Logs:Coward
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| RL Date: 26 May, 2009 |
| Who: Madilla, Whitchek |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Whitchek gets his lavender, as well as some well-meaning advice from Madilla. |
| Where: Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 11, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr Just off of the main passageway lies the small cavern that forms the hub of the residents' quarters, kept immaculately clean by the headwoman's staff and warmed in cold weather by a stone hearth to the left and well back from the entrance. Comfortable chairs and a plush fur arrayed before the hearth make an inviting spot to curl up with a book or handicraft, or just to sit and chat. Beyond, additional chairs stand in clusters throughout the room, some upholstered with age-softened hide, some plain wood. At the widest point of the cavern, a round table gleams with polish, though its surface is nicked and scarred from Turns of use. Beyond the table, the very back of the cavern often lies in shadow unless the glowbaskets there are unlidded to cast cozy pools of light. The commingled scents of klah, smoke and polish permeate the air along with the sweetness of rosemary and lavender. Tapestries hang across the entrances to dormitories and more private quarters as well as the exit to the outer hall, colorful protections from drafts. It's been a little bit since the dinner hour, which Whitchek was notably absent from. When he finally makes an appearance in the common room, it's freshly-bathed and *still* smelling a little bit like firestone. The joys of chores. He smoothes wet hair back again, stopping near the entrance and giving a look around, seeking out one familiar face among the many people milling about for the evening. Madilla can be found near the hearth, seated sedately on the end of one of the couches, though for the moment there's still quite a bit of room nearby. It's her usual spot, and she can be found in much the usual way, her head buried in the pile of notes on her lap, another pile sitting on the floor in front of her. Idly, she's twirling one lone curl about one finger, as the other hand shuffles through her work, and her lips silently mouth each written word as she reads. It takes a minute, once Whitchek spots Madilla, for him to wander over in her direction--a minute he'd be hard pressed to explain if she were to notice, so it's probably a good thing she's so busy with all that reading. He lingers behind her, too, for a moment, then slips over to sit down at the other end of the couch. "Hey, there," in greeting. "Surprised you aren't mobbed by Candidates. Or has everyone else already come by?" Luckily for Whitchek, Madilla is, indeed, too entrenched in what she's reading to notice him, or, for that matter, anything else, until his greeting pulls her out again. Her head lifts, and turns, and then the serious, thoughtful expression on her face softens into a more friendly smile. "Whitchek," she greets, and then, "No, not many. Perhaps they're all worrying about the more difficult ones, first." Elbow props over the back of the couch and Whitchek turns half-sideways, still a healthy distance between them of course so it won't seem too overly familiar. "Must be," he agrees. "You know, you could make it hard for them. Give me a head start." The tone is lighthearted, though somehow the smile isn't quite as much so as would be expected. "No--I know, it wouldn't be fair," added before there could possibly be any protest (or acceptance). "And I'm hardly being very industrious about this. I go crazy enough without anything to do on my rest days." In the moment between the suggestion and recovery, Madilla's expression shifts just slightly, though it's hardly long enough for her to look outright disapproving before, head nodding, she's in agreement again. "I'm not sure it matters so much," she notes, though it's not anything like a chide: just a comment. "Whether you do well or not, I mean. Running around the weyr, chasing people down... Of course you have enough to do already." She pauses, then adds, lowering her voice slightly, though her eyes dance with amusement: "Carobet and her partner - I don't know his name - were talking about using some kind of eye makeup, instead of a /real/ black eye, for the Weyrwoman's. If that helps. I don't know if it worked, though." A forced laugh and a wan smile. "Don't think I'm willing to go quite that far," Whitchek says. "Wearing make-up and all. Maybe Mikandros will. Can you see that?" The chuckle there is a bit more genuine. "Enough to do, yeah. Chores and... everything. Not much free time." Which is of course the reason why he's missing so many evenings. Right. "So, a formality, then--may I have a sprig of lavender, Madilla?" "You'd rather a real black eye?" Madilla sounds pensive as she asks this, and her expression is outright appraising. "I think it's all a little silly," she admits, then. "But I would rather see someone looking silly, with black make-up around their eye, than with a real bruise." Her head dips, very slowly, for his comments on being busy, though her response is earnest enough: "I understand. It's getting closer towards exam time, for me. I'll be getting much busier, too. But - of course." The lavender. She reaches into her pocket, returning with a fairly crumpled looking sprig, which she offers in the palm of her hand. Of course she'd say that. But Whitchek just kind of shrugs. "Not that I'd seek it out or anything, but to wearing make-up... maybe I'd prefer that, yeah. But if it's not me, well, Mik can wear all the makeup he wants, that much is fine with me." For whatever reason, that much spawns a grin, and he holds out his hand just beneath hers, to be tipped-into, rather than risking some unwelcome touch. "Exams, huh? I can't imagine you have much to worry about, all that studying. I'm sure you'll do wonderfully." "It's only..." Madilla begins. Only make-up. Only. But she breaks off, echoing that shrug, with a smile to match his grin. She tips the lavender in, her hand lingering above his for only a moment, before she draws it back towards her lap. "Mm... maybe not. I hope. It's important to keep doing well, though, as best as I possibly can. My results, last winter were... not as good as I would have liked. So I will study as hard as I can, to make sure." Fingers twirl the little sprig of herb and then Whitchek palms it carefully, like a treasure instead of a bit of dried plant. "That is important," he agrees. "I can't imagine why so much hard work wouldn't pay off. You're hardly a layabout. Now, some of my fellow candidates..." He glances back towards their quarters. "It's a pity there's no exam to pass to get out onto the sands. Nobody seems inclined to work very hard, since it's all just passing time." Madilla's eyes stay on the lavender for a moment, and she notes, before even considering anything of what the candidate says, "It has such a lovely smell. Lavender, I mean. It's far from the most useful thing I work with, but I do love it, anyway." She draws her hands together, looking quietly amused for his comments on the candidates: "It must be hard, the passing time. Not knowing. Though, of course, you're quite right; it's no excuse to shirk. It can't be too much longer, can it?" The reminder is possibly not entirely welcome; Whitchek can't hide the frown it produces, though he obviously tries. "No. Not... too much longer. Seems like all anybody can talk about, some days. I'll be glad to have it over with, but on the other hand..." On the other hand, he's plainly terrified, but also not the sort of person to say so. Instead, a shrug. "They say... people don't get hurt much anymore." Small comfort. Madilla, in the wake of that frown, tries to look encouraging, though mostly, she just looks sympathetic. "I'm sure they don't," she agrees, of the getting hurt. "Isn't that why they get you to touch the eggs first? I'm sure someone told me that. I'm sure it's all going to be fine. Whatever happens. And then... more certainty. I'm sure that will be a relief." She sounds very earnest, though admits, "I'm a little excited, getting to see it, this time. I'm sure it will be /fascinating/ to watch." "Certainty," Whitchek repeats, quietly, and then nods. "There is that... at least. Certainty. Knowing if I'm... a dragonrider, or not." A deep shrug, more a small stretch than a gesture of doubt. "I'm glad you're excited. I'm not sure I'll want to even see another egg at breakfast again for the rest of my life after this. You know, some of them even go and just sit up there, in the galleries, just to *look* at the eggs?" Madilla says, softly, her eyes focused upon Whitchek, "Perhaps if you stand at the very back, you will be doing your duty, and keeping yourself safe? I don't want you to be unhappy. I--" though her expression remains serious, the tone of her voice is less so, as she continues, "Can't imagine spending too much time doing that. Once, perhaps, to see what they look like; I did visit these ones, once. But just to look? Though," she adds, after a moment, "It is much warmer in there. I'm sure it would be quite cozy, in winter." The suggestion is not immediately discounted--in fact, Whitchek seems to mull it over. "I don't want to look like a coward," he says, that of far more concern than whether or not the galleries are in fact cozier than other places to hang around. He unfolds his fingers from around the sprig of lavender again, rolls it back and forth in his hand. "But... perhaps just as out of the way as is possible, given that. Just in case it might help. It's not about whether I'm unhappy, not really. I just want to be able to do right by everyone. My family. You." "Which is very gentlemanly of you," says Madilla, warmly. "But while you worry about doing right by people, I'm allowed to worry about your happiness. And you. So I think it would be entirely appropriate to stand out of the way; I certainly wouldn't think less of you for it." Her hand lifts again, drawing that loose curl back behind one ear, twisting it idly. That gets a big, open smile, at last. "I like to hear that," he admits, sheepish despite the grin. "You can worry about me, and I'll worry about you, and certainly keep from making myself too large a target for rampaging infant dragons." He bites his lower lip, but rather like he's trying to contain the way he's beaming at her. "Not like there aren't plenty of larger targets. all those big guys. Stand near one of them, I'd hardly get noticed, right?" His admission makes Madilla go pink in return, smiling, smiling, smiling. "We'll worry about each other, then," she agrees, warmly. "And I'll worry all the way through the hatching, until I'm quite sure that you're safe. Just the way you want to be." Her head tips, for this idea of the larger guys: "Right. That could work, too. Especially because they will /want/ to be noticed. See? I'm sure it's all going to be fine." "Fine. Yes, fine." Whitchek sits back on the couch, closes his eyes for just a second. "Fine," again. Eyes back open. "Just... glad when it's over with. And with any luck, we can go back to having our normal life." We, our. "That will be nice. Won't it? I *will* stay, I'm not going to go haring off back home even if I'm not all that keen on the company hereabouts." "Fine," she echoes, but mostly, just agrees. /She/ believes it, no questions there. The healer smiles at mention of normal life, though she pauses visibly before answering the rest of what he has to say. "You won't. I am..." Pause. "Very glad to hear that, of course. I would miss you. Though I would hope you could find some more friends, here. Surely you'll be able to. But yes, it will be nice. Back to normal, quieting down. The certainty is much nicer." A firm nod, there. "I'm... glad." He's glad, she's glad, they're both just so glad. The free hand--the one without the little bit of carefully-guarded lavender--rubs at the opposite shoulder. "It's not that I haven't tried to make friends." Tiny pause. "Well, I haven't exactly tried to make friends. But people around here aren't... especially friendly types, seems like. S'pose, if I'm going to stay, I could try. Just kinda lousy at this whole friend business," Whitchek admits. "Didn't grow up around anybody who wasn't family, and you didn't have to be friends with family, they were just there." They're just such glad people. Serious, proper, /glad/ people. Really. "I know," agrees Madilla, with definite understanding in her voice and expression. "I remember... it took me a long time to make friends at the Hall, because I wasn't used to it. But in the end..." She breaks off, formulating her words carefully, "I suppose I was just friendly to people. Nice. And eventually, we got to know each other, some of us, and liked to spend time together. It would be nice, if you had friends, here." Nice. She looks at him, hopeful, turned about slightly so that she can face him, though her looks remain sedately in front of her, feet on the floor. Whitchek and people. Being nice. Him being nice to them, them being nice to him. Of course, that would leave a question of who. The girls are inappropriate, now that he's attached. The guys are largely obnoxious prats. Which leaves the deviants and potential deviants. He doesn't exactly frown, but lips press into a thin line for a moment. "I don't... try to be unfriendly," he suggests. "Just not a lot of of the guys around here have a good idea of appropriate behavior." In whatever aspect. Madilla is quick to insist, "I know you don't. I know. It just... no, perhaps they don't. I don't know." She seems distinctly awkward, now, obviously trying to think of something else to add, but coming up short. Finally, "I'm sure you'll find someone. I..." She's glancing up, looking around. "It's my night to have tea with Journeywoman Delifa; I should go, or I'll be late. I'll see you tomorrow?" And Whitchek is only too happy to let it go at that. "Yes, absolutely. Go have your tea. Have a lovely time," he assures her. "I'll... do my best," is about the best he can manage to offer her. "And, yes, tomorrow. I'll be waiting for you at breakfast, if you're free." Madilla gathers up her books and papers, nodding earnestly. "I will, thank you." She seems to accept that yes, he /will/ do his best, even seems pleased with it, by her smile, and concludes, finally, "I am. I'd like that. I'll see you then." And then, she turns off towards the private rooms, down the passage, to Delifa's. |
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