Logs:A Rescheduled Date
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| RL Date: 9 May, 2009 |
| Who: Madilla, Whitchek |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Whitchek has to break the date, but they reschedule, sort of. It's adorable, really. |
| Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 9, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Leova/Mentions |
| 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 early, and the arrival of autumn has made it cool and damp, so it's a good thing there's a hot breakfast available, even though most of the weyr probably won't be around for a while yet. Madilla is one of the early ones, already nestled in at one of the tables off to one side with a bowl of porridge and dried fruit, and some klah. She's pretty intently focused on her food, though she eats, as always, with lady-like precision. Whatever Whitchek's up to lately, it must work up an appetite; he's got a dish in each hand and a mug of klah balanced precariously on one of them as he weaves through tables, scanning here and there and--ah! The plates slide in neatly across from Madilla: porridge, three eggs, plus a little of basically everything else on offer. "Found you," he says, as though she'd been hiding. "Do you mind if I join you?" he asks, pulling out a chair but not sitting down before getting an answer. Madilla's immediate reaction to this interruption to her quiet breakfast is a bright flush as her eyes lift to seek out Whitchek's face. Her lips part slightly, as though she's about to let out a little gasp of surprise - or something else? - but no sound actually makes it out. Then, hastily, "Of course, please do. Good morning, Whitchek." Then, "Were you /looking/ for me?" Does she look pleased at the idea? Or is it just her natural politeness? A broad smile as Whitchek sits; "I was," he agrees, finally moving the mug off the plate and dabbing a bit of sausage gravy off the bottom of it with his napkin. "Have been for a few days, but things have been... rushed." He has to get in a few bites, of course, before he can go on. Might starve in the meantime. But, when he continues, there's no urgency to it. "Did you sleep well?" Madilla, still pink, allows a shy smile to stretch onto her face in response to that smile, not to mention his answer to her question. Her eyes linger on his face as he continues, her brows just slightly raised, one that lingers while he eats, and for his next question; her spoon remains where it is, in her bowl, hands upon the table on either side. "I did," she confirms, finally reaching for her spoon again. "And you, I hope?" "Well enough," he says, smears a bit of biscuit around in egg yolk with his fork, puts it into his mouth, chews, then finally sets his fork down as he swallows. Out of nowhere: "I didn't see you at the clutching bonfire." Whitchek pauses, then adds hastily, "Not that I really would have expected you to--it seemed to get a bit rowdy." Unspoken, 'and good girls don't go for rowdy parties, obviously'. The jump in conversation topics leaves Madilla to pause for a moment before responding, her spoon hesitating, hovering just above her bowl as she frames her answer. "No," she agrees. "Journeywoman Delifa suggested, but-- I was working, and that seemed more important. I'm not very good at parties, anyway." Her spoon dips back on; on it's way back to her mouth, she adds, "But did you have a good time? Some of the girls in my dorm were there; they seemed to think it was wonderful." "Of all the words that I would use... I'm not sure 'a good time' would be one of them," Whitchek says, vaguely. He pushes egg white around his plate with his fork. "That friend of yours, that Leova." That madwoman. "She asked me..." Bullied me. Conned me. Forced me. "...to stand for the clutch." The last is almost mumbled behind the mug of klah before he takes a drink. Madilla's "No--?" dies on her lips, only partially formed, and her eyes go wide instead. "/Did/ she?" Strange, how excited she can sound, even in the wake of the way he put forward that news. "How exciting for you! Now you'll really have a reason not to go home straight away, won't you? Though--" Her restrained excitement tapers slightly. "I suppose your family won't like that any better?" Whitchek grimaces and he eyes the plate like somehow half-eaten eggs could be at fault. "They won't. Don't. Already got a letter back. But I don't expect anything to come of it, and it's duty, isn't it? They ask, you go." He lets out a sigh of a breath. "It is what it is. But I feel terrible. I was--I really was looking forward to going with you. To the hatching." "I'm sorry," is Madilla's instant response, full of understanding that is echoed across her expression. "And it is, I suppose. But - not a terrible duty, surely? You'll have a front row seat!" She seems to have abandoned her spoon in favour of resting both hands upon the table again, and leaning forward in subdued excitement. "You-- were." Flush. "I was, too. But. It's fine, truly it is. We can-- there's a feast afterwards, I think. I'll see you there? And cheer you on, from the galleries." Whitchek blanches, not for the first time and not for the last, at this prospect. "I'd rather--well. This is duty, you understand. Not that I want to be a dragonrider. Not that I *will* be a dragonrider. I wouldn't want to be cheered, not in that direction." He finally manages to stop just playing with his food and eats in silence for a moment. "But... afterwards," he says finally. "I'd like that, afterwards." "But if you were searched--" begins Madilla, who is watching Whitchek quite intently at this, her brows furrowed. "But. If you prefer. I will simply watch, and hope that you make it through completely safely. Is that better?" After a moment, she adds, pink again, "Then we'll do that. After. That will be... nice." She finds her spoon again, picks it up, though doesn't quite manage to draw it back towards her mouth. "Don't you imagine they know?" Whitchek's eyes cast towards the bowl entrance, out towards where 'they', all those lizardy creatures with the big wings and teeth, are. "If you don't... want that?" His voice has gone a little soft, but he clears his throat and returns attention to the present instead. "You should eat more," he suggests, not unkindly. Madilla's gaze follows Whitchek's out towards the bowl; her expression turns thoughtful. "I've never met a rider unhappy with being so," she hazards. "Though, of course, I've not met /that/ many. So... perhaps? But... I don't know. I--" Should eat more. She's flushing again, and nodding hastily, bringing her spoon towards her mouth. "You're right. I have a long day, and it wouldn't do to waste food." "Or for you to waste away with all that work and studying," Whitchek offers, and in the process of talk manages to demolish the rest of the contents of the first plate. "Thankfully, the chores seem to be pretty much what I was doing before. No big changes. New place to sleep, a lot of new folks around, but life goes on. Someday, I'll tell my grandchildren about how Grandpa was a Candidate, but I'll have to be sure to make it sound more exciting." Point taken, Madilla eats her spoonful, swallowing and reaching for another: she's eating, she's eating. Something shifts in her expression at mention of 'grandchildren', but her response, after another spoonful has ben swallowed, is mild. "Perhaps you'll be able to tell them that you knew the Weyrleader when they were a candidate, or something. I suppose it wouldn't be so very different. Still-- you should make the most of it. The experience, I mean. Not many people get it." That elicits a laugh, if a small one, from Whitchek. "I was about to say I had a hard time imagining any of the Candidates I've met so far as the Weyrleader, but then--then, next to K'del, some of them are practically old men." He drinks from the lukewarm mug again and gives it a reproachful look, like it should have known to stay hot. Madilla, however, gets a smile. "I am trying. It's an adjustment. And I'm, well, nervous. There are some things I want out of life. A dragon has never been on the list." Madilla sounds indulgent as she says, of the Weyrleader, "You have to feel a little sorry for him. I can't imagine /he/ imagined himself as the Weyrleader yet, either. I remember him before he was a candidate, so - anything is possible, I suppose." She returns the smile, as she continues to eat, and nods, empathetic. "It must feel very - big. What is it, you're planning for your life? Just the usual?" "Well," Whitchek admits, "I guess that's it. And, why not? There's nothing wrong with the usual." He focuses more on the mug but gives her a sort of sideways look, suddenly shy. "Go home... eventually. Settle down with a nice girl. Have big strapping sons. Raise sheep. I know it's nothing exciting, but... some people seem very happy that way." Madilla's head shakes rapidly: no, there's nothing wrong with the usual. She looks, if anything, charmed by the idea, or perhaps relieved. Certainly, she smiles brilliantly for the idea. "/I/ think it's exciting. Just because something is simple doesn't make it... less acceptable. Desirable. I'm," and now she looks shy, lowering her voice, though her eyes gleam, "Looking forward to getting my Journeyman's knot. So I can have a family. A baby." There's longing in her voice, something she can't conceal, or perhaps, doesn't try to. Whitchek clears his throat but not wholly uncomfortably. "Well. As hard as you seem to work, that can't be hardly any time off at all," he offers. "And sometimes... waiting isn't a bad thing. It's nice to be away, for awhile, to stop feeling so rushed. We're not in any danger of getting old just yet, I think." Unless he keeps loading up on the cholesterol, then he might end up keeling over of a heart attack at twenty-five. The throat clearing is enough, however, to make Madilla look apologetic, if not outright embarrassment. "Three turns, probably. Not many walk the tables before twenty." And, despite herself, she makes that sound like it's a lifetime away. At least. "Probably. And - nooo. I suppose. If I were still at home, I'd be married, already. Probably a mother, even. But... You're probably right. Here we are. And if things were different, we wouldn't be. I wouldn't be, at least." "Twenty," repeats Whitchek reflectively. "That's really not old. My stepmother didn't marry until past then." Of course, what she may or may not have been in relation to his father before that point is another story. "And she's not lacked anything because of it. Forty and on her eighth. Healthy as a horse, notwithstanding the fact that she always thinks she's dying of something." "Really?" Madilla sounds hopeful, and maybe a little relieved: maybe she's not doomed to spinsterhood, after all! What she says, after that, however, is, "One of /those/. We get them in the infirmary all the time. It's hard; they /believe/ it, even though there's nothing wrong." She takes one final bite, finishing off the remains of her porridge, and smiles. "Twenty feels very old, but women here... they think it's still too young. Strange. But you don't really want to hear all about that." Quickly, Whitchek adds, "She's not as bad as all that." Don't want to scare Madilla off of the family, after all. "I don't think she's ever brought a Healer into it. At any rate, women here would hardly be what I'd call the standard. The things some people around here think are acceptable..." He trails off, shaking his head in bewilderment. Madilla just smiles, indulgent. "I'm sure she's not," she agrees. "They--" She breaks off, thinking over her words before she actually speaks them; as she does, she draws her mug closer to her, though she doesn't, yet, drink from the rapidly cooling liquid. "It's like a different world, isn't it? They have such strange ideas, some of them. And yet... I like so many of them, despite it. Despite knowing some of their choices." A shadow crosses her expression, briefly, at this; hastily, she adds, "I find it easier, now, to like people, without condoning some of their choices in life." "Maybe," says Whitchek dubiously, "it just takes some practice. Some of them... I wouldn't want to know their private lives but for the most part in public they seem like decent people. And then there are others whose behavior is just so... vile." His face creases with an expression of disgust. "And the language." Not that he doesn't slip up sometimes, but he's trying to put a good face on, here. Madilla's nod is much slower this time, as if she's caught between defending the behaviour of the people of this place she cares so much about, and agreeing on a matter her feelings are similar on. "I think most of them are. Decent people, I mean. It's just... different." It must sound lame even to her ears, because she ducks her head, considers her klah instead, and takes a cautious sip. "I don't like the language," she agrees. After a moment more, sounding reluctant, she adds, "I should take this with me, and get to work. Morning rounds." Whitchek stacks his empty plates one on the other, retrieves Madilla's bowl to set on top, and then the dirty silverware inside it. "And chores for me." And then, cautiously, he asks: "Will you be here at lunch?" Madilla's thanks is silent, made up of a nod and a brilliant smile. She draws her mug up with her, as she stands, hesitating part way in order to answer the question. "Yes, I should be. I usually have mine about half-past midday." "Will see you then," answers Whitchek promptly. He gets the plates balanced on one hand and his still-mostly-full mug in the other, and carries them off to join the other dirty dishes, whistling badly as he goes. Madilla, pink with pleasure, nods once: "I'll see you then. Have a good morning." Then, she, too, is off on her way. |
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