Logs:Very Bold
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| RL Date: 9 July, 2011 |
| Who: Khorde, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Khorde is paranoid. Madilla helps! |
| Where: Bathing Pools, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 3, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
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| Bathing Pools, High Reaches Weyr Omnipresent clouds of steam slink across the tops of three naturally warm pools, set into the floor of this kidney-shaped cavern. Near the entrance the ceiling is high and polished, gleaming with little mineral specks as it sweeps downward into increasingly ragged, uneven steps. The foremost of the pools is squared off with wide steps leading down into the water and has faucets for bringing in cooler water from a rain-catching cistern. Primarily used for laundry, there's an almost constant film of suds along its surface until the circulating current clears it at the end of the day. Four sinks line the nearest wall and various tubs stored beneath allow for the washing of delicates. Laundry bags can be dropped off in the bins near the door and clean, folded laundry is stacked in rows of tall cubbies for easy pickup. The bend in the cavern leads to a rougher-hewn part of the chamber where the two circular bathing pools welcome those in need of a wash. Towels and washcloths are kept in neat stacks on shelves along the wall, along with sacks of sweetsand and a few bars of precious soap. Stone benches provide a place for sitting to remove shoes and clothing, while a row of gleaming brass hooks stand above, ready to hold clothes and robes. It's late enough in the evening that the bathing cavern has mostly cleared out - though not entirely. Madilla's not actually /in/ the water, though - the craft complex has its own bathing pools, thank you very much - instead kneeling in front of the laundry pool, scrubbing diligently. She breaks the relative silence with her humming, which, while not entirely on-key, is not entirely unpleasant either: at the very least, she sounds /happy/. Lifting up a shapeless piece of clothing, she examines it critically, then dumps it back into the water for another go-round. The paranoia which hovers as a nigh-tangible blanket over Khorde causes shoulders to hunch, the whites of eyes to show around the dark chocolate-brown of the iris, and his feet to hurry in a scramble out of the warm water to where a stack of fluffy towels sits undisturbed. He nearly sets a record with how fast he dries off (marginally) and tosses on his clothes (haphazardly). His eyes land on Madilla and widen even further, then -- after a frantic, long moment of studying her knot as if to decyphr ancient code -- he relaxes. It's rather, uh, obvious, accompanied by the heavy sigh of relief. Then, realizing how awkward he is, he mumbles, "You need some help?" in that accent that all exiles hold. For all that Madilla has to have known she wasn't entirely alone, for all that the sound of sloshing, drying and dressing must have carried that for, she looks genuinely surprised to glance up after that sigh and see Khorde there. Despite the surprise, a warm smile settles across her mouth - friendly, just friendly! - as she regards him. "If you like? It's late, though, and I don't want to keep you from anything. Your bed, or - wherever. Are you all right?" She sounds, of course, terribly kind and encouraging. There is something that eases in Khorde at Madilla's manner, and he falls in easily enough to the task of scrubbing laundry, even though it's certainly unfamiliar garments. "I'm not -- you aren't keepin' me from anything." He scrubs, dark eyebrows furrowing together slightly in concentration. "I'm sorry," he abruptly states, "I'm Khorde." May as well not be that random weird kid helping her do laundry -- at least then he's that random weird kid named /Khorde/, aye? Madilla's laundry seems mostly made up of white nightgowns -- infirmary robes, maybe? There sure are a lot of them, and a good many seem covered with unidentifiable stains. She seems pleased by his willingness to help, and both surprised and embarrassed as he introduces himself, cheeks turning faintly pink. "And I'm Madilla - that was terribly rude of me, not to introduce myself when you offered. I think-- you're one of the islanders, aren't you?" She's careful with that: islander, not exile. "How are you managing, here?" "Islander." Khorde sounds -- as pleased as Khorde ever sounds, at her careful manuevering; "Like that." He scrubs, a happy mindless task which doesn't take terribly much effort despite that occaisional brow-furrow. "Uh, nice t'meet you, Madilla." He lifts one white gown, squinting at a dull red stain. Damned redwort, lasts forever. "I'm..." He starts to finish the trite statement before his teeth chatter bitter against air and he finishes, "... managing." Shiftyglance over to the Healer. "Are you from here?" His voice is tentative. Even though she wears the familiar Healer badging and /seems/ nice, he's still a little... paranoid. Evidently pleased by Khorde's pleasure, Madilla gives him another bright smile before she turns her attention back to her screwing - blood stains are just as bad as redwort, and only slightly different in colour. "You, too, Khorde," she tells him, genuinely, though her brow has furrowed at his answer, and the question that follows. "No," she allows. "I'm from a little hold in the middle of nowhere, originally. Though I've been here for turns now. Why? is it that obvious that I'm not weyrbred? Does it make a difference?" She glances at him as she finishes asking that, smiling despite her raised eyebrows. "Uh." Khorde, distracted, makes another, "Wh..." This stain is evidently giving him grief. A moment later, "Well, you don't... you seem nicer." His shoulders roll with tension unrelieved; "Some of the weyrbreds," he carefully pronounces the still-foreign word, "--they're, uh." Another hem and haw, and his dark eyes focus on Madilla instead of the wash. "Very.. bold." Awkward. "Wasn't like that at ho... on th' island. Wasn't like this." He's still adjusting. Khorde's awkwardness, and the implications of what he's trying to say, turn Madilla's cheeks pink all over again, though her expression takes on a knowing aspect. "The weyrbred do tend to be... very upfront," she allows. "I found it confronting, too, when I first arrived here. I was younger than you are, and shy, and-- it gets easier, in time. And not because you have to become like them, either." She's firm on that one. Setting down her robe, she gives what is probably intended to be an encouraging smile. "It will get easier." Irrationally, Madilla's blush causes Khorde to smile, and nod along with her words as if every one was preached from a pulpit alive for him and him alone. "I... I hope so." His voice cracks on the 'hope', and he ducks his head, embarassment flushing the back of his neck and the tips of his ears scarlet. "I don't know where else to go." Simple fact, with a sarcastic edge hailing far closer to his typical personality than this awkward running erection that he's been recently, but there is a shadow of loss beneath the words nonetheless. Madilla doesn't so much as smile, let alone laugh, at the crack in Khorde's voice, or the blush that follows. Instead, sympathy still etched deep into her voice, and onto her expression, she offers, "I could get you work in the infirmary, if you liked. Taking admissions, fetching and carrying... it wouldn't be glamorous, but none of the healers would bother you, I think. I've a few apprentices, but they're all holdbred. It might be easier? I imagine this whole experience would have been difficult even if you'd been dropped into a conservative hold like mine was." Madilla may just have created herself a horrible situation, because Khorde's staring at her with nothing less than hero-worship. It only lasts a moment, of course, before he's going back to roughly scrubbing. "I, uh." He scrubs a moment longer to give him a longer time to find words. "I'd appreciate it." He says it /very/ carefully. "And I don't care -- about workin'. I patched roofs, back... you know. It would be good to /do/ somethin' useful again." And not just in that 'hey you, do this for me right now' way. Madilla, meanwhile, seems utterly oblivious - except to the fact that she seems to have pleased him, and that can only be good! Wielding her scrubbing brush again, and smiling all the while, she says, "Good. I know for a fact that we could use the assistance - and that my apprentices will probably appreciate having to do less of that kind of work - and if it helps you, too... I think we can say that works out nicely." She pauses again, giving her laundry an appraising glance before, finally, setting it aside to reach for another. "Well, I'll, uh, show up tomorrow?" Khorde is reaching the end of this garment, and he's beginning to show the anxiety that marked him at the beginning -- before, even, this conversation started. "To the infirmary?" His words are hinted with a hopeful shade. "After breakfast?" He jigs a look over one shoulder, paranoid, to the pools. "Or before?" Madilla's expression shows concern, though she manages to keep it out of her voice - mostly. "Tomorrow morning, right after breakfast," she confirms. "At the infirmary. I'll be waiting for you." Her gaze flicks after his, around the largely empty room, before returning to Khorde, searchingly. "Or before, if you really feel like it. There's always someone there, and we usually have food around - patients need to eat, too. Is... everything all right?" "Yeah," but anxiety has already seized his face and voice and actions, again. "I'll, uh. I'll see you tomorrow. It was--" He pauses, the jitters letting him loose long enough for him to comment, "Thank you, Madilla. It was -- it was nice to meet you, and to... thank you." He moves then abruptly, scurrying out of the bathing pools just in time to skirt by a pair of laughing riders wearing Taiga patches and green ribbons threading through their knots. It is of no matter, though: Khorde is GONE. Out-out-out! Madilla's voice is clear and firm as she calls after the young man: "You're welcome--?" But there's definitely a question at the end there, and her brow definitely furrows in thought as she watches him leave. Hastily, catching sight of the greenriders, she turns her attention back to her laundry. But this is not over: she is going to /help/ that poor young man, you better believe it! |
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