Logs:Will You Still Sit With Me If I Impress?
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| RL Date: 14 May, 2009 |
| Who: Madilla, Whitchek |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Madilla and Whitchek take a (nice, respectable) walk around the lake. He has questions, but can't seem to ask them directly; she takes it all in her stride, earns his approval. Disturbingly adorable. |
| Where: Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 9, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
| Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself. A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs. A layer of patch clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today. In that gap between afternoon chores and supper, Whitchek waits by the lake, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his toes in the grass. Then shifting a little from foot to foot as he looks around. And then an ankle pull, lips pressed together, balancing neatly on the other foot. Then the other ankle. It attracts looks from others--a few riders attending to bathing dragons, some others just out walking--but still he waits, faithful if fidgety. Madilla can be seen across the bowl at quite a distance, hurrying, though definitely not actually /running/. She's taken off her apron, and wrapped her shawl tightly about her shoulders against the cool of the autumn afternoon; her hair may well have been straightened, but the wind, and the steady walking, has resulted in several free-flying curls about her face. As she - finally - approaches, hand pressed close to her middle, she greets Whitchek with a smile, and a, "I'm sorry; one of my patients just wanted to keep talking." As soon as he catches sight of her, Whitchek carefully smoothes his hair back with his hand, straightens his shirt. The hair's still a little damp. "That's fine, fine!" he reassures upon her arrival, as soon as those words are out of her mouth. "I knew you were coming. I got here a little earlier than I should have, but I finished work early, and there wasn't much else to do..." Talking too fast, which trails off then into awkward silence. It would be standard procedure here to offer her his arm, or his hand, or something, but he doesn't seem quite sure which, if either, is appropriate. "How was your day?" he does manage to ask. His smoothing and straightening might further explain that smile of hers as she greets him, though even now that the apologies have been made, it remains in place. She doesn't seem to know how to proceed, either, though her arms do drop towards her sides, and her head tilts to listen to him. "Finishing early is nice. That little bit of extra time! It was fine. One of the little ones made an awful mess of her knee, running around too fast, but that cleaned up easily enough." She hesitates, awkward, and then adds, "And yours? Not... too unpleasant, I hope?" "You don't really want to know," Whitchek assures her--and in a moment of sheer, unbridled revolutionary risk-taking, crooks his arm and offers it out to her. "It let me get a bath, deal with some letters from home." He pauses for a moment, mentions with determined casualness, "Last time I wrote, I told them I'd met a very nice young lady. One of my sisters was asking about you." That casual attitude slips, though, pretty quickly. "Is that... all right? To have mentioned that? I promise I won't spring them on you unexpected or anything like that. I just thought... some good news, you know. With everything else going on." Maybe the crooked arm was the correct move, etiquette wise, because Madilla's response is to blush (of course) and accept it, her hand holding on to his arm. Or perhaps, if she doesn't know better, she's merely assumed it's correct. Still: physical contact! "I won't ask, then," she tells him, an immediate reaction that gives her time to consider the rest of what he's said. "No - of course. It only makes sense." Her hand squeezes, probably intended to be reassuring. "Were they-- pleased? In their response, I mean. Beyond your sister asking about me, that is." That much established, Whitchek steers the pair of them off along the shore, at the sort of slow ambling pace that so appropriately fits the word 'stroll'. "I think so," he says, although he has to take a moment to consider the answer first. "It's usually the girls who care, I think. Isn't it? But I think it went over well. Very well." He goes silent for a moment, stepping carefully to be sure his paces aren't any longer than hers which is trickier than it sounds like, then adds, "I think there's some question about what happens if, er, this whole dragon thing turns out wrong." Madilla is more than content to be steered, letting her attention wander between Whitchek and the lake and shore itself, never lingering too long in one direction or another. "Usually," she agrees. "Certainly, I don't think my brothers or male cousins ever had particular interest. I'm glad it went well, though. Something to please the family." His last comment draws her attention distinctly back towards the candidate, her lips pulling together in a distinctly quizzical manner. "I--" she begins. And then, "And?" There's absolutely no way for this question to come out without it sounding completely ridiculous, no matter how earnest Whitchek is about it: "Will you still... sit with me at mealtimes if I Impress?" The good thing about this whole walking thing is that it gives him an excuse to look at where he's going instead of directly at her, and he does this steadfastly as he waits for an answer. And, hey, look, it let him step around that rock instead of tripping and possibly killing himself on that two-inch boulder in the sand. If Madilla looked quizzical before, she looks doubly so now, even if Whitchek's not glancing at her to see it. Taken aback, it takes her several moments to recover her senses enough to respond: "Of course," she tells him, earnestly. "I don't-- I'm not sure why that would have to change, just because you Impressed. I enjoy sitting with you." Her gaze is hard on him, so it's probably a good thing he's watching out: her steps simply carry her along with him. The relief at that is visible, and Whitchek finally looks at her again--but, worry not, only for a moment, only long enough to check and see if she looks like she's telling the truth, only long enough for eyes to just barely meet. "Mind that rock," he says, indicating another inconsequential stone. "I just wouldn't want you think that it wasn't--proper. I'll still be the same person." A barely-perceptible pause. "I think. And my intentions are... good. Towards you. I mean." By the time he looks at her, most of the quizzical has left Madilla's expression, leaving only genuine fondness in response. /She/ might have extended the eye contact, but as he glances away, not to mention mentions that rock, her gaze slides back towards where she's going, and she steps out of the way. "Thank you," she tells him, and then, "Of course you would - or will - be. The same person, but on, I suppose, a slightly different path. But... Of course they are. Good, I mean." She's looking at him again. "Why wouldn't they be?" She sounds confused, this time. "There are..." Whitchek seems to struggle for a moment to put what he has to say into appropriate terms. "There are a lot of people around here who think that... taking advantage of young women is just normal and fine. And I don't. And I won't, dragon or no dragon." What that actually means is anybody's guess, of course. "They don't... get married, like normal people. I suppose you know that. Of course you do, you've been here long enough." Teeth rake across his lower lip. All that looking doesn't seem to make him any more comfortable. "I know that," says Madilla, nodding, her fingers tightening upon his arm again. "I would never imagine you--" That's as far as she gets before, apparently, the rest of what he says sinks in, and her cheeks turn brightly pink once more. At least that results in her turning her gaze elsewhere, staring off into the distance as she regathers her thoughts enough to finish replying. She sounds hesitant, however, as she says, "They weyrmate, some of them. Which can be like a marriage, I think. As close to, anyway. If they want it to be." The other hand settles upon hers on his arm--although it takes a few tries to just set it there upon hers. Fingers upon fingers, skin on skin, absolutely scandalous. "So I've been told," says Whitchek. And evidently it's too scandalous; the hand pulls away, he shoves it into his pocket like that's somehow considerably more safe. "What do you--would you--" His tongue seems to trip on the words, which makes it hard to turn this into a casual question. "What would you think about that? For... yourself? Potentially?" Madilla's hand, despite the cool of the afternoon, is warm. She doesn't seem to object to the touch - at least, her hands don't move, her expression doesn't change - but nor does she react again as it is drawn away. Perhaps she has been in the weyr too long. The question draws her attention back towards him, and her cheeks have turned, once more, pink. "/Oh/," is her exclamation, more breathless than is her usual. "I think... maybe it's what sits /beneath/ the marriage contract that matters. What you mean by it, your intentions, not necessarily the... ceremony. So. If it were... like that. I think I wouldn't mind." "Even if--" More delicacy necessary here, only it's impossible to make it simultaneously comprehensible and not mention things that Whitchek obviously doesn't think should be mentioned in the company of a girl like Madilla. A conundrum. "Even if it meant that the, um, man in question, that is, whoever might happen to ask such a thing... even if the dragons, well, you know how they are, they do what *they* do, and..." Comprehensible is evidently not on the menu this afternoon. It takes Madilla a moment. Two. Maybe three. And then, pink flush turns brilliantly red. She presses her lips together, takes a deep breath, and then says, slowly, "Are you asking if..." Pause. Second attempt: "You mean when the dragons fly. And their riders..." Although she doesn't seem to be waiting for confirmation, it still takes her another moment or two to actually answer the initial question: "They wouldn't have a choice, would they? This... hypothetical rider. So. I suppose." There, there's the relief, the flood of it, the sudden relaxation of hitherto-unknown tension in Whitchek's arm, in his shoulders, in his face. And yet, he seems to be quite unwilling to dwell on the subject at hand. "I'm not saying it's an ideal, this... dragon business. In general," he adds, as he strolls on. "But it's nice to know that some things don't have to be too different. Either way." He smiles at her, then, really at her instead of just in her general vicinity. "Nice to know." Madilla must be aware of the relaxation in her companion, but although she's aimed her gaze at him, it doesn't show much in her own expression. "Of course," she agrees, this time without hesitation." She returns his smile, and then adds, "It will be nice for you, I'm sure, to know - for yourself, I mean - whether you'll be able to go home or not. It's still some time off, I think, isn't it? It's been keeping us busy, all those examinations. At least we've not had to send anyone home, yet." Other subjects seem to be a welcome change, and Whitchek is happy to nod along to this shift. "It will be nice to know. I had mine with... Sendell? Ciendell, that was it. New guy," he says, "do you know him? Said I'd have to have one of my legs fall off not to be able to Stand." Maybe a little bit of a boast there, yes. Look--healthy! "Don't think I've met anyone who looks sickly. So far, anyway. Almost the whole other direction. You ought to see some of the guys. Big as bulls, and I gotta look up to them, you imagine?" "Ciendell," Madilla agrees, with a faint wrinkle of her nose. "I knew him back when we were both at the Hall. He's from Fort Hold, and has a... He called High Reaches a backwater. I'm not always sure he's as dedicated to healing as he should be. I'm glad you're healthy." She may not look impressed, of course, but she does smile. "They must be very tall, then. I've mostly only been dealing with the girls, this time; they seem nice, most of them. Are they? Boys and girls, I mean." Nice. It takes a moment for Whitchek to consider this. "Nice... enough," he says finally, obviously reluctantly. "Awful lot of them Weyrbred, or acting like it even if they aren't." He adjusts their course a little to detour around a couple of people sitting in the sand talking, at enough distance to maintain their own privacy. "I'll be glad when all of this is over. Had Tiriana in the barracks a couple days ago throwing things and behaving very strangely in general. Saying she might not let us out onto the sands." Madilla, with eyebrows raised, has obviously picked up upon the reluctance. "I imagine that's normal," is what she says, however. "Most of them being weyrbred, I mean. Most riders are, I think." She adjusts her steps to maintain the course he sets, and returns to her prior habit of glancing around in equal measure. No more stares, at least. "That sounds like the Weyrwoman. She's... volatile. In my limited experience, at least. She blames me for the previous Weyrwoman's death; I try to avoid her, now." It's a touchy subject; her words are suddenly distinctly quieter. Contentious subjects are obviously not things Whitchek wants around at the moment. Look, the lovely lake, and the very nice girl, and the at-least-not-freezing-and-pouring-rain weather. Too nice, all of it, to be ruined. He pulls his free hand out of his pocket to place over hers again, this time less hesitant, intended as a reassurance. "So you should. I wouldn't call her appropriate company for a sailor, at any rate, much less someone of your manners. Definitely someone to avoid." That he doesn't take up that subject appears to be as much reassuring as the hand on hers, though it's the latter that draws her attention back to him, complete with a shy smile. Contentious subject, what contentious subject? Better this way. "I'm glad you agree. At least she's too important, now, to deal with a simple Apprentice, I suppose. She frightens me, a little." That admission is made with a rueful expression, her head ducking. "She frightens *me* a little," says Whitchek, in a faux-confidential tone with enough of a smile to confuse the issue of whether he's actually being honest or just trying to make her feel better. "You wouldn't think she'd waste so much time on Candidates, but I think she likes to feel important. A bit frightening, a woman like her in charge. And the Weyrleader isn't..." Pause. "Well, he doesn't seem to be in any shape to keep her in control." True or not, the admission seems to make Madilla more comfortable, her head turning back towards his in time to see that smile, and offer her own, more hesitant one. "I imagine that probably has something to do with it," she agrees. "And it must be boring, on the sands all day, though I suppose the rest of her work must keep her busy, too, surely." Her expression shifts slightly at mention of the Weyrleader, almost fond, though she shakes her head. "He's young. She /does/ seem to get the better of him. I feel a little sorry for him." "She's not much older," Whitchek points out. "Ought to be his responsibility to handle her. Someone needs to." But that's not a very light topic for conversation, either, so as he walks on with her he pulls the subject off in a more general direction. "Hard to imagine that it's possible to just--end up Weyrleader, that way. Or Weyrwoman. My oldest brother's in his thirties and not likely to inherit for another fifteen Turns at least. But to look at how young some of the Candidates are, and think that any of them are only a twist of fate away from leading us all... bit hard to get used to, that." Madilla only has time to nod, admittedly slowly, as if she's reluctant to agree entirely, to those first comments before the conversation is pulled back. "Yes," she agrees, firmly. "It is very strange, isn't it? And all on the whim of... That is to say, for us, you know it will be the oldest son, unless something happens to change that. It's solid, no changing on a whim. And if something happens to the father, and the son is still young, there is always someone to help out. This... feels very unstable. Trusting the dragons to make the right decision. How do they know? Do they know?" In a decidedly amused tone, Whitchek says, "Current events would certainly lead one to question that." He walks her along quietly for a moment, then adds, "The thing about inheritance... the thing about inheritance is that you're born into it. You're prepared for it. Even I know enough that if by some freak accident all three of my older brothers die before our father, I could run the place. Maybe not as well as Karel, but I could. They haven't been brought up for this. None of the same moral upbringing, none of the discipline." Which might be as close as he gets to offering them any sort of excuse for their behavior. "But... it is traditional." "Exactly," she agrees. "It just doesn't /look/ stable." To the rest of what he has to say, she listens carefully, the shallow incline of her head at varied intervals the only indication that she agrees with what he's saying until he gets to his end. "We learn from the cradle," is her response, slow and thoughtful. "I learned how to care for a family, make the most of what marks we had, keep the place growing. While my brothers and cousins, and you, I'm sure, learned the practical skills. We knew our place. /Know/ our place. Some of them do seem quite proud of this idea, that anyone could rise to be the Weyrwoman, the Weyrleader. But I'm not sure if it will ever stop seeming strange. Though," a pause. "the former Weyrwoman struck me as being... exactly what I thought she should be. But she was holder born." At the bit that follows 'cradle', Whitchek pulls his arm in just a little bit, by extension her a little closer, a smile that's either pleased or maybe more self-congratulatory settling comfortably on his face. "I suppose," he replies at last, that being a rather impressive speech for Madilla, "that it must be sort of the luck of the draw. Sometimes get what you ought, sometimes not. Sometimes the luck runs out. But, folk like you and I, I think we'll be fine either way. We can always go back to our roots, if need be. Can you imagine one of the Weyrbred teenagers leaving for the country?" If Madilla goes pink again as she's pulled closer, it's only for a little while, and her expression, in the wake of that smile of hers, is nothing more than warm, and once again, her fingers give a soft squeeze to his arm. "I suppose you do get /bad/ holders sometimes, too," she allows, thoughtful again. "But not most of them. Not most of the time. We know our duty." Head inclining in agreement, she looks for a moment as though she's about to laugh for his last comment; then, her head shakes. "I can't imagine it ever working that way. They'd never cope." "Well, nothing's perfect." Whitchek lets out a little breath--not exactly a sigh but close to it. "I think we'd best be in for supper, don't you? It seems like it's been a lifetime since midday now, especially with all that... work, this afternoon. I think I might get faint if I don't eat soon..." A gentle turn to head back in that direction; maybe not wholly a question. Madilla's head shoots up at mention of supper, as though she's been entirely unaware of the passage of time. Her expression, as she speaks, is wholly apologetic: "Oh, of course. We should have turned back towards the caverns long ago... I'm sorry, I didn't even /think/." Thus, she is more than happy to be turned about, and even hastens her steps, now, with obvious intent to clear the distance between the lakeshore and the caverns as quickly as is respectably possible. Despite this profession of being absolutely famished, Whitchek isn't in so much of a hurry as to ever outpace her. "I'm sure I'll survive until we get there," he assures her. "And speaking of meals--I have a friend coming in from Nabol tomorrow, may not be about for meals. It's only for the day, though. Do you have any idea what they're serving tonight?" He keeps the conversation quite firmly headed in that direction for the walk back, but is all smiles and courtesy all through supper. |
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