Difference between revisions of "Logs:Adjustments"

Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr

Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings.

Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed.

Summmmmmmmmmmah-tiiiiiiime, the livin's easy. Or it would be if you're not a weyrling. C'wlin is very awesome at the month of his lessons, but is not so awesome in the progression of his strength training. He'd rather bargain that part away, kthnxbai. So this sunny, summer, High Reaches afternoon finds the bronzerider collapsing on a chair at one of the tables, late-lunch in hand. "Ugh," he comments, largely to himself as the 'caverns is mostly vacant, though a few folks linger here and there, "I think every. Single. Muscle. Is getting ripped. Out." Cry more, newb. While commenting to himself, his voice isn't necessarily quiet. Athimeroth? Seen perched outside on the highest point he can find without flying. Wings twich, every so often, as if just waiting for that moment of flight. He's been there a while now, watching in amusement at his rider doing all those strength exercises.

Late lunches are not unusual for Madilla, who tends to take hers whenever she can get away from the Infirmary without inconveniencing anyone else, healer or patient. As C'wlin commences his complaints, she's a few rows of tables across, weaving between them with her plate in hand. Is that a smile, lurking about the corners of her mouth when her head turns to seek him out? It is-- but it's also a sympathetic one, and one that, a moment later, has her altering her path so that she can move towards him. "I prescribe a hot bath, and some of our muscle rub ointment," she says, as she sets her plate down on the table, just opposite the weyrling. "It will get easier, you know, the more you work at it."

Rather than be disgruntled by the interruption, C'wlin's expression slackens in what can only be surprise. "We have muscle rub ointment??" Maybe he wasn't paying attention or maybe he was trying to man up and tough it out. Regardless, this boy is not one to turn down anything that will keep himself out of pain (and skin, silky smooth!). "I hope so. I didn't realize that this was all..." he gestures after picking up a fork, the tines catching on glow-light to add an emphasis sparkle to his gestures, "... so, so, so physical." Cold blue eyes blink once, twice and then the harper-trained dragonrider remembers his manners, "Afternoon, ma'am." At least something works right for him. "Does it really?" Beat. "Get better, that is? Get easier?"

Again, the corners of Madilla's mouth twitch, but she refrains from answering until she's settled herself into the chair opposite, and can do so with a straight (and still sympathetic) face. "Afternoon-- C'wlin, is it now? I'm told it does," she says. "Though of course, I've no experience in it myself. By the time you're finished with weyrlinghood, it'll likely all be second nature. And yes, we have muscle rub ointments; come past the Infirmary after you've finished eating, and we'll hook you up." As if it were some kind of illicit drug. "People tell me it's all worth it."

"C'wlin," C'wlin confirms, saying it like Ss-uwhlin, "I will be there right after lunch. I feel like my back muscles are slowly being -- and then there's my leg muscles and then there's my arms." He's harper, not a physical-activity-person! Relatively healthy, but soft. Not so much anymore! "Do they?" he counters, very harper-like turning questions back on their conversational partner. "It is --" the boy squints, "-- very different from what I expected. Invigorating. Complicating. Annoying." He is no N'ky, with soft faces of love. "It's like living with a close relative. Sometimes you love them, sometimes you hate them, and sometimes they're just there, but they're always there. Never leaving you to your own thoughts, which is... strange." The way the words fall free, contemplative and slow, goes a long way in showing that despite the good front, the boy is still adjusting to the life-changing events that've re-shaped his life.

"C'wlin," repeats Madilla, this time allowing her pronunciation to more closely echo the weyrling's-- though she was pretty close the first time. Although she's picked up her fork, she doesn't move to actually eat; instead, she tilts her head to the side, thoughtful and visibly interested, as he explains. "I've always found it fascinating," she says. "What different riders say. It varies so much, from person to person, but one thing is true: you all love your dragons." That doesn't seem to surprise her. If anything, she seems pleased by it. "Do you not agree? To it being worthwhile? Or is it still too... close? I know you had Harper ambitions."

"Probably," C'wlin muses, "Because dragons are like people. So individually different. It's like --" He inhales, pausing, perhaps to gather his thoughts but attention is redirected by her last question. "It is not that I disagree, but that it is hard to wrap my brain around the fact that I am not who I was. I don't even have the same name. It's a different identity with different ambitions." Shoulders may shrug nonchalantly, but the tension in sharp features and the muscles of over-worked shoulders would tell a different story. "Just because my world has changed, doesn't mean that those who don't understand -- can't understand -- don't still have certain expectations. I don't know, it's very tangled." He pauses, fork suspended over his plated lunch, "Would I change it? No. Not at all. I am changed by Athimeroth, and the boy I was... it is already difficult to discern what thoughts I had Before," the 'B' is audibly captialized in tone, "Because all there is, is Now."

Now, finally, Madilla lowers her fork into her food, spearing a piece of potato and dunking it in the gravy of her stew. She laughs, a low, largely thoughtful sound, one that somehow matches the wry look in her eyes. "I can only imagine," she says, then, sounding the words out carefully. "But, of course, I can't really imagine, can I? Not properly. I've never experienced anything like it. But I'm glad that you wouldn't change it. And I do hope you can... work out how things work now, in a way that works for you. If that makes sense."

"Thank you," those harper manners surface again, then C'wlin continues, thoughtfulness pulling his brows together, "Do you think it's even possible, to want to change it after you've already Impressed? You may not be able to imagine, but." He sets aside his fork and leans slightly on the table -- ignore that wince -- and asks, "But would you believe that I can hardly imagine my old life? It's there, I can feel it, but everything is so different now... I ... can't explain it." Not often is the bronzerider at a loss for words, but he is now. Or rather, a loss at descriptive words. "Athimeroth assures me," sharp features quirk into a wry, humorous look, "that everything will settle in time. Especially once I accept things the way he would like them to be."

"I suspect perhaps not," muses Madilla, glancing at her potato for a moment before putting it in her mouth, chewing quickly so that she can continue. "It never could be the same again, could it? He's part of you, now. You are that different person; you just need to work out who that person is." She gives C'wlin a thoughtful glance, and then smiles. "It sounds like he's quite sure of himself. I don't-- that is, I do understand, hardly being able to imagine your former life. I don't suppose my experiences are the same, but there are certainly things I can no longer imagine being different."

"I am, we are," C'wlin confirms before pushing himself up from the table with a groan. "How about we see to that muscle rub, hmm? I think I've had enough lunch. My body feels like it's on fire." Or like he's been beaten with a rubber hose. "I'm sure everyone's moments in life contain those pivotal points where everything changes. Impression might be one for me, but I'm equally sure that I would not be able to understand yours either. Not unless I walked in your shoes." Strange to see the normally cold boy be so... introspective. Perhaps it's just that kind of day! The sore muscles are getting to him. In any event: "I'll catch you in the infirmary," he says, y'know, in case she needs to finish lunch, before ambling (stiffly) off.

"You'll feel better later, I promise," says Madilla, all quiet sympathy. "I'll be there soon. Otherwise-- one of the other healers can certainly help you out, too. Tell them I sent you." She lets her gaze follow C'wlin, thoughtful as much as it is sympathetic-- though she smiles, too.