Visits and Questions

Month 6 of Turn 2715
Monaco Bay Weyr - Galleries

The Galleries consist of a multitude of rows, cut into the rock of this vast cavern. The heat here is stiffling any time of year, but the breeze coming in through the open roof high above makes it bareable. Sheltered from the coast's weather, this cavern looks out into it but rarely experiances any of it. Stairs lead down to the Commons Cavern, from one side, while at the back of the galleries there is a passage way leading out to the treetop dwellings. Far to the other side of the galleries are several stairs leading up to the multitude of ledges where the dragons and riders view the hatching.

The cavern has gained the added illumination of daylight, filtering down from above, but from this angle, the majority of the light still comes from the multitude of papercovered electric lanterns that cast their cheerful warm colors on the galleries and the rest of the cavern. Springtime has arrived on Eastern Weyr, the flowers budding with wild abandon and all about new growth of the jungle seems to be the theme both in the animal and plant kingdoms.

A day of dreadfully boring candidate chores leads into a nice soak in the baths afterwards, and then a solid dinner to fuel her racehorse's metabolism. And *now*, in the middle of the evening, the dancing Harper-cum-Monaco candidate can be found in the heat of the galleries, Kaitlyn using a thick-toothed comb to groom her long plaits of damp, deep coppery-red hair into place. She has a small bag of various grooming things with her, settled on the rock bench at her inner side…one of them likely a jar of lightest fragrant oil, since her hair smells gently of amber. She's humming very softly to herself, and looking out over the eggs that their dam guards down on the Sands below.

S'van is a Half Moon Bay dragonrider, and yet once again he finds himself in Monaco Bay Weyr. But whatever business has brought him here seems to have concluded for the day, and he seems to have found himself with a bit of free time. At least he's actually wearing boots, today. Boots that stomp rather noisily across the stone steps as he makes his way down into the galleries. It is not that he is trying to be loud, really. It is simply the nature of a cavern, heavy boots, and stone steps, to echo and bounce and create an entrance that is announced rather than subtle. And he is not at all trying to be subtle, really. Grey eyes alternate, flashing from sands to ground to galleries as he takes in both the view, the attendants, and ensure he doesn't do something stupid like trip over his own feet. In the end, it's into a spot near-enough to Kaitlyn to be conversational that S'van flops himself into as if he owns the place, instantly draping himself across stone seats as six-feet-five-inches becomes sprawling dragonrider. A glance once more, eggs to girl this time, and he offers a half-grin and a quick, "Hey," in greeting.

Almost floating in, Jiasle moves at a slow leisurely pace into the galleries not really taking time to look around. She moves to a seat towards the center bottom of the rows, sitting there looking at the eggs and their dam. The blond carries a sheaf of bound paper and a simple charcoal pencil, both held in her lap after sitting with a blank page halfway through the sheaf open as she looks at the eggs and Isanath upon the sands before the galleries.

Who could miss all that *sound* cascading around the acoustics of the galleries like so many clattering Apprentices? Not Kaitlyn, and it's with vague irritation that the flamehead jerks her gaze towards the general area of the noise, soon focusing on the person responsible. Well-well, lookie who's here. As the very rangy person of S'van nears, the woman grooming her hair flashes him a slightly wolfish grin of greeting, then leaning forward and lightly patting the stone bench just below her in invitation. When the bronzerider takes it — more like sprawls all over it — the candidate offers him a prefunctionary, "Welcome again to Monaco Bay, bronzerider S'van. Hall's and Weyr's duties to you." There: formalities dispensed with. And then Jiasle's blonde self is noticed, since she's in motion, and the redhead lofts one long, shapely arm into the air, waves in diginfied fashion to her. It's up to the quiet girl if she wants to join these two or not…Kait not wanting to make her feel put out. Back to mister sprawls-a-lot is intoned in whiskied alto, "And what brings you to Monaco yet *again*, my good S'van?" Her cool grey eyes twinkle a bit, one side of Kait's mouth twitched into a smirk-smile.

I mean… it's kind of his thing; the whole 'I don't actually own the place but I'm gonna act like I own the place' sprawling. That smart-ass smirk in answer to wolfish grins. That lazily-lifted hand offered in a not-salute of greeting. It's just… S'van. Being S'van. But there's a genuine cheer behind all that bravado; an honest amusement and pleasant openness in the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth, if just to wobble a bit at the greeting he receives. "Have we met?" have they met? "Other than… that whole… thing," and there's a quick, circular-swirl of his hand as though to indicate 'that thing' he is referring to (which is likely the dolphincraft event so recently attended by both) is both general and specific. "Do I know your name?" If he did, he's forgotten, and there's a brief flash of not-quite embarrassment if he has. And then, somewhere in there (perhaps because there's another addition to the galleries) he seems to remember his own manners when he offers a quick but polite, "Half Moon's greetings to Monaco Bay and her queens," with a tip of his head toward said-queen there on the sand. But then, yeah. Those pleasantries and formalities can just be tossed casually aside; he's certainly not going to straighten up or stand on ceremony. He's not going to stand at all, in fact. As for what brought him to Monaco? "Ah, well. That would be a secret," which is a lie. And without waiting for further inquiry he simply continues with a totally uninformative and dismissive, "Wing stuff."

Jiasle straightens slightly as if mentally reminding herself of something, and she does turn and offer Kaitlyn a polite smile and nod of greeting. S'van is also examined with a curious look, specially when he mentions Half Moon, but then she turns back to face the eggs. She's seated close enough to be with in listening and talking distance, well talked to at least given how quiet she tends to be. The charcoal pencil lightly taps the side of her sheaf of papers, and then begins scribbling something in quick sure notations in the upper corner of the page before turning into a more flowing movement as the pencil tracks across more of the paper while Jiasle looks at the eggs. Anyone that looks over her shoulder would see she's started drawing an ill-defined human body, female, like a modelling statue. And then over that she starts adding detail and items, slowly designing an outfit with small notations around the outside of it.

"I tend to make a habit of looking up people's names…if they strike me as at least somewhat interesting…" Kaitlyn smirk-coos to S'van's inquiry. Her words might sound quite arrogant if it weren't for her laughing eyes and the warmth in the woman's voice. "Unlikely…" to his word of him knowing *her* name. "Candidate Kaitlyn, also senior journeyman Harper…specialty in Dance." A little bow from her waist ensues. And yes, she did verbally capitalize 'dance.' "Oh, *come* now. Being that clandestine is *so* last Turn…" And then he finally gives in, speaks of Wing duties, and the redhead makes a small face. "Well then, enjoy your egg viewing before duty likely steals you back, again." Chortle. That nod of Jiasle's is noted, smiled back at in languid fashion…almost as if Kait is some kind of feral feline…just lazing about, taking her time, soaking in the warmth of this place. More hair combing ensues, the redhead trying to eye what the blonde candidate is drawing…though she's not close enough to make it out. "Jiasle. Good evening to you…" is murmured.

"Trust me, I'm not that interesting," decides S'van, sarcastically stated even if his grin is growing, turning that half-smirk into a full-on expression of dry amusement and cocky attitude. That she is a Harper seems to settle the matter for him, a soft "Ah," as if to say 'that explains it' and his initial surprise at being named fades away with the tension in his shoulders, leaving behind a picture of relaxed, calm, cool and collected bronzerider. "Harper-turned-Candidate Kaitlyn," he repeats. "Or is it Dancer Kaitlyn? I didn't know Harpers could specialize in dance," and he's definitely not capitalizing that word, though it's certainly not meant to be insulting. He may be grinning at the red-head in conversation with him, but those grey eyes flash to Jiasle in time to catch the almost-not-quite curious look given him. It's a friendly smile that's returned. "Well, I am in Search and Rescue. I could have secret wing-business," he pushes, though the delivery falls short of convincing. Really, he's not trying all that hard, all flashing teeth and dancing eyes, amusement radiating off. "But I don't. Boring work, actually. But I'm finished for now. And not terribly interested in getting assigned more of it…" so maybe he's not so much visiting the eggs, as hiding amongst them? He certainly doesn't appear the least bit apologetic for playing hooky. A lift of his hand provides a lazy point of his finger to Kaitlyn's comb. Or at least, it may be assumed that's what he's acknowledging with that gesture as his words that follow are, "You make it a habit of doing your personal grooming in the hatching grounds?" Another glance for the quiet blond when a name is given via murmured greetings, a curious little peek toward the sheaf of paper. "Weaver?" he wonders, curious.

Blond curls sway and bounce as Jiasle nods slightly, most likely in response to Kaitlyn's greetings. She doesn't stop her pencil through, the outline of bodice appearing in the style of a corset, a wide skirt taking shape, the entire thing looking to be one piece as an elaborate gown. If she's listening to the conversation, she gives no outward signs till she simple responds "Yes, was." followed in a matter of fact voice "If you're dodging getting assigned more work, then who is getting assigned in your place?" without looking back, only looking up to examine the eggs on the sands before her pencil begins to denote on the left hand side of the paper notations for colors.

"Well then, I shall put a mental note beside you that reads "Boring. Move along," Kaitlyn comments with airy sass back to S'van, the tall redhead appearing to be enjoying herself, for some obscure reason. Did she notice his residual tension? She's a Harper, after all, trained to see and hear things most people don't. Who knows. When the bronzerider speaks of being in Search and Rescue, the flamehead bobs her head in knowing fashion, murmurs as she combs, "It fits you, somehow." One shoulder rolls slightly, an inquiring look then moved to Jiasle to see how the quiet girl 'handles' being spoken to by S'van, Kait them looking back to the Half Moon rider and smirking at his admission of 'hiding' at Monaco. That pointing finger and inquiry of her grooming habits has the dancer noting factually, "The heat dries it faster, so I try to come here as often as I can manage." Beat. "Only Igen's dry heat does it relatively quickly, though." Been there, done that! And then Jiasle's remarks back to S'van have Kait arching one brow and peering directly at her for the blonde's rather outspoken manner of question. But she doesn't say anything, merely twitching a faint half-smirk upon the bronzer to see how *he* handles that little bit of indirect confrontation.

"Good plan," decides S'van. "And you're not the first person to call me boring, either." Nor does he seem all that upset by it. There's a drape of his arm back over the seat, a tilt of his head and a very cursory glance given to the eggs. A one-shouldered shrug answers her assessment that his wing 'fits' him, a casual response that belies the gleam and focused look he gives her for her observation. If there is a comment coming, it dies a short and painless death as S'van opts for cheeky silence over discussions of his day job. "Ah," for her explanation of the heat, though there's definitely a nose-wrinkled look for mention of that desert locale. "Igen is an oven," and that is certainly not fondness in his voice. "You'd dry to a crisp at the snap of your fingers." And then there is Jiasle, stealing his attention with mention of her craft (which earns her a quick, "What do you mean 'was'?") before she's tossing out righteous rhetorical inquiries that make him grin all the more. "Not my problem," is his spoke response, though he softens it a moment later with a much more honest, "No one. It'll be waiting for me when I return. I'm probably just delaying the inevitable." A point now; likely lost as he doesn't bother to lift his hand further than the stone steps and she's turned herself back to her work. "Aren't there chores you should be doing?" Maybe it was a group question, as those grey eyes flash to Kaitlyn next.

Jiasle response comes back, still in a matter fact tone as she shades the gown, "There was, it was done. Tomorrow will bring more." through who or what exactly it's a response to is left unmentioned as the blond continues to work on the design. While the color notations is long, the outfit itself contains no real detail or needlework drawn into it, patterns indicated with colors only, and fairly easy patterns at that. If she thinks anything of the responses about her was, she shows and says nothing as she works, finishing the sheet then turning to a new page writing notes in the upper corner as if by rote, through two get crossed out and changed with slightly larger numbers in what looks to be inches, one possibly height. As she taps the pencil against the paper, she finally turns to face S'van, saying "Through if chores are a question, there is perhaps one you could even assist with given you vocation for talking." her voice matter of fact, but polite still.

"What else do people call you?" Kaitlyn perhaps oddly inquires of S'van next, the woman trying to look casual as she grooms her hair, though her eyes can't seem to stop laughing in silence. "Indeed it is…" is noted of Igen, the candidate-cum-Harper adding on, "I went through three times my normal skin creme and sunscreen when I was performing there for some weeks a few Turns ago." Yep; a desert would be a near-literal hell for a pale redhead like her. "Thought I'd turn into a watch wher, sometimes. They only come out at night! As for Jiasle's 'was,' the other female is also looking at her for that choice of words. "You'll always be a Weaver, if you want to be." No more Thread, yaaay! Over her shoulder to S'van's comment is her rich, "Like all work; it follows us like a scenting hound." Near inescapable. Perhaps the Harper doesn't think the bronzerider's next inquiry is for her, for she just continues combing out, ruffling her hip-long locks. When Jiasle's rebuttals come…well, Kait is covering whatever expression her mouth has behind one gracefully artful hand. Those grey eyes, though… laughing is an understatement. She can hardly wait to hear what else the other two have to say to one another.

Other than that quick, inquisitive glance that inspired the initial inquiry into her craft, S'van pays no attention to the sketch-sketching and note-writing that takes up Jiasle's time and attention. It is a dress; he does not wear dresses. It is a craft-thing; he does not understand the language. Or perhaps he doesn't want to be nosy? Either way, his gaze lingers on curly blond hair rather than the papers she works with, head tilted slightly to the side in a thoughtful way, mouth quirked up at the corner with amusement mirrored in his gaze. "Oh?" for the assistance. "And what's that?" Is it an offer, or simply a snap at the bait? Hard to say. A small drum of his fingers against the stone, and he grins once more at Kaitlyn. "Reckless…" he offers. "Smart-ass. Stubborn…" a glance to the ceiling, as if he's mentally combing his brain to continue his list. "Probably a few things that would make a sailor blush, though I've not had them said to my face." And back to the redhead with that twinkling mischief and cocky grin. And again, that scrunched-up, totally immature expression for mention of Igen. "My condolences," for having had to work there.

Jiasle continues face S'van, twisted slightly in her seat to keep her eyes on his without faltering, "What was your candidacy like?" she askes simply, as if it was a simple question. Through perhaps it is, simple to ask at least. The blond does turn away to script across the top of the current sheet Candidate Robe, before closing the sheaf of papers, tucking the pencil into a catch even as she turns move fully to look at S'van curious to see if he'll answer.

Kaitlyn's comb pauses when S'van asks the pertinent question of Jiasle, the flamehead peering with outright intent between both as to how the blonde will answer. Whatever comes, the Harper sooner or later responds to the bronzerider with a low cackle of honest, dark mirth masked behind one hand. Can't be irking mama gold down there. Once she's done with her spate of humor, the sniffling, grinning dancer murmurs, "I used to sneak out to the wharf not far from my home when I was a child. The words I learned there…" A whoosh of her breath and a fanning of her self with her free hand — plus her excrement-eating grin — tells it all. Of Igen, "It was rather nice, actually. The caravans and the gypsy folk taught me even more about their dances." Does all Kait want to do is dance-dance-dance? With Jiasle's more serious inquiry comes a slightly let-down look, Kait wanting the verbal sparring to continue. But this is quite a legitimate, and even interesting inquiry, and she turns her attention from the blonde to the bronzer, curious as to what he'll say.

"Oh believe me, I know," says S'van in that dry, humored tone that says he knows of sailor language. But that amusement falters, and there's a much less cheerful twist to his mouth as the corner drops with a grimace. "I grew up in Igen. Sand, everywhere." And that's all he's going to say about that, it seems. The desert is dismissed without so much as a fare-well flick of his fingers. "You certainly seem to take this whole dancing thing seriously…" he teases lightly, that easy grin coming along once again to ease the stress from his face. "Course, Harper…" shrug. "Kinda says it all." Whatever that means? Who knows, cause S'van is not about to elaborate. Instead, he returns Jiasle's unwavering gaze with equal steadiness, relaxed. As if he's perfectly comfortable with being stared down. But whatever he expected to come from the blond, it certainly wasn't an inquiry into his own stint as a candidate. Eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise before furrowing into a thoughtful frown. "Er… hm. Well…" and he falls into silence, gaze going distant in a reminiscent fashion. "Life changing," is what he settles on, a rather fond, private sort of smile flittering across his face before he plasters that smirk over it. "And exhausting."

Jiasle glances at Kairlyn as S'van responds to her, but quickly returns to watching S'van. As he answers the blond's question, her expression looks curious as she notes the bronze rider's reactions as he speaks, but fades back to the polite neutral expression she'd been wearing along previously as nods slightly. "Thank you." is also she says, not pressing for further details, seemingly content with what little was said.

Very few know just how 'shocking' Kaitlyn's tongue can be when she's on a full-blown cussing rampage, but is seems like S'van might get it, anyway. The redhead can't help but inspecting that griamce from the man at word of Igen, her grey eyes subconsciously watching him for telltale signs of anything. "You've Half Moon now, though." Smile. Of 'D'ancing: "Shells yes, I do!" Kait looks proud, now. "Dance and art are the nectars of life. They come from the heart." With the bronzer's reply to Jisale comes her twist of lips into a wry smirk. "Yes, because you Impressed. I think she meant your candidate experience up until that point." No matter, it's not *her* question. That comb picks up gliding through her drying hair once again, the Weaver smiled at in quiet fashion.

"That I do," for having Half Moon Bay. And there, again, that bit of softening around the edges. A little bit of the heart of him showing through the bravado as his smile smooths ever so softly into something genuine rather than smart-ass. But it doesn't last long; that mischief and amusement is back full-force at the 'nectars of life', and a short laugh is barked in response. "Yeah, okay. Well… then I guess I'm screwed right out of that; can't dance to save my life." But of the subject of candidacy, there is a snort and a quick, "I know what she was asking," to follow Kaitlyn's comment. "And I wasn't talking about Aedeluth." But he does not deign to explain what it is he was talking about. Instead there is a quiet, "you're welcome," to Jiasle. And he means it, too. It comes with a straightening of his body; a slow collection of his body as he sorts and organizes sprawling limbs into working parts, gathering himself to enable to shift from sitting to standing to be one of surprising ease that, while not necessarily graceful, speaks to body awareness. "Duty calls," is all the explanation he's going to offer as to why he is suddenly moving off, booted feet producing a cacophony of sound to accompany his exit.

Jiasle bows her head slightly, politely, in farewell to S'van even as she turns back to watch the eggs and their dam. If she's thinking, or curious, or doing anything other watching is hard to tell, her eyes slowly shifting from egg to egg or along the body of the golden dragon watching over her clutch.

"I've only performed there once, and that was when I was 18…" Kaitlyn notes of Half Moon, nodding to S'van's pleasure at the thought of it. Of his inability to dance, the redhead smirks, notes, "A typical complaint from many people." She's heard them ALL. Shrug. His word of not meaning his own bronze gets the woman rolling her eyes a little, murmuring in return, "Mister clandestine, again." Snert. When S'van rises, Kait inclines her waist in a little bow, notes to the departing bronzer, "It was nice seeing you again, S'van. Have a safe trip back home." For once, the flamehead means exactly wheat she says, her one comb-less hand lifting in farewell, a smile offered. And when he's gone? It's back to her grooming, the woman looking down at the eggs in silence, though she does sometimes glance at Jiasle over her shoulder.

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