[Maitrey] Foreboding - Before the Hatching.
RL Date: 10/25/09
IC Date: 1/14/21
Candidate Barracks, Fort Weyr(#536RAs$)
The candidate barracks are large, but feel much smaller due to the sheer number of cots and presses that have been arrayed within. It's longer than it is wide, with each cot's head being against one of the two side walls. Each cot has a hook to allow the candidate to hang his or her robe on it, though there is no separation between the genders. Designed to house about a hundred youths at any given time, the place alternates between feeling very cramped when dragons go out on search and very empty when there is no clutch on the sands.
The beds are always neatly made, with presses being kept equally so; while most supplies are in the stores, there are some items, such as linens, that are stored here as well in cabinets that line the walls nearest the entrance. Candidate robes are retained in a large nook off to the side for candidates to pick and choose from; especially old or filthy robes are discarded of regularly, with new ones being made by the seamstresses or apprentice weavers in their spare time.
Foreboding's a good word for it. Somewhere between the murmurs of "that looks like a helluva storm coming in" and "if they don't break shell today, then I dunno my arse from my elbow," there've been some very jittery comings-and-goings in the barracks today. There's one girl practically glued to her cot, clinging to her robe, ears strained for the humming to start, accosting everyone who comes into the room with a quick, "Did you come from outside? Is it snowing? Could you hear any humming?" Alas for Maitrey, he's her next victim, and he actually has to pry her off his arm, having come in with a very outdoors, pink-cheeked, windblown look to him. "Has she been like this all day?" is asked in a stage-whisper.
Tilin has been on Rest Day today. Normally, that would mean he'd be in the crafters' work rooms working on an instrument, but not today apparently. He sits on his bunk, picking a tune on his gitar, his touch gentle so the notes come quietly. He looks up to Maitrey and nods quickly, "Yep. It's like she's never seen a snow storm before."
RESTDAYS. They're brilliant, aren't they? Well, they are for Atreyan, who's damned determined to make the most of this restday. He's chewing down on a pastry from the kitchens, reading a book by glowlight, propped back in his cot. Every so often his bare feet swish back and forth to music unheard-- they dangle over the edge of the bed, so it's more obvious than he realizes. He squints upwards towards Maitrey's entrance, and gives an amiable bob of his head. "Sure has," he confirms in a lazy drawl.
"It's not her fault!" Genefra, of course, happens to be friends with this girl, like anybody should be surprised by that, and of course she has to leap to her defense. The redhead, however, has her kitten sweater, which makes her proof against any anxiety, storm-related or otherwise. "It could get really uuucky out." That's a word. It really is. It's just one she just invented. "And then that could be very bad. What if the snow gets into the hatching sands and... um... something?" She hasn't exactly planned out this argument, her attention more on the journal in her lap.
The girl herself doesn't really say anything to her defense, but there's a twitchy smile of gratitude for Genefra before she goes back to picking imaginary lint off her robe, the poster-child for nerve-induced OCD. "Awesome," Maitrey answers to Tilin and Atreyan in one ironic sweep, shaking his head while he works his way to his own cot to dump his winter outer-wear into one untidy pile. "Think about it this way, if the weather and the eggs break at the same time, at least we'll be some place warm and toasty while the Weyr gets buried under an avalanche of snow." For the benefit of the already nerve-wracked masses.
"Hey, I like that. I have a mark on them hatching today, too, so that would be all right with me," Atreyan states to Maitrey without looking up from his book. It's suspicious how calm he is right now, really. "Genefra, darling," -- page turn, swish of hide against hide -- "... I think it would be fine. First off, no way for blizzards to enter the 'caverns, I doubt, and even if they do? We'd just have puddles to stomp in." Ahem. He goes back to reading.
Tilin nods to Genefra and grins, "I don't think snow can get in the Hatching grounds. The dragons will stop that, if nothing else would. They take good care of the eggs." He looks up to Maitrey, and nods quickly, "Yeah, exactly. I doubt they'll happen at the exact same time, though." He looks to Atreyan and grins, "I've bet on tomorrow."
The 'darling' gets a blush, which may be either for the affected endearment or the sentiment. "Puddles might not be good for the baby dragons. Would it? I don't know. Did they tell us that? The eggs need to be warm. They said that," Genefra adds, closing the journal after making a few more scribbles in it. "I don't care what day it is. I mean, I do. But I'm not putting any marks on it. That'd just be one more thing to worry about!"
Oh! Wait! Dashaya is here! Or, she will be. Without a restday to her name today, she finally has a moment of rest, and now comes stalking into the dorm with a towel still wrapped around her hair, obviously having taken advantage of the baths. "Is it an -utter- mess out there or what?"
Jiella's pretty brow is marred by a serious frown as she enters, obviously displeased by something or the other - but if she's been off actually doing the work she's been assigned, is that any surprise? The blonde is quick to catch the topic of conversation as she saunters on through to her cot, and by her expression, she's no more thrilled with it than she's been with anything else in her way today. Rolling her eyes, she gives a dramatic sigh as she drops down onto her cot, only looking balefully at the others chatting once she has. Dashaya's got an alternate topic she's game for; "A disaster. I only pray I won't be shovelling any of it tomorrow."
Thump-boot, thump-boot, and Maitrey cocks his head with his second foot still balanced on his knee. "I'm reasonably sure the architecture of the hatching caverns would make it impossible for snow to get to the Sands," muses Mr. Spatial Relations, staring vaguely off into the middle distance for a few seconds. "If Atreyan has his way," he continues on coming back to himself, picking up on Jiella's complaint, "you could be chopping meat in a snowdrift first thing in the morning instead. Which really might not be any better."
"Well, they'll be dragons by that point, I'd imagine," Atreyan comments towards Genefra. "Mmm," with a grin towards Tilin. "I've half a mind to hope you're right and I'm wrong-- it looks like a bad one coming on, outside." He flips another page, flashes a smile - a jaunty one - up to Maitrey and Jiella. Then back to his book. Is he reading, or just using it as a prop?
Tilin looks to Genefra and grins, "Well, where's the fun in that? It's just a mark." One of those rare times that he shows his wealthy upbringing. He looks to Jiella and says, "Yeah, I hope we aren't too. That'd be awful. That's a lot of snow to shovel." He pales just slightly at the mention of cutting meat, and again glances down, picking at the strings of his gitar again absently.
"Don't get your skirts in a knot, Jiella-dove," Dashaya mutters amusedly and settles over onto her cot with a tuck of her own skirt around her still. "They won't make us shovel all that mess, surely, if it really turns into a monster of a storm." Flipping her head over to rub at her hair with the towel, she flicks it back and sets to pinning back the extra-long length when it is mostly dry. "And if so, they'll give it to the men." So haughtily.
"A mark is a lot," Genefra informs Tilin. "A mark buys a lot of bubbly pies come Gather season," for one thing, and of course that would be very important, wouldn't it? "And two marks would buy a lot more, but... zero doesn't buy very many at all." Math is surely the redhead's strong suit. Or sweets are. One or the other. "I wouldn't want the baby dragons to get cold and wet, either. I wouldn't like that if I were a baby dragon. I hope it doesn't snow into the cavern. They should stay toasty and dry, whether they're eggs or not."
With emphatic agreement, "I /know/!" Jiella nods over at Maitrey, narrow eyes widening as much as they ever do. "Well, I know that it'd be worse - what's with wanting us to do it /now/, Atreyan?" Like it'll be his fault if it ends up that way - and the smile does not help with the blonde. Flopping back on her pillow, wrist to forehead, "Dashaya-/sweetie/, they just might. To shut everyone up with the incessant speculation." For Genefra, she only has a bemused glance - she's not going there. Not at the moment.
Maitrey's, "Define 'men,'" is a subtle undertone following Dashaya's certainty about just who will be shoveling all this potential snow, one easily lost in the general level of conversation while he takes a moment to examine his definitely-not-calloused palms. "I'm with her on that," he adds, thumb lifted to hitch toward Genefra, shoulder lifted to shrug at Tilin. "That's not to say I haven't got any marks riding on it, but a whole one?" And then there's a look around the immediate vicinity, and-- though it's not expressed-- really? Really? There's a lotta poor little rich kids in these here barracks, ain't there?
"Genefra, stop stressing," Dashaya advises with a tuck of a lock of her hair behind her ear and a glance the redhead's way. "Save your energy for the sands. You'll need all that you have to -remain still-. And not bounce about like a milkmaid that's running from a stable boy, trying to entice him out of the sight in a vacant stall." Tsking, she eyes the boys but settles that odd gaze upon Maitrey. "By men, I say those with a much deeper voice than our own, Harper." Amused. "But true, Jiella. But even then, they'll carry on like chickens. And by the way, Atreyan, Tilin. I'll add a mark to it being tonight. If I do, will you -pipe down-? You're driving us insane."
"Dream on, Dashaya," Atreyan /may/ be heard stating. Or maybe not. "I think she has a point, Tilin. Perhaps we should repent from our grieviously errant gambling ways," Trey comments towards his fellow blooded-candidate. "After we see if either of us win this bet, of course." A whimsical glance, then upwards to Jiella, said glance falls to more of a... cautious eyeballing. "It was a bet, my dear, nothing more and nothing else." He states it easily enough.
Jiella's life is /hard/, okay? It's not easy being rich and hot and blonde and practically useless. But Dashaya seems to understand - at least enough to tell boys to take it down a notch. Gracing the other girl with a brilliant smile, she lounges with the skill of a professional, clearly amused by the way Atreyan's looking at her. "If it happens today, and it's like Maitrey says? I blame you. You'll owe me." Just like that, in debt!
Tilin blinks, but then nods a little to Dashaya, "Oh, sure." He nods again to Atreyan with a grin, and he sits back. He puts his gitar aside then and says, "Well, if we're not going to talk about that, what else shall we?"
"I will in no manner, shape size or form, owe you, Jiella," Atreyan replies without looking up. He flips another page.
One hand goes to Genefra's hip. "I am not stressing! I'm just making conversation." At people. Like usual! "I can stand still just fine. I can." Which is why she's practically twitching in her seated position. "I don't bounce anything like a milkmaid doing any such thing," also. "Well, if you all want to waste your own marks, you're welcome to do it. I'm not going to. Besides, it can't possibly be today. I'm too antsy for it to be today."
Snow's been falling all day, light and drifting on the barely-there wind, pale in a pale grey sky. Now, as the afternoon fades toward evening, there begins to be the sound of... thunder? No, it's deeper than that, increasingly so, and it's just not stopping. Dragons are humming. The hatching is here.
Maitrey's laugh chokes in his throat when the words 'Genefra' and 'stop stressing' somehow get paired, and a look shoots across to Dashaya for the utterance. "I'll owe you in his place, Jiella," he chimes in hastily, managing not to fall all over himself to get the offer out there before every other male hanger-on in the barracks does so. The sudden panicky "oh no oh no oh no oh no" is not his, by the way, but belongs instead to Little Miss Panic-Stricken who totally forgets how to actually change out of her clothes into her robe right at this most critical moment. Maitrey, see, still remembers how his limbs function, though there's a necessary moment of brow-lifting looking around before he actually uses them for anything. "Offer still stands," to Rich and Hot and Blonde and Practically Useless.
Atreyan scrambles when it becomes obvious that scrambling is necessary. There is, of course, a moment of 'WTF dudes I SO didn't mean it!' right beforehand. "Crap. Robe. Robe!" He scoots onto it, finds boots, shoves them onto his feet, and stands there, looking goofy as all hell, half his hair stuck up in weird angles from the dash to get his clothes on.
Tilin blinks, looking up at the sound. "Shards, guess you win, Trey." He hops to his feet, moving quickly to change into his robe. He doesn't at all seem upset that he lost the bet, though, instead seems focused more on the task of quickly getting into his robe, nerves only just starting to show.
"That's what you think..." Jiella has a singsong tone for Atreyan -- though she obviously didn't think she'd have backup in the form of humming. Wide-eyed and suddenly very pale, she shuts up - for once - and starts moving with a speed that she likely didn't think /she/ had, digging out her robe. With a slight smile for Maitrey, before ditching her clothes for her robe; "Okay." What's she got to lose, after all?
As the dragons start humming like mad, Dashaya's eyes jerk up to glance toward the entrance then around the room. Well, if she bursts out laughing? WELL. She's just going to do it. "See! This is what gambling will get you!" Action. Ahem. And then she that was the beacon of calm - or at least the one insisting on it - bounces off her bed with a flick of still-wet hair and starts rifling through her things for the robe and sandals. "You owe me a mark!" Not that she directs it to anyone in particular, or really seems serious. It's the principle of the thing. Out of her clothes, into those!
Of course there's humming. There has to be humming. Genefra isn't lucky enough for there not to be humming, kitten sweater or otherwise. Nor is she 'not stressing' by any stretch as soon as that happens, scrambling for robe as quickly as possible. Running fingers through her hair just one last time before she ties it up again, and then--out for the sands. At least she's not crying! Yet!
IC Date: 1/14/21
Candidate Barracks, Fort Weyr(#536RAs$)
The candidate barracks are large, but feel much smaller due to the sheer number of cots and presses that have been arrayed within. It's longer than it is wide, with each cot's head being against one of the two side walls. Each cot has a hook to allow the candidate to hang his or her robe on it, though there is no separation between the genders. Designed to house about a hundred youths at any given time, the place alternates between feeling very cramped when dragons go out on search and very empty when there is no clutch on the sands.
The beds are always neatly made, with presses being kept equally so; while most supplies are in the stores, there are some items, such as linens, that are stored here as well in cabinets that line the walls nearest the entrance. Candidate robes are retained in a large nook off to the side for candidates to pick and choose from; especially old or filthy robes are discarded of regularly, with new ones being made by the seamstresses or apprentice weavers in their spare time.
Foreboding's a good word for it. Somewhere between the murmurs of "that looks like a helluva storm coming in" and "if they don't break shell today, then I dunno my arse from my elbow," there've been some very jittery comings-and-goings in the barracks today. There's one girl practically glued to her cot, clinging to her robe, ears strained for the humming to start, accosting everyone who comes into the room with a quick, "Did you come from outside? Is it snowing? Could you hear any humming?" Alas for Maitrey, he's her next victim, and he actually has to pry her off his arm, having come in with a very outdoors, pink-cheeked, windblown look to him. "Has she been like this all day?" is asked in a stage-whisper.
Tilin has been on Rest Day today. Normally, that would mean he'd be in the crafters' work rooms working on an instrument, but not today apparently. He sits on his bunk, picking a tune on his gitar, his touch gentle so the notes come quietly. He looks up to Maitrey and nods quickly, "Yep. It's like she's never seen a snow storm before."
RESTDAYS. They're brilliant, aren't they? Well, they are for Atreyan, who's damned determined to make the most of this restday. He's chewing down on a pastry from the kitchens, reading a book by glowlight, propped back in his cot. Every so often his bare feet swish back and forth to music unheard-- they dangle over the edge of the bed, so it's more obvious than he realizes. He squints upwards towards Maitrey's entrance, and gives an amiable bob of his head. "Sure has," he confirms in a lazy drawl.
"It's not her fault!" Genefra, of course, happens to be friends with this girl, like anybody should be surprised by that, and of course she has to leap to her defense. The redhead, however, has her kitten sweater, which makes her proof against any anxiety, storm-related or otherwise. "It could get really uuucky out." That's a word. It really is. It's just one she just invented. "And then that could be very bad. What if the snow gets into the hatching sands and... um... something?" She hasn't exactly planned out this argument, her attention more on the journal in her lap.
The girl herself doesn't really say anything to her defense, but there's a twitchy smile of gratitude for Genefra before she goes back to picking imaginary lint off her robe, the poster-child for nerve-induced OCD. "Awesome," Maitrey answers to Tilin and Atreyan in one ironic sweep, shaking his head while he works his way to his own cot to dump his winter outer-wear into one untidy pile. "Think about it this way, if the weather and the eggs break at the same time, at least we'll be some place warm and toasty while the Weyr gets buried under an avalanche of snow." For the benefit of the already nerve-wracked masses.
"Hey, I like that. I have a mark on them hatching today, too, so that would be all right with me," Atreyan states to Maitrey without looking up from his book. It's suspicious how calm he is right now, really. "Genefra, darling," -- page turn, swish of hide against hide -- "... I think it would be fine. First off, no way for blizzards to enter the 'caverns, I doubt, and even if they do? We'd just have puddles to stomp in." Ahem. He goes back to reading.
Tilin nods to Genefra and grins, "I don't think snow can get in the Hatching grounds. The dragons will stop that, if nothing else would. They take good care of the eggs." He looks up to Maitrey, and nods quickly, "Yeah, exactly. I doubt they'll happen at the exact same time, though." He looks to Atreyan and grins, "I've bet on tomorrow."
The 'darling' gets a blush, which may be either for the affected endearment or the sentiment. "Puddles might not be good for the baby dragons. Would it? I don't know. Did they tell us that? The eggs need to be warm. They said that," Genefra adds, closing the journal after making a few more scribbles in it. "I don't care what day it is. I mean, I do. But I'm not putting any marks on it. That'd just be one more thing to worry about!"
Oh! Wait! Dashaya is here! Or, she will be. Without a restday to her name today, she finally has a moment of rest, and now comes stalking into the dorm with a towel still wrapped around her hair, obviously having taken advantage of the baths. "Is it an -utter- mess out there or what?"
Jiella's pretty brow is marred by a serious frown as she enters, obviously displeased by something or the other - but if she's been off actually doing the work she's been assigned, is that any surprise? The blonde is quick to catch the topic of conversation as she saunters on through to her cot, and by her expression, she's no more thrilled with it than she's been with anything else in her way today. Rolling her eyes, she gives a dramatic sigh as she drops down onto her cot, only looking balefully at the others chatting once she has. Dashaya's got an alternate topic she's game for; "A disaster. I only pray I won't be shovelling any of it tomorrow."
Thump-boot, thump-boot, and Maitrey cocks his head with his second foot still balanced on his knee. "I'm reasonably sure the architecture of the hatching caverns would make it impossible for snow to get to the Sands," muses Mr. Spatial Relations, staring vaguely off into the middle distance for a few seconds. "If Atreyan has his way," he continues on coming back to himself, picking up on Jiella's complaint, "you could be chopping meat in a snowdrift first thing in the morning instead. Which really might not be any better."
"Well, they'll be dragons by that point, I'd imagine," Atreyan comments towards Genefra. "Mmm," with a grin towards Tilin. "I've half a mind to hope you're right and I'm wrong-- it looks like a bad one coming on, outside." He flips another page, flashes a smile - a jaunty one - up to Maitrey and Jiella. Then back to his book. Is he reading, or just using it as a prop?
Tilin looks to Genefra and grins, "Well, where's the fun in that? It's just a mark." One of those rare times that he shows his wealthy upbringing. He looks to Jiella and says, "Yeah, I hope we aren't too. That'd be awful. That's a lot of snow to shovel." He pales just slightly at the mention of cutting meat, and again glances down, picking at the strings of his gitar again absently.
"Don't get your skirts in a knot, Jiella-dove," Dashaya mutters amusedly and settles over onto her cot with a tuck of her own skirt around her still. "They won't make us shovel all that mess, surely, if it really turns into a monster of a storm." Flipping her head over to rub at her hair with the towel, she flicks it back and sets to pinning back the extra-long length when it is mostly dry. "And if so, they'll give it to the men." So haughtily.
"A mark is a lot," Genefra informs Tilin. "A mark buys a lot of bubbly pies come Gather season," for one thing, and of course that would be very important, wouldn't it? "And two marks would buy a lot more, but... zero doesn't buy very many at all." Math is surely the redhead's strong suit. Or sweets are. One or the other. "I wouldn't want the baby dragons to get cold and wet, either. I wouldn't like that if I were a baby dragon. I hope it doesn't snow into the cavern. They should stay toasty and dry, whether they're eggs or not."
With emphatic agreement, "I /know/!" Jiella nods over at Maitrey, narrow eyes widening as much as they ever do. "Well, I know that it'd be worse - what's with wanting us to do it /now/, Atreyan?" Like it'll be his fault if it ends up that way - and the smile does not help with the blonde. Flopping back on her pillow, wrist to forehead, "Dashaya-/sweetie/, they just might. To shut everyone up with the incessant speculation." For Genefra, she only has a bemused glance - she's not going there. Not at the moment.
Maitrey's, "Define 'men,'" is a subtle undertone following Dashaya's certainty about just who will be shoveling all this potential snow, one easily lost in the general level of conversation while he takes a moment to examine his definitely-not-calloused palms. "I'm with her on that," he adds, thumb lifted to hitch toward Genefra, shoulder lifted to shrug at Tilin. "That's not to say I haven't got any marks riding on it, but a whole one?" And then there's a look around the immediate vicinity, and-- though it's not expressed-- really? Really? There's a lotta poor little rich kids in these here barracks, ain't there?
"Genefra, stop stressing," Dashaya advises with a tuck of a lock of her hair behind her ear and a glance the redhead's way. "Save your energy for the sands. You'll need all that you have to -remain still-. And not bounce about like a milkmaid that's running from a stable boy, trying to entice him out of the sight in a vacant stall." Tsking, she eyes the boys but settles that odd gaze upon Maitrey. "By men, I say those with a much deeper voice than our own, Harper." Amused. "But true, Jiella. But even then, they'll carry on like chickens. And by the way, Atreyan, Tilin. I'll add a mark to it being tonight. If I do, will you -pipe down-? You're driving us insane."
"Dream on, Dashaya," Atreyan /may/ be heard stating. Or maybe not. "I think she has a point, Tilin. Perhaps we should repent from our grieviously errant gambling ways," Trey comments towards his fellow blooded-candidate. "After we see if either of us win this bet, of course." A whimsical glance, then upwards to Jiella, said glance falls to more of a... cautious eyeballing. "It was a bet, my dear, nothing more and nothing else." He states it easily enough.
Jiella's life is /hard/, okay? It's not easy being rich and hot and blonde and practically useless. But Dashaya seems to understand - at least enough to tell boys to take it down a notch. Gracing the other girl with a brilliant smile, she lounges with the skill of a professional, clearly amused by the way Atreyan's looking at her. "If it happens today, and it's like Maitrey says? I blame you. You'll owe me." Just like that, in debt!
Tilin blinks, but then nods a little to Dashaya, "Oh, sure." He nods again to Atreyan with a grin, and he sits back. He puts his gitar aside then and says, "Well, if we're not going to talk about that, what else shall we?"
"I will in no manner, shape size or form, owe you, Jiella," Atreyan replies without looking up. He flips another page.
One hand goes to Genefra's hip. "I am not stressing! I'm just making conversation." At people. Like usual! "I can stand still just fine. I can." Which is why she's practically twitching in her seated position. "I don't bounce anything like a milkmaid doing any such thing," also. "Well, if you all want to waste your own marks, you're welcome to do it. I'm not going to. Besides, it can't possibly be today. I'm too antsy for it to be today."
Snow's been falling all day, light and drifting on the barely-there wind, pale in a pale grey sky. Now, as the afternoon fades toward evening, there begins to be the sound of... thunder? No, it's deeper than that, increasingly so, and it's just not stopping. Dragons are humming. The hatching is here.
Maitrey's laugh chokes in his throat when the words 'Genefra' and 'stop stressing' somehow get paired, and a look shoots across to Dashaya for the utterance. "I'll owe you in his place, Jiella," he chimes in hastily, managing not to fall all over himself to get the offer out there before every other male hanger-on in the barracks does so. The sudden panicky "oh no oh no oh no oh no" is not his, by the way, but belongs instead to Little Miss Panic-Stricken who totally forgets how to actually change out of her clothes into her robe right at this most critical moment. Maitrey, see, still remembers how his limbs function, though there's a necessary moment of brow-lifting looking around before he actually uses them for anything. "Offer still stands," to Rich and Hot and Blonde and Practically Useless.
Atreyan scrambles when it becomes obvious that scrambling is necessary. There is, of course, a moment of 'WTF dudes I SO didn't mean it!' right beforehand. "Crap. Robe. Robe!" He scoots onto it, finds boots, shoves them onto his feet, and stands there, looking goofy as all hell, half his hair stuck up in weird angles from the dash to get his clothes on.
Tilin blinks, looking up at the sound. "Shards, guess you win, Trey." He hops to his feet, moving quickly to change into his robe. He doesn't at all seem upset that he lost the bet, though, instead seems focused more on the task of quickly getting into his robe, nerves only just starting to show.
"That's what you think..." Jiella has a singsong tone for Atreyan -- though she obviously didn't think she'd have backup in the form of humming. Wide-eyed and suddenly very pale, she shuts up - for once - and starts moving with a speed that she likely didn't think /she/ had, digging out her robe. With a slight smile for Maitrey, before ditching her clothes for her robe; "Okay." What's she got to lose, after all?
As the dragons start humming like mad, Dashaya's eyes jerk up to glance toward the entrance then around the room. Well, if she bursts out laughing? WELL. She's just going to do it. "See! This is what gambling will get you!" Action. Ahem. And then she that was the beacon of calm - or at least the one insisting on it - bounces off her bed with a flick of still-wet hair and starts rifling through her things for the robe and sandals. "You owe me a mark!" Not that she directs it to anyone in particular, or really seems serious. It's the principle of the thing. Out of her clothes, into those!
Of course there's humming. There has to be humming. Genefra isn't lucky enough for there not to be humming, kitten sweater or otherwise. Nor is she 'not stressing' by any stretch as soon as that happens, scrambling for robe as quickly as possible. Running fingers through her hair just one last time before she ties it up again, and then--out for the sands. At least she's not crying! Yet!