Logs:Morbid Details
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| RL Date: 3 May, 2009 |
| Who: Leova, Madilla, Whitchek |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Aside from some chiding and pretty awful stew, Whitchek does not suffer from his introduction to Madilla, and later, Leova. At least... not while Madilla is still there. |
| Where: Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| 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. It's late enough that dinner is well and truly past for most of the weyr, but there are still a few people around, some eating late, others just enjoying a mug of something warm before bed, or socialising in the relatively empty caverns. Madilla is one of the former, the young healer serving herself from the fairly sad looking stew pot, valiantly attempting not to wrinkle her nose at the congealed consistancy, though she can't seem to stop the reaction entirely. Bowl in hand, she turns around, considering the caverns, and the many empty and partly empty tables hesitantly. In point of fact, Whitchek was here for dinner. That doesn't stop him from having returned, now, for more. He brushes past Madilla on his own way for a dish, and also ends up regarding the stew with some incredulity. He pulls out the serving ladle and whacks it hard on the side of the pot. "I think that's about to get up and walk away," he offers, just since someone happens to be close enough to hear that particularly brilliant bit of humor, but he serves himself some anyway. Madilla may already have taken a few steps away from the stew bowl, but the whack of the ladle, and the voice that follows draws her attention back; she spins on her foot, managing not to throw her stew to the ground in the process. Not running for freedom just yet, then. "Uh?" she manages to get out, gaze narrowing in upon the speaker, her big eyes blinking rapidly. And then, with slightly more intelligence, "Oh. The stew. Yes. It's-- better earlier in the evening." Okay. /Very/ slightly more intelligence. Something about that makes Whitchek soften just a little. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. It was," he agrees. "But didn't exactly stick at the time. Starved again." He switches the bowl to his left hand and offers out the right. "I'm Whitchek. You're--" and he eyes the knot-- "a healer? Handy thing to have around here, it seems like." Madilla gives a hasty shake of her head in response to the apology, as her expression turns quietly amused in wake of what he says. As she extends her own hand, she notes, "You're a boy; you're always hungry, you lot. Still growing?" Her last question, once said, immediately draws a blush, gaze tilting downwards as she gives a weak shake to his hand. "You don't have to answer that, I'm sorry. I'm Madilla. Senior Apprentice healer, yes. I-- yes. There is always a lot for us to do." "I hope not," Whitchek answers anyway, earnestly. "Faranth knows. Don't think any of my brothers put on much height so late and I'm already the tall one." His handshake is barely there, as though afraid he might somehow damage her hand. "Should sit down. I mean--if I'm not imposing. Are you meeting--" He looks out at the empty tables. Not much of anybody to be meeting, but hey. His answer seems to give Madilla the confidence to make a further remark, with a thin, if genuine smile to go with it. "You're probably a little old to be growing still, but it's not unheard of. I--" The rest draws a further blush, her eyes skimming the floor determinedly. "No. That is - no, I'm not meeting anyone. I'd like that." Beat. "Thank you." She waves her hand ineffectually towards the tables: lead the way. Perfect. Whitchek does that well enough, just snagging one of the nearest ones. Even, obviously without taking the time to think about it, pulls out a chair for her. But it's perfunctory, no sweeping gesture. He seats himself quickly, starts poking at the stew but doesn't actually seem willing to take a bite right away. "Do you know," he inquires, and now we see that there's an ulterior motive, "is there someone in the Weyr who does decent dental work?" It may not be a sweeping gesture, but Madilla is obviously pleased with it, rewarding her dinner-time companion with a genuinely warm smile as she sets her bowl down, and then sinks into the chair. In contrast, she's obviously hungry, and though she eats in a fairly lady-like manner, the consistency no longer appears to bother her. His question, and obvious ulterior motive, draw her lips together, but more in thought than consternation. "We healers all know how to look after teeth, as much as anyone does, but-- what exactly is it you're after? Presumably something more than that." Now she's eyeing his teeth. Okay, Whitchek has really learned his lesson lately. Healer or not, he does not pull the gross "hey, look, here's my dental appliance" bit again. Instead, mouth closed, he taps on his upper lip on the left side to indicate where. Same place that looks suspiciously like it's healing from some kind of minor blow. "I'm missing two. I have a replacement bit but it... got bent up. Doesn't fit right now, hurts like--well, it hurts. Hoping to have someone take a look at it." Obviously it can't be too bad, though, because if a lady can manage this stuff, he's not going to be outdone, and gets at least a few bites down. Madilla, of course, might be one of the few who /wouldn't/ find it completely gross. As it is, she'll have to remain in partial ignorance, though she does peer all the more closely upon the explanation - maybe that relates to the lip, too, and the healing wound. She sets her spoon down, and puts her hand in front of her mouth again, as though hiding the fact that she's trying to draw something nasty from her teeth. When the hand comes away again, she says, "Perhaps one of the smiths? Or-- the Headwoman, or one of her staff, might know who around could help fix something like that. And if it wasn't an actual Smith, they'd charge less, I imagine." "Probably." Whitchek ponders this with some more chewing--he does seem to favor the other side of his mouth. "Worth asking, at any rate. Thank you. I can live with it a bit longer, but I don't even know what happened to the fellow to made this one and I don't feel like tramping the whole of Nabol trying to find him." Madilla's nose wrinkles at the very idea, all that tramping. She picks up her spoon, but it may be said that she's a little slower to actually put it back into her stew, or actually take a bite, as though a little more wary now. Eventually, though - well, hunger must get the better of her. "Good luck with it," she tells Whitchek, honestly. "I'm sure there's someone who can help. Milani'll know. You're not from here, then? If you got it in Nabol." "I'll ask her," Whitchek agrees. Then he goes on, "No. The Hold, last. From one of the farming areas outside, though. Went without for months before there was a trader who could do it, but that was Turns ago. I wouldn't remember a name now." Strangely, after a few bites, he seems to not notice exactly how revolting the food is at all, and sets about polishing it off with all due efficiency. Madilla accepts this with a silent nod, and applies herself to her food instead, forcing it down mouthful by mouthful while she listens. "It can be hard, when you live so far out of a main Hold," she agrees. "How did you lose the teeth in the first place?" Maybe it's just morbid curiosity, but she's /still/ eyeing his lip, and the false teeth that are presumably behind it, with interest. She and Whitchek are enjoying hours-old stew for a late dinner, sitting at one of the tables nearest to the stew pot. Conveniently, the stew pot is exactly the direction in which Leova is gravitating after a next-to-futile diversion by the kitchen from which she emerges with just a buttermilk roll in hand. At least her hands are clean, even if there's that faint aroma of redwort and ichor about her. "I have older brothers," says Whitchek, like that should explain it. "And... right. Not a lot out where we were but sheep. M'brother Marek's lost the front two both top and bottom, I got off easy." Violence as a hobby. Charming. "But you don't want to hear about that sort of thing, I'm sure," he rushes on. But Madilla does seem to understand well enough - or, at least, she nods her head rapidly up and down upon receipt of the explanation. "There's not much other than crops and a few animals where I'm from, too," she puts in, which probably explains a lot. "Although I think my Uncle would have done something awful, if my brothers and cousins had done that kind of thing." /Awful/. Her eyes are big: she means /awful/. She might've said something more, but there's Leova, visible over by the stew pot, and catching the attention of the young healer, who shifts in her seat to consider the greenrider. Decidedly less creepy than staring at /his/ lip, at least. By now, the informally-dressed greenrider's gotten herself a bowlful of that same stew, and grated some cheese over it, and mixed in some of the rather limp-looking greens even. A mug of light ale later, and she and her trayful are good to g... /Madilla/. Her immediate smile's followed by a forward step, and then a pause, and then a better look at the healer's companion before she sees about meeting Madilla's eyes and giving her one of those inquisitive girl-to-girl looks that edges up her own brows just a little: does Madilla want rescuing, or anything but? For someone who has of late been involved in two fistfights--if only one directly--and one serious screaming match in very public places, Whitchek is being the soul of propriety here. "Ah, see, I guess there's the difference. My pop, he thought that sort of thing built character. Or maybe he was just hoping we'd thin each other out a bit before he got old. Though, if he wanted that, he shouldn't have remarried." He makes a little circling gesture with his fork at that. Perhaps Madilla is too naive to read the intent in Leova's look, because the response she gives the greenrider is simply her usual, sunny smile. She doesn't look like she's in need of rescuing, but her expression is welcoming enough. This done, she turns her attention back to her dinner companion, stirring her stew with her spoon rather than eat anything more; the intial hunger must have worn off entirely. "Lots of brothers, then?" she guesses, head tilted curiously. "Me, too. Though a number of mine-- left. The Comet Pass. It was-- difficult. Is that why you're here? Not the Comet Pass, obviously, but--?" In that case, Leova's in no particular hurry as she heads over to the healer and a nearby seat by which she might set down her tray. She might even dawdle just a /little/ on her way, but not once she's there: an, "Evening," for Madilla that extends to her companion with a nod. "This generation seems stubbornly determined not to kill itself off as well as the prior ones," says Whitchek, "and my father is determined to be prepared just in case. There are eight of us--sons. Mostly half-brothers, though. And the girls besides." He rolls his eyes a bit. "My father has expansion plans, though. I'm here..." He trails off into an utter lack of answer. "Just needed to get away for awhile, I guess." Upon Leova's approach, the formerly-relaxed shoulders tense up a little bit, and he looks her up and down. "Hello," he says, pleasant enough but more cautious. A smile is probably as close to laughter as Madilla is likely to get, but it's a genuine one, closer to a grin than anything, for Whitchek's explanation. "A hardy lot, then," she concludes, though breaks that off to add her own greeting to Leova in the wake of Whitchek's, "Good evening, Leova. This is--" She hesitates, to glance from greenrider to her companion, and then back again. "Whitchek. Unless you've met already. Join us? The stew's pretty awful by now, by the way." "Whitchek," the greenrider's Tillek accent showing up that much more prominently in the repetition. The length of his examination earns him a look of his own, but hers is brief before she toes out a chair, slides on in. "Thanks, Madilla. Was afraid of that, but what can you do. Couldn't just up and leave the fellow midway, just because my shift was over, hm?" The fact that Madilla seems to vouch for Leova goes quite a way. Also, the fact that she's not shouting yet. Or making sailors blush. "Nice to meet you," Whitchek offers. "It is... pretty bad. Yes." Which explains why he's just polished off the last of his dish? "What is it you do, Leova?" he inquires, all pleasantries. Madilla's nod, and the wry twist of her lips marks her particular understanding of Leova's situation, one she presumably knows all too well herself. She puts her question in after Whitchek's, as she gives her own stew another stir: perhaps that'll make it better? "He's all right, though? Going to be all right, at least?" By the way the greenrider digs in, she's not inclined to be picky, though at least she blots her mouth with a napkin once she resurfaces to reply. "Infirmary work," this with a nod of her chin towards where that area should surely be, even if her infirmary isn't quite the same as Madilla's. "Going to, right. You know how it is: they man up all day, but when the sun down, suddenly it's hurting awful bad," and she's indulgent about it with that smoky voice of hers. "Oh, another Healer." Whitchek smiles at that, entirely happy in his assumption. He sets his fork in his empty dish and pushes it towards the middle of the table, resting his forearms on the edge and folding his hands together. No elbows. "What happened, then? Something very bad?" Madilla is apparently not inclined towards offering further explanation for Leova's infirmary activities. Instead, she accepts what the greenrider says with a further, rueful nod. "Everything seems worse at night," is her remark, made right before taking another reluctant bite from her stew. Food is food, after all, right? It's as she swallows this, manfully not making a face, that she glances back at Whitchek. "Chasing for morbid details?" Is that a chide? "Next door," Leova provides, starts to elaborate, even, only then her brows just wing up again at Madilla's comment and she laughs her way into another couple mouthfuls of stew instead. That much actually gets Whitchek's ears to go red. "No!" he says quickly. "Just... trying to make conversation. That's all." He looks away and then back at Madilla hesitantly. Okay. That wasn't actually screaming. He might be safe. Safe is good. "I apologize. That was really an inappropriate question." Leova's laugh doesn't help anything; Madilla casts a glance in her direction, brows slightly raised, but, ultimately, she is mollified by Whitchek's red ears and apology. "Oh," she says, instead. "Well. That's all right then. I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions. I just--" It's her turn to blush. "Happens in that line of work," Leova offers by way of trying to settle things some, and gets her elbow back off the table before it'd been on there more than a second or two, quite as though that's what Madilla could have had qualms about. "People get curious, and then they start talking about when /they/ had something happen way-back-away." "Not appropriate meal conversation, though, at the very least," Whitchek says with what approximates a firm finality. "At any rate, who really wants to talk about work while they eat? It'll put you off your food. And the food's hard enough to be put on in the first place at this hour." Bit of a smile. "/Yes/," says Madilla, for what Leova offers, all enthusiastic nods, and then, a half smile for Whitchek, too, as reassurance that all is forgiven. But the mood seems to have broken; she rubs at her eyes, her face, and then, sighing, pushes her bowl away. "It's been a long day. I should--" Go somewhere where she's not going to jump on people for innocent comments. "I'm sorry. I-- good night." It's a lame finish, and her expression is utterly apologetic, as she gathers up her half-finished bowl and strides away, pink and unhappy. You head to the inner caverns.
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