Logs:Youth and Experience
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| RL Date: 26 January, 2013 |
| Who: Ceawlin, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Madilla sees something of her youthful self in Ceawlin. Ceawlin doesn't quite get what she's on about. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 11, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Satiet/Mentions |
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| Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. As evening wears on past dinner time and into the hours of true night, the weyr settles and the nighthearth is left in relative solitude but for one young man. Pale blond hair shines like molten gold in the light of the hearth fires when the boy dips his head to strum the lute. The music is melodious and with some skill. Not master level, but there's a talent here that's obvious why Ceawlin would have been successful in the Harper craft. Sweet notes in a man-child's tenor drifts softly from the song he seems to be in the middle of composing. The words are bloody and violent, sitting in juxtaposition to the sweet, almost happy melody he seems to be strumming. "Can you watch, without shuddering in horror, as crime unfurls its banners. Of carnage and terror, the suffering of an atrocious calamity. Soiling with its savage breath, the lands of the living..." Madilla's entrance into the nighthearth is on quiet feet, quit enough that she can hesitate in the doorway long enough to get her head around those lyrics before she's really likely to be noticed. Indeed, when she starts moving again, towards the hearth, she does so in a way that exaggerates natural noises: she's taking no chances of being missed. Moreover, even once she's reached the hearth, where she pours herself a mug of klah from the pot, her gaze slides towards the apprentice, brows raised. "What is this barbaric languor?" Ceawlin's light, almost sweet voice sings in soft, whispered tunes of jaunty dance notes, "Sovereign people hurry..." The song does not abruptly cut off with the jangle of fingers against strings, of the the breaking of singing into silence as one who is caught might do. Instead, the tune finishes, drifting into a slow silence, the final word is whispered into a sweet hum that finally ends when Madilla finishes pouring her cup of klah. The Harper inclines his head, cold blue eyes lit with an orange-red reflection of fire from his hearthside perch. "Evening, ma'am." Formality comes in trained perfection, marred only somewhat by the slight adjustment of the lute. A few light, soft notes are strummed as if testing the instrument's sound for the rest of the song, though he does not quite resume playing yet. "Evening," says Madilla, giving Ceawlin a searching glance, now that his song is done. Evidently, she drinks her klah without cream or sugar, because the klah pot gets set back down as soon as she's finished pouring, and she takes the mug with her to sit, not too far away. "Do you always sing such... violent songs, Apprentice?" The way she says it, 'Apprentice' is used only because she doesn't know his name: it's not a recognition of rank or superiority. She sets her mug down in front of her, reaching into the bag she carries over her shoulder to take out a collection of fabric patches and a needle. Madilla's movements are noted out of the corner of his eye, but Ceawlin's attention doesn't focus on Madilla until her question is asked. Fingers rest gently on the strings, his care with the instrument evident in the light way its held. "I sing a great many songs, ma'am," he answers, voice still carrying the hushed quality of the last few notes of the song. "Though, I am composing something for a project, and the air here has been charged of late." Teeth flash in a sharp, thin-lipped smile, "It seemed an appropriate choice." A quiet chain of higher notes is strummed. "Ceawlin, Harper senior apprentice." Yes, he's proud of that. Madilla's correction is quiet, and warm. "Madilla," she says. She is off duty. "I don't begrudge you your... project, but it seems to me the Weyr needs positive songs at the moment, not negative." Her tone adds something she doesn't put in words: not that she's a harper, not that she really knows such things. Her needle works through the fabric, confident enough that she doesn't need to look at it constantly in order to keep it true to a pre-destined path. "I suppose that's true," Ceawlin concedes, "Were this song for the weyr, but it's not one that anyone will hear." He pauses, "Beyond you, that is. This is a practice song that I will send along back to the Hall after my mentor approves it. It is a technical piece of blending lyric and harmony in the right way." The boy pauses, and then returns her greeting, "Well met, Madilla." A few more notes are strummed, "Though discontent seems to be rampant in the weyr in these troubled times. Quelling it may not necessarily be doing the area justice. Nor inciting it, I suppose." He does not seem to have a particular agenda here, it's more of a soft musing. "A weyr can't have two Weyrleaders nor two Weyrwomen. Nor can a weyr sustain the murmurings of discontent with the /color/ of the dragons who've won such a prestigious rank." Brief pause, then: "What it is, though, is a rich breeding ground of epic tales. Just which tale will I be composing a ballad of? That's the question." Abrupt topic shift has curiosity almost warming frigid depths of cool blue eyes, "What do you think will happen?" "I couldn't begin to make a judgement on that," says Madilla, who has listened faithfully to Ceawlin's recitation and description of recent events. "Weyr politics are rider-focused. My job is to see to the people of the Weyr, and keep them alive and well." She hesitates, her needle stopping for several long seconds as she regards Ceawlin. "I suppose it would be an ideal breeding ground for harper tales and-- it's a difficult situation. I don't know that anyone really knows how it will play out." Momentarily fascinated by the moving needle, Ceawlin's reply is slow in coming. "No, no one probably does. But such is life and why we have stories and songs to help remind us why these things happen and how they played out." He makes a quick note on a set of hides that are set on a chair that's off to his side. Probably jotting down whatever mental notes had been stewing prior to Madilla's entrance to the Nighthearth. "I have no dog in this fight," which may or may not be true, depending on how much the Hall influences his opinions, "but it does make life interesting beyond the every day." "And do your songs give you answers to this particular predicament?" wonders Madilla - but not for long, given the way she shakes her head and says, "From what I understand, no brown has caught a senior queen in living memory. And certainly not two of them." Her smile is crooked, but not cool, as she glances back across at Ceawlin, needle beginning to work through the fabric once more. "I suppose it does, at that. Make life interesting, I mean. I had wished-- I had hoped that life would settle down, now. It has been terribly unsettled for so long, now, one way or another. The Weyr needs stability, and I'm afraid it doesn't have it." "Not I," Ceawlin demurs, "For I am a mere apprentice, a few turns shy of walking the tables for my knot. I am an observer, nothing more or less. My studies have revealed little to shed light on the right solution to the weyr's problem, but I suspect that if the masters have not come to the leaders of the weyr with some form of solution then I will have no better luck." False modesty or not, his tone rings with unequivocal sincerity. Holding onto silence for a moment, the boy says, "And one of those a female. Some would say that should immediately disqualify that particular pairing, leaving only one true leadership pair." Sharp, disjointed notes follow that observation, purposefully strung to weave a discomforting sound with his words. "What the songs have taught me is that all it takes is one voice, added to a host of others, to make a roar of discontent to draw even more unwanted attention." Finally, his eyes meet hers direct. "The weyr sits on a knife edge. Stability is but a dream." Too much Hall in that statement. It's obvious from Madilla's expression that she founds Ceawlin's words over-dramatic and pompous, but perhaps not surprising from a Harper of all things. Nonetheless, she's careful to school her expression to something more neutral within seconds; she smiles, ruefully. "I don't believe it is as simple as one voice - the discontentment. I suppose this must be an ideal breeding ground for ideas and songs; the perfect place for an Apprentice to learn. I only hope--" But she breaks off, looking, for a moment, utterly lost in recollection. "Make your observations, Ceawlin, but please: don't let yourself get too involved. I'm afraid that matters can get... complicated." Harpers tend to be full of themselves, especially when all the world's a stage for their machinations, but so does youth influence the over-dramatic and Ceawlin exhibits both well. "It's never simple," he's quick to agree, his opinion ever shifting based on the opinion of his companion. Relaxing his stance with the lute, he allows his arm to drape across the front of the instrument and the other hand holding onto the neck relaxes enough that it tips to the side. "Ma'am, I do not believe I am important enough to be drawn in, but I shall happily observe." A pause for reflection, and something akin to sincerity is noted in, "I can see how such things /can/ get complicated." Madilla's expression turns-- not fond, as such, but as though she finds Ceawlin endearing, somehow. "I was several turns younger than you are," she begins, quietly, "When the then-Weyrleader and I diagnosed a former Weyrwoman with incurable liver disease. I knew it for months: a secret, the kind that can tear a person apart. You may not think you are important enough, but... fate sometimes has a way of proving otherwise. Be on your guard, that's all I ask." She adjusts the fabric in her lap, reaching in to her bag to take out another few brightly coloured squares. "You're very lucky, I think. To have a ring-side seat. Perhaps you're lucky, too, that you've not been here long enough to gain loyalty to the Weyr. Your loyalty, I assume, so to your Hall, first and foremost." "That's a heavy burden to bear," Ceawlin murmurs, but there is no denying the excitement that appeals to a young man should fate come and step in to provide him with a front row seat to what may actually be an adventure. Only the untried can be excited for such things. "I count my blessings," he agrees, "To have such an unspoiled view of everything." When it comes to his loyalties, the boy does not deny her words. "I /am/ grateful that my loyalties aren't clouded, though I can't imagine they'd ever be." At the tender age of eighteen turns, it is a naive statement. So sure, he is, of his own loyalties. The message Madilla had been intending to convey may not have made it through, but she smiles nonetheless: who wouldn't, in the face of such youthful enthusiasm and romanticism? "No? Never? Not even if you were here for ten turns, or twenty? If you married and raised a family here? I admire your steadfastness, your absolute loyalty. Your Hall is lucky to have you, that much is clear." She adds more patches to her collection: a quilt in progress. "I wish you the best of luck, certainly." "Wouldn't my family," Ceawlin's nose wrinkles slightly in distaste at the thought of such things like family. Those things just weigh a man down! "Be loyal to my Hall first?" The question isn't belligerent in nature, rather, an kind of innocence comes from the way it's asked. Only time will tell if the intended message came across, but the idealism of youth seems to be blinding the young harper at the moment. "They are lucky to have me." Stated. With enough pride to sink a ship. "But so is the weyr." A grin comes with this, "For I can play, sing, and handle the records as necessary. My penmanship is unparalleled in excellence." Someone has clearly not met a lot of people. Her quilt gets a few curious glances, though the boy tries to be surreptitious about it. Madilla seems amused all over again: such naivete! It rather looks like she's remembering her own youth, with everything he says, and everything she says in return. "My children," she says, simply, "are Weyr-born. High Reaches is their home; my craft is my work, but has nothing to do with them." She doesn't seem intent on changing his opinions - which is probably for the better - however; she lets those words fall, and instead, gives him a nod. "Good. The Weyr needs all the good people it can get. So do the crafts. My daughter dreams of being a Harper, one day, and I hope she'll be as dedicated as you seem to be." "Huh." Concepts which Ceawlin had never really before thought of put a confused look to his sharp features, which is all together not a good look. "I do not want a wife nor children," the boy states, holding to his lone wolf of awesome ideal that's fueled by his conviction in his craft. "My craft is my life," a quieter statement is issued without the pompous air of entitlement the boy has a tendency to have in speech. "I wish your daughter well. Harper is an excellent choice." Underlying his tone is, of course, the idea that it's the best choice. "No?" Madilla can't help it: she laughs, a low, mirthful sound that isn't condescending, or intended in any way to be cruel. "Well - you're young, yet." She reaches for her klah for the first time, taking a sip from the much-cooled liquid as she attempts to formulate her best words. "I don't know that she'll choose Harper, in the end. I only hope that she will do what makes her happy; the last thing I would want would be for her to choose something to make me happy. Her brother, too. I won't be ashamed, whatever they do." "No." Firm, resolute. Ceawlin picks up the neck of the instrument once more and holds it at the right playing angle. "That's good of you," he comments, looking at her through the fringe of pale lashes, "to have that expectation of your children. Mine had no such thing, sending me off to Harper after barely surviving childhood. It is a good thing I had such an aptitude for my craft." Eyebrows tick up a bit before head dips when fingers softly begin plucking at the strings once more. Madilla regards Ceawlin carefully over the rim of her mug, unable to entirely hide the wince that is an automatic reaction to his remark about his parents. "It is, at that," she agrees. "I can't think of anything worse than being stuck in a profession without the appropriate aptitude for it." She sounds... sad. Deeply sad. A moment later, she sets her mug down, and begins to pack up her sewing. "I shouldn't keep you from your practice. I do wish you the best of luck with-- everything." Pride is a cloak to wear against the sympathy of others, and Ceawlin wears it well. Almost too well. "Thank you," quiet comment comes just before he resumes his playing. "You have a good evening, ma'am." Polite formality to a T. With a little half-salute from the hand strumming the strings, the slightly quirky grin, and the careless air he projects, he could almost seem rakish in that moment. Almost. But the cold blue eyes never really change, even when he goes back to singing his bloody lyrics in his sweet, sweet tenor. Attention thoroughly shifted, Madilla's departure is barely noted as the boy works on notes, lyrics and whatever else that must needs be done for his assignment. Madilla clears away her mug before she goes, and takes a moment, too, to watch Ceawlin from across the room. Finally, however, she shakes her head and moves towards the exit. "You too," she murmurs, sotto voce. "You too." |
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