[Maitrey] Exclamation points.
RL Date: 9/26/09
IC Date: 11/11/10
Galleries, Fort Weyr(#745RIJMas$)
The entrance to the sands and galleries alike is little more than an archway and a section of flat stone before it dissolves into the sands proper. Although it's warm here, it's not nearly as hot as the sands themselves are. To the right is a broad pathway leading to the stands, with a set of stairs leading up one side all the way to the upper tiers. Also visible from here is an odd engraving on the wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red Star.
Lined along the right-hand side of the hatching cavern are the galleries, the seats carved from the stone wall and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated spectator's box at the topmost row. There are three separate flights of stairs leading into the galleries, with one near the entrance, another set in the middle, and a flight at the northernmost end.
It's a bit early for most people to have done away with their chores for the morning and found the time to loiter in the galleries for whatever reason, leaving the stands most deserted and the area quiet save for the sound of one set of footsteps. Hattie weaves slowly through the stands, along one row before looping round to pace back down along the next and so on. She looks to have been wandering from the topmost seats down, almost three quarters of the way to the Sands now and her gaze fixed on a sleeping Elaruth and her eggs, even if she has to look back to keep her queen in her line of vision.
The weyrwoman doesn't jump; rarely looks outwardly startled even if ever she is, but Hattie's attention does snap sharply to track the voice, bring her attention away from Elaruth and right to Maitrey. "It's promising you'll watch eggs instead of running off to do the paperwork that you're probably behind on by now," she replies, raising her voice as she turns and starts steps that take her away from the harper, but closer to the first tier. "Is it loitering in the way of anyone who might take the text logical step and sit down?"
A quicksilver smirk is carefully bent back into the shape of a more decently respectable smile, one less likely to get him rebuked if he was in, say, his afternoon classes, Maitrey answers her first; "I can't tell if you're actually trying to chide me for not being up to my ears in hidework, or truly gratified for the attention, on behalf of queen and clutch." Whichever it is, he stays leaning on the rail a few moments longer while Hattie tracks downward, finally pushing off his palm with the echoes of sit-down faded and gone. "I am come to do my duty and the Weyrwoman's bidding," he explains, headed toward a seat.
"Neither," Hattie replies, not quite shouting, yet hardly quiet. "I probably /am/ up to my ears in work and I'm watching eggs instead." Just a little bit frustrated, maybe, more resigned and lacking any real anger or aggression. Her steps get longer on the return journey down the next row of seats, feet kicked up needlessly and brown eyes make a study of her boots. She gives up on weaving halfway down the line and drops down the steps instead; parks herself in the first row of seats where she can still keep everything in view. "Duty? What is it that Cirse wants of you?" she asks, leaning back and stretching slowly, arms over her head.
Helpfully, sort of, Maitrey suggests, "Perhaps you could bring the work with you and do it here? Two birds--" A glance goes over his shoulder, toward Elaruth, toward her eggs, and his steps pause on their way to join Hattie's seat, as if questioning the idea of calling a queen a bird. Ahem. "--with one stone. I take it, based on your tone, that it's not /your/ decision to be here, 'watching eggs instead.'" There's a very good impression of her tone in his repetition when he sits down on the same slab of seating, answering her question about what Cirse wants when he un-slings his knapsack from his shoulder to rest it on his lap, to withdraw pencil and sketchbook dutifully.
"Sadly, there's only so much of it that can be done sitting here," Hattie sighs as she folds herself back into not quite a proper way to sit, but could she be forgiven lounging a bit considering the masses aren't, at present, watching? One eyebrow arches and the goldrider smirks at the mimic, remarking, "Maybe I'll leave you here in my place?" in a voice that likely makes it obvious that she has no intention of doing anything of the sort. "It's not that I /don't/ want to be here, I'm just not accustomed to this much... stillness." Further query concerning just what it is that the Weyrwoman wants is as silent as the initial answer, just a frown down at the sketchbook and a glance back up to Maitrey.
Whether or not the masses watch, Maitrey does. Though, to his credit, any attention given to Hattie's posture is done conscientiously rather than overtly. "You don't think that she'll catch on?" he suggests, pushing hair off his forehead with the way he leans his head to one side, eyeing Hattie, eyeing the very obvious differences between them. "As I don't think either your queen or her eggs are likely to go anywhere any time soon, my work can wait if you want to risk it and have a walk?" With company, he obviously means. His own. "You could call it stretching your legs." The look he chases up and up and up the tiers behind him, coupled to a quick, tricky smile acknowledges the fact that she was juuuust doing that, yes.
"I think she might just, yes," Hattie says with very faint amusement, oblivious to any observation in the way that women not actively in search of a man believe that such makes them invisible to the opposite sex. She shakes her head and reaches to touch fingertips to the harper's elbow or shoulder - appreciative of the thought without saying so. "I promised her I'd be here. Whenever she wakes, she always checks that everything's as she left it. It's easier on her if I can assure her it is. And I thought /I/ was the one more fussy about details." Another smile, this one vaguely self-deprecating, as rare as such an expression is on her. "You work. I'll sit here and... just sit."
There's sympathy in the furrowed forehead and the duck of his shoulder under her fingers, in Maitrey's quiet, "I would be stir-crazy, too." Flipping toward the back of the book, he's likely to need another soon, the harper finds himself a clean sheet-- though not without pausing a moment to frown at a few of the pages in passing, shaking off the thought until he's settled, pencil tap tap tapping the butt-end against the blank page. Eyes from the sands to Hattie and back again; "What, exactly, does she think might have changed while she rested? I can think of no one with the courage, better yet foolishness, to fuss with dragon eggs."
Hattie shrugs a bit too wearily for the time of day and for one complaining of being still. "You tell me. I keep telling her that it's quite irrational. Everything just has to be in its place, you know? I don't really want to argue with her about it, it strikes me that it'd be quite inconsiderate. She's the mother, after all, not me." Her gaze wanders back to the sketchbook and her lips quirk in a little grimace. "Dare I ask if that paper you wanted ever, eventually, turned up? Will I not like the answer?"
"Yes, I suppose she is," Maitrey begins with a slightly unfocused look toward Elaruth, pairing the terms mother and queen only after a long look at Her Royal OCDness. Absently, "The Weyrleader told me she's quite find of glass ornaments, or something to that nature?" To make a platform of his thigh, he puts his ankle up to his knee, the sketchbook held there, and he looks up with a quick sideways at her question, another tricky smile. "Ahhh, the paper. Let us leave it at... the piece was finished, sent to the girl's family, and I understand that her older brother is not quite keen to make a trip to the Weyr, though it may have to wait until the roads clear in the spring."
"Yes, she... Well, she found this massive piece of driftwood a while back - it's more of a tree in itself, really - and wanted to keep it," Hattie tries to explain. "So, it's right by her wallow and it's got all these blue and white ornaments hanging from the branches now. She likes to look at them; says it's calming." She inclines her head just barely, her focus not quite anywhere when she says, "But of the paper and the work, we can say that all is sort of well that ends well?" Blink, blink. "Maybe. One good thing about her being here - it pretty much stops any contemplation of going off to investigate where I'm not needed."
Maitrey listens with quiet interest, with a squint of his eyes no doubt meant to envision this driftwood with its baubles, and then commits at the end, "There's a man, a glass smith, that sells them as mobiles and individual ornaments. They're very pretty." And thought-provoking, evidently, though perhaps that has more to do with his resumption of looking toward the Sands, the gold, the eggs. "All is well that ends well, yes," he agrees presently, flashing a satisfied smile down at the page while the first pass of pencil marks it. "Where would you go if you could, Hattie? What things would you investigate were your queen not so timely as to keep you weyrbound at this moment?"
"Oh. Could you give me his details one day?" Hattie questions, quick to add, "Not just now," with a shake of her head and an abrupt nod towards Maitrey's work in progress. If it's possible, she slouches and lounges even more, not exactly unladylike yet, nor nudging into any space where she could be in the way of sketching. "I don't know," she quietly admits, a loud sigh following after her words. "It's just an impulse to do something. Go yell at someone. Make someone fix things because I can't." She turns the question back towards him - a glance sideways, enquiry made: "What would you do?"
"I only know his name, rank, and that he stays posted to his Hall, but he puts up quite a booth at Gathers, should you ever find yourself at one with a little pocket money." Pausing, Maitrey lets his grin quirk, though it remains aimed at the page. "A lot of pocket money, I should say." He takes occasional peeks Hattie's way, mostly just sideways glances, but one of them stays longer on her while she explains her frustrations. "No one expects you to," he commits quietly, echoing her sigh a little less loudly. "I don't think we would be much alike in this. I'm not a creature of action, though I think I would be likely to deliver a stern lecture. For all the good it would do. Perhaps I'd feel better."
"Maybe I'll go find him at his Hall sometime in the future. The thought of another Gather still makes my feet hurt." Hattie flashes a slight smirk across and the faint sound of boots scuffing stone maybe betrays wiggling toes. "And... I know. I'm just used to - too used to, probably - being able to fix things," she murmurs. There's a quiet trickle of laughter as she muses, "Perhaps we could send you ahead to whoever or wherever to deliver the lecture. Then we wait. And then I get to yell. Or deliver a lecture using stronger words. Your approach would probably be better than mine, to be honest."
Maitrey promises a simple, "I'll remember to send along his name and information later." For all he has a book full of paper and a pencil right there, it's still employed in the business of sketching, and doesn't seem the sort of thing from which he simply rips p*ges to pass along notes. "Yes, because a lecture from an apprentice will certainly impress the severity of the situation on the recipient, I'm sure. It's almost as intimidating as being made to stand in the corner or being sent to bed without supper. Maybe it would be better if I simply penned the speech and you delivered it with an appropriate number of exclamation points?" he suggests amusedly. "Though, that leaves the question, who is to receive this strongly worded decrying?"
"Oh, no, you see, we'd give you a Master's knot and claim you've been harpering from the age of eighteen months," Hattie assures with a sudden burst of stronger laughter that sounds completely out of place in the quiet. "But can you imagine, instead of some great punishment for whoever is causing all this, just getting them to stand in the corner? If it's a group, make them stand in each corner and not look at each other. And people could turn up just to look at them, like a concert or gala. I think it'd be pretty humiliating." She folds her arms and ducks her chin as she says, "But I do love exclamation points. As for who... Maybe we should just find the highest point we can and just yell said decrying. Blame everyone and wait to see who looks shifty."
With a laugh, less echoing than Hattie's but no less bright, Maitrey answers, "I'm afraid I might bow until I broke in half under the weight of a Master's knot. Perhaps we should find a harper of more substance." Pausing the sketch, his attention lifted from the page and settled more openly on her, he listens to the rest of this fictional punishment with grins and nods, quite liking the notion if the steady brightening of his eyes is any indicator. "You see before you, good people of Fort, men guilty of a crime so juvenile and disappointing that the only suitable punishment is ripped straight from the nursery. Should they sniffle or complain, they shall be grounded to their rooms for a month," he pronounces loftily, finding the large, empty space to be quite forgivingly acoustic to his so-called lack of substance. "I give you now your junior queenrider, Hattie, who has a great many exclamation points to say about the matter." Clap clap clap.
The drawback to lounging so and getting closer and closer to the edge of her seat becomes apparent when Hattie makes a valiant effort not to howl with laughter and winds up slipping to the floor. Even after she's fallen and ends up in what's probably quite an embarrassing position, she just carries right on laughing without a care. It takes a while for the weyrwoman to compose herself; when she finally manages to, she simply falls silent for a moment or two and just breathes instead of snapping back something appropriately witty. "I haven't laughed like that in sevens..." she breathes out, still smiling. "Too long." No desire to move demonstrated, she looks back at Maitrey and doesn't quite catch the first signs of Elaruth stirring. "Thank you."
Maitrey's not above being proud of himself for the reaction, laughter infectious enough that he joins a few snickers before Hattie loses her seat. Nearly upsetting his book, which he balances by pressing it against his leg with his palm, he reaches the other hand toward her arm like he might pry her back up-- but then she seems happy there, and he can only rest his hand emptily on the bench with a heartier laugh compared to the earlier snickering. "That might be for the best," he points out, forehead dipped to indicate her decreased elevation. "As you appear to have fallen off the bench. But you're welcome nevertheless. Do you want a hand up?" Presently captivated with Hattie's state, he likewise pays no mind to the waking Elaruth, though probably he'll be sorry for that since she's, like, intimidating.
"It might be," Hattie agrees with another quiet bubble of laughter as she tips her head back against her former perch. More breathing is required before she can speak again, a shake of her head and, "I'm alright, thanks," offered Maitrey's way as she clambers slowly to her feet. It's difficult to miss one of Elaruth's wings unfurling to cover her eggs, the move noticed quickly by her rider and presumably why she doesn't sit back down. "I'd better go assure her that there was no sneaking onto the Sands whilst she was asleep." She takes off a few steps down the row; pauses before she gets very far. "Thanks," Hattie says again, a proper grin flashed at the harper before she has to head down to the Sands and Elaruth.
Lips rounding to an O while he looks toward that flash of movement from the Sands, Maitrey realizes the queen's awareness with a splash of guilt coloring his merriment. There's a whoops-sorry in the eyes he lifts toward Hattie's while she's standing, but he chases it away before she starts her way down those steps. "Happy to be of service," he answers brightly, and stays there a good little while, working busily on the sketch.
IC Date: 11/11/10
Galleries, Fort Weyr(#745RIJMas$)
The entrance to the sands and galleries alike is little more than an archway and a section of flat stone before it dissolves into the sands proper. Although it's warm here, it's not nearly as hot as the sands themselves are. To the right is a broad pathway leading to the stands, with a set of stairs leading up one side all the way to the upper tiers. Also visible from here is an odd engraving on the wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red Star.
Lined along the right-hand side of the hatching cavern are the galleries, the seats carved from the stone wall and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated spectator's box at the topmost row. There are three separate flights of stairs leading into the galleries, with one near the entrance, another set in the middle, and a flight at the northernmost end.
It's a bit early for most people to have done away with their chores for the morning and found the time to loiter in the galleries for whatever reason, leaving the stands most deserted and the area quiet save for the sound of one set of footsteps. Hattie weaves slowly through the stands, along one row before looping round to pace back down along the next and so on. She looks to have been wandering from the topmost seats down, almost three quarters of the way to the Sands now and her gaze fixed on a sleeping Elaruth and her eggs, even if she has to look back to keep her queen in her line of vision.
The weyrwoman doesn't jump; rarely looks outwardly startled even if ever she is, but Hattie's attention does snap sharply to track the voice, bring her attention away from Elaruth and right to Maitrey. "It's promising you'll watch eggs instead of running off to do the paperwork that you're probably behind on by now," she replies, raising her voice as she turns and starts steps that take her away from the harper, but closer to the first tier. "Is it loitering in the way of anyone who might take the text logical step and sit down?"
A quicksilver smirk is carefully bent back into the shape of a more decently respectable smile, one less likely to get him rebuked if he was in, say, his afternoon classes, Maitrey answers her first; "I can't tell if you're actually trying to chide me for not being up to my ears in hidework, or truly gratified for the attention, on behalf of queen and clutch." Whichever it is, he stays leaning on the rail a few moments longer while Hattie tracks downward, finally pushing off his palm with the echoes of sit-down faded and gone. "I am come to do my duty and the Weyrwoman's bidding," he explains, headed toward a seat.
"Neither," Hattie replies, not quite shouting, yet hardly quiet. "I probably /am/ up to my ears in work and I'm watching eggs instead." Just a little bit frustrated, maybe, more resigned and lacking any real anger or aggression. Her steps get longer on the return journey down the next row of seats, feet kicked up needlessly and brown eyes make a study of her boots. She gives up on weaving halfway down the line and drops down the steps instead; parks herself in the first row of seats where she can still keep everything in view. "Duty? What is it that Cirse wants of you?" she asks, leaning back and stretching slowly, arms over her head.
Helpfully, sort of, Maitrey suggests, "Perhaps you could bring the work with you and do it here? Two birds--" A glance goes over his shoulder, toward Elaruth, toward her eggs, and his steps pause on their way to join Hattie's seat, as if questioning the idea of calling a queen a bird. Ahem. "--with one stone. I take it, based on your tone, that it's not /your/ decision to be here, 'watching eggs instead.'" There's a very good impression of her tone in his repetition when he sits down on the same slab of seating, answering her question about what Cirse wants when he un-slings his knapsack from his shoulder to rest it on his lap, to withdraw pencil and sketchbook dutifully.
"Sadly, there's only so much of it that can be done sitting here," Hattie sighs as she folds herself back into not quite a proper way to sit, but could she be forgiven lounging a bit considering the masses aren't, at present, watching? One eyebrow arches and the goldrider smirks at the mimic, remarking, "Maybe I'll leave you here in my place?" in a voice that likely makes it obvious that she has no intention of doing anything of the sort. "It's not that I /don't/ want to be here, I'm just not accustomed to this much... stillness." Further query concerning just what it is that the Weyrwoman wants is as silent as the initial answer, just a frown down at the sketchbook and a glance back up to Maitrey.
Whether or not the masses watch, Maitrey does. Though, to his credit, any attention given to Hattie's posture is done conscientiously rather than overtly. "You don't think that she'll catch on?" he suggests, pushing hair off his forehead with the way he leans his head to one side, eyeing Hattie, eyeing the very obvious differences between them. "As I don't think either your queen or her eggs are likely to go anywhere any time soon, my work can wait if you want to risk it and have a walk?" With company, he obviously means. His own. "You could call it stretching your legs." The look he chases up and up and up the tiers behind him, coupled to a quick, tricky smile acknowledges the fact that she was juuuust doing that, yes.
"I think she might just, yes," Hattie says with very faint amusement, oblivious to any observation in the way that women not actively in search of a man believe that such makes them invisible to the opposite sex. She shakes her head and reaches to touch fingertips to the harper's elbow or shoulder - appreciative of the thought without saying so. "I promised her I'd be here. Whenever she wakes, she always checks that everything's as she left it. It's easier on her if I can assure her it is. And I thought /I/ was the one more fussy about details." Another smile, this one vaguely self-deprecating, as rare as such an expression is on her. "You work. I'll sit here and... just sit."
There's sympathy in the furrowed forehead and the duck of his shoulder under her fingers, in Maitrey's quiet, "I would be stir-crazy, too." Flipping toward the back of the book, he's likely to need another soon, the harper finds himself a clean sheet-- though not without pausing a moment to frown at a few of the pages in passing, shaking off the thought until he's settled, pencil tap tap tapping the butt-end against the blank page. Eyes from the sands to Hattie and back again; "What, exactly, does she think might have changed while she rested? I can think of no one with the courage, better yet foolishness, to fuss with dragon eggs."
Hattie shrugs a bit too wearily for the time of day and for one complaining of being still. "You tell me. I keep telling her that it's quite irrational. Everything just has to be in its place, you know? I don't really want to argue with her about it, it strikes me that it'd be quite inconsiderate. She's the mother, after all, not me." Her gaze wanders back to the sketchbook and her lips quirk in a little grimace. "Dare I ask if that paper you wanted ever, eventually, turned up? Will I not like the answer?"
"Yes, I suppose she is," Maitrey begins with a slightly unfocused look toward Elaruth, pairing the terms mother and queen only after a long look at Her Royal OCDness. Absently, "The Weyrleader told me she's quite find of glass ornaments, or something to that nature?" To make a platform of his thigh, he puts his ankle up to his knee, the sketchbook held there, and he looks up with a quick sideways at her question, another tricky smile. "Ahhh, the paper. Let us leave it at... the piece was finished, sent to the girl's family, and I understand that her older brother is not quite keen to make a trip to the Weyr, though it may have to wait until the roads clear in the spring."
"Yes, she... Well, she found this massive piece of driftwood a while back - it's more of a tree in itself, really - and wanted to keep it," Hattie tries to explain. "So, it's right by her wallow and it's got all these blue and white ornaments hanging from the branches now. She likes to look at them; says it's calming." She inclines her head just barely, her focus not quite anywhere when she says, "But of the paper and the work, we can say that all is sort of well that ends well?" Blink, blink. "Maybe. One good thing about her being here - it pretty much stops any contemplation of going off to investigate where I'm not needed."
Maitrey listens with quiet interest, with a squint of his eyes no doubt meant to envision this driftwood with its baubles, and then commits at the end, "There's a man, a glass smith, that sells them as mobiles and individual ornaments. They're very pretty." And thought-provoking, evidently, though perhaps that has more to do with his resumption of looking toward the Sands, the gold, the eggs. "All is well that ends well, yes," he agrees presently, flashing a satisfied smile down at the page while the first pass of pencil marks it. "Where would you go if you could, Hattie? What things would you investigate were your queen not so timely as to keep you weyrbound at this moment?"
"Oh. Could you give me his details one day?" Hattie questions, quick to add, "Not just now," with a shake of her head and an abrupt nod towards Maitrey's work in progress. If it's possible, she slouches and lounges even more, not exactly unladylike yet, nor nudging into any space where she could be in the way of sketching. "I don't know," she quietly admits, a loud sigh following after her words. "It's just an impulse to do something. Go yell at someone. Make someone fix things because I can't." She turns the question back towards him - a glance sideways, enquiry made: "What would you do?"
"I only know his name, rank, and that he stays posted to his Hall, but he puts up quite a booth at Gathers, should you ever find yourself at one with a little pocket money." Pausing, Maitrey lets his grin quirk, though it remains aimed at the page. "A lot of pocket money, I should say." He takes occasional peeks Hattie's way, mostly just sideways glances, but one of them stays longer on her while she explains her frustrations. "No one expects you to," he commits quietly, echoing her sigh a little less loudly. "I don't think we would be much alike in this. I'm not a creature of action, though I think I would be likely to deliver a stern lecture. For all the good it would do. Perhaps I'd feel better."
"Maybe I'll go find him at his Hall sometime in the future. The thought of another Gather still makes my feet hurt." Hattie flashes a slight smirk across and the faint sound of boots scuffing stone maybe betrays wiggling toes. "And... I know. I'm just used to - too used to, probably - being able to fix things," she murmurs. There's a quiet trickle of laughter as she muses, "Perhaps we could send you ahead to whoever or wherever to deliver the lecture. Then we wait. And then I get to yell. Or deliver a lecture using stronger words. Your approach would probably be better than mine, to be honest."
Maitrey promises a simple, "I'll remember to send along his name and information later." For all he has a book full of paper and a pencil right there, it's still employed in the business of sketching, and doesn't seem the sort of thing from which he simply rips p*ges to pass along notes. "Yes, because a lecture from an apprentice will certainly impress the severity of the situation on the recipient, I'm sure. It's almost as intimidating as being made to stand in the corner or being sent to bed without supper. Maybe it would be better if I simply penned the speech and you delivered it with an appropriate number of exclamation points?" he suggests amusedly. "Though, that leaves the question, who is to receive this strongly worded decrying?"
"Oh, no, you see, we'd give you a Master's knot and claim you've been harpering from the age of eighteen months," Hattie assures with a sudden burst of stronger laughter that sounds completely out of place in the quiet. "But can you imagine, instead of some great punishment for whoever is causing all this, just getting them to stand in the corner? If it's a group, make them stand in each corner and not look at each other. And people could turn up just to look at them, like a concert or gala. I think it'd be pretty humiliating." She folds her arms and ducks her chin as she says, "But I do love exclamation points. As for who... Maybe we should just find the highest point we can and just yell said decrying. Blame everyone and wait to see who looks shifty."
With a laugh, less echoing than Hattie's but no less bright, Maitrey answers, "I'm afraid I might bow until I broke in half under the weight of a Master's knot. Perhaps we should find a harper of more substance." Pausing the sketch, his attention lifted from the page and settled more openly on her, he listens to the rest of this fictional punishment with grins and nods, quite liking the notion if the steady brightening of his eyes is any indicator. "You see before you, good people of Fort, men guilty of a crime so juvenile and disappointing that the only suitable punishment is ripped straight from the nursery. Should they sniffle or complain, they shall be grounded to their rooms for a month," he pronounces loftily, finding the large, empty space to be quite forgivingly acoustic to his so-called lack of substance. "I give you now your junior queenrider, Hattie, who has a great many exclamation points to say about the matter." Clap clap clap.
The drawback to lounging so and getting closer and closer to the edge of her seat becomes apparent when Hattie makes a valiant effort not to howl with laughter and winds up slipping to the floor. Even after she's fallen and ends up in what's probably quite an embarrassing position, she just carries right on laughing without a care. It takes a while for the weyrwoman to compose herself; when she finally manages to, she simply falls silent for a moment or two and just breathes instead of snapping back something appropriately witty. "I haven't laughed like that in sevens..." she breathes out, still smiling. "Too long." No desire to move demonstrated, she looks back at Maitrey and doesn't quite catch the first signs of Elaruth stirring. "Thank you."
Maitrey's not above being proud of himself for the reaction, laughter infectious enough that he joins a few snickers before Hattie loses her seat. Nearly upsetting his book, which he balances by pressing it against his leg with his palm, he reaches the other hand toward her arm like he might pry her back up-- but then she seems happy there, and he can only rest his hand emptily on the bench with a heartier laugh compared to the earlier snickering. "That might be for the best," he points out, forehead dipped to indicate her decreased elevation. "As you appear to have fallen off the bench. But you're welcome nevertheless. Do you want a hand up?" Presently captivated with Hattie's state, he likewise pays no mind to the waking Elaruth, though probably he'll be sorry for that since she's, like, intimidating.
"It might be," Hattie agrees with another quiet bubble of laughter as she tips her head back against her former perch. More breathing is required before she can speak again, a shake of her head and, "I'm alright, thanks," offered Maitrey's way as she clambers slowly to her feet. It's difficult to miss one of Elaruth's wings unfurling to cover her eggs, the move noticed quickly by her rider and presumably why she doesn't sit back down. "I'd better go assure her that there was no sneaking onto the Sands whilst she was asleep." She takes off a few steps down the row; pauses before she gets very far. "Thanks," Hattie says again, a proper grin flashed at the harper before she has to head down to the Sands and Elaruth.
Lips rounding to an O while he looks toward that flash of movement from the Sands, Maitrey realizes the queen's awareness with a splash of guilt coloring his merriment. There's a whoops-sorry in the eyes he lifts toward Hattie's while she's standing, but he chases it away before she starts her way down those steps. "Happy to be of service," he answers brightly, and stays there a good little while, working busily on the sketch.