Log: Wells and Runners
Who: Milani, Whitchek
When: It is a summer dusk, 20:45 of day 9, month 8, turn 19 of Interval 10.
Where: Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr
What: Milani and Whitchek talk about stories, honesty, lying, runners and dragons and whether or not the ground is better than the sky.
Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr(#378RJs)
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.
Evening, summer night. Lots of people are still outside enjoying Reaches' lovely weather. Milani is often the sort to be found taking a walk or run around the Bowl in the cooler air of the evening, but tonight, the headwoman is perched in a chair, legs folded up beneath her, book propped up in her lap, quietly reading in the commons while the rise and fall of auntie-conversation punctuates the air nearby.
The remains of a roll still in hand, it's obvious that Whitchek must be on his way back from dinner. He walks and chews thoughtfully, finds a chair and sits in it and keeps chewing. A man of thorough mastication, Whitchek. He regards Milani from that short distance away. "Always see people reading 'round here. What's so interesting to spend an evening like this with a book?"
Up come blue-green eyes from the page in front of her and Milani's gaze rests on Whitchek a little smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "I like to read and it's a good story so I want to get to the end of it this evening," she explains. "Not the book type?" comes next as she observes him.
Not the sort who'd ever stand out in a crowd, this Whitchek. Maybe six foot even, on the slim side but with solid shoulders, dark hair cropped close. His face is angular, chin narrow, the fair skin clear of the usual adolescent splotches but still a little pocked where they once appeared. Although habitually clean-shaven, by late in the day there's a visible shadow along his jawline.
He dresses with the casual indifference of the typical late adolescent male--heavy-duty trousers, a tunic with slightly too-short sleeves often pushed up to the elbows, usually colors that vaguely match but not always. None of it bears very close inspection, especially not by any mother prone to nitpicking over such formalities as clean socks.
Whitchek polishes off the roll and brushes crumbs off his fingers onto his pant leg. "Nothing against it. I just didn't expect weyrfolk to be so bookish. Seems like so many of the stories take place in Weyrs, get here and everybody's reading stories about someplace else." He smiles wryly. "Grass's always greener, I guess."
"Oh well you know, it's just for fun, but you're right, this is a story about a holder," Milani says with a little laugh and tilts her head to the side a little. "Not sure about the grass. It's just ... you know, a good story is a good story?"
Leaning over, Whitchek does a sort of conspiratorial stage-whisper. "It's not as great as it sounds like." He rests his elbows just above his knees. "They're all... stories, is the trouble. Everything always ends up sounding much better than it really is, doesn't it? Can get lost in that."
"Well, not really," Milani says with a shake of her head. "I mean, stories are stories for a reason. They're not supposed to be /real/ that's the fun of it," the headwoman continues and slips a marker into the book, presses it shut and drops a bare foot down towards the floor without making contact. "It's not really so much about better or worse, just enjoying the 'what if'."
The young man sits back then, stretching his arms above his head, fingers interlaced, and... crack. Whitchek nods to Milani as he settles back in again. "S'pose so. I wouldn't want to sit still that long anyhow. Get a crick in my neck just thinking about it." So he twists that, too, but at least this time there's no audible snap. "So, it's about a holder. What else, then? I admit I'm curious how they manage to make that life sound worth escaping to."
Wince. Milani nosewrinkles a little at that cracking sound. "I don't actually sit still much. Can't," the headwoman confesses with a smile. "Always moving around in my chair. It's kind of ... been a quiet time though, lately. Haven't been quite as jittery." The headwoman's shoulders lift. "It's about a well and a secret inside of it. But ... it's not so much that it seems worth escaping to, it's just an interesting series of events and how the holder handles it."
A well. And a secret inside of it. As Milani says those words, Whitchek's expression is more than a little befuddled. "Right," he says finally. "A well. Sounds... fascinating." He pauses for a moment. "Well, not precisely fascinating so much as I'll just take your word for it. Had to dig one of those once. Can't imagine any secrets involved, unless it's the fact that nobody tells you just how cold and muddy it is because they'd never get you down the well if they did."
"Well it's not about digging it, it's about an old one and something someone hid inside of it, but you know, not at the bottom. Because, doing that, you'd drown," Milani says straightforwardly and leans her head back against the chair, considering Whitchek for a long moment. "If you did read things, what would you want to read for fun?"
If Whitchek did? That takes him some time to mull over. He scratches at his jaw as he thinks, mentioning obviously as an aside that, "Usually you don't drown in a well. Water's not really that deep. Exposure, that's the trouble." Then the proverbial epiphany moment. Well, not exactly that. A grudging admission. "Memoir, maybe. Something by some man who'd done something great with his life."
"Oh? There's lots of horrible stories about children down wells," Milani says with a little shudder then she nods a few times. "So ... first person sort of point of view, but not someone writing about someone like that?"
"A kid, maybe," agrees Whitchek. "But a kid could drown in--well." Probably not a great subject for conversation with a young woman. They can end up hysterical about things like that. He has sisters enough to figure that much out. He tilts his head from side to side. "I guess. The trouble with talking about somebody real is... how do you know what they think? If you don't know what they really think, you could have it all wrong. I'd rather hear a man talk about himself, not about some other man he's barely met."
"Mmm," Milani says, eyeing the young man for a moment as if she can't quite figure out what that expression on his face means. He goes on though and she listens looking vaguely perplexed, then her expression clears. "Ohhh, so you'd rather know about the actual opinion of that person rather than someone else's point of view bout the person in question?"
"Absolutely," Whitchek agrees with almost surprising vehemence. "Makes much more sense that way. Hear all those teaching songs about so-and-so's heroic sacrifice and for all they know it might not have been anything like that." He chews on his lower lip for a moment. "Take a long ride on a good runner any day over even a book like that, though," he admits.
"But a person will always tell the truth about him or herself?" Milani questions next, head tipping to the side a little, eyes still on Whitchek's face. "I'm not much of a rider with runners, but a /dragon/ ride, a nice fast one? You bet."
That gets a little chuckle. "Well, no," Whitchek admits. "Of course not. But even hearing a liar talk about himself says something about him." He stretches out his legs and seems very interested for a moment in one boot. "Not the same, is it? Like riding on an adult's shoulders when you're small. I'm sure they listen to their riders, but they do what they choose. A runner does what you tell it. Takes some skill, not just asking nice."
"If you can tell that that person is lying," Milani counters with a grin. "Do you have an easy time with that? Picking out honest people and liars?" The headwoman grins. "Yeah, but they can't fly, runners. The sky ... it's something else. It's sort of more ... a joint effort I guess, not really a control thing. I like that it's cooperative. Two working together."
"Usually," says Whitchek in an offhand way with a bit of a shrug. "Just pay attention and usually that's enough to tell. Lies never hold up too solid, not in the long run. Secrets, they can hold, but lies don't." He looks up at the stone ceiling as though he could see the sky through it. "Guess that's so. I'd rather stick to the ground. It's more solid, too."
"You know, living in a Weyr, I actually find the opposite to be true," Milani says. "Secrets don't last long in a place where dragons talk. In the end though, seems like some riders are pretty good at ferreting out lies too, though not all." The headwoman takes a little breath and shrugs. "I like feeling like I'm floating. No ground."
The laugh from Whitchek isn't entirely light. "I have a hard time imagining a dragon being interested in the rest of our secrets. The riders, I guess, sure. But do you think they even notice that the rest of us are around? They just seem like they're... out there, doing whatever dragons do."
"Well I don't know if they think of them that way, but weyrlings, you know, sometimes their dragons broadcast things. They pick them up in their heads and they tattle because they don't get it yet," Milani explains with a laugh and stretches her foot out, drops the other down from the chair, both feet pushing against the ground though she doesn't rise out of the chair. "And sure they do. Depends on the person though, I guess. But ... my friends who are riders, their dragons they don't ignore me."
There's another knuckle-cracking stretch and Whitchek stands at last. "I'm happy enough to be ignored for the moment, myself. But I'll stick to the ground, leave the sky to those with wings or who wish they had them." He smiles at Milani and adds, "If I sit here any longer I'm going to sprout roots. If I can't be productive at this hour, perhaps it's time to turn it in and make for an early morning." With that, he takes his leave and departs back for the dormitory.
When: It is a summer dusk, 20:45 of day 9, month 8, turn 19 of Interval 10.
Where: Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr
What: Milani and Whitchek talk about stories, honesty, lying, runners and dragons and whether or not the ground is better than the sky.
Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr(#378RJs)
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.
Evening, summer night. Lots of people are still outside enjoying Reaches' lovely weather. Milani is often the sort to be found taking a walk or run around the Bowl in the cooler air of the evening, but tonight, the headwoman is perched in a chair, legs folded up beneath her, book propped up in her lap, quietly reading in the commons while the rise and fall of auntie-conversation punctuates the air nearby.
The remains of a roll still in hand, it's obvious that Whitchek must be on his way back from dinner. He walks and chews thoughtfully, finds a chair and sits in it and keeps chewing. A man of thorough mastication, Whitchek. He regards Milani from that short distance away. "Always see people reading 'round here. What's so interesting to spend an evening like this with a book?"
Up come blue-green eyes from the page in front of her and Milani's gaze rests on Whitchek a little smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "I like to read and it's a good story so I want to get to the end of it this evening," she explains. "Not the book type?" comes next as she observes him.
Not the sort who'd ever stand out in a crowd, this Whitchek. Maybe six foot even, on the slim side but with solid shoulders, dark hair cropped close. His face is angular, chin narrow, the fair skin clear of the usual adolescent splotches but still a little pocked where they once appeared. Although habitually clean-shaven, by late in the day there's a visible shadow along his jawline.
He dresses with the casual indifference of the typical late adolescent male--heavy-duty trousers, a tunic with slightly too-short sleeves often pushed up to the elbows, usually colors that vaguely match but not always. None of it bears very close inspection, especially not by any mother prone to nitpicking over such formalities as clean socks.
Whitchek polishes off the roll and brushes crumbs off his fingers onto his pant leg. "Nothing against it. I just didn't expect weyrfolk to be so bookish. Seems like so many of the stories take place in Weyrs, get here and everybody's reading stories about someplace else." He smiles wryly. "Grass's always greener, I guess."
"Oh well you know, it's just for fun, but you're right, this is a story about a holder," Milani says with a little laugh and tilts her head to the side a little. "Not sure about the grass. It's just ... you know, a good story is a good story?"
Leaning over, Whitchek does a sort of conspiratorial stage-whisper. "It's not as great as it sounds like." He rests his elbows just above his knees. "They're all... stories, is the trouble. Everything always ends up sounding much better than it really is, doesn't it? Can get lost in that."
"Well, not really," Milani says with a shake of her head. "I mean, stories are stories for a reason. They're not supposed to be /real/ that's the fun of it," the headwoman continues and slips a marker into the book, presses it shut and drops a bare foot down towards the floor without making contact. "It's not really so much about better or worse, just enjoying the 'what if'."
The young man sits back then, stretching his arms above his head, fingers interlaced, and... crack. Whitchek nods to Milani as he settles back in again. "S'pose so. I wouldn't want to sit still that long anyhow. Get a crick in my neck just thinking about it." So he twists that, too, but at least this time there's no audible snap. "So, it's about a holder. What else, then? I admit I'm curious how they manage to make that life sound worth escaping to."
Wince. Milani nosewrinkles a little at that cracking sound. "I don't actually sit still much. Can't," the headwoman confesses with a smile. "Always moving around in my chair. It's kind of ... been a quiet time though, lately. Haven't been quite as jittery." The headwoman's shoulders lift. "It's about a well and a secret inside of it. But ... it's not so much that it seems worth escaping to, it's just an interesting series of events and how the holder handles it."
A well. And a secret inside of it. As Milani says those words, Whitchek's expression is more than a little befuddled. "Right," he says finally. "A well. Sounds... fascinating." He pauses for a moment. "Well, not precisely fascinating so much as I'll just take your word for it. Had to dig one of those once. Can't imagine any secrets involved, unless it's the fact that nobody tells you just how cold and muddy it is because they'd never get you down the well if they did."
"Well it's not about digging it, it's about an old one and something someone hid inside of it, but you know, not at the bottom. Because, doing that, you'd drown," Milani says straightforwardly and leans her head back against the chair, considering Whitchek for a long moment. "If you did read things, what would you want to read for fun?"
If Whitchek did? That takes him some time to mull over. He scratches at his jaw as he thinks, mentioning obviously as an aside that, "Usually you don't drown in a well. Water's not really that deep. Exposure, that's the trouble." Then the proverbial epiphany moment. Well, not exactly that. A grudging admission. "Memoir, maybe. Something by some man who'd done something great with his life."
"Oh? There's lots of horrible stories about children down wells," Milani says with a little shudder then she nods a few times. "So ... first person sort of point of view, but not someone writing about someone like that?"
"A kid, maybe," agrees Whitchek. "But a kid could drown in--well." Probably not a great subject for conversation with a young woman. They can end up hysterical about things like that. He has sisters enough to figure that much out. He tilts his head from side to side. "I guess. The trouble with talking about somebody real is... how do you know what they think? If you don't know what they really think, you could have it all wrong. I'd rather hear a man talk about himself, not about some other man he's barely met."
"Mmm," Milani says, eyeing the young man for a moment as if she can't quite figure out what that expression on his face means. He goes on though and she listens looking vaguely perplexed, then her expression clears. "Ohhh, so you'd rather know about the actual opinion of that person rather than someone else's point of view bout the person in question?"
"Absolutely," Whitchek agrees with almost surprising vehemence. "Makes much more sense that way. Hear all those teaching songs about so-and-so's heroic sacrifice and for all they know it might not have been anything like that." He chews on his lower lip for a moment. "Take a long ride on a good runner any day over even a book like that, though," he admits.
"But a person will always tell the truth about him or herself?" Milani questions next, head tipping to the side a little, eyes still on Whitchek's face. "I'm not much of a rider with runners, but a /dragon/ ride, a nice fast one? You bet."
That gets a little chuckle. "Well, no," Whitchek admits. "Of course not. But even hearing a liar talk about himself says something about him." He stretches out his legs and seems very interested for a moment in one boot. "Not the same, is it? Like riding on an adult's shoulders when you're small. I'm sure they listen to their riders, but they do what they choose. A runner does what you tell it. Takes some skill, not just asking nice."
"If you can tell that that person is lying," Milani counters with a grin. "Do you have an easy time with that? Picking out honest people and liars?" The headwoman grins. "Yeah, but they can't fly, runners. The sky ... it's something else. It's sort of more ... a joint effort I guess, not really a control thing. I like that it's cooperative. Two working together."
"Usually," says Whitchek in an offhand way with a bit of a shrug. "Just pay attention and usually that's enough to tell. Lies never hold up too solid, not in the long run. Secrets, they can hold, but lies don't." He looks up at the stone ceiling as though he could see the sky through it. "Guess that's so. I'd rather stick to the ground. It's more solid, too."
"You know, living in a Weyr, I actually find the opposite to be true," Milani says. "Secrets don't last long in a place where dragons talk. In the end though, seems like some riders are pretty good at ferreting out lies too, though not all." The headwoman takes a little breath and shrugs. "I like feeling like I'm floating. No ground."
The laugh from Whitchek isn't entirely light. "I have a hard time imagining a dragon being interested in the rest of our secrets. The riders, I guess, sure. But do you think they even notice that the rest of us are around? They just seem like they're... out there, doing whatever dragons do."
"Well I don't know if they think of them that way, but weyrlings, you know, sometimes their dragons broadcast things. They pick them up in their heads and they tattle because they don't get it yet," Milani explains with a laugh and stretches her foot out, drops the other down from the chair, both feet pushing against the ground though she doesn't rise out of the chair. "And sure they do. Depends on the person though, I guess. But ... my friends who are riders, their dragons they don't ignore me."
There's another knuckle-cracking stretch and Whitchek stands at last. "I'm happy enough to be ignored for the moment, myself. But I'll stick to the ground, leave the sky to those with wings or who wish they had them." He smiles at Milani and adds, "If I sit here any longer I'm going to sprout roots. If I can't be productive at this hour, perhaps it's time to turn it in and make for an early morning." With that, he takes his leave and departs back for the dormitory.