Difference between revisions of "Logs:Prospects"

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.

Later in the day, the weyrlings right now are basically left to their own devices. W'chek, so rarely seen these past days in the living cavern at mealtimes, was there for once tonight--eating with the other Weyrlings, of course, as expected--but afterwards, ends up by the lake with his very well-oiled and tidy dragon, who is inspecting a rock with extreme diligence at the moment. That leaves W'chek himself to sit nearby on another, in a position entirely reminiscent of a Rodin statue, occasionally speaking up to answer an inaudible question. "...no, I think the rocks have probably always been there."

Far across on the other side of the bowl, a rugged-up-against-the-late-autumn Madilla emerges from the dragon infirmary, and makes her slow-but-steady way across the bowl in a relatively aimless, if quick, path that ultimately carries her towards the lake. It's not until she's only a few dragonwidths from W'chek and Zhikath that she appears to notice them, but once she has, her head shoots up, and then: "/Whitchek/." The name change? That may take some time. Her steps falter, gaze shifting between the weyrling and the dragon, her expression unreadable.

Bolt-upright in all of a second, W'chek stands, obviously startling Zhikath, who turns with surprising speed and fanned wings. "Madilla! No, no, it's all right," the latter to the bronze, who relaxes but hangs back cautiously for a moment. "It's all right. Madilla." The smile's shaky but still a smile. No correction offered, just a little gesture at the few larger rocks nearby. "Would you join me? Not much of a seat to offer you, I'm afraid."

Zhikath's movement startles Madilla in return, who takes a half-step back, then pauses halfway through it to attempt to reverse it; she wobbles, then both feet end up back upon the ground again. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't--" The words get broken off, as she attempts a smile, instead, and, finally, takes another step forward so as to edge towards the rocks as gestured to. "Of course," she agrees, settling into a careful perch upon the edge of one. "If I'm not interrupting."

The young dragon edges forward again, wings folded and head kept carefully down, eyes whirling with interest--"No. Not at all," says W'chek, although the dragon gets a warning look. "He's very... interested in things. That's all. He doesn't bite, or anything," like maybe she wouldn't have figured out that they don't, all this time living here. He sits back down again, on the next rock over. "Things have been very busy. I meant to... find you, to see how you were doing. I'm sorry."

"Oh, I know he wouldn't. Is it strange, that they're almost more intimidating small, than when they're full grown?" Madilla doesn't especially seem to require an answer to that, because she's barrelling on, her attention flicking rapidly back and forth between the two, as if she can't decide what to concentrate on. "He's beautiful. And no... No. I know. Of course you're busy. And so am I: I have exams, soon, after all. But it is good to see you. And... How are you doing?"

"He is, isn't he? I don't know how that happened," W'chek admits after a moment. "I thought--I don't know what I thought. He was just sort of suddenly there. His name is Zhikath," added like there's some chance that every last person in the Weyr doesn't know that by now. Zhikath is trying very hard not to show an unseemly amount of interest, just sidling close enough to get a good look at her, maybe a discrete sniff at the hem of her skirt. "Stop that. It's not polite." Obviously to the dragon. "I'm... I don't know how I am. Exactly." Smile fades.

Madilla probably has heard that name, probably many times, but she tries it out, anyway: "Zhikath. It's a lovely name, too. Oh, it's - all right. If he wants to. Hello, Zhikath." She's definitely looking at the dragon, as she says that; she looks thoughtful, interested. "How so? I suppose it must be a big... adjustment. Different." She tilts her head back across towards W'chek, and adds, "I'm sure you're all having to adjust."

The dragon bobs his head in a sort of greeting, but his interest has been noted so he carefully backs off, returning to the stone he'd been examining earlier, casting only surreptitious glances back now and then. "Yes. An adjustment. It's definitely an adjustment. But more than that..." W'chek pauses. "My family came. I meant to introduce you, after, but there were so many people and I thought you'd find it overwhelming. That there would be better times, later."

Madilla's gaze follows Zhikath, but only until W'chek mentions his family; that's the point at which she flushes, and glances back at him. "I saw them with you," she agrees. "In the caverns. I... yes. It would've been too much. And they were surely far more interested in you, and in /him/. It... must have been overwhelming for you, too. That. As well as everything else." Now, there's concern on her face, her eyes seeking for his.

The smile really makes a serious attempt at coming back. It tries. Valiant effort. "It was definitely overwhelming. The whole day was overwhelming." But in the end, it fails; W'chek looks away, watches Zhikath's path, his attempt to turn the stone over, his examination of the sand beneath. "You heard about the raids," then, flatly. "The night of the hatching? In, um, Nabol." Where this is going ought to be obvious.

Madilla's comes more easily, clearly intended to put him at ease, though her hands sit stiffly in her lap, and she's not precisely relaxed. "I can imagine," she agrees, though the expression in her voice peters out slightly; it's awkward. She's awkward. "I ha-- wait. How close to your family, in Nabol? Is everything all right? If they were /here/?"

Silence for far too long a moment. "They were here," W'chek repeats after her, voice toneless. "I know they got--" A struggle for words. "Raided. I don't know how much was taken, because I've sent messages twice now and... they're being returned unopened." His voice drops softer and he looks back to Madilla... as Zhikath almost stumbles in an attempt to get back over now-now-now, practically bowling his rider over, climbing onto the rock, practically into his lap, and he's already far too large to be doing *that*.

For what it's worth, /this/, at least, eases the awkwardness in Madilla: she seems to be able to do nothing more than wring her hands, and close her eyes: "Oh, /Whit/." Not that those eyes stay closed for long; as they open, they focus back in upon Zhikath and his rider, and maybe there might've been a hint of a smile, except that she's so obviously worried, face pale and expression tight. "Why? Why wouldn't they read your messages? Maybe you should get someone to go and check, to see?"

After a moment, Zhikath gets himself under control and just settles with his head in W'chek's lap, and W'chek takes a few deep breaths, then says, "Because it's my fault they were here. That's why they wouldn't. Because they wouldn't have even been here if it weren't for me, and then it wouldn't have happened." He bites his lip. "After, my father--he was already saying it might be a tight winter. Joking about maybe sending some of the less productive family members *here*, about how the Weyr would have to take them in if they were family, to lighten the load a bit. And now this."

There's indignance in Madilla's voice, at this. "You didn't tell them to come. Did you? They chose to. That's not your fault." But she doesn't sustain that; her head shakes, her eyes dropping. "Oh, Whit. And there's nothing you can do, is there? Nothing anyone can do." She doesn't seem to know what else to say, and now, she's eyeing the pair of them, as if she'd normally want to go and put a hand on that shoulder, but won't: he's got Zhikath, after all. "I know it won't help them, but the weyr will catch them. The thieves. It won't happen again."

"I know, I know, it's just..." W'chek runs a finger over the dark eye ridges and back over Zhikath's headknobs. "I don't think they see it that way. Anyhow. And I don't know that there is anything I could do, or if catching them would help unless whatever they took can be returned, and that seems unlikely at this point, doesn't it?" He looks over at Madilla, almost wistfully. "I've been trying not to think about it. Since I can't do anything to fix it. There have been bad winters before. It's always been a matter of just making do. But I don't know..."

"I know," says Madilla, simply. And then, "As a rider, you'll earn a decent stipend. In the longer term, that will help them." The assumption there, of course, is that he will send some of it home, like, presumably, she does. Her hands press into the dip of her legs, beneath her skirt, though she keeps them sedately together, and, meeting his gaze, she manages a thin smile. "So they'll make do again, I suppose. But I know that doesn't make it easier. For them. Or for you. You won't fret too much over it, will you?" It's imploring, not quite to the point of stern, but there's something protective in her tone.

"If they still want the help by then," W'chek qualifies. But the smile gets one in return--if not much of one, it's at least a good try--and he nods. "I'm trying not to. Not fretting isn't exactly natural to me. Especially now when I have so much more to worry about. Him." A pat on the bronze neck; Zhikath's eyes are now fully-lidded and he seems to hardly notice. "It will be okay. It has to be okay. And I'll do well here and..." The smile grows, opens up. "This is a little better than younger son of a tiny farmhold, isn't it? At least a little, as prospects go?" For her, he obviously means.

"If they do," agrees Madilla, placidly, so rarely the kind to argue any point. "As long as you're trying, that's what matters. I imagine you get some pleasure out of worrying over him, though?" There's a note of something in her voice, something not quite properly quantifiable. Longing? Pride? So hard to know. "You will." She can't help but match this smile, too, warm and fond; "It would not have worried me either, Whi-- W'chek. But I suppose it is."

W'chek laughs, suddenly, and it does sound genuine. "I probably should't worry about him at all. He's doing so well. Aren't you?" Sleepy as he might look, Zhikath is obviously still awake; an eyelid cracks open, he lets out a soft rumble. "He's very smart. But, you know, the others... Z'yi? That blue. Obnoxious little thing." Not going to make any 'cripple' comments around Madilla, no, even if he might ordinarily. "Worry somebody could get hurt. Don't want it to be either of us. Not when Zhikath is so well behaved, himself."

That gives Madilla a reason to glance back down at the bronze, and this time, she lets her gaze linger, clearly giving him a definite once-over. "He's very-- calm. It looks like? I haven't seen much of them. I'm glad that there have been no injuries yet, at least. I hope it stays that way. z'yi-- Isziyo?" She's making that guess, and carrying on. "It must be difficult, to deal with a dragon like that. You're lucky, then."

"Isziyo," W'chek agrees with a nod. "I forget that not everyone is there with them every moment to get used to the new names. Mine's so much simpler. Just the same, but faster. That Mik is now K'ndro... that took a few days." He looks down at his dragon, gives another caress. Open affection of the sort that showing other people would be completely outside of Whit's experience--but his dragon? Yes, of course. It's different. "He is... calm, usually. Not sure Z'yi is dealing with it so much as just letting him run roughshod over everybody else, but that's his business, I guess."

"Yours will still take some getting used to, for me," admits Madilla, "Even if it is so similar. I'll try, though." There's a definite wrinkle of her nose at some of these name changes: so complicated! But the image of W'chek caressing his dragon seems to please her; she's still watching. "His business, unless it impacts other people, too much, I suppose." Pause. "You don't mind, do you? Impressing. Now that you have."

That still, even now, has to be thought over. "I don't mind, exactly." Another crack of eyelid. "Not," W'chek adds in a hurry, "that there's anything in the least bit wrong with him. I just... well, me? A bronzerider? You know. And having to live in the Weyr, for always. Or at least, I think we would. I don't think anywhere else could afford to feed a bronze all the time for long. And... I think he's apt to be big. He's the biggest one in the barracks, anyway. I can already tell he's bigger than Xadovith."

Madilla listens, patiently, as W'chek talks, her head slowly nodding in response to what he has to say. "I suppose you'd be able to take him elsewhere to feed," she suggests, without seeming to think about it too much. "Since you'll be able to go anywhere you like, in the blink of an eye. I think you'll make a wonderful bronzerider. You're--" Exactly what he is, she can't seem to pinpoint, because she ends up shrugging. "And he obviously agrees. You'll get used to the weyr, though. I know that much."

"I think... you're the first person to say that," W'chek says, smiling but having a hard time for the moment actually looking at her. "Everybody else just sort of looks at me like there's obviously been some kind of mistake. I thought... the first night... when he was asleep, I got to wondering if there could have been. Isziyo standing right there. And me. And, you know, he looks the part, and I..." He trails off, shakes his head. "But it was me he wanted. He says so. All the time. Like I could forget." Like maybe he asks, still, needing the reassurance. A little soft whuff of air from the bronze's nostrils. "Think I should get him home or he's going to fall asleep right here and I'll never move him. Too cold to stay out here."

Madilla's head shakes, as though she intends to imply that everyone else is clearly misguided; what could they be thinking, to doubt? "Of course it was you he wanted." /She/ couldn't doubt. Her trust and belief is... kind of blind, really. But sweet. "Oh, of course. I know they sleep a lot. At this point. And I really only came out to clear my head before getting to the books, so I should go in, too. But." She's drawing herself to her feet, brushing her skirt off with stiff, chilled hands. "I hope I'll see you again, soon. Both of you."

Zhikath is dislodged, not unhappily--he's got a warm couch by a hearth in the barracks to go out to, a cold rock by the lake is just not the same thing. W'chek stands, slowly, stretching his legs after that weight in his lap for so long, and then in an absolutely shocking display, closes the distance between himself and her and goes to catch up her hands in his. "You will. Of course. Madilla--thank you. I don't know how I could have gotten through all of this without you. You have been such a help."

It seems to surprise Madilla, too, but not enough that she resists. Her hands are cold - she should've been wearing gloves against the evening air; she twines her fingers through his, to squeeze back, lifting her head to meet his gaze. "You're welcome," she assures him - promises, even, fervent, despite how quiet her voice is. "That's what I'm here for, isn't it? For you." Then, "Go on, get him to bed. I'll see you soon."

If this were really a great romance, this probably would have been the point where, rules be damned, W'chek went ahead and kissed her anyway. Whatever Zhikath has done to his life, however, turning him into a great romancer of women is not looking like a likely change. Instead, he holds her hands in his longer than he ought--warmer, they've had a dragon there to keep them that way--and smiles, and finally at long last nods. Zhikath, the whole time, just waiting, oh-so-patient. "Soon," he promises, and then dragon and rider head back in the direction of the barracks.

And that would /really/ have thrown Madilla for six, albeit perhaps not in a terrible way. Impossible to know. As it is, she merely smiles at him, warmly, drawing her hands back only when he does, and nods. She'll stay where she is, watch them go, before she heads back off towards the caverns, and warmth.