Logs:Ought To Know Better
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| RL Date: 18 May, 2009 |
| Who: Carobet, Madilla, Whitchek |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Whitchek attempts damage control, over the incident in the living caverns; actually, it's not difficult. Then there's talk of a dress, and Carobet wants all the goss. |
| When: Day 10, Month 10, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: E'dre/Mentions, Gr'kaif/Mentions, Z'yi/Mentions |
| Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr Just off of the main passageway lies the small cavern that forms the hub of the residents' quarters, kept immaculately clean by the headwoman's staff and warmed in cold weather by a stone hearth to the left and well back from the entrance. Comfortable chairs and a plush fur arrayed before the hearth make an inviting spot to curl up with a book or handicraft, or just to sit and chat. Beyond, additional chairs stand in clusters throughout the room, some upholstered with age-softened hide, some plain wood. At the widest point of the cavern, a round table gleams with polish, though its surface is nicked and scarred from Turns of use. Beyond the table, the very back of the cavern often lies in shadow unless the glowbaskets there are unlidded to cast cozy pools of light. The commingled scents of klah, smoke and polish permeate the air along with the sweetness of rosemary and lavender. Tapestries hang across the entrances to dormitories and more private quarters as well as the exit to the outer hall, colorful protections from drafts. True to her word, Madilla can be found in the common room later in the evening, though she's settled herself comfortably on one of the couches near the hearth rather than spread out the table; a group of card players appear to have beaten her there. Though she has a book open on her lap, and the pages get turned every so often, most of her attention seems to be focused upon the hearth, as though the flames suddenly have an intense and personal meaning. The noise from the card players seems to have frightened most people off elsewhere, as, otherwise, the common area is not terribly busy. The Whitchek who watched Madilla walk out of the living caverns was drawn and pale, probably scared out of his wits--but the one that finally returns to the common room a few hours later is much better composed. He looks like he's bathed, changed into fresh clothes, made a real effort to look nice by the time he gets up the nerve to approach her. Still, maybe, a little pale (or perhaps again, given the time lapse) but not looking like he might have a heart attack in moments. A light clearing of the throat, an attempt at a charming smile that might fall a little bit short. "Fancy seeing you here," he says, in a way that sounds like it's been rehearsed. Madilla flicks a page, and then another. The noise of the card players, and no doubt the crackle of the fire, prevents her from noticing Whitchek until he's actually right there. At his words, her head turns and tilts back, allowing her eyes to slide upwards to his face. There's something searching in her gaze, more concerned, however, than upset. "Whitchek," she greets, bypassing the joke in favour of a more concrete greeting. The ashen tone is starting to make a resurgence. Whitchek eyes the other half of that couch: "Do you mind?" he asks, but possibly owing to those nerves, he doesn't precisely wait for her to answer before sitting, but he leaves a good healthy amount of space between the two of them, just in case. Deep breath. He's obviously trying very hard not to pay attention to the way that she's looking at him, and failing. "Are you all right? Did he, did they--" He trails off, encompassing a multitude of sins. Madilla doesn't say as much, but her shake of the head seems to indicate that no, she doesn't mind. The ashen tone just seems to draw more concern from her, her hand lifting from her book to reach towards him, hovering uncertainly and then setting down upon the space between them, instead. Awkward. "Nooo," she begins, elongating the vowel sound and shaking her head. "No, it's fine." She sounds more certain, as she continues. "He is very-- but I'm fine. I'm sorry, it was just too much, and I really wasn't very hungry, so..." A little bit of the tension melts as she says that, if not all of it. "Oh, thank heavens," says Whitchek, a little rushed. And the hand--well, he's brave enough to reach for it now with both of his. "I was so worried. Those two," and it's a pretty sure bet that unassuming Betegal is not included in this count so it's easy to pick out which two he means, "are both so obnoxious. And if I think they're obnoxious, well, I can only imagine how it must have been for you." More confidence returns to his voice with every word. Madilla lets her hand be taken, even twines her fingers towards his - almost like real hand-to-hand intimacy! "They're not /so/ bad, on their own," she ventures, sounding half as though she's trying to convince herself of this. "Gr'kaif-- he just forgot himself, sometimes. Forgot that he wasn't talking to-- well. You know. Isziyo certainly hasn't been too kind about you, but--" She trails off, now sounding uncertain. "I'm sorry, if I worried you. I didn't mean to make you think they were being horrible." Whitchek sits there clasping her hand for just a moment, processing for a moment. "Isziyo hasn't--no, I won't ask, you shouldn't have to worry yourself about it. And don't apologize," he insists. "They were being horrible. Maybe not as horrible as they could have been, but they ought to know better. I think... Isziyo may have been drinking, although that's no excuse, either. And Gr'kaif--" Yes, pray tell, Whitchek, and Gr'kaif what? He may not ask, but Madilla frowns anyway, presumably wracking her brain for what it could be that he has or hasn't done; she seems to come up with nothing, because she just looks slightly confused. "I don't think they /meant/ anything by it," she insists, but her resistance to that idea is melting steadily. After all, if a /man/ thinks she should have been horrified, then that's probably the way it should be. "And Gr'kaif? He seemed..." She's flushing. Oh, lovely. As she gets a little more horrified, Whitchek is at least observant enough to notice--and tone things down a little. See, nice guy, Whitchek. This Whitchek, anyway. "Oh, no. I'm sure they didn't," he suddenly reassures. "Gr'kaif... I guess they can't help what they are, some of them," is about as charitable as he's going to get on that score. "I don't think he'll bother you anymore," added, and he strokes her hand with one thumb in a way intended, at least, as soothing. Madilla nods, solemnly, except for the trusting smile she tacks on at the end: she believes him! Such blind faith. "I suppose not," she agrees, presumably with regards to not being able to help what they are. "Not everyone had the secure, structured childhood that we did, right? They can't help it." Despite being mostly soothed by all of this, she adds, then, sounding concerned again, "You didn't fight with him or anything, did you? To make sure he'd stay away. I don't... That is... I /could/ have managed." "No, I don't imagine they did... have a secure, structured childhood," Whitchek readily agrees. He gives her hand a little gentle pat and then lets go of it, gently. Wouldn't do, to do too much of that all at once. It is perhaps to his credit that he maintains his composure at the concerned question. "No," is said maybe a little too quickly, a little too loudly, but barely. "No, I didn't. I know you wouldn't have liked that, but it wasn't necessary. I just... explained." Madilla draws her hand back, using it to close her book carefully, then rest it on top. Throughout, she's still looking at him, her head slowing dropping into a nod as he answers; too quick and too loud /seem/ to go more or less unnoticed. "Oh," she says, sounding genuinely relieved. "Oh, I'm glad. You're right, that would have been awful. And... he understood? So it's all right, now. I'm... glad. Truly. Thank you, for looking out for me like that." Glad. Right. Because it was some sacrifice he made, oh yeah. Whitchek might just survive all this after all. He manages to smile a bit, again. "I think so. If he does bother you any more, you'll let me know, won't you? And Isziyo," the latter ended as an afterthought, with a memory of certain terms of endearment. "Either of them." He's able now to sit back on the couch a little, get something that looks closer to comfortable. "That's what I'm here for, isn't it? To look out for you." "Of course," she agrees, instantly, and earnestly, head nodding rapidly to punctuate the point. "I shouldn't think they will, though. If you think they understand, now." She looks pleased for it, smiling across at him. "I suppose you are. It's just-- it's strange, to get used to it. Nice! Of course, very nice. But I'm so used to not having someone. I do appreciate it." This, as far as she seems to be concerned, closes the matter, and she adds, "I hope the rest of your day was better." Momentary pause. "Not... too bad," says Whitchek after a beat. "Nothing especially eventful. You know." Then, thoughfully--because a day without anything happening might be suspicious, perhaps--he offers, "Got pulled from my regular chores to work in storage this morning. That was very interesting. Because of the tithe problems." Not that Madilla /does/ look suspicious; if anything, she seems unsurprised by the lack of eventfulness. Perhaps the evening was supposed to more than make up for it. But she nods rapidly for what he does say, head shaking. "It's awful, isn't it? Stealing the tithes. I can't believe people would do something like that. The storage caverns are interesting, though, aren't they? So many things! It's like being able to go shopping, without actually needing to part with any marks." Her eyes have lit at the telling of this, and she admits, a moment later, "We didn't have much spare, back at home. Even without the tithes, people aren't exactly going to do without here, are they?" "I imagine," says Whitchek carefully, "that for at least a turn it won't be a serious problem. Maybe a bit more mending than new clothes. And less drinking," and neither of these things sound like stuff he has a serious problem with. In fact, on the last, there's a note of approval in his tone. "It is remarkable, though, how large those storage caverns are. And speaking of shopping--I had a thought. I was speaking with a certain rider. He works as a dressmaker, in his free time." Okay, odd mix of profession and pronoun, but Whit doesn't seem seriously disapproving at this point. "I was wondering if you might--like something new? And pretty? Perhaps for the Hatching?" Madilla, likewise, seems relatively unconcerned by either of these ideas, nodding calmly. She and Whitchek are seated, a respectable distance apart, on one of the couches near the hearth. There's a noisy group of card players at the table, and a few others around, but the area is not too busy, despite the evening hour. "Enormous," she agrees, of the storage caverns. Her brows raise, at the rest - he, dressmaker? - but that doesn't stop her eyes from lighting. "I-- oh. That would be-- I've never had anything made for me. Even if it were just something small. An addition? You shouldn't spend too much on me." "You let me worry about the cost," says Whitchek in his best indulgent voice, smiling, now not at all pale or worried-looking. Everything, it seems, is going to be okay. "It's not as though I have anything else to spend it on." Well, that much is extremely true. Barely drinks, dresses like a hobo--well, a nineteen-year-old guy, but same thing--so where else could his scant marks go? "My family... *might* come to the Hatching. I thought it would be nice to show off a little, afterwards," he says, confidentially. Carobet enters the common room, heading straight for her usual chair (which is thankfully empty) and makeing herself comfortable in her usual way-- that is, legs slung over one arm, sitting sideways. For once, she comes empty handed: no hidework, no studying materials. And for a long moment, she seems not sure what to do with herself, busying her hands with tugging at wrinkles on her outfit. Then she overhears snatches of conversation from Madilla and Whitchek, who aren't sitting that far away, after all, and talking about one of her favorite things: "Dresses?" Madilla's uncertainty, visible in her expression at first, begins to fade away, only to be replaced by pure delight. "If you're-- oh, Whitchek, thank you!" It's a little more enthusiasm than Madilla might have, in past months, exhibited for such a thing; the things having a man in your life changes? "Your fa-- they will? I didn't think they approved. Oh, of course, of course. Absolutely." Carobet's entrance into the conversation catches her attention right about now, and the younger girl turns to beam: "Whitchek's going to buy me a dress, for the hatching. I've never had anything new like that before. Hello, Carobet." Hastily, Whitchek clarifies: "I said might. At least one of my brothers and possibly a sister and her family are... possibilities. I just want to be prepared." He leans over to look at Carobet, nod in her direction. "'Lo there," he says conversationally to the other Candidate. All ease, now. Everything's good. A-okay. Actually, a Whitchek this relaxed could be seen as somewhat unnerving. Oh, right. Forgot something. "Evening," Carobet adds belatedly to the pair, smiling to accompany the greeting-- an expression laced with amusement at the careful proximity between the two. "/He's/ buying /you/ a dress?" the candidate repeats, arching an eyebrow high. "How wonderfully gentleman-ly! There are few things that make a girl feel prettier than a new dress," she muses. With her feet, she kicks off her slippers, making herself comfortable. "Of course," says Madilla, softly, with her head tilted so that she can look directly at Whitchek. "In case. If they do. I'm sure it will be fine. I'm sure they'll be very happy to see you." /He/ may look relaxed, but this particular topic has brought a sharper set to /her/ shoulders, as though she personally finds the idea part-way terrifying. Carobet, however, is a distraction: she flushes, ducking her head. "He's very good to me." She's so genuine it comes out sounding less nauseatingly sweet than it might otherwise; still, definitely something for small doses only. That just makes Whitchek absolutely beam. Wonderfully gentlemanly. That's him. It absolutely is. "Do you think so?" he asks, though, all modesty. "I just thought... it sounded nice. Like a good thing." Like the only thing that was suggested to him, maybe, but we'll be charitable. "What with the Hatching coming up, and so many people will be around, very festive." Carobet beams back at Madilla. "How lovely!" The saccarine-sweet tone of her own voice is wholly affected, but somehow it seems only natural in response to the other young woman. "It's a very good thing, especially for such a festive occasion," she says to Whitchek, and manages to sound quite a bit more genuine about it, too. "Had you thought about what you'd want it to look like?" is to Madilla. "Dark blue, with a cream bow would look so lovely with your skin tone and hair color." Ah, living vicariously. "A /very/ good thing." Because Madilla? Totally not biased. At least Carobet agreed. "Dark blue, and cream?" She tilts her head consideringly, and nods: "It might. I haven't really-- I suppose the person making it will have a good idea what will suit? It's exciting. I've never been to a hatching before. And you two... you'll get to see it from so close. And I suppose you'll get to wear pretty things afterwards? For the feast?" Whitchek in pretty things, there's an image. "I... would guess? I don't really know how it all works, exactly." Has been trying specifically to avoid any knowledge of how this all works. Ignorance is, after all, bliss. "I think you'd look very nice in blue," he adds as almost an afterthought, politely. Well, you know, men. What do they know about color? Carobet purses her mouth in thought for a moment. "I think so? Can't imagine us going to the festivities in those horrid robes. But I've been meaning to ask. I was thinking of having that new weaver-- Morrsi? Have her make me a dress, anyway." She smoothes over her skirt with both hands, considering. "Maybe a dark orange. Russet-y colored. Hm. Oh, but yes-- whoever makes it will help you decide what's best." A beat. "What would the boys wear? Nice pants, a dress tunic?" Madilla may well be imaginging Whitchek in pretty things right now. Certainly, her glance in his direction is somewhat appraising. But what she says is, "I'm sure of it. It's not a celebration, if you can't all get to dress up and enjoy yourselves, too. Even if you have a baby dragon to care for, too." Why is she faintly pink as she says that? Strange. "I like blue," she adds. "Thank you, Whitchek. I haven't met her." Morrsi, presumably. She's certainly turned her attention back towards Carobet as she says it. "That would be pretty. I suppose? Boys don't have the same kind of dressing up to do, in general." "I... guess so?" Whitchek says, after Carobet's last question. "I would imagine something of the sort. Hadn't, er, thought to check, really." He's going to leave this baby dragon business be, for the moment. That would be one of those ignorance-is-bliss bits, too. "It was a rider I'd spoken with. E'dre? Have you met him? Do you know anything about his work?" He takes Madilla's hand again, a little proprietary, the implication somewhat obvious--a question of whether this fellow can be trusted. Baby dragon? Carobet pretends not to hear that part, either. Instead, she tugs at a lock of hair and says, "I'm glad I'm not a boy. I like getting to be pretty." As if that wasn't clear. There's a delighted, mischievous smile on her face as she notices the hand holding. If they were all ten turns younger, she'd be off telling her friends. "E'dre?" she echoes; the name doesn't register. Madilla turns pink again as her hand is taken, though there's no resistance from her. So cute. "I'm sure they'll tell you all, closer to the time," she concludes. "E'dre? I've certainly not met him, either. But I'm sure he'll be-- very professional." She sounds almost as though she's trying to be reassuring, or even soothing. It's okay, no one will hurt me. Somehow. "I like getting to be pretty, too, Carobet. There's nothing pretty about trousers. Of course, I would never wear them, anyway." Girls don't. Good girls, anyway. Girls like Madilla. A little pat on the hand, then, and Whitchek lets go. "Perhaps I should leave you two girls to talk about pretty things, hum?" Brows raised a little with the question. A smile at Madilla, then. "I'm glad we have things all settled, now. You have a nice chat and I'll see you at lunch tomorrow, and I'll see if I can't track down this E'dre fellow to make the arrangements." Awww. Carobet is charmed and amused by the affectionate tableau, and her smile betrays it. "Trousers are awful," she agrees... "if you're a girl." The caveat added for Whitchek's benefit. "Don't worry, we'll be good," she promises the other candidate, laughing. Because talk about pretty things, that's a dangerous subject. And so, once again, the hand returns to resting atop the book on Madilla's lap. "If you like?" she says to Whitchek, smiling up and across at him. "All right. Thank you, Whitchek. For the dress, and-- /everything/." Carobet's promise of being good just makes her duck her head, not quite awkward, but not quite easy about it either. But maybe slightly amused. And so, all is right with the world once again. Whitchek pulls himself up, beaming like all of this rightness is entirely his own doing. "I'm not worried," he assures Carobet. And then, to Madilla, "You're quite welcome." Whistling in his usual ear-shattering way, he heads off towards the Candidates' quarters again. Carobet waits a moment until the candidate is safely out of earshot. "He's nice," she observes. "So thoughtful, with the dress and all." Talk about pretty things, when there are more important subjects at hand? Tug, tug, at that lock of hair, as a wry smile plays across the young woman's face, eager to hear whatever the other healer might have to say on the matter. Madilla watches after Whitchek, more thoughtful than dreamy, though there's still a smile on her face. Carobet's observation, however, has her turning her attention back around. "He is, isn't he? So thoughtful. He wanted to buy me a gift, and I couldn't think of anything, and now he'll do this. I think it's wonderful." She must have spent enough time around girls to have been prepared for this kind of topic change, even if it's never before been about her. "We've been having meals together, a lot of the time. And walking around the lake, sometimes." "How sweet!" Carobet's voice is laced with saccharine, a prepackaged, staple response to expressions of puppy love. "You seem well suited for each other." Subtext: two people being so chaste, in a weyr! How unusual. "Have you thought at all what might happen, if he Impresses?" Her attention is on Madilla, as curiosity fills her expression. This girl talk is fun! It's hard to know if it's a good thing or not that Madilla is so oblivious to Carobet's saccharine. She smiles all the more brilliantly for the suggestion of being well suited to each other, nodding her head hurriedly in agreement, and then, more slowly, for Carobet's next question. "Yeees," she says, elongating the vowel. "He asked... that is to say... he asked me whether I'd consider, hypothetically, weyrmating a rider, even with... what comes with that." Cheeks? Flaming again. "He's a good man. I know he'd do his best for me." Her fingers, upon the book on her lap, twine together, twisting about each other. "And what did you say?" Carobet shifts just a little forward, quite literally on the edge of her seat-- as if she's been reading a romance novel, and Madilla left a cliffhanger. "I'm sure he would. From the riders I know? It's a different sort of relationship than marriage, but it's no less sincere." Speaking of sincere, those words lose any trace of saccharine. They're hopeful words of weyrbred wisdom, offering reassurance should Madilla need it. Madilla seems-- pleased? by the interest. The captive audience. Someone who doesn't think she's turned lunatic, maybe. "I said that, hypothetically, I couldn't see myself having a problem with it." Romantic. Hopelessly romantic. Not. "Yes," she adds. "That's what I thought. There are things you can't - avoid. But. It /can/ be the same, just with a different kind of..." She trails off, lamely, though nodding vigorously. "But still, it's turns away. I won't walk the tables for at least another three turns." Oh, the /sigh/. "It seems far off, but enjoy it while it lasts," Carobet advises sagely. "Then, suddenly, exams are around the corner, and-- well, shards." She'd be a really good example of how apprenticeship goes quickly, except for now she has this unexpected knot on her shoulder. "Well, you never know what the future holds," she amends lamely. Raking fingers through her long hair, she sighs. "It's getting late. I suppose I should be heading to bed." Madilla's nose wrinkles at mention of exams, but that doesn't stop her from looking amused, too, given Carobet's current situation. "I suppose the past three turns have gone quickly enough," she agrees, sounding more placid about it, now. "And-- things come as they do, right?" Her head tilts about the room, as if to try and get a sense of the time, and she nods her agreement: "It is. I hadn't realised. I hope you enjoy your candidacy, Carobet. Good night." One healer to another: a smile, genuinely warm. Carobet can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, shaking her head as her hair falls from its grasp between her fingers. "They come as they do," she repeats. The warm smile from Madilla inspires one of her own-- surprisingly warm, for Carobet. "I will," she promises. Then adds, "It's nice to see you so happy." Genuine, one healer to another, before Carobet disappears back into the candidates' quarters. |
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