Logs:Dee-Lightful - Revision history

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K'del at 09:07, 13 December 2012

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K'del: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Leova, Madilla | where = Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Quarantine continues. | when = Day 2, Month 7, Turn 30 | gamedate = 2012.12.12 | quote = "Dee-sarm..."

2012-12-13T09:03:25Z

Created page with "{{ Log | who = Leova, Madilla | where = Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Quarantine continues. | when = Day 2, Month 7, Turn 30 | gamedate = 2012.12.12 | quote = "Dee-sarm..."

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{{ Log
| who = Leova, Madilla
| where = Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Quarantine continues.
| when = Day 2, Month 7, Turn 30
| gamedate = 2012.12.12
| quote = "Dee-sarming. But not dee-smarmy. Dee... stant."
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions = Delifa, Devaki, Jo, Sh'dor
| ooc =
| icons = madilla.jpg
| log = It's dark, again, and no longer as hot as it had been earlier, nor as stifling now that the breeze has abandoned the lake to steal inside and play with the little candle's flame. Leova's flat on her stomach, watching it, only her chin propped up on her hands. A long damp cloth's wrapped about her head turban-style. Her cheeks are flushed. "Tell me you're not drowning yet, Madilla," she calls softly, without turning.

Does Madilla's, "Not yet," sound a little hoarse, as though she's been using the relative privacy of the bath to do what she's been avoiding elsewhere? It's hard to tell. The words are followed by the sound of splashing - or perhaps, more accurately, by the sound of a body moving around within a tub. A moment later she's adding, deliberately light, "I'll let you know if I am."

Leova's low laugh is more like a croak. "All right," she responds. "Because it's been hours." Or minutes, at least. She studies the candle, so much costlier than glows, and the edge of the wax where it folds in over the melted pool within. She ''doesn't'' look back at Vrianth, coiled back up with Tacuseth, even after the dragon-sized rumble of the green's drowsy hunger.

Madilla has a low laugh of her own, and more sloshing noises. "If only the hours passed that quickly," she says, covering some - but not all - of her wistfulness with amusement. "I'll be out soon. It's too warm for baths, really, I think. Hot ones, anyway."

"Then why are you," Leova begins, but does not finish. She sighs, and tilts her cheek back down onto her forearm, only to have to readjust her head-cloth to layer between them. She might even drift off, before Madilla's done.

Madilla doesn't answer - doesn't even try. She ''does'', however, get out of the bath before too much longer, and when she wanders back in, dressed, the only sign of any tears-that-might-have-been is that her face is red, easily explained by the hot water. Leova and her head-cloth get a glance, but the healer says nothing in lieu of returning to the sewing she left spread out upon the table.

Heavy-lidded eyes track her when she does emerge, but not quite in focus. Leova's voice has dropped half a register when she says, half-smiling, "You'll have it all done, by the time we're out. You'll have one for each of your kids for the winter, and you, and mine too." If she's heard gossip about the state of the woman out there, coughing blood it's said, it's nothing that ''she'' says.

"I'm not ''that'' quick," Madilla protests, but not in a serious way; if anything, it makes her give the quilt - which is certainly quilt-shaped instead of 'just a pile of fabric scraps' - an appraising glance. "I ought to have learned how to make something more practical. There are only so many quilts-- I'm glad to have ''something'' to do." ''She'' is certainly not going to comment on potentially awful things. Although: "You're feeling fine?"

"My cousin has one..." Leova trails off to listen, quite seriously, and then to dredge up a reply. "Fine," she agrees, agreeably, and continues a few words at a time, not always pausing where sentences should. "Just a little hot. That's all. Still. Hers has a pillow attached, you know. Or, no, it's a pocket? Attached. And then you fold it in, it becomes a pillow. All by itself. She's amazing, you know. My cousin."

How many times has Madilla asked that question? Too many, probably, though it's obvious she's resisting the urge to ask it ''more''. "It's pretty warm," she agrees. "Too warm for quilts ''or'' for baths." She's rethreading her needle, but pauses in that to glance back across at the greenrider. "A quilt pillow. That ''is'' clever." She's genuine about it. "Did she make it herself? Your amazing cousin." Her smile is warm.

There's a pause, a lengthening pause, like it deserves quite a bit of consideration. "She did," Leova decides. "I think she did. She did for Via. They've met, you know. Sometimes." She's gotten back to watching the candle, or more precisely, to watch the wax where it's translucent between her and the flame. "A time or two... She's so good with children." Her tone shifts, subtly. It's still slow, and then quick for a word or two, and slow again. "Hers are lucky, you know. Like yours. I wonder if Jo is asleep. I don't want to ask her if she has kids but she doesn't, does she? She wouldn't. We don't ask things like that, not outside."

"Via's lucky, too," says Madilla, after a long pause of her own - a pause in which she stops what she's doing so that she can look at Leova undistracted. "With you, and Anvori. And your cousin. So much family." Her tone is quietly thoughtful, and not ''quite'' envious. "I don't-- can you imagine Jo with children? No. I suppose it's easier not asking those questions. In case it becomes awkward, when we're - outside again." ''Soon''.

"No... not for keeps," Leova says finally, as though Jo could under other circumstances swap them away like dice. "But she might have one sometime, and the father might keep it, and she might visit and teach it to grunt and be like the world's best aunt... she's asleep, you know. Vrianth thinks. I don't know. Maybe what happens in quarantine, stays in quarantine." She says it as though it has capital letters: ''Quarantine'', and laughs a little to herself.

''That'' makes Madilla laugh, as though the idea of this grunting Jo-baby is vivid in her mind. "She'd have to survive pregnancy, first," she points out, keeping her voice low now that it has been mostly established that the bluerider is sleeping. "She ''would'' be a good aunt. An exciting one." Her gaze lowers back to the quilt, needle pushed through the layers of fabric carefully. "I think that makes sense. We're all - it's an unreal situation. Not usual. Different."

"Then she probably wouldn't." Leova's voice is quiet, but definite. The candlelight paints her eyelashes with gold, even as it casts shadows onto her cheek. "Different... let's not talk about Crom. Or any of that. I wish I'd ''been'' there... Have you been sailing? I don't remember. The beach, we went to the beach. Different beaches... but on a boat? It's not the same. It's still wind at least, it's closer."

"Probably not," agrees Madilla, after letting out a low breath that ''could'' be a wistful sigh. Or just a breath. Rather more cheerful is her, "We've been to many beaches. Over the turns. But no, I've never been on a boat. I can imagine it must be wonderful. Like flying. Lily would like it." Lily, who is presently dragon-mad.

"We'll go, I'll take you," Leova says a little dreamily. "Jasvie will take us, or her husband will, or her kid... fifteen now? Or fourteen, something like that. Take both of you, all three if we can tie Dil... it's like Delifa, isn't it? Dilan. Except Dilla. Madelifa. There was something I was going to tell you, something, except I can't think. What it was. I can't..." she's having to watch the candle again, just the candle, burning itself all up.

Madilla is placid as she says, "If it's important, it'll come back. I'd like that. Sailing. We'd all like it." She opens her mouth as if to say something else; a moment later, she ''does'' say something, but it doesn't necessarily seem like it actually is her initially intended remark. "It ''is'' like Delifa. I always liked that. Dee-for-Delifa. If you can't make one name out of two, you might as well… well. Refer to people. Subtley." Her cheeks are pink.

"Dee-lightful," agrees Leova. "I like that." Her voice is low, confidential. "You paused. I could tell you paused, you know. I wonder, I wonder what you were going to say. I wonder if it was dee-lightful too." Her toes have pointed. She flexes them, now, a slow contraction and extension of muscle and bone.

"It was," and Madilla's deliberately shifting her position, now, keeping her face in shadow though that surely can't be good for her eyesight, "''differently'' dee-lightful." It's like an admission, without the actual admission. She might want to glance up and seek out Leova's expression. She doesn't.

"Dee..." Leova's lips round before she draws her breath back in. "Dee," she confirms, but does she ''get'' it? She seems to think she does, or might, or simply enjoys shaping her mouth around, "Dee-sarming. But not dee-smarmy. Dee... stant." She sighs out the next breath. It might end there.

Madilla isn't watching. She's listening, though, and if Leova can only see it, her cheeks are pinker than pink. "Dee-stant," she agrees, striving to sound neutral. It ''seems'' as though she is working on the assumption that the implication is clear: she doesn't seem inclined to add any further clarification. "Delifa's doing well. Better. The climate agrees with her." Sudden conversational shift: go.

Certainly it's dee-stracting: the greenrider rolls to her side, the better to peer back at her friend for this, at least. "What kind of better?" she asks, a little pause there before she lets her breath out, like maybe she'd dee-something else if only she could.

"The kind that means she'll live to see her daughter turn ten," admits Madilla. "Not the kind that means she'll see her own grandchildren." Beat. "Gran-dee-children?" Her attempt at levity isn't something she can entirely sell - but at least she'll glance up, and try and smile for it. "No. That implies entirely the wrong thing. Grandchildren, no dee. I was supposed to go and visit her. I hope someone passed on the message."

"Oh." Leova's mouth pulls to one side, not a smile, but still breakable somehow. "I could... Vrianth could... Sh'dor would, I know he would." Her expression gets very tentative, or maybe it's poised, waiting. Her voice gets quiet, low enough to be a whisper. "Vrianth could... if you want, she could try and nudge your dreams better, if you like. Just for tonight. She likes you," only there's something about the sudden fidget to her hands that implies the verb's insufficient.

Dragon> Is that Vrianth? Is it that your imagination, or a fever, only it's cooler, as someone had cupped your cheek in her own hand. Only it's someone who doesn't quite know her own strength, and she's trying to be careful, and there's the quiver of a... bump. Which is to say: Vrianth, if it ''is'' Vrianth, dreamy Vrianth, doesn't choose ''entirely'' to wait. (to Madilla)

Relief, as though it's not something she's considered, this getting ''Vrianth'' to pass the message on via anyone else, begins to flood Madilla's expression - only to be cut off shortly with a deep intake of breath, not far short of a gasp. Confused - and then not. That breath escapes again: a long, low exhale of more than just air, given the way her shoulders droop. "Thank you," she says, not much more than a whisper. "Both. I - thank you." Her expression says more: admiration and even awe.

Dragon> Before you've even quite finished speaking, there's a peculiar sense of movement, of vertigo. But it's just for a moment, and to your eyes, the world hasn't changed at all. Vrianth is ''not'' making herself at home. It's a little difficult to think quite clearly, but does it matter? Once upon a time, someone pulled up a blanket about you, soft and fuzzy in a way that's trying ''not'' to be staticky or maybe it's trying to put the static to good use, an insulation from all those things that... never mind those. She's, distinctly non-maternal Vrianth is, tucking you in. Even the needle doesn't glint so sharply, now. (to Madilla)

"Idriloth," Leova starts, but then she stops, and slouches down. Vrianth's eyes are so bright, brighter than the flame. The wax is melting, has melted. She closes her own eyes.

Abruptly, Madilla sets down her needle, letting it rest idly atop that quilt-in-process as, blinking, rubbing her eyes, she recovers her sense of self. Finally, she tucks that needle away, and turns her gaze past Leova, towards Vrianth. Watching, eyes half-lidded now; tired. "You should sleep," she says. It probably means ''we''. "It's important."

"Yes." Even Leova's voice is blurry, her head slid down, lolling in a way that makes her neck seem boneless. Her cheeks are flushed, even more than before, and the damp, drying cloth has come untucked. ''Yes.'' It might be a whisper. The candle will burn itself out.

"Leova?" It's hard to rise, and hard, perhaps, to properly concentrate, but something in that blurriness has raised a faint edge of alarm. Madilla stands, crossing the distance between them in several strides. "Do you need anything?"

Her jaw works, dry, but she has to respond and so she does, "Sleep..." Madilla said to. Vrianth...

Dragon> Let the alarm stay faint, unless she ''wants'' the sharpness back in all its pins and needles, hot and cold and hurting. Or Vrianth could press harder into the less sensitive, less-known mind, could... but she doesn't. ''Sleep.'' She had the right of it. (to Madilla)

Sleep. Madilla can't argue with that, not when it comes from both sides; from three sides, even, if her own body counts as a side. "Sleep," she repeats, an acknowledgement to both dragon and rider. And so that's what she'll do: curled up, but so-quickly lost, despite that worry. Worry can wait until tomorrow. It's not going anywhere, not yet.

Dragons> Worry can crouch outside, out in the Outside, can be led to follow a thrown gobbet of meat and never get back in. Not tonight. It can't even ''look'' in. Only the stars can... and then they, too, sleep. (to Madilla)

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 {{Log
-| who = Leova, Madilla
+|type=Log
 | where = Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
 | what = Quarantine continues.

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 | what = Quarantine continues.
 | when = Day 2, Month 7, Turn 30
 | gamedate = 2012.12.12
 | quote = "Dee-sarming. But not dee-smarmy. Dee... stant."

@@ Line 8: / Line 8: @@
 | weather =
 | categories = General
-| mentions = Delifa, Devaki, Jo, Sh'dor
+| mentions = Anvori, Delifa, Devaki, Jasvie, Jo, Sh'dor, Via
 | ooc =
-| icons = madilla.jpg
+| icons = madilla.jpg,  leova sunrise sunset in-between.jpg, leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg
 | log = It's dark, again, and no longer as hot as it had been earlier, nor as stifling now that the breeze has abandoned the lake to steal inside and play with the little candle's flame. Leova's flat on her stomach, watching it, only her chin propped up on her hands. A long damp cloth's wrapped about her head turban-style. Her cheeks are flushed. "Tell me you're not drowning yet, Madilla," she calls softly, without turning.
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 Her jaw works, dry, but she has to respond and so she does, "Sleep..." Madilla said to. Vrianth...
-Dragon> Let the alarm stay faint, unless you ''want'' the sharpness back in all its pins and needles, hot and cold and hurting. Or Vrianth could press harder into the less sensitive, less-known mind, could... but she doesn't. ''Sleep.'' She had the right of it. (to Madilla)
+Dragon> Let the alarm stay faint, unless you ''want'' the sharpness back in all its pins and needles, hot and cold and hurting. Or Vrianth could press harder into the less sensitive, less-known mind, could... but she doesn't. ''Sleep.'' You had the right of it. (to Madilla)
 Sleep. Madilla can't argue with that, not when it comes from both sides; from three sides, even, if her own body counts as a side. "Sleep," she repeats, an acknowledgement to both dragon and rider. And so that's what she'll do: curled up, but so-quickly lost, despite that worry. Worry can wait until tomorrow. It's not going anywhere, not yet.