absence (so much as one can be absent in this weyr). And when the brownrider has returned, he does at last approach (Madilla's) couch. "At any rate. We'll take care of him. He's ours, also." For Arekoth, Madilla has a smile; for H'kon, as he approaches, another. "Yes," she agrees, catching the brownrider's meaning without pause-- H'kon interpretation has always been one of her skills-- "I know." Carefully, she stows her needle into the quilt in her lap and begins to fold it, one corner meeting another. If only it were a teachable skill. The quilt earns his attention next, watching as Madilla folds it, most likely not judging, even if the corners should come a bit out of alignment as it goes. "Perhaps," mused, a glance back to his dragon, who is re-settling in his couch for the night, "his next straps ought to be patchwork." "I'm sure they'd look stunning," laughs Madilla, smoothing fingertips over the fabric which has, of course, fallen a little out of alignment in the folding process; such is life. "He'd be even more the most handsome brown in High Reaches." But the quilt is folded, now, and ready to be set aside: she offers her hands to the brownrider, instead. "Flatterer," is amused. H'kon takes her hands. Arekoth gives an approving chuff as final word, before all turn in. |
Leave A Comment