Writing and eggs
It is a winter afternoon, 13:43 of day 16, month 1, turn 19 of Interval 10.
Commons Cavern, Fort Weyr
While not nearly as large as the living cavern, the commons do serve something of a similar purpose as a gathering point for residents. There are a few scattered tables and chairs, with a section of counter carved from the native granite for general use. The typically cool floors are covered with a handful of rugs, while tapestries serve to blunt the chill emanating from the walls. Lighting is provided through glow baskets for the most part, although some individuals might bring in a lantern if they think to.
It's a fair bit quieter than the living cavern and is designed more as a location for residents to meet and work on whatever work needs to be done -- mending, cleaning, and tending to children are only a small sampling of the things that can be seen going on here. It's most active later in the day, after the bulk of the work is done and people start to settle in for the night, but it's never empty of people.
It also serves as a hub for a variety of useful caverns -- the nursery is located across from the residents' dorms, with the bathing cavern situated between the two. The candidates barracks are somewhat off to the side, closest to the tunnel that leads back out to the inner caverns.
Obvious exits:
Inner Caverns Workroom Resident Dormitories Candidate Barracks Nursery
It's not late enough for the commons to be truly busy, but there are people sitting here and there anyway, working on quiet chores like mending, or darning, or knitting. Kai's not doing any of those three, but is tucked into a corner a little way from the candidate barracks, so he stands a good chance of being overlooked by anyone going in or out of that room. He, a hide, and a slate are currently becoming better acquainted over one of the tiny side tables, barely lit by a glow.
Fiorella has just finished lessons for the day and as such the girl is quite happy to be done. Other's might not pay Balkaiv that much attention where he's sitting, but that happens to be one of Ella's favorite places in the colder days of winter. "What are you doing?" she ask curiously, standing on her toes in attempt to send a curious glance over the man's shoulder.
It looks like Kai's doing solo lessons, copying what's on the hide to the slate. Ella'd probably be very familiar with the quality of the writing on the slate, as it looks like a child her age produced it. But there's Kai, chalk in fist, painfully tracing out another letter. He swears, barely under his breath, and sets down the chalk -very carefully- before turning to look at the girl. "Doin' some... harpers say I ain't good at writing. So'm practicing. What about you, though? Ain't you s'posed t' be...." His fingers flick to indicate vague somethingness.
Fiorella shakes her head, "Nope," she chirps in reply, "I finished my lessons for today already AND this is my day that I don't have chores." So, sorry to disappoint, but its not likely that the girl is going to be running off anytime soon. Nope, rather she's going to be annoying in that oh so innocent way of children. "How are you doing with it? Can I see?" she asks, leaning forward and stretching her neck a bit further in attempt to get a better look at the slate. "Maybe I could help?" she suggests.
Balkaiv looks dismayed, if only for a moment; after a second he grunts and shoves his chair over to give her a better view. There's the scribed tale - something about a shepherd at a bar, with a mug of ale - and there's his slate, looking, well, painful. Somewhere Harpers are sobbing. "Might as well. Winston already has. Dunno why I got t' do this," he adds in a sullen undertone. "Can write perfectly good." Legible, yes. Mostly, anyway. But it's smudged and worn.
Fiorella giggles. "Well it doesn't look -so- bad," she grins, falling back so that her heels touch the ground once again now that she's able to see the slate better. "Harpers are picky about things like that. I should know. I had one all to myself some days at Four Sons. Not to mention Leoren wanted /every/thing perfect." While that's being said, the girl pulls a chair from the otherside of the table around closer to Balkaiv. "So, what are you having trouble with?" she questions, climbing onto it and settling on her knees.
Balkaiv grunts a satisfied little 'hah' - no matter that his champion here is a ten-turn old girl - and settles back into his chair, watching her pull up her own with the air of a satisfied cat. "S'what I say. I can write good enough people understand me - it ain't like I'm no Harper." Absently he wipes his chalky hand off on his pants. "Dunno - Winston said it ain't the letters, s'the -shape- of the letters I'm s'posed t' copy. That's a story of his," he adds, dropping a nod to the hide. "Better'n what the Harper gave me, which is something stupid about a girl named Lanna at the beach."
"Not like I'm a Harper." Fiorella corrects, falling into giggles as his goes on to explain his dilemma. "Repeat, repeat, repeat." she grins. He's probably heard that before too. "Hey! I -like- that story." Which of course means, 'its not stupid, stupid'. "But, if you like this one better we can work with that too."
Gleaming in the depths of their doe-shaped prison are wild emerald whirls, bubbling with fiery warmth and framed by long, thick sooty lashes of an auburn hue. Above sit neatly groomed eyebrows of a lighter hue than that of her hair. Small nose sits cutely in the middle of a delicately featured face, her cheeks dusted a pale pink of childhood, while her lips are the soft pink of the roses in the gardens. Chestnut locks curls softly just past her shoulder when left loose though it's most often pulled pack into a runnertail from which a few pieces fall free to frame her face.
Short, though not overly so for her age, the girl stands about four foot six. The pale green fabric of the girl's dress folds over her shoulders, curling down around her arms and falling loosely across her thin frame. Skirt swishes lightly around her legs as she walks as it reaches the middle of her shins. A soft weyrhide forms over her feet into ankle high boots.
Balkaiv says, "Nah, but you could be, if you wanted." He looks at her a moment longer before snugging his chair over to hers so they can share the slate just like schoolmates. "Yeah - I dunno how many times I wrote about Lanna an' her shells. Too many. This one's better, though." He slides the hide over for her to see - he's on page two, which is probably why the plot hasn't picked up yet. "So 're you gonna apprentice?"
Fiorella shakes her head, "Not as as harper, no." she replies, rolling her eyes. Apparently he didn't catch that she was trying to correct his speech. "Well, whatever story it is, what part don't they like?" They here being the harper that set him too the task. "Is there certain letters or, is it overall penmanship?" See, she knows what all the problems can be. Been there, done that.
"You gonna apprentice somewhere else?" Kai presses since Harpers are off the metaphorical table. "And... shells. I dunno." He frowns at his messy slate and erases it with one elbow. "Everything, I guess. 'D rather be out walking around, but it ain't the same, having t' stay in the Weyr."
Fiorella lifts her shoulders in an even shrug as she reaches for the stick of chalk. "I don't know. I'm still thinking about it. T'rev says I still have lots of time to figure it out still." she notes in reply. The chalk is turned over so that its positioned correctly in her hand to begin writing as she says all this. "Maybe if I write it and you can follow the lines. Rosalie used to do that for me."
"...A'right," Kai agrees, looking sort of bemused, but he folds his arms over his chest and keeps an eye out. "So what're you thinking about? Could go t' Vintners. We got one of them apprentices in the barracks. Sulisah. She's nice."
"Well..." Fiorella starts, putting chalk to slate and carefully marking out the first sentence on the page. Its by no means perfect, but even though she's ten, its better than Balkaiv's most recent attempt. Then again that might have to do with having it beaten into her head with repetition and practice for a good five turns. The lines a little wiggly here and there, some a bit too long, others too short but its easy enough to read. And while she write she talks a bit - primarily in reply to the candidate's most recent question to her. "Well... I was thinking of being a baker. But I don't know yet. Now I'm thinking maybe a healer?"
Balkaiv continues to watch the tunnels as though he's expecting someone to dash in and start complaining any moment, or rip Ella away and make off with her. This is serious business, after all. "Yeah?" The idea of her as healer draws enough of his attention that he actually turns to look at the girl, rather than just sending flicks of vague interest, and he gives her work no mind at all. "You could be a healer. S'hard work, though."
"There," Fiorella says, pushing the slate back towards Balkaiv, setting the chalk on the table beside it. "I know," she replies as to the work, "I don't know that that's what I want to do for sure yet though either. I'm still thinking, like I said."
Kai frowns at the slate but nods, serious as a judge, to gather up the chalk. He doesn't hold it like she does, but in his fist, like it's the handle to a mug, with just a bit of chalk sticking out the lower end. "Looks good," he says of her efforts before attempting to replicate them; only once he gets to the end of the first line does he add, "You got some turns, anyway. If you wanted. How'd you get t' be T'rev's foster, anyway?"
Fiorella eyes his attempt for a moment before reaching over to try and fix his hold on the chalk. "Don't hold it like that," she starts, "Hold it like this," she says, shifting the stick for him. "Huh?" she questions before the question fully sinks in, "Well... I can here to see my sisters and Berit said I couldn't stay that T'rev had to take me back home right then, but he thought she was being too quick saying that so agreed for a day or two, but then I had to go home. But I guess he liked me so he talked to her and she said Fine, if he wanted to look after me that I could stay."
Kai's fist protests the removal of his prize but after a second or two he relents and lets her take it and rewrap his fingers around the chalk properly. Of course, now he complains that it, "Feels funny." This requires a scowl as well, and he's readily distracted by the tale of fosterage. "So he looks after you? But... you ain't living in his weyr?"
Fiorella giggles. "I know. It takes getting used to. But it'll help. I promise!" she exclaims about the new hold of the writing utensil. "Just try it." she prods before returning to the tale with a nod. "Right. I stay down here in the caverns with the rest of the children, and I have a foster mom down here. But he looks in on me and makes sure things are going well. Takes me places sometimes."
Balkaiv not only looks like he doesn't believe her, but like this is some sort of set up to a practical joke as well. "Mnh," he grunts, and gingerly tries copying a letter or two. This way he doesn't smear, but his writing's in no way /improved/. "So he's kinda... your foster uncle, more'n anything?"
Fiorella thinks for little more than a second or two and then nods. "Yeah, I guess so." she agrees. "I like him though. He's really nice and he's actually helped me alot while I've been here. I don't know that I'd still... no, I -know- I wouldn't be here still if it weren't for him." she corrects herself, pausing in her babbling long enough to peer over and see how the writing fairs. "Going better?"
The candidate snorts this time, instead of grunting, and laboriously makes his way through the curves of an S. "I wouldn't be. Mean, I'd be here at th' Weyr, just not a Candidate. 'Cause of Mecaith." He shoots her another glance and is all too ready to set the chalk down. "You want t' go look at th' eggs?"
Fiorella peeks over at the writing on the slate and grins. "See, its looking better already," she notes, a hint of teasing lingering in her voice. As for the eggs, the girl nods, "Sure. I haven't gotten to see them really since the clutching. They're pretty though," she adds, slipping off the chair and to her feet, ready to go. "Have you gotten to touch them yet? I wanted to last time there were eggs on the sands. They were Zibeth's, but Berit wouldn't let me. That's only for candidates and I'm not old enough for that yet."
Better or not, Kai is willing to shift to another topic - any other topic. "Nah," he says of touching the things. "Heard some been, but I ain't one. Ain't really been t' see 'em, either. You want t' go now? Look at 'em, not, you know."
Fiorella nods. "I was thinking about going and doing that sometime today. You don't mind if I go with you, do you?" Of course she's assuming that he's planing on going now. There's also a hint of uncertainty in her voice at the question. Would he want a kid like her tagging along.
"Go getcher coat," is his answer as he stands, sweeping together slate and hide and chalk into one package. "I'll meet you, uh... just outside th' caverns." He drops a nod more or less Living Caverns-ward and picks up his things. "You can show 'em t' me, since you already been."
[Travel deleted]
Galleries, Fort Weyr
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.
Obvious exits:
Entrance
Fiorella doesn't take too terribly long to find her coat from the children's quarters and soon enough she's bounding out to meet Balkaiv at their predetermined point just outside the living caverns. "It's just this way," she says, pointing towards the large opening in the bowl wall that leads to the hatching grounds - as if it weren't noticeable without her pointing it out. A hand is held out should he want to take it, but if he doesn't she won't mind either. Bouncy steps are already leading the way even as she does. Upon reaching the grounds, stairs lead up one side just inside the entrance, and it's there that the girl leads, up the stairs and down the first row to find a seat near the middle. "Arent' they pretty."
Kai doesn't seem to notice the hand, to be honest, but he's all bundled up and isn't much for bouncing. He follows, instead, head bent against the cold until they're within the grounds proper. It's there he hastily pulls off his cap to shove in a pocket, and he sends the eggs and their queen a dubious look before traipsing up after his guide. "They're, uh...," he offers, scrubbing a hand over his head. "Dunno. Ain't never seen nothing like 'em before."
Fiorella giggles, slipping out of her jacket and leaving it to hang over the bench seat behind her as she leans on the edge that over looks the sands. "Well -I- think they're pretty." she announces, flashing a grin his way. "What's it like being a candidate?"
Balkaiv more slowly degloves, balling them up and shoving them after his hat. "Dunno," he says again, his voice warily low. "We're all thinking, mostly. 'Bout them." He drops a nod toward the eggs as he starts in on his jacket, slower and less familiar than Ella. "S'a big change, and it ain't one we can make, y'know?"
Fiorella hmmms, "I guess..." she agrees uncertainly. "It was a big change coming here from Four Sons." But somehow she doesn't think that that's quite the same thing. "I'll cheer for you if you want me too. When the eggs hatch I mean."
Hazel eyes consider her doubtfully. "You think it'll help?"
Fiorella shrugs, "I don't know, but everyone seems to cheer for people they want to impress. I cheered for Sunni though at both the hatchings she stood for but she didn't.." she frowns a bit, green eyes turning back to the eggs on the sands below.
Balkaiv lets that sink in with a grunt. "Guess," he says doubtfully, and gives the eggs another glance. "It'd be nice, I guess, t' have someone up here. So yeah, you can cheer for me." There's a movement on the sands: it catches his eye but it's only Peirith rustling her wings. "All us Candidates, we ain't gonna none of us have new robes. They been talkin' about it, with the fabric and all. Use old ones, mostly."
"I can do that," Fiorella smiles, sending a glance towards the man it falls a bit though. "You don't have any family to come see you?" she questions, biting her lip when the words come out unsure of if she should have asked or not. A nod follows in regard to the robes however, "Yeah.. with the shortages and all I can see that. Old ones aren't so bad though. Right?"
He considers her with faint surprise, as though she'd just suggesting wearing a fried egg as a hat. "Yeah, I guess - but they ain't riders. Weyrfolk." This is relevant somehow; he just isn't sure of all the details. "--And I guess they ain't too bad. Ain't seen 'em, yet. Rhodya - you know Rhodya? - she come up with th' idea, and everyone's gonna do it. Says we're gonna sit down and all... you know. Like a party."
Fiorella ohs, "Well..." But she's not sure what to say to that at all and so instead she falls silent, letting the eggs capture her gaze once again. "Mmmm.. I think I met her before, yeah. It sounds like a good idea though. Cause otherwise I don't know that you'd find enough fabric to make them. Besides its not like they get used -alot- alot or anything."
"Tall," Kai supplies, lifting a hand to almost the top of his head. "Near as tall as me." Rhodya, presumably. "Yeah, that's what they said. Said there was a couple as got ruined each time - blood and th' like." Which causes him to scant another uncertain look over at her. "That true? You said you seen two of 'em."
Fiorella nods. "I think so..." she repeats as he describes the woman. As for the hatching she lifts a shoulder, shrugging. "I don't know. No one got hurt that I saw really, but I've heard it happens sometimes."
Balkaiv grunts again. He's got quite the collection of the things. "So, uh... what d' they look like, anyway?" He laces his fingers together between his knees and stares at them rather than the supposed target of his interest out there on the sands.
"Look like?" Fiorella questions, turning green eyes back to Balkaiv as she leans against the wall that fronts the first row of seats in the galleries of the hatching grounds. "They look like dragons, only littler." Duh! "But I've never seen them up close or anything, just from up here and when the hatching came I never got this close even."
Balkaiv blinks at the girl, trying to process; after a second he snorts and cracks half a smile. "Nah, not th' hatchlings. Them." A hand waves at the sands, and the eggs. "A hatching. You been t' two of 'em, what're they like?"
Kiah trods quietly up the stairs to the galleries, reaching up to tuck her untamable hair behind one ear. She seems surprised to see others up here and finds a spot to sit and look out at the sands, curiosity the prevalent emotion on her obvious features.
Fiorella giggles, "Oh, right." Well he didn't -say- that! "Both times have been different. And from where I've sat it was hard to see.." She's not exactly tall enough to easily see over and around people though either. "Seems kinda crazy though. I mean sometimes they hatch at the same time, or there's more than one hatchling on the sands." A glance is spared towards the movement as Kiah joins the galleries, Ella however says nothing though she does offer a bit of a smile towards her.
There's another grunt from the taciturn Candidate; he studies his hands once more, admiring the way his fingers lay one on top of the other, and hasn't yet notice Kiah's silent entrance. "Guess I'll find out f'r myself in a bit. Month or so. --What about you? You wanna be a rider? You got a goldrider in th' family already, and there's T'rev."
Kiah tries not to listen to their conversation, though she can't help hearing and she glances up at Fiorella and smiles at her shyly before turning to look back out at the sands.
Fiorella's attention is much more on Balkaiv and so as Kiah is soon enough forgotten as she passes to find a seat further up in the gallery. "I guess so," she agrees, continuing on with a shrug of her shoulders. "I don't know. I think, if I have the chance, I might stand once at least. Just to see, you know. So maybe..?" she questions her own answer.
Balkaiv's eyes find the back of Kiah's head, though there's no spark of recognition in the man's eyes. "Yeah. S'what I said. When'm I ever gonna get the chance again?" Back from her head to his fingers, watching as one thumb smoothes over the skin on his hands. "Said I'd do it; ain't gonna back out. Just - we're all goin' in blind." There's very little censure in his tone. "And there ain't nothin' t' do about that."
Kiah mutters something softly to herself, but not loud enough that it can be understood and she shifts uncomfortably on the bench she's sitting on.
"Blind?" Fiorella inquires, uncertain of his meaning. ".. Well," she starts once again, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hands as she watches Peirith and the eggs. "I'll be here and cheer for you either way." she assures if that might be any help at all.
"Mean we ain't got no idea what we're doing," Balkaiv elaborates, shooting Ella another sideways look. He still hasn't given the eggs more than the most passing of attentions. "Like someone told you t' get something from back of Stores only they didn't give you no glow t' get there. There's... shells. Right now, 'bout one in three of us is goin' home alone."
Kiah straightens on the bench suddenly and then turns to look at Balkaiv, interrupting impolitely. "Wow, those aren't very good odds." And then she claps her hands over her mouth. "Oh. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
Fiorella ohs, "Yeah... That makes sense I suppose. I wouldn't know what I'd be doing down there either." she agrees. Green eyes shift back over to Balkaiv, though she's soon distracted by Kiah's interruption and she turns to smile towards her. "That's okay, they aren't good odds, but you weren't really interrupting.."
Both of Kai's eyebrows go up at the interruption, but he doesn't seem particularly irritated by it, either. "Kiah," he says gravely, adding a nod to the other Candidate. "Well, with them two as come in th' other day, there's twenty-eight of us now. Eighteen of -them-," a nod to the Sands, "and that's ten as is going home. Or where ever."
Kiah almost looks relieved. "Oh! Well, that's not so terrible. I could go back to my kitchen as awful as Winston seems to think that is. I had a great day, doing chores in the kitchen." She smiles at Fiorella. "It must be something to grow up here. Have you Stood before, Kai?"
Fiorella stays silent for a moment as the other two talk. At the remark about growing up at the weyr she shrugs, "I don't know. I just came here last turn." she replies.
Balkaiv asks Kiah, bemused, "If you don't want t' be here," with a jerk of his head to include the sands below them, "Why are you? T'rev keeps tellin' me there ain't no shame in changin' my mind." His eyes flick over to Ella again, a tiny smile lifting for that single turn, and back to Kiah with a head shake. "Nope. Been here less'n Ella. Not even a couple months yet."
Kiah clears her throat again, and then smiles at the two. "Oh, my mother wants me to Stand and I don't mind all that much. I love to cook though and Phara said I can keep cooking here and there even if I do impress."
From the sands, Wrapped around her clutch, the queen has been silent much of this time, though her tail shifts along the sand whenever the talking rises too far in volume or pitch.
Fiorella nods. "You can," she replies, "I know Berit cooks sometimes even. We made cookies together once." she notes, as if that might be of importance to anyone but her. "Are you excited about it? I would be, if it was me I mean. But I'm not old enough yet." she continues mater-of-factly.
From the sands, Now Peirith stretches, sweeping her wings back, their spars disturbing the high-piled sand to permit a greater glimpse of egg after egg. Her head lifts with the motion, and she's examining the galleries, back as far as they go.
"Then your Ma ought t' Stand," Kai tells Kiah, his eyebrows pulling down. He looks as though he might say more, but Ella takes over and he leans back, folding his arms again. It's then Perith moves; his eyes snap immediately to the queen, considering.
Kiah flinches a bit at Kai and then shakes her head. "No. I'd always regret it if I backed out now and I am interested it in myself. A bit. I mean I wouldn't have asked for it, but that doesn't mean I'm a coward."
From the sands, It's less an amble than a trudge: drudges had carried the small casks of oil to the edge of the sands, but only Cirse can haul them further. Peirith rises further from her crouch, moving to meet her weyrwoman partway, though the edges of her attention never quite leave the galleries for long. Cirse looks up too, but only once she's gotten the casks set down, and straightens to rub bare arms.
Fiorella nods, "Yeah, I don't know that I'd ever turn down the chance either." she agrees with the older girl before her attention is drawn by movement on the sands.
Just released from their own duties, a small knot of candidates slip in, unobtrusive except for their voices, although one's -- little excitable Izach -- tones rise sharply every so often before he's laughingly hushed into submission. They greet their candidate counterparts agreeably enough, but move away to form their own group and chatter amongst themselves, admiring the eggs; only Cirse, among those present, earns a stifling of their talk and a few scattered salutes.
Kiah turns, her attention caught as the candidates slip onto the sands and she casts a look at Kai. "Oh, I didn't know candidates were allowed on the sands."
"Ain't a coward t' change your mind," Kai observes absently, and eyes the knot of people just entered, frowning. "There's Izach," he notes, bemused. "And them new two - Tameatt and Yamarados." And Cirse, for that matter, down on the sands - he studies the Weyrwoman for a long moment, his jaw working.
From the sands, Peirith keeps looking and looking, and so does Cirse, until the latter's attention transfers into a short summons of Izach before the boy gets too far. It sets his eyes wider, if that's possible, and no doubt the explanation will travel swiftly: candidates have permission to join Peirith's rider on the sands, if they choose. And, as before, if they're clean.
Fiorella sends a glance towards the entering group of candidates, they earn a bit of a frown from the girl even before Kai points out who a few of them are. The Weyrwoman is sent a wave from where Ella stands at the lowest point of the gallery, even though she's fairly certain it won't be seen.
Kiah observes the other candidates thoughtfully, leaning back and pulling her legs up, her knees to her chest and balances on the bench. "I didn't really think about how many of us there are. It doesn't seem so many when we're all in cots at night." She watches the gold move around with abstracted fascination.
Word comes that clean and tidy Candidates are allowed down on the Sands; Kai frowns at his hands but must judge that they're clean enough to pass. At any rate he stands and moves past Ella with an apologetic half-smile. "Guess we're gonna go see what it's like." He falls into step behind a scrawny blonde, and the whole procession proceeds apace.
One of the oldest candidates must spot the littlest of the girls' wave even if Cirse doesn't, for he pauses on his way out. "Mayn't be able to go on the sands, Ella, but if you come down to the lowest row it's about as good as, right?" But then he too is off joining the others, taking steps two at a time until he has to slow down and even get solemn, some, as he waits his turn. Cirse has just finished with the blonde, and now her dark eyes lift to barely-taller but definitely-broader Balkaiv. "You haven't done this before," she says as a statement.
Hatching Sands, Fort Weyr
The pale, golden-hued sands occupy nearly the entirety of the hatching cavern, with the dam and sire traditionally claiming the north with their eggs scattered throughout. To the right are the galleries, which stretch up nearly the entire length of the wall and provide the only visual break in what would otherwise be a monotonous tableau. Lighting comes from both the entrance and through glow baskets spaced throughout, ensuring that the place is well-lit at all times. The heat here is tolerable, but only barely, and heat mirages are relatively common. Turns of hatchings have resulted in the sands being littered with fragmentary bits of shells despite thorough cleanings, subtle bits of history being left behind.
Obvious exits:
Entrance
The woman's details are sketched in ink on a dusky canvas, framed by an oval face and tall, athletic lines: short hair worn in wooly, cloud-soft twists, thin brows that tend to be more severe than expressive, and the more distracting curl of lashes about arresting dark eyes. Her other features are regular as well, with pronounced cheekbones, a somewhat wide nose, and softer, rosier lips. The rhythm with which she carries herself holds more precision than improvisation, as though to a dance known a little too well.
She favors white, and wears it well against her smooth, dark skin. Today it's a sleeveless shirt with a high collar, one that doesn't entirely hide the old scar that writhes across one shoulder, tucked into loose canvas pants of grayish brown. Her shoes are flat and dark, and small pearls stud her ears.
Kiah comes out carefully onto the sands, staying near Kai as she really has no idea what's going on and she figures she'll be in less trouble with him than alone. Until he catches Cirse's attention and she colors, stepping back a step.
"No, ma'am," Kai agrees at a mumble, ducking his head to Cirse. "Ain't never been here before." His 'here' involves a wave of one hand that includes the galleries, and perhaps, the Weyr as well.
Some of the rest, they're old hats at this stuff, or at least pretend to be with a great amount of swaggering and preening and shouldering amongst each other. Little Izach squeaks when he's pushed aside by one of the much-bigger lads, and he admonishes with a wrinkled nose, "no shoving! There's load've eggs for us all. Gotta be careful, right," he adds in a lowered voice to those around him.
From the galleries, "Its okay," Ella assures Balkaiv. "You should. At least I can watch." And then he's off following the group. The older candidate who addresses her gets a smile and a nod, "Not quite the same..." but she watches for a moment even as he and the other's off down the stairs for a chance at touching the eggs. She for one shifts through the galleries to find the closes, best view of the ongoings.
Slowly enough to telegraph her movements, Cirse steps forward, aims to catch that very hand and turn it palm-up. "The rest of you who haven't, by which I mean who haven't with Peirith in particular, gather around. If I have permitted you onto the sands previously, you may do so again." And Peirith will be watching, the queen's eyes now a faster, murkier whirl. Her rider looks up to Kiah, to Izach, and back to Kai again. "Cleanliness is important. Walk slowly. Be careful. No loud noises, no sudden movements. You may touch the eggs. You may not lean upon them, knock on them, lick them. Being here may make no difference at all, or it will make all the difference in the world. Do you have questions about this?"
Balkaiv startles a little at being caught but allows it, though his attention is quite firmly on Cirse now, and not the other candidates, Peirith, -or- her eggs. "Right - treat 'em like they got hangovers." It doesn't sound like he's making a joke. "There's...," he starts, stops with a shake of his head. "Nah. Nothin' now. Maybe later, though."
Kiah peeks around Kai, looking at Cirse and then at the golden queen and the eggs. "We can actually touch them?" Her eyes are frankly surprised, every tiny flash of emotion reflected on her face.
"Not a similarity I myself had thought of," and here Cirse does dash a glance over her scarred shoulder to Fiorella, there, before her attention returns quite purposefully to Balkaiv and his hand. Dark fingertips brush at the inner creases of his fingers where they have collected chalk dust, as cool and as impersonal as can be achieved within the radiant heat of the sands. "But I think it an appropriate one, with the added bonus that they are unlikely to retch." A last close look and she nods to his other hand: next. Without looking up, "You are Kiah, yes? They are not now as soft as they had been. You may indeed touch them. You will find them more leathery than chicken eggs, as well."
Balkaiv snorts at the lack of vomiting, amused, and more easily gives his other hand into the goldrider's keeping. This one is even cleaner than the other, as if it had never heard of chalk or the resulting dust in its life. "Won't try an' put 'em in the trough, ma'am." His eyes flick past her to where one of the prettier brunettes is brushing her fingertips along the crest of a silvery green egg. "How come we got t' have clean hands?"
Kiah jumps several inches, out right startled that Cirse knows her name and she stares at the goldrider as though she's magic. "Wow," whispered softly, under her breath. She glances at Cirse again, then the eggs and then the golden queen and fades off, leaving Kai and his ability to have important people focus on him and she reaches out to touch one of the eggs, one that is a darker green.
"Thank you. You are also each permitted one joke about cooking, as it is new to you but not to me, but no more." That may be a joke from Cirse itself, something about the lift of her voice as she taps Balkaiv's other hand, dismissing it though not yet him: there is an answer to be had, after all. "Cleanliness is important. We will not be washing these eggs or these sands, after all. Some are not as particular, but Peirith... notices." Much, perhaps, as she has noticed Kiah skipping her own examination, and now leans forward with a low rattling sound that has her rider preempting, "Kiah. Step back here, please." With Balkaiv waved off to perhaps visit the brunette or just her egg, she can see to some of the others in short order while waiting for the curly-haired girl to return.
Kiah squeaks, daring back again and blinks at Cirse. "I'm sorry, goldrider, I misunderstood." Her eyes go all big and round and she offers her hands for inspection, thinking she's deduced that much. "My hands might have some flour under the nails, but I was baking. I had kitchen duty today." And any excuse for baking is a good one for Kiah.
Balkaiv considers Cirse, then Peirith, grunts a thoughtful, "Hnh," and doesn't have a single thing to say about cooking. "Thank you, ma'am." He rubs his hands absently on his rump and heads away from the cluster of unclean, out to the spread of eggs. It is the soft-looking silver egg he approaches first, but it's on the edge of things and there are several eggs between himself at the watchful gold.
From the galleries, Fiorella remains quiet, though that's helped along by the simple fact that those she was talking to are now on the sands. The girl leans against the railing that more clearly divides the galleries from the sands themselves, her chin propped on her hands. She seems content to just watch for the time being.
Those others scattered around the great cavern help themselves to the free eggs, once their hands have had the nod of approval; those still in the tail-end of the line anxiously scrub their hands at their trousers and tunics, except one bulky lad -- a blacksmith by trade, though a candidate now -- who simply appears too dull to realize his own nails are caked brown with dirt. He grunts when he offers his hands, palm up, and then looks faintly suprised at his dirt-smeared hands and then up at Cirse with a half-cringe.
Cirse has a nod for Balkaiv, for the others inspected and relieved in quick succession. Even the poor once-blacksmith receives not a harangue, but a look with those direct dark eyes, and a simple shake of her head before gesturing to the next. Mostly the candidates don't cluster about any one particular egg, either, though one boy pauses by burly Balkaiv just to see what he's seeing before moving on. And then at last, at least, it's Kiah's turn and Cirse appraises those hands of the former baker's, mentioning, "You would do well to shorten your nails. Afterward, however. In the meantime, you should not be scratching things in any case, so if you move to the edge of the Bowl and use one nail to scrape within the others, you should be fine. This time." Peirith has settled somewhat, and now that Kiah's taken care of, Cirse moves to the nearest cask and levers up its top: oiling time.
Kiah drops a curtsey toward Cirse and moves out away from the sands to scrape out the flour from beneath her fingernails. She dusts it off and away, and then turns back again, inspecting her own hands. She's just as careful as Cirse was before she walks back to the others again.
Balkaiv doesn't share what he's seeing, nor what he's feeling: apparently he took 'lowered voices' to heart (or he's elaborately careful around hangovers). Every so often he glances up at Fiorella, but he spends more time placing Peirith and Cirse, and even more on the eggs. From the silvery egg he skirts around the edges, bypassing a multi-hued soft brown egg to crouch beside and lay one surprisingly gentle hand (his left) on top of the Silvered Motion egg.
With exposure to the sands the cask has had, there's just a small island of congealed oil floating in the liquid for Cirse to reach past. While Peirith's hide hadn't looked overtly dusty to the passing eye, when her her rider applies the nutty-scented stuff, it not only leaves a smooth glistening streak behind but also a subtle change of position, a leaning in, an ever so slight softening of the broody queen's gaze. Not that she ignores her clutch, and that mostly-buried silver-and-green shell Balkaiv's looking at is no exception, nor is its round, peachy neighbor.
Balkaiv draws his fingers across the shell once, twice, three times, pausing with his head cocked between each strum. Eventually he grunts, unsatisfied, and pushes back to his feet, brushing sand from his knees. That peachy egg gets a considering look, but the Candidate wends his way back around the outer edge of the eggs' circle, giving way to those Candidates with places to go and eggs to see. Eventually he reaches conversational distance with Cirse again, eyes the dark green egg Kiah had been attending but doesn't touch it. "She don't leave the Sands?"
It's habitual work, but by the pair's demeanor seems pleasant work, for all of Peirith's size. Cirse doesn't pause the regular rise and fall of the oiling, either, in considering the candidate's question. "Not often. She leaves to eat, of course; as you might imagine, we wouldn't want a herdbeast careening around in here, nor shreds to linger and rot even after the bones were removed. But even that's not far, as Zaiventh will bring one by, just outside. In summertime, she might have taken a dip in the lake. As you might imagine, it affects muscle tone, and she's already lost some mass." This time she does look back at him, to see how he takes it.
There's nothing sharp about this queen except the points of teeth and talons, and the look in her large, forward-set eyes. Peirith has a fluid way to her, a product of movement even more than her smoothly rounded build, and a hide the warm gold of the sun hanging low over a deepwater sea. Even the transitions of her coloring are gradual, brown undertones that slide down below her belly as well as rise higher, along her spine, darkening and darkening into her neckridges and the broad reach of her wings. When light shines through those murky sails just so, only then is their translucency revealed, rippled with the faint blue sheen of suncaught currents above distant stone.
At 8 turns, 11 months, 16 days old, Peirith is 39 feet long with a wingspan of 68 feet, 3 inches, standing 26 feet, 2 inches tall at the shoulder.
The dusty once-blacksmith has long since shambled from the cavern, and now he's returned, wearing a fresh and sharply creased tunic, even, and he's staring intently at his hands as he carefully stumps down the steps to the sands. He respectfully girds the eggs, and finally slows to a stop a pace or two distant from Kai and Cirse. "M'am," he offers, precisely, presenting his hands once again. "C'n I?" Meanwhile, Izach scampers nearer, making a show of caressing the closest egg to the queen but his head his cocked to listen to the weyrwoman and his sharp eyes are fixed on Balkaiv.
Balkaiv says, "Huh." He does study the queen, with the eyes of one trying to determine just what he's looking at. "Well, she looks good. Pretty." Perhaps he'd add more but that smith's apprentice has hands to display, and oh, here's Izach. So Kai, "Ma'am"s both of the ladies and takes himself off, at least an egg or so. There's a pretty egg all graduated in shades from peach to blue, and the burly man drops to one knee beside it.
There's a lot of Peirith to look at, particularly with the angle and the heat-wavered air that makes life much more difficult to comprehend much of her at any one time. From the distance, from the galleries' coolness, it's easier but down here, with her clutch? "I find it interesting, what words people choose for my dragon," Cirse murmurs after a moment, and then she turns to approach the returning, notably cleaner candidate. Meeting him, looking him over, "You may remember better if I do not permit you," she tells the once-smith. And the Weyrwoman watches him for a moment more before saying, "Still, you may have what minutes remain, this time, and they are not many. And then remembering, if there is a next time, is up to you." Now she does smile, and the gesture of her oil-slick hand bids him welcome.
Izach didn't seem to scare off Balkaiv, really! As though to prove it, with a round-eyed glance at Kai's retreat, the youngster lingers only a moment longer to see the thick blacksmith lad duck his head and mutter some thankful words, and then shamble off to find an unoccupied egg. And after a speedy bob of his head to the weyrwoman Izach too sets off again, this time darting away some distance further, to an egg little like him, against which he presses his cheek.
Kai doesn't spend as much time with the peachy egg as he did his first love. After only a moment or so he abandons it to stand and consider the rest of the clutch as though he's trying to figure out how to rearrange them. There's Izach again, but Kai veers away from him to take over from one of the twins. The other man is willing to give way to the scuffed man, but Kai barely touches this egg either. Instead he turns in place to find Fiorella in the galleries, and offer her half of a wry smile.
Cheek-pressing appears to be permitted, and the way the oiling's proceeding probably can't hurt: Cirse is staying at Peirith's shoulder, which is to say, away from her wings and her tail and her paws and anything else she might like to employ in a hurry. While the dragon's attention is more all-encompassing, her rider keeps an eye on the once-smith for some minutes; once he's moved to a second egg she calls, loud enough and just loud enough, "About done. One more minute, and get ready to head back, not too fast."
Izach's isn't the only sigh heard at the Weyrwoman's pronouncement, although the boy's expression might be a bit more fanciful than the rest as they straighten and brush at tunics and knees and grains of sand. He gives the egg one last pet, comfortingly, before he stands and makes to join those candidates filing for the exit. "Thank you, Weyrwoman," he chirps on the way past, "that was very nice!" Even the blacksmith seems loathe to part with the eggs, but part he does, shoulders slumping a titch when his gaze sweeps over Cirse.
A look back at the queen and her rider, and Balkaiv appears ready to call a halt to the proceedings now. He picks his way carefully through the sands, hands outstretched to prevent any sudden lunges from the eggs. That pretty brunette watches him pass but doesn't leave her chosen egg, not if there's still time; the twin he'd scared off falls into step a little behind, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. A general muttered, "Thank you," arises after Izach's, hard to say exactly from whence it came or who had no part in voicing it.
"You're welcome," Cirse repeats as they move by. You're welcome, you're welcome, you're welcome. She's polite about it, and might as well have been thanking them for coming to her little soiree, except that as soon as they have all escaped out of view and most of those in the galleries have gone too, she leans hard against Peirith's side as the queen curves that smooth neck around her.
Hah. My writing's as good as hers. Shouldn't have t' take more classes. Sharding Harpers.
So them's the eggs. Huh. Dunno what all that was 'bout clean hands, anyway. Ain't like -sand's- all that clean. Got t' be a woman thing. They weren't nothing like what I was expecting.
Commons Cavern, Fort Weyr
While not nearly as large as the living cavern, the commons do serve something of a similar purpose as a gathering point for residents. There are a few scattered tables and chairs, with a section of counter carved from the native granite for general use. The typically cool floors are covered with a handful of rugs, while tapestries serve to blunt the chill emanating from the walls. Lighting is provided through glow baskets for the most part, although some individuals might bring in a lantern if they think to.
It's a fair bit quieter than the living cavern and is designed more as a location for residents to meet and work on whatever work needs to be done -- mending, cleaning, and tending to children are only a small sampling of the things that can be seen going on here. It's most active later in the day, after the bulk of the work is done and people start to settle in for the night, but it's never empty of people.
It also serves as a hub for a variety of useful caverns -- the nursery is located across from the residents' dorms, with the bathing cavern situated between the two. The candidates barracks are somewhat off to the side, closest to the tunnel that leads back out to the inner caverns.
Obvious exits:
Inner Caverns Workroom Resident Dormitories Candidate Barracks Nursery
It's not late enough for the commons to be truly busy, but there are people sitting here and there anyway, working on quiet chores like mending, or darning, or knitting. Kai's not doing any of those three, but is tucked into a corner a little way from the candidate barracks, so he stands a good chance of being overlooked by anyone going in or out of that room. He, a hide, and a slate are currently becoming better acquainted over one of the tiny side tables, barely lit by a glow.
Fiorella has just finished lessons for the day and as such the girl is quite happy to be done. Other's might not pay Balkaiv that much attention where he's sitting, but that happens to be one of Ella's favorite places in the colder days of winter. "What are you doing?" she ask curiously, standing on her toes in attempt to send a curious glance over the man's shoulder.
It looks like Kai's doing solo lessons, copying what's on the hide to the slate. Ella'd probably be very familiar with the quality of the writing on the slate, as it looks like a child her age produced it. But there's Kai, chalk in fist, painfully tracing out another letter. He swears, barely under his breath, and sets down the chalk -very carefully- before turning to look at the girl. "Doin' some... harpers say I ain't good at writing. So'm practicing. What about you, though? Ain't you s'posed t' be...." His fingers flick to indicate vague somethingness.
Fiorella shakes her head, "Nope," she chirps in reply, "I finished my lessons for today already AND this is my day that I don't have chores." So, sorry to disappoint, but its not likely that the girl is going to be running off anytime soon. Nope, rather she's going to be annoying in that oh so innocent way of children. "How are you doing with it? Can I see?" she asks, leaning forward and stretching her neck a bit further in attempt to get a better look at the slate. "Maybe I could help?" she suggests.
Balkaiv looks dismayed, if only for a moment; after a second he grunts and shoves his chair over to give her a better view. There's the scribed tale - something about a shepherd at a bar, with a mug of ale - and there's his slate, looking, well, painful. Somewhere Harpers are sobbing. "Might as well. Winston already has. Dunno why I got t' do this," he adds in a sullen undertone. "Can write perfectly good." Legible, yes. Mostly, anyway. But it's smudged and worn.
Fiorella giggles. "Well it doesn't look -so- bad," she grins, falling back so that her heels touch the ground once again now that she's able to see the slate better. "Harpers are picky about things like that. I should know. I had one all to myself some days at Four Sons. Not to mention Leoren wanted /every/thing perfect." While that's being said, the girl pulls a chair from the otherside of the table around closer to Balkaiv. "So, what are you having trouble with?" she questions, climbing onto it and settling on her knees.
Balkaiv grunts a satisfied little 'hah' - no matter that his champion here is a ten-turn old girl - and settles back into his chair, watching her pull up her own with the air of a satisfied cat. "S'what I say. I can write good enough people understand me - it ain't like I'm no Harper." Absently he wipes his chalky hand off on his pants. "Dunno - Winston said it ain't the letters, s'the -shape- of the letters I'm s'posed t' copy. That's a story of his," he adds, dropping a nod to the hide. "Better'n what the Harper gave me, which is something stupid about a girl named Lanna at the beach."
"Not like I'm a Harper." Fiorella corrects, falling into giggles as his goes on to explain his dilemma. "Repeat, repeat, repeat." she grins. He's probably heard that before too. "Hey! I -like- that story." Which of course means, 'its not stupid, stupid'. "But, if you like this one better we can work with that too."
Gleaming in the depths of their doe-shaped prison are wild emerald whirls, bubbling with fiery warmth and framed by long, thick sooty lashes of an auburn hue. Above sit neatly groomed eyebrows of a lighter hue than that of her hair. Small nose sits cutely in the middle of a delicately featured face, her cheeks dusted a pale pink of childhood, while her lips are the soft pink of the roses in the gardens. Chestnut locks curls softly just past her shoulder when left loose though it's most often pulled pack into a runnertail from which a few pieces fall free to frame her face.
Short, though not overly so for her age, the girl stands about four foot six. The pale green fabric of the girl's dress folds over her shoulders, curling down around her arms and falling loosely across her thin frame. Skirt swishes lightly around her legs as she walks as it reaches the middle of her shins. A soft weyrhide forms over her feet into ankle high boots.
Balkaiv says, "Nah, but you could be, if you wanted." He looks at her a moment longer before snugging his chair over to hers so they can share the slate just like schoolmates. "Yeah - I dunno how many times I wrote about Lanna an' her shells. Too many. This one's better, though." He slides the hide over for her to see - he's on page two, which is probably why the plot hasn't picked up yet. "So 're you gonna apprentice?"
Fiorella shakes her head, "Not as as harper, no." she replies, rolling her eyes. Apparently he didn't catch that she was trying to correct his speech. "Well, whatever story it is, what part don't they like?" They here being the harper that set him too the task. "Is there certain letters or, is it overall penmanship?" See, she knows what all the problems can be. Been there, done that.
"You gonna apprentice somewhere else?" Kai presses since Harpers are off the metaphorical table. "And... shells. I dunno." He frowns at his messy slate and erases it with one elbow. "Everything, I guess. 'D rather be out walking around, but it ain't the same, having t' stay in the Weyr."
Fiorella lifts her shoulders in an even shrug as she reaches for the stick of chalk. "I don't know. I'm still thinking about it. T'rev says I still have lots of time to figure it out still." she notes in reply. The chalk is turned over so that its positioned correctly in her hand to begin writing as she says all this. "Maybe if I write it and you can follow the lines. Rosalie used to do that for me."
"...A'right," Kai agrees, looking sort of bemused, but he folds his arms over his chest and keeps an eye out. "So what're you thinking about? Could go t' Vintners. We got one of them apprentices in the barracks. Sulisah. She's nice."
"Well..." Fiorella starts, putting chalk to slate and carefully marking out the first sentence on the page. Its by no means perfect, but even though she's ten, its better than Balkaiv's most recent attempt. Then again that might have to do with having it beaten into her head with repetition and practice for a good five turns. The lines a little wiggly here and there, some a bit too long, others too short but its easy enough to read. And while she write she talks a bit - primarily in reply to the candidate's most recent question to her. "Well... I was thinking of being a baker. But I don't know yet. Now I'm thinking maybe a healer?"
Balkaiv continues to watch the tunnels as though he's expecting someone to dash in and start complaining any moment, or rip Ella away and make off with her. This is serious business, after all. "Yeah?" The idea of her as healer draws enough of his attention that he actually turns to look at the girl, rather than just sending flicks of vague interest, and he gives her work no mind at all. "You could be a healer. S'hard work, though."
"There," Fiorella says, pushing the slate back towards Balkaiv, setting the chalk on the table beside it. "I know," she replies as to the work, "I don't know that that's what I want to do for sure yet though either. I'm still thinking, like I said."
Kai frowns at the slate but nods, serious as a judge, to gather up the chalk. He doesn't hold it like she does, but in his fist, like it's the handle to a mug, with just a bit of chalk sticking out the lower end. "Looks good," he says of her efforts before attempting to replicate them; only once he gets to the end of the first line does he add, "You got some turns, anyway. If you wanted. How'd you get t' be T'rev's foster, anyway?"
Fiorella eyes his attempt for a moment before reaching over to try and fix his hold on the chalk. "Don't hold it like that," she starts, "Hold it like this," she says, shifting the stick for him. "Huh?" she questions before the question fully sinks in, "Well... I can here to see my sisters and Berit said I couldn't stay that T'rev had to take me back home right then, but he thought she was being too quick saying that so agreed for a day or two, but then I had to go home. But I guess he liked me so he talked to her and she said Fine, if he wanted to look after me that I could stay."
Kai's fist protests the removal of his prize but after a second or two he relents and lets her take it and rewrap his fingers around the chalk properly. Of course, now he complains that it, "Feels funny." This requires a scowl as well, and he's readily distracted by the tale of fosterage. "So he looks after you? But... you ain't living in his weyr?"
Fiorella giggles. "I know. It takes getting used to. But it'll help. I promise!" she exclaims about the new hold of the writing utensil. "Just try it." she prods before returning to the tale with a nod. "Right. I stay down here in the caverns with the rest of the children, and I have a foster mom down here. But he looks in on me and makes sure things are going well. Takes me places sometimes."
Balkaiv not only looks like he doesn't believe her, but like this is some sort of set up to a practical joke as well. "Mnh," he grunts, and gingerly tries copying a letter or two. This way he doesn't smear, but his writing's in no way /improved/. "So he's kinda... your foster uncle, more'n anything?"
Fiorella thinks for little more than a second or two and then nods. "Yeah, I guess so." she agrees. "I like him though. He's really nice and he's actually helped me alot while I've been here. I don't know that I'd still... no, I -know- I wouldn't be here still if it weren't for him." she corrects herself, pausing in her babbling long enough to peer over and see how the writing fairs. "Going better?"
The candidate snorts this time, instead of grunting, and laboriously makes his way through the curves of an S. "I wouldn't be. Mean, I'd be here at th' Weyr, just not a Candidate. 'Cause of Mecaith." He shoots her another glance and is all too ready to set the chalk down. "You want t' go look at th' eggs?"
Fiorella peeks over at the writing on the slate and grins. "See, its looking better already," she notes, a hint of teasing lingering in her voice. As for the eggs, the girl nods, "Sure. I haven't gotten to see them really since the clutching. They're pretty though," she adds, slipping off the chair and to her feet, ready to go. "Have you gotten to touch them yet? I wanted to last time there were eggs on the sands. They were Zibeth's, but Berit wouldn't let me. That's only for candidates and I'm not old enough for that yet."
Better or not, Kai is willing to shift to another topic - any other topic. "Nah," he says of touching the things. "Heard some been, but I ain't one. Ain't really been t' see 'em, either. You want t' go now? Look at 'em, not, you know."
Fiorella nods. "I was thinking about going and doing that sometime today. You don't mind if I go with you, do you?" Of course she's assuming that he's planing on going now. There's also a hint of uncertainty in her voice at the question. Would he want a kid like her tagging along.
"Go getcher coat," is his answer as he stands, sweeping together slate and hide and chalk into one package. "I'll meet you, uh... just outside th' caverns." He drops a nod more or less Living Caverns-ward and picks up his things. "You can show 'em t' me, since you already been."
[Travel deleted]
Galleries, Fort Weyr
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.
Obvious exits:
Entrance
Fiorella doesn't take too terribly long to find her coat from the children's quarters and soon enough she's bounding out to meet Balkaiv at their predetermined point just outside the living caverns. "It's just this way," she says, pointing towards the large opening in the bowl wall that leads to the hatching grounds - as if it weren't noticeable without her pointing it out. A hand is held out should he want to take it, but if he doesn't she won't mind either. Bouncy steps are already leading the way even as she does. Upon reaching the grounds, stairs lead up one side just inside the entrance, and it's there that the girl leads, up the stairs and down the first row to find a seat near the middle. "Arent' they pretty."
Kai doesn't seem to notice the hand, to be honest, but he's all bundled up and isn't much for bouncing. He follows, instead, head bent against the cold until they're within the grounds proper. It's there he hastily pulls off his cap to shove in a pocket, and he sends the eggs and their queen a dubious look before traipsing up after his guide. "They're, uh...," he offers, scrubbing a hand over his head. "Dunno. Ain't never seen nothing like 'em before."
Fiorella giggles, slipping out of her jacket and leaving it to hang over the bench seat behind her as she leans on the edge that over looks the sands. "Well -I- think they're pretty." she announces, flashing a grin his way. "What's it like being a candidate?"
Balkaiv more slowly degloves, balling them up and shoving them after his hat. "Dunno," he says again, his voice warily low. "We're all thinking, mostly. 'Bout them." He drops a nod toward the eggs as he starts in on his jacket, slower and less familiar than Ella. "S'a big change, and it ain't one we can make, y'know?"
Fiorella hmmms, "I guess..." she agrees uncertainly. "It was a big change coming here from Four Sons." But somehow she doesn't think that that's quite the same thing. "I'll cheer for you if you want me too. When the eggs hatch I mean."
Hazel eyes consider her doubtfully. "You think it'll help?"
Fiorella shrugs, "I don't know, but everyone seems to cheer for people they want to impress. I cheered for Sunni though at both the hatchings she stood for but she didn't.." she frowns a bit, green eyes turning back to the eggs on the sands below.
Balkaiv lets that sink in with a grunt. "Guess," he says doubtfully, and gives the eggs another glance. "It'd be nice, I guess, t' have someone up here. So yeah, you can cheer for me." There's a movement on the sands: it catches his eye but it's only Peirith rustling her wings. "All us Candidates, we ain't gonna none of us have new robes. They been talkin' about it, with the fabric and all. Use old ones, mostly."
"I can do that," Fiorella smiles, sending a glance towards the man it falls a bit though. "You don't have any family to come see you?" she questions, biting her lip when the words come out unsure of if she should have asked or not. A nod follows in regard to the robes however, "Yeah.. with the shortages and all I can see that. Old ones aren't so bad though. Right?"
He considers her with faint surprise, as though she'd just suggesting wearing a fried egg as a hat. "Yeah, I guess - but they ain't riders. Weyrfolk." This is relevant somehow; he just isn't sure of all the details. "--And I guess they ain't too bad. Ain't seen 'em, yet. Rhodya - you know Rhodya? - she come up with th' idea, and everyone's gonna do it. Says we're gonna sit down and all... you know. Like a party."
Fiorella ohs, "Well..." But she's not sure what to say to that at all and so instead she falls silent, letting the eggs capture her gaze once again. "Mmmm.. I think I met her before, yeah. It sounds like a good idea though. Cause otherwise I don't know that you'd find enough fabric to make them. Besides its not like they get used -alot- alot or anything."
"Tall," Kai supplies, lifting a hand to almost the top of his head. "Near as tall as me." Rhodya, presumably. "Yeah, that's what they said. Said there was a couple as got ruined each time - blood and th' like." Which causes him to scant another uncertain look over at her. "That true? You said you seen two of 'em."
Fiorella nods. "I think so..." she repeats as he describes the woman. As for the hatching she lifts a shoulder, shrugging. "I don't know. No one got hurt that I saw really, but I've heard it happens sometimes."
Balkaiv grunts again. He's got quite the collection of the things. "So, uh... what d' they look like, anyway?" He laces his fingers together between his knees and stares at them rather than the supposed target of his interest out there on the sands.
"Look like?" Fiorella questions, turning green eyes back to Balkaiv as she leans against the wall that fronts the first row of seats in the galleries of the hatching grounds. "They look like dragons, only littler." Duh! "But I've never seen them up close or anything, just from up here and when the hatching came I never got this close even."
Balkaiv blinks at the girl, trying to process; after a second he snorts and cracks half a smile. "Nah, not th' hatchlings. Them." A hand waves at the sands, and the eggs. "A hatching. You been t' two of 'em, what're they like?"
Kiah trods quietly up the stairs to the galleries, reaching up to tuck her untamable hair behind one ear. She seems surprised to see others up here and finds a spot to sit and look out at the sands, curiosity the prevalent emotion on her obvious features.
Fiorella giggles, "Oh, right." Well he didn't -say- that! "Both times have been different. And from where I've sat it was hard to see.." She's not exactly tall enough to easily see over and around people though either. "Seems kinda crazy though. I mean sometimes they hatch at the same time, or there's more than one hatchling on the sands." A glance is spared towards the movement as Kiah joins the galleries, Ella however says nothing though she does offer a bit of a smile towards her.
There's another grunt from the taciturn Candidate; he studies his hands once more, admiring the way his fingers lay one on top of the other, and hasn't yet notice Kiah's silent entrance. "Guess I'll find out f'r myself in a bit. Month or so. --What about you? You wanna be a rider? You got a goldrider in th' family already, and there's T'rev."
Kiah tries not to listen to their conversation, though she can't help hearing and she glances up at Fiorella and smiles at her shyly before turning to look back out at the sands.
Fiorella's attention is much more on Balkaiv and so as Kiah is soon enough forgotten as she passes to find a seat further up in the gallery. "I guess so," she agrees, continuing on with a shrug of her shoulders. "I don't know. I think, if I have the chance, I might stand once at least. Just to see, you know. So maybe..?" she questions her own answer.
Balkaiv's eyes find the back of Kiah's head, though there's no spark of recognition in the man's eyes. "Yeah. S'what I said. When'm I ever gonna get the chance again?" Back from her head to his fingers, watching as one thumb smoothes over the skin on his hands. "Said I'd do it; ain't gonna back out. Just - we're all goin' in blind." There's very little censure in his tone. "And there ain't nothin' t' do about that."
Kiah mutters something softly to herself, but not loud enough that it can be understood and she shifts uncomfortably on the bench she's sitting on.
"Blind?" Fiorella inquires, uncertain of his meaning. ".. Well," she starts once again, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hands as she watches Peirith and the eggs. "I'll be here and cheer for you either way." she assures if that might be any help at all.
"Mean we ain't got no idea what we're doing," Balkaiv elaborates, shooting Ella another sideways look. He still hasn't given the eggs more than the most passing of attentions. "Like someone told you t' get something from back of Stores only they didn't give you no glow t' get there. There's... shells. Right now, 'bout one in three of us is goin' home alone."
Kiah straightens on the bench suddenly and then turns to look at Balkaiv, interrupting impolitely. "Wow, those aren't very good odds." And then she claps her hands over her mouth. "Oh. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
Fiorella ohs, "Yeah... That makes sense I suppose. I wouldn't know what I'd be doing down there either." she agrees. Green eyes shift back over to Balkaiv, though she's soon distracted by Kiah's interruption and she turns to smile towards her. "That's okay, they aren't good odds, but you weren't really interrupting.."
Both of Kai's eyebrows go up at the interruption, but he doesn't seem particularly irritated by it, either. "Kiah," he says gravely, adding a nod to the other Candidate. "Well, with them two as come in th' other day, there's twenty-eight of us now. Eighteen of -them-," a nod to the Sands, "and that's ten as is going home. Or where ever."
Kiah almost looks relieved. "Oh! Well, that's not so terrible. I could go back to my kitchen as awful as Winston seems to think that is. I had a great day, doing chores in the kitchen." She smiles at Fiorella. "It must be something to grow up here. Have you Stood before, Kai?"
Fiorella stays silent for a moment as the other two talk. At the remark about growing up at the weyr she shrugs, "I don't know. I just came here last turn." she replies.
Balkaiv asks Kiah, bemused, "If you don't want t' be here," with a jerk of his head to include the sands below them, "Why are you? T'rev keeps tellin' me there ain't no shame in changin' my mind." His eyes flick over to Ella again, a tiny smile lifting for that single turn, and back to Kiah with a head shake. "Nope. Been here less'n Ella. Not even a couple months yet."
Kiah clears her throat again, and then smiles at the two. "Oh, my mother wants me to Stand and I don't mind all that much. I love to cook though and Phara said I can keep cooking here and there even if I do impress."
From the sands, Wrapped around her clutch, the queen has been silent much of this time, though her tail shifts along the sand whenever the talking rises too far in volume or pitch.
Fiorella nods. "You can," she replies, "I know Berit cooks sometimes even. We made cookies together once." she notes, as if that might be of importance to anyone but her. "Are you excited about it? I would be, if it was me I mean. But I'm not old enough yet." she continues mater-of-factly.
From the sands, Now Peirith stretches, sweeping her wings back, their spars disturbing the high-piled sand to permit a greater glimpse of egg after egg. Her head lifts with the motion, and she's examining the galleries, back as far as they go.
"Then your Ma ought t' Stand," Kai tells Kiah, his eyebrows pulling down. He looks as though he might say more, but Ella takes over and he leans back, folding his arms again. It's then Perith moves; his eyes snap immediately to the queen, considering.
Kiah flinches a bit at Kai and then shakes her head. "No. I'd always regret it if I backed out now and I am interested it in myself. A bit. I mean I wouldn't have asked for it, but that doesn't mean I'm a coward."
From the sands, It's less an amble than a trudge: drudges had carried the small casks of oil to the edge of the sands, but only Cirse can haul them further. Peirith rises further from her crouch, moving to meet her weyrwoman partway, though the edges of her attention never quite leave the galleries for long. Cirse looks up too, but only once she's gotten the casks set down, and straightens to rub bare arms.
Fiorella nods, "Yeah, I don't know that I'd ever turn down the chance either." she agrees with the older girl before her attention is drawn by movement on the sands.
Just released from their own duties, a small knot of candidates slip in, unobtrusive except for their voices, although one's -- little excitable Izach -- tones rise sharply every so often before he's laughingly hushed into submission. They greet their candidate counterparts agreeably enough, but move away to form their own group and chatter amongst themselves, admiring the eggs; only Cirse, among those present, earns a stifling of their talk and a few scattered salutes.
Kiah turns, her attention caught as the candidates slip onto the sands and she casts a look at Kai. "Oh, I didn't know candidates were allowed on the sands."
"Ain't a coward t' change your mind," Kai observes absently, and eyes the knot of people just entered, frowning. "There's Izach," he notes, bemused. "And them new two - Tameatt and Yamarados." And Cirse, for that matter, down on the sands - he studies the Weyrwoman for a long moment, his jaw working.
From the sands, Peirith keeps looking and looking, and so does Cirse, until the latter's attention transfers into a short summons of Izach before the boy gets too far. It sets his eyes wider, if that's possible, and no doubt the explanation will travel swiftly: candidates have permission to join Peirith's rider on the sands, if they choose. And, as before, if they're clean.
Fiorella sends a glance towards the entering group of candidates, they earn a bit of a frown from the girl even before Kai points out who a few of them are. The Weyrwoman is sent a wave from where Ella stands at the lowest point of the gallery, even though she's fairly certain it won't be seen.
Kiah observes the other candidates thoughtfully, leaning back and pulling her legs up, her knees to her chest and balances on the bench. "I didn't really think about how many of us there are. It doesn't seem so many when we're all in cots at night." She watches the gold move around with abstracted fascination.
Word comes that clean and tidy Candidates are allowed down on the Sands; Kai frowns at his hands but must judge that they're clean enough to pass. At any rate he stands and moves past Ella with an apologetic half-smile. "Guess we're gonna go see what it's like." He falls into step behind a scrawny blonde, and the whole procession proceeds apace.
One of the oldest candidates must spot the littlest of the girls' wave even if Cirse doesn't, for he pauses on his way out. "Mayn't be able to go on the sands, Ella, but if you come down to the lowest row it's about as good as, right?" But then he too is off joining the others, taking steps two at a time until he has to slow down and even get solemn, some, as he waits his turn. Cirse has just finished with the blonde, and now her dark eyes lift to barely-taller but definitely-broader Balkaiv. "You haven't done this before," she says as a statement.
Hatching Sands, Fort Weyr
The pale, golden-hued sands occupy nearly the entirety of the hatching cavern, with the dam and sire traditionally claiming the north with their eggs scattered throughout. To the right are the galleries, which stretch up nearly the entire length of the wall and provide the only visual break in what would otherwise be a monotonous tableau. Lighting comes from both the entrance and through glow baskets spaced throughout, ensuring that the place is well-lit at all times. The heat here is tolerable, but only barely, and heat mirages are relatively common. Turns of hatchings have resulted in the sands being littered with fragmentary bits of shells despite thorough cleanings, subtle bits of history being left behind.
Obvious exits:
Entrance
The woman's details are sketched in ink on a dusky canvas, framed by an oval face and tall, athletic lines: short hair worn in wooly, cloud-soft twists, thin brows that tend to be more severe than expressive, and the more distracting curl of lashes about arresting dark eyes. Her other features are regular as well, with pronounced cheekbones, a somewhat wide nose, and softer, rosier lips. The rhythm with which she carries herself holds more precision than improvisation, as though to a dance known a little too well.
She favors white, and wears it well against her smooth, dark skin. Today it's a sleeveless shirt with a high collar, one that doesn't entirely hide the old scar that writhes across one shoulder, tucked into loose canvas pants of grayish brown. Her shoes are flat and dark, and small pearls stud her ears.
Kiah comes out carefully onto the sands, staying near Kai as she really has no idea what's going on and she figures she'll be in less trouble with him than alone. Until he catches Cirse's attention and she colors, stepping back a step.
"No, ma'am," Kai agrees at a mumble, ducking his head to Cirse. "Ain't never been here before." His 'here' involves a wave of one hand that includes the galleries, and perhaps, the Weyr as well.
Some of the rest, they're old hats at this stuff, or at least pretend to be with a great amount of swaggering and preening and shouldering amongst each other. Little Izach squeaks when he's pushed aside by one of the much-bigger lads, and he admonishes with a wrinkled nose, "no shoving! There's load've eggs for us all. Gotta be careful, right," he adds in a lowered voice to those around him.
From the galleries, "Its okay," Ella assures Balkaiv. "You should. At least I can watch." And then he's off following the group. The older candidate who addresses her gets a smile and a nod, "Not quite the same..." but she watches for a moment even as he and the other's off down the stairs for a chance at touching the eggs. She for one shifts through the galleries to find the closes, best view of the ongoings.
Slowly enough to telegraph her movements, Cirse steps forward, aims to catch that very hand and turn it palm-up. "The rest of you who haven't, by which I mean who haven't with Peirith in particular, gather around. If I have permitted you onto the sands previously, you may do so again." And Peirith will be watching, the queen's eyes now a faster, murkier whirl. Her rider looks up to Kiah, to Izach, and back to Kai again. "Cleanliness is important. Walk slowly. Be careful. No loud noises, no sudden movements. You may touch the eggs. You may not lean upon them, knock on them, lick them. Being here may make no difference at all, or it will make all the difference in the world. Do you have questions about this?"
Balkaiv startles a little at being caught but allows it, though his attention is quite firmly on Cirse now, and not the other candidates, Peirith, -or- her eggs. "Right - treat 'em like they got hangovers." It doesn't sound like he's making a joke. "There's...," he starts, stops with a shake of his head. "Nah. Nothin' now. Maybe later, though."
Kiah peeks around Kai, looking at Cirse and then at the golden queen and the eggs. "We can actually touch them?" Her eyes are frankly surprised, every tiny flash of emotion reflected on her face.
"Not a similarity I myself had thought of," and here Cirse does dash a glance over her scarred shoulder to Fiorella, there, before her attention returns quite purposefully to Balkaiv and his hand. Dark fingertips brush at the inner creases of his fingers where they have collected chalk dust, as cool and as impersonal as can be achieved within the radiant heat of the sands. "But I think it an appropriate one, with the added bonus that they are unlikely to retch." A last close look and she nods to his other hand: next. Without looking up, "You are Kiah, yes? They are not now as soft as they had been. You may indeed touch them. You will find them more leathery than chicken eggs, as well."
Balkaiv snorts at the lack of vomiting, amused, and more easily gives his other hand into the goldrider's keeping. This one is even cleaner than the other, as if it had never heard of chalk or the resulting dust in its life. "Won't try an' put 'em in the trough, ma'am." His eyes flick past her to where one of the prettier brunettes is brushing her fingertips along the crest of a silvery green egg. "How come we got t' have clean hands?"
Kiah jumps several inches, out right startled that Cirse knows her name and she stares at the goldrider as though she's magic. "Wow," whispered softly, under her breath. She glances at Cirse again, then the eggs and then the golden queen and fades off, leaving Kai and his ability to have important people focus on him and she reaches out to touch one of the eggs, one that is a darker green.
"Thank you. You are also each permitted one joke about cooking, as it is new to you but not to me, but no more." That may be a joke from Cirse itself, something about the lift of her voice as she taps Balkaiv's other hand, dismissing it though not yet him: there is an answer to be had, after all. "Cleanliness is important. We will not be washing these eggs or these sands, after all. Some are not as particular, but Peirith... notices." Much, perhaps, as she has noticed Kiah skipping her own examination, and now leans forward with a low rattling sound that has her rider preempting, "Kiah. Step back here, please." With Balkaiv waved off to perhaps visit the brunette or just her egg, she can see to some of the others in short order while waiting for the curly-haired girl to return.
Kiah squeaks, daring back again and blinks at Cirse. "I'm sorry, goldrider, I misunderstood." Her eyes go all big and round and she offers her hands for inspection, thinking she's deduced that much. "My hands might have some flour under the nails, but I was baking. I had kitchen duty today." And any excuse for baking is a good one for Kiah.
Balkaiv considers Cirse, then Peirith, grunts a thoughtful, "Hnh," and doesn't have a single thing to say about cooking. "Thank you, ma'am." He rubs his hands absently on his rump and heads away from the cluster of unclean, out to the spread of eggs. It is the soft-looking silver egg he approaches first, but it's on the edge of things and there are several eggs between himself at the watchful gold.
From the galleries, Fiorella remains quiet, though that's helped along by the simple fact that those she was talking to are now on the sands. The girl leans against the railing that more clearly divides the galleries from the sands themselves, her chin propped on her hands. She seems content to just watch for the time being.
Those others scattered around the great cavern help themselves to the free eggs, once their hands have had the nod of approval; those still in the tail-end of the line anxiously scrub their hands at their trousers and tunics, except one bulky lad -- a blacksmith by trade, though a candidate now -- who simply appears too dull to realize his own nails are caked brown with dirt. He grunts when he offers his hands, palm up, and then looks faintly suprised at his dirt-smeared hands and then up at Cirse with a half-cringe.
Cirse has a nod for Balkaiv, for the others inspected and relieved in quick succession. Even the poor once-blacksmith receives not a harangue, but a look with those direct dark eyes, and a simple shake of her head before gesturing to the next. Mostly the candidates don't cluster about any one particular egg, either, though one boy pauses by burly Balkaiv just to see what he's seeing before moving on. And then at last, at least, it's Kiah's turn and Cirse appraises those hands of the former baker's, mentioning, "You would do well to shorten your nails. Afterward, however. In the meantime, you should not be scratching things in any case, so if you move to the edge of the Bowl and use one nail to scrape within the others, you should be fine. This time." Peirith has settled somewhat, and now that Kiah's taken care of, Cirse moves to the nearest cask and levers up its top: oiling time.
Kiah drops a curtsey toward Cirse and moves out away from the sands to scrape out the flour from beneath her fingernails. She dusts it off and away, and then turns back again, inspecting her own hands. She's just as careful as Cirse was before she walks back to the others again.
Balkaiv doesn't share what he's seeing, nor what he's feeling: apparently he took 'lowered voices' to heart (or he's elaborately careful around hangovers). Every so often he glances up at Fiorella, but he spends more time placing Peirith and Cirse, and even more on the eggs. From the silvery egg he skirts around the edges, bypassing a multi-hued soft brown egg to crouch beside and lay one surprisingly gentle hand (his left) on top of the Silvered Motion egg.
With exposure to the sands the cask has had, there's just a small island of congealed oil floating in the liquid for Cirse to reach past. While Peirith's hide hadn't looked overtly dusty to the passing eye, when her her rider applies the nutty-scented stuff, it not only leaves a smooth glistening streak behind but also a subtle change of position, a leaning in, an ever so slight softening of the broody queen's gaze. Not that she ignores her clutch, and that mostly-buried silver-and-green shell Balkaiv's looking at is no exception, nor is its round, peachy neighbor.
Balkaiv draws his fingers across the shell once, twice, three times, pausing with his head cocked between each strum. Eventually he grunts, unsatisfied, and pushes back to his feet, brushing sand from his knees. That peachy egg gets a considering look, but the Candidate wends his way back around the outer edge of the eggs' circle, giving way to those Candidates with places to go and eggs to see. Eventually he reaches conversational distance with Cirse again, eyes the dark green egg Kiah had been attending but doesn't touch it. "She don't leave the Sands?"
It's habitual work, but by the pair's demeanor seems pleasant work, for all of Peirith's size. Cirse doesn't pause the regular rise and fall of the oiling, either, in considering the candidate's question. "Not often. She leaves to eat, of course; as you might imagine, we wouldn't want a herdbeast careening around in here, nor shreds to linger and rot even after the bones were removed. But even that's not far, as Zaiventh will bring one by, just outside. In summertime, she might have taken a dip in the lake. As you might imagine, it affects muscle tone, and she's already lost some mass." This time she does look back at him, to see how he takes it.
There's nothing sharp about this queen except the points of teeth and talons, and the look in her large, forward-set eyes. Peirith has a fluid way to her, a product of movement even more than her smoothly rounded build, and a hide the warm gold of the sun hanging low over a deepwater sea. Even the transitions of her coloring are gradual, brown undertones that slide down below her belly as well as rise higher, along her spine, darkening and darkening into her neckridges and the broad reach of her wings. When light shines through those murky sails just so, only then is their translucency revealed, rippled with the faint blue sheen of suncaught currents above distant stone.
At 8 turns, 11 months, 16 days old, Peirith is 39 feet long with a wingspan of 68 feet, 3 inches, standing 26 feet, 2 inches tall at the shoulder.
The dusty once-blacksmith has long since shambled from the cavern, and now he's returned, wearing a fresh and sharply creased tunic, even, and he's staring intently at his hands as he carefully stumps down the steps to the sands. He respectfully girds the eggs, and finally slows to a stop a pace or two distant from Kai and Cirse. "M'am," he offers, precisely, presenting his hands once again. "C'n I?" Meanwhile, Izach scampers nearer, making a show of caressing the closest egg to the queen but his head his cocked to listen to the weyrwoman and his sharp eyes are fixed on Balkaiv.
Balkaiv says, "Huh." He does study the queen, with the eyes of one trying to determine just what he's looking at. "Well, she looks good. Pretty." Perhaps he'd add more but that smith's apprentice has hands to display, and oh, here's Izach. So Kai, "Ma'am"s both of the ladies and takes himself off, at least an egg or so. There's a pretty egg all graduated in shades from peach to blue, and the burly man drops to one knee beside it.
There's a lot of Peirith to look at, particularly with the angle and the heat-wavered air that makes life much more difficult to comprehend much of her at any one time. From the distance, from the galleries' coolness, it's easier but down here, with her clutch? "I find it interesting, what words people choose for my dragon," Cirse murmurs after a moment, and then she turns to approach the returning, notably cleaner candidate. Meeting him, looking him over, "You may remember better if I do not permit you," she tells the once-smith. And the Weyrwoman watches him for a moment more before saying, "Still, you may have what minutes remain, this time, and they are not many. And then remembering, if there is a next time, is up to you." Now she does smile, and the gesture of her oil-slick hand bids him welcome.
Izach didn't seem to scare off Balkaiv, really! As though to prove it, with a round-eyed glance at Kai's retreat, the youngster lingers only a moment longer to see the thick blacksmith lad duck his head and mutter some thankful words, and then shamble off to find an unoccupied egg. And after a speedy bob of his head to the weyrwoman Izach too sets off again, this time darting away some distance further, to an egg little like him, against which he presses his cheek.
Kai doesn't spend as much time with the peachy egg as he did his first love. After only a moment or so he abandons it to stand and consider the rest of the clutch as though he's trying to figure out how to rearrange them. There's Izach again, but Kai veers away from him to take over from one of the twins. The other man is willing to give way to the scuffed man, but Kai barely touches this egg either. Instead he turns in place to find Fiorella in the galleries, and offer her half of a wry smile.
Cheek-pressing appears to be permitted, and the way the oiling's proceeding probably can't hurt: Cirse is staying at Peirith's shoulder, which is to say, away from her wings and her tail and her paws and anything else she might like to employ in a hurry. While the dragon's attention is more all-encompassing, her rider keeps an eye on the once-smith for some minutes; once he's moved to a second egg she calls, loud enough and just loud enough, "About done. One more minute, and get ready to head back, not too fast."
Izach's isn't the only sigh heard at the Weyrwoman's pronouncement, although the boy's expression might be a bit more fanciful than the rest as they straighten and brush at tunics and knees and grains of sand. He gives the egg one last pet, comfortingly, before he stands and makes to join those candidates filing for the exit. "Thank you, Weyrwoman," he chirps on the way past, "that was very nice!" Even the blacksmith seems loathe to part with the eggs, but part he does, shoulders slumping a titch when his gaze sweeps over Cirse.
A look back at the queen and her rider, and Balkaiv appears ready to call a halt to the proceedings now. He picks his way carefully through the sands, hands outstretched to prevent any sudden lunges from the eggs. That pretty brunette watches him pass but doesn't leave her chosen egg, not if there's still time; the twin he'd scared off falls into step a little behind, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. A general muttered, "Thank you," arises after Izach's, hard to say exactly from whence it came or who had no part in voicing it.
"You're welcome," Cirse repeats as they move by. You're welcome, you're welcome, you're welcome. She's polite about it, and might as well have been thanking them for coming to her little soiree, except that as soon as they have all escaped out of view and most of those in the galleries have gone too, she leans hard against Peirith's side as the queen curves that smooth neck around her.
Hah. My writing's as good as hers. Shouldn't have t' take more classes. Sharding Harpers.
So them's the eggs. Huh. Dunno what all that was 'bout clean hands, anyway. Ain't like -sand's- all that clean. Got t' be a woman thing. They weren't nothing like what I was expecting.