Difference between revisions of "Logs:In Five Turns Time"

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.

Fog begins to coalesce in the very early morning hours and lingers throughout the day, soft and still and clammy.

It's foggy, today, and more 'cool' than outright 'cold', but it's enough that the lake shore is largely deserted; there are warmer, cozier places to be. None of that seems to bother Madilla, who has clambered up onto one of the boulders along the shoreline and sits there, her skirts smoothed carefully down over her legs, staring out over the rippling lake. Her expression is one of deep, intense contemplation; it's entirely possible she's not really even seeing much of anything, though she does tuck her hands under her arms in a way that suggests she is still feeling the chilly air.

Someone in the weyr suffers from a sickness that compels him to be out and physically active regardless of the weather. And while the cool, damp atmosphere has driven him away from swimming in the lake for now, Z'ian has still made it outside. He's stripped off his typical bulky cold weather outfit and is down to long shorts and one abused looking shirt. And shoes, he's got shoes on. The bronzerider emerges from the fog in a huff of exerted breath, the sound of his feet plodding along the ground echoing ahead of him as he jogs into sight. He stops by the shore of the lake, having not yet noticed Madilla up on one of the boulders. Leaning over he puts his hands onto his knees and catches his breath, casting his gaze up and down the mostly deserted shoreline.

Madilla may be largely lost in her own thoughts, but the sound of footsteps - and heavy breathing - is enough to force her into finding herself again, abruptly. She straightens, nearly losing her perch in the process, and swings around to search out the newcomer, with one hand withdrawing to hold on to the boulder. It sits right at the water's edge: if she fell off, it would very likely be cold. Her expression doesn't change as her gaze fastens down upon Z'ian, but there's cheerful warmth in her tone when, a moment later, she says, "Try not to have a heart attack, please."

And there's no one off in that direction and no one up ahead, except for that one guy. But he's pretty far off. Z'ian begins to straighten up again, running his fingers through hair that's damp from a combination of sweat and cold moist air. Shifting position he begins to give his legs a stretch, grabbing one foot and pulling it up behind him as he stands on one leg. Like one big, tall, lanky, not pink flamingo. And then the friendly yet disembodied voice tells him to not have a heart attack. He must take that advice seriously, because while he does look surprised and alarmed he's not keeling over in the sand and rocks. Confused he glances around again and then finally up and over at Madilla on her perch. "Uh- Oh, hello." He shakes his head and flashes her a curious grin. "Are you going to dive off and take a swim or?" Meaningfully he glances at the position of the boulder to the water.

"I hope not," says Madilla, quietly amused. "I suspect the water is too cold for my taste. I admit, I don't even swim in summer. It's a nice place to sit and think, though." She seems to approve of his decision not to keel over, though she doesn't reference it again. Instead, she stretches, shifting her position on the boulder until she's just a little more securely placed: no inadvertant swims, either, thank you very much. "I hope you have something warm to put on, somewhere convenient." A pause. "I'm sorry, now I sound like I'm mothering you. Ignore that."

"No? I swim as late into the season as I can. But it's getting to be too much for even me." Z'ian glances off wistfully at the stretch of water in front of her boulder. Now that she's been identified, he goes back to stretching out his legs. Bracing his hands against the rock, he places one foot behind him and leans in. What she says brings an amused expression to his face and he glances up at her. "I just ran about two miles. I'm actually pretty hot right now, you want to come down here and check my skin temperature?" He asks cheekily, before switching one the extended leg for the other. "Don't worry about it. Sometimes men need a little bit of mothering, when it's appropriate."

"Of course you are. But you'll cool-- I'm sorry." Madilla can't seem to help herself, and seems genuine in her pink-cheeked apology. She draws both hands down into her lap, letting them twist there, idly; she doesn't answer his cheekiness, though it's possible her blush has something to do with that. "It's in your blood, I suppose. Being tolerant of the cold. It no longer bothers me quite as much as it did once, but I'm afraid I'll never be that much of an enthusiast. I hope it was a good run, at least."

"In a relatively short amount of time?" Z'ian replies back, looking up at her again and laughing. He heavily drops down onto the ground and extends his legs, reaching forward to grab the top of one foot and leaning forward into it. "Maybe. But maybe it's not a tolerance so much as an embracing of it, you know? As long as you're not catching hypothermia and losing your fingertips out in the mountains." He changes over to the other foot, casting a glance up at her while he gets his muscle kinks worked out. "I keep a change of clothes tucked away in the caverns. It'd be an uncomfortable ride back up to my weyr otherwise."

Madilla watches Z'ian's stretches, though there's nothing pervy about it (promise): she looks too thoughtful for that. Her nod is a hasty one, accompanied by another pale pink flush; "Good," she says. "I'm sorry. I'll stop implying that you don't know how to look after yourself now, I promise. I just can't seem to stop myself, sometimes." More certain is the nod that follows as she continues, "I suppose so. The weather is cold so often, here, it seems silly to limit your ability to do things to such narrow windows." Despite that, the glance she aims towards the misty lake is not one that suggests she'll be venturing in any time soon.

He seems about done giving his legs the once over for now and flops his back onto the sandy, rocky ground of the shore. Sort of comfortable, with the added benefit of not having to crane his neck in order to make eye contact. Tucking his arms behind his head, his mouth curves into smile and he good naturedly rolls his eyes up. "I did develop some survival instincts in order to make it to this advanced age. But really, don't worry about it. Just don't show up at my weyr and start dusting my furniture and doing my laundry." He follows her glance out towards the water, taking in the fog that rolls over the lake. "At least we're a leading area in sweater and hat trends?" He offers, lifting an eyebrow in humorous suggestion.

"No? Not a perpetual mother's boy? I'm glad to hear it." Madilla's better able to smile and relax, now, as though something in what Z'ian has said has taken her past the awkwardness of her mothering instinct and back into more familiar territory. "I can safely assure you, there will be no laundry or dusting. I have enough of my own to do. Does that make me all talk and no action?" Now, she draws her knees up towards her chest, holding them in place with an arm hooked around them; she considers Z'ian, thoughtfully. "Oh yes," she agrees. "Why, have you seen some of the hats, this turn? I just know the rest of Pern will be copying us in no time."

Z'ian laughs and hooks one foot over the other. "No, not quite. We were all expected to grow up to be men that weren't slobs that could figure out how to obtain food, shelter and clean laundry. I guess my parents were mostly successful?" The bronzerider grins then, arching his eyebrows at her. "For your sake I'll keep my mouth shut and won't make any terrible jokes about talking and no action. This one time." Shifting easily to the next topic of conversation he nods his head very seriously. "Have you? I'm going to get the one where they put the tufts of material down the middle and it looks like you have a mohawk growing out of your hat. I'm going to wear it to drills. On sweeps. Wing meetings. Breakfast. Dinner."

Madilla's expression turns wistful for a moment as Z'ian relates the intentions of his parents, though it's not immediately obvious as to why. "Good for them," she says, evenly. "It does seem that way. Mine-- were different. For the boys, anyway." His arched eyebrows at least give her a reason to break into a smile and abandon whatever it is that makes her sad: she seems heartily amused. "Just this once. I'd better be more careful with what I say, then, lest I gain a reputation. That hat," the transition of topics is flawless, no pause at all, "will look positively stunning, I'm sure. My daughter wants one, and because she does, my son does too. It's a pity I never learned how to knit."

"We don't have any girls in our family. No sisters. I think my father would have been different with them, but I guess we'll never know for sure." Z'ian shrugs his shoulders indifferently for what his parents would have done if his brothers and himself were the opposite gender. His brow furrows momentarily, lines creasing just for a second before he smiles again. "Absolutely. You know what they say about women who exchange bawdy jokes with bronzeriders." What do they say? It remains a mystery for now as they continue on about hats. He laughs then, grin more genuinely. "Yeah. My younger son has to have everything the older one does; I think there's some idol worship there. But hey, you could always learn. If old women with gnarled hands can knit huge blankets with intricate designs, I'm sure you can make a hat."

"None? Goodness. And you - do you only have sons, too?" Madilla's curiosity is genuine, marked on her expression by a pair of lifted brows, though her grin speaks to the fact that she's also reacting to the rest of what he's said. "My poor reputation. No one will ever believe I am an upstanding citizen, not if they find out. You won't tell?" She's amused, certainly, but there's pink in her cheeks again: it seems to be a fairly common thing. "Mm, no. I did try, but I just-- can't get the hang of it. I sew, though. Quilts, mostly. I think I must have a mental block, or something, that makes me completely unable to knit anything more than a tangle."

"My parents tapped out of the having kids game at three. Something about wanting to make sure we all ate. They only ever got to the having boys part I guess." Z'ian responds jokingly and makes the motion of lifting his shoulders as he lays there on the ground. He frees one hand so that he can ruffle the now drying mess of hair on his head. "I have two sons. My brothers have all the girls. And I'll keep our future dirty jokes between the two of us, I won't tell a soul." He grins then but the bronzerider doesn't have much stored away in his head as far as knitting advice goes. "Maybe you could make them bonnets and paint a stripe down it. Tell them it's better than the other one. But you'll probably have to wear one too, for it work."

Madilla's horrified expression must, surely, be for the bonnets idea; a moment later, she's laughing again. "No," she says. "I'll just have to admit defeat and purchase such things, or trade for them, if I can't get away with saying no." Given her expression, it's hard to imagine her saying no to anyone: there's something utterly, devotedly fond there, when she speaks of her children. "They missed out. Your parents, I mean. And you, I suppose. I mean, ask me again in five turns time when I have a teenage girl on my hands, but-- girls are fun. Boys too, of course. I wouldn't trade either of mine." Of dirty jokes - well, maybe that's part of why she grins at him. It's hard to know.

"Well, I guess if you have to and you can't convince them bonnets are just as good, buying them or trading for them is an option." Z'ian faux begrudgingly allows her with a crooked half smile. The hand that before was used for hair ruffling has now resorted to feeling around in the sand for smooth, flat stones. "I don't know that I'd call it missing it out. It's all different. My kids are brothers, they're close. They have a different relationship with me and each other than your son and daughter do. I wish I was better at relating, it gets easier as they get older though." His expression is grimly thoughtful as he finds a couple of good rocks with his fingers. "I could still have a girl though. And I'll keep it in my date book. To remind you in five turns."

"I'm afraid I have a habit of taking the easy way out," admits Madilla, with faux-seriousness and a reluctant shake of her head. "Look what you make me to: admit my failings in so public a place." She twists her fingers around a bunch of her skirt, idly fiddling with the fabric as she adds, more seriously: "I imagine they do. I've seen the W-- K'del's boys together, and it is a different relationship. I'm glad they have each other." She could be talking about Z'ian's children, or about K'del's - or perhaps even her own. Her expression is thoughtful, and suddenly distant. "A little girl, for your boys to protect, maybe. I'm afraid, in five turns, I may be inclined to be less than civil. Please forgive me in advance. I'm-- a little nervous at the idea of mothering a teenager. In five turns."

Z'ian lazily hauls himself off of the ground, moving slowly to the line of water that's at the foot of her boulder. He runs one finger along the smooth top of one of the stones as he cocks his wrist, pausing to glance around. He looks behind himself at her and quirks a grin, "Your failings, exposed to me and the lake. I think this body of water can keep its big mouth shut though." Flicking his hand he sends the rock for a lame two skip trip into the depths. He groans and turns around to look up at Madilla, leaning one hand onto the rock. "You're going to have to forgive me if I don't think that's quite as likely as you think it is. Your daughter has you for a mother and you seem like a good woman, she's going to be fine. But I won't forgive you if you're mean to me. I can hold a grudge." It's so not serious as he flashes a smile at her and turns back to try another stone. Three skips.

Madilla gives the lake a glower - just in case, and then smiles, glancing sidelong so that she can watch Z'ian as he skips his stones. "That's sweet, thank you. I will endeavour not to be mean to you, then. I will try." She seems pleased, even as she's teasing him. "I hope you're right, anyway. Besides which... it's far too early to really worry about it, isn't it? A lot can happen in five turns. I worry too much." Her laugh is wry, and there's something not entirely genuine about it-- something. "How old are your boys?"

He sinks the next one on the first skip, frowning at the stone as it disappears into the water. Well, that was productive his expression seems to say. With all of his rocks gone, his hands are free and he uses them to rub his bare arms down. Arms that are probably beginning to feel the cool air. "Exactly. Though I hear the pre-teen period is almost as bad as the actual teenagehood. And mine?" Z'ian asks, scratching at the bottom of his chin and thinking on it. "The older one is almost eleven. The younger is eight. Yours?" He reaches back and begins to knock off the sand that's sticking to his shorts and shirt.

"Don't tell me that," objects Madilla, albeit not strenuously; not when she's grinning the way she is at present. "My daughter is seven," she continues, not needing to pause and think. "And my son is three. Still little, really." She's got her eye on him, and that arm-rubbing does not go unnoticed. "You look cold," she adds, aiming to sound conversational and not at all as though she's mothering him. "Am I keeping you? Please, don't let me keep you."

"Yeah, I'm starting to feel it I think." Z'ian comments offhandedly as he glances down at his forearms, checking for the first sign of goose bumps. "No, not at all. I'm a glutton for conversation; it takes me all day to get across the bowl. And it doesn't hurt to have a friendly talk with a pretty girl on top of a big rock while I'm stretching." He grins mischievously and shoves his hands into his pockets. "But I am probably going to go now. Do you need a hand down from there before I leave or are you staying for the fog?"

Madilla - wait for it! - blushes pink at being described 'pretty', but mostly seems amused by the conversation as a whole. "You look cold," she confirms. "And I'm afraid I am not going to be a gentleman and offer you my coat; you'll have to keep walking." But she will, it seems, accept the offer of a hand - hers stretches out towards him, and her words back up that supposition as she admits, "I have places to be. But - I'm glad we talked. Much more fun than sinking into my thoughts, I think. Probably more productive, for that matter."

"I'm offended. See if I remember to remind you about that teenager thing in five turns, won't let me wear your coat." Z'ian jokes as he takes her hand and helps her down off of the boulder. "I'm just sort of sweaty and disgusting." More seriously, he smiles lopsidely and glances at the pink cheeks. "I'll see you around then and personally, I try not to sink into my own thoughts too much. Not alone anyway. Thank you for the company." He gives her a lazy salute off his forehead before turning to go. He doesn't get far before the walk turns into a slow, easy lope back towards the bowl.

Madilla's destination is off in the other direction, but her laughter echoes after Z'ian; so does her, "Thank you."