Fort Weyr

Fort Weyr - Galleries
The galleries are carved right out of the rock face, the rows and rows of benches rising high up into the air on a slight slant. Stone and wood benches that used to be known for offering little in the way of comfort, are now padded with cushions in Fort Weyr's colors. Placed along the railing at regular intervals are antique looking baskets filled with cheery fabric flowers. The curving walls sport tapestries in warm vibrant colors that seem to add a dash of color to the otherwise dreary stone. Where the galleries curve slightly at the ends, affording those attending hatchings or clutchings a decent view of the sands, shaded lanterns offer warm lighting along the rows of benches.

It's been a hectic few days since Ansia's arrival at Fort - the change of surroundings, the new layout, the new knot, the snoring in the barracks… it's perhaps not too much of a leap in reasoning to see why she might seek out the relative quiet of the galleries after dinner. Relative does not, however, imply emptiness. Small groups of residents have clumped around in the seating area, little clusters each with their own motives and plans. Ansia's however seem fairly mundane, almost stereotypical in some ways. She's sat on her own looking at the eggs.

Making for the relative quiet of the galleries must be a popular escape plan tonight. The snoring probably keeps Hanalee awake at night, too; it's remarkably hard to adjust back to the idea of sharing sleeping quarters with a group of others after the privilege of having one's own room for at least the past six turns. Nearly a seven after her own move to the barracks, the faint circles under her eyes promise that she's still working on the transition. Leaning against the wall near the entrance with a book tucked under one arm, the harper takes a moment to watch some of the others present; she could as easily be taking note of the members of those little groups as figuring out where she might not like to sit. Eventually, she pushes away from the rock face to walk along one of the higher rows of benches, carefully stepping down a row or two until she's taking a seat not so very far from Ansia. Permitting a small yawn to escape, she props her reading material open on her knees - even if her gaze, for the moment, seems to be anywhere but, inevitably drifting to the view below. With a slight lean forward, the book slips from its perch; the muffled thud that follows pulls an embarrassed flush to her cheeks. "Sorry, " she offers aloud with a wince toward the other candidate, extending an apologetic glance over her shoulder toward those other groups just in case.

Either someone's snuck a chicken into the galleries or Ansia's been startled again. The noise, which most definitely comes from her, is a shade too loud to go unnoticed and nets her a few giggles from further down the galleries that, on the surface of things, seem to go unnoticed. Instead her choice is to focus on Hanalee instead, and more importantly the retrieval of that book. It's lifted, dusted carefully, and then offered back over as Ansia flops down right next to her this time. "No need to apologise. Unless you actually meant to throw it at me in which case we may need to have a talk." There's a lightness there, echoed by a huge grin, that pretty much guarantees the comment was a joke. "I promise you it's not me that's keeping everyone awake at night. At least I don't think it is. I guess everyone thinks they don't snore until they're told they do. I'm Ansia, by the way. I don't think anyone ever actually introduced us. You're Hanalee, right?" Her expression practically screams 'please be right'.

Hanalee presses a hand to her chest in the wake of Ansia's vocalization, clearly subsequently startled. Her little gasp, however, gets overshadowed by the much louder sound and the giggles that emerge in its wake, leaving her shoulders to drop slowly as she reaches to reclaim her book with a sheepish look. "Thanks. I'm in no position to be throwing books at people, I assure you, " and her tone warms a little, apparently amused. Pun intended? One hand pauses over the cover of her book, as if to open it - and then smooths across the top instead as she neatly sets the slim volume aside. "I doubt I am, either, or I imagine I'd be getting much better sleep. I had a classmate at the hall who snored so impressively, yet she seemed to be the best rested of all of us each day." There's a quick flash of smile in response to her name. "You're taking care of that now, aren't you? Ansia, " and the corners of her mouth lift again, even as she studies the teen thoughtfully. "What do you do when you're not wearing a candidate's knot?"

No confirmation. Panic! It's only there for a second before Ansia tidies it away quite neatly into a smile that seems, on the face of it (pun intended) wholly genuine. "You never really know though, do you. With book throwers. Could be anyone. Fairly certain the snoring is Stefan though. Fairly certain." She pauses a moment, reconsiders, "Probably." Either she's rethinking the accusation or her mind has simply wandered off on a tangent of its own again, it's almost as hard to tell that as it is snoring. "Me? Oh I'm glasscraft. Not all of it, obviously, that would be a bit weird. A one person craft. I do pottery mostly, but F'inn lured me here with a promise of snow." And eggs, presumably, or her having the knot would be very strange. "What about you?"

"You never know, " agrees Hana affably, turning slightly to better give Ansia her undivided attention. Eyebrows lift for the supposition on the snoring culprit, but there's a small grin for what follows that widens at the mention of snow. "A one-person craft would be terribly strange, wouldn't it? You're not from Fort, " and it's matter-of-fact, hardly a question. "Somewhere warmer, perhaps? You've missed the worst of our winter, I suspect." Lighter, "Harper journeyman, archival specialist. I've been posted here about nine months, more or less. I didn't have too far to go." The shoulder with her candidate knot lifts briefly, drops again as her chin lifts toward the sands below. "Have you done this before?"

Ansia grins, "Guilty as charged. Cove originally, though Monaco now. Well… not so much /now/ I guess." For a second there's a look that almost touches on wistful, a longing that the newness of everything hasn't yet allowed to turn into full homesickness though the threat is there. "So long as I get to build a snow something I don't mind if it gets a little warmer, and until then I can always sit here." And there comes the truth in the situation, it's not just the eggs that brings here inside - it's the heat. The eggs do grab her attention again, however, as Hanalee gestures in that direction. "Not me. Feel like I've seen hundreds though, and that's just this turn! I think there are only two clutches on the sands back home just now, there were four at one point. This looks almost… empty." She falls silent, thinking. Remembering. "Your first time?" Finally she looks back around.

Shifting to more comfortably hook one knee over her other, Hanalee is nothing if not a very good listener, making thoughtful sorts of noise and nodding a little in the appropriate places. "You can, although if you want to sit somewhere with more comfort, there's always the hearths deeper in the caverns. I recommend a blanket or something similar, if you go that route." She's plainly surprised at the relative plethora of experience the younger crafter can offer, wide eyes moving to look down again, then back over at her conversation partner. "Four? How did they - I mean, it seems as if it would be like having too many cooks in one kitchen. The mothers didn't get in each other's way?" For her last, there's a self-deprecating sort of smile. "Mm, indeed it is. I've read about them and planned to view this one from, well, " and a hand vaguely waves to indicate the seats around them.

Ansia's expression could be described, by the generous, as knowing. Really it's more 'oh yeah, uh-huh' than anything, "I have no idea. Nobody died or anything so I guess they must have figured something out, but so many people. So many eggs! Have you ever tried keeping out of the way of a hundred candidates all looking for a way to get out of chores?" She hasn't either, but what's a little exaggeration between barracks-mates. But then comes the open shock. "Wait… you've never even seen one? Not ever?"

"I haven't, " replies the harper on the subject of candidate-dodging, still apparently impressed at the concept of a full barracks, a filled hatching cavern. "Given our present vista, it's a little hard to imagine. It doesn't seem very likely that we'll have that many neighbors to deal with over the coming sevens, " but there's a grimace for the thought anyway that turns into a rueful smile for the other's shock. "I expect that they're busy and fairly loud, given their nature, but - no, I've spent most of my time in holds or studying. I've not seen one. Yet." Talk about getting a front-row seat for one's first hatching.

Boggled. Baffled. Bemused. Some word beginning with B definitely covers Ansia's expression. "Yeeeeeeah." She draws the word out as long as possible, "You might want to talk to some of the riders about that. First one I ever saw I had no idea what was happening At All. There were eggs, then there were dragons, then there was just sand." She doesn't elaborate that she was six and fell asleep, but then again that would ruin the story. "It'll be fine though!" Drop the bombshell, then reassure. "At least we'll have a lot of room. I wonder if they'll let me sculpt them." Her train of thought jumps rails and keeps going, barely a breath in between. "Not sure I could get glazes the right colour though."

Hanalee's eyes widen appropriately for such a fast-paced description - as does her smile, expression at once curious and amused. "Just like that? So your advice for a first viewing is not to blink, huh. How long do they tend to last, in your experience?" Fingers absently brushing against the spine of her book, she glances again to what's visible of the eggs from their vantage point. "They do look strangely peaceful, given that they're growing small dragons." Her brow puckers faintly; that, too, might be a little difficult to imagine.

"Um… yes." Ansia's certainty does seem to have taken a slight hit, possibly because she wasn't entirely paying attention, though she laughs it off quickly. "They take… as long as they take, I guess. I suppose forever if you're left standing, but no time at all if you Impress? Like if you watch the kiln then things are never going to be ready, but if you do something else it takes no time at all… that only really works if you're a potter. I have no idea what a Harper equivalent would be? A watched song never writes itself?" She shrugs, pulling a little 'I dunno' face. At least the topic of eggs is safer. Ish. "Would you say that one's more mint green or pale seafoam?"

Such convincing conviction! Hanalee may or may not set much store into that advice, but she's patient while the potter hunts for a suitable metaphor. "Ask a composer, " she suggests of songwriting, but dismisses the concept entirely with a flick of a wave to the side. "I expect it will seem to go quickly, whether it does or doesn't." The topic of eggs and their colors might indeed be a safer one, but it's the harper's turn to be a little out of her element. "It's - a light green, " she pronounces with a little wrinkle of her nose. On a second glance, "Perhaps more toward seafoam? What would you call it, then?" wonders the non-artistic to the artist.

Ansia nods absently, only paying half attention which, frankly, is more than some people get once her brain tangents. "I'd call it… green. I get in trouble for that a lot to be honest." And here she puts on a rather decent impersonation of one of the journeymen that means absolutely nothing to anyone other than her. "But which shade, Ansia. Which shaaaade." A shrug, "I mean, it's still green. Sure is pretty though. Oh hey, do you write things as well as throw them at people? Stories and things?"

Hanalee, amusedly: "Ah, so we're in agreement." She shifts a little, an arm moving to drape across her midsection in her lap. "Other than the obvious lighter versus darker shades, I'm - not adept at naming shades of colors." Her study of the pastel impressions below is interrupted by that latest query; there's no protestation made against throwing things, but an eyebrow arches as she answers, "I don't write my own stories, but I do collect them from others and write about them for them if they can't do it themselves - folklore and history, mostly." No tales of derring-do, bodice-rippers or seat-edge thrillers here, apparently.

Oops, there it is again, that momentary expression on Ansia's face that's not quite quickly enough hidden away - disappointment this time, brief but unmistakable. "That sounds… fun though. You must read a lot." She pauses, clearly trying to think of a new direction for the conversation after it was so simply closed down, "So if you do history then I guess you must know a lot about… well.. everything, then? At least you'll be useful if they have you doing classes with the littles or something for chores."

"It's alright to call it infinitely dry, " Hanalee says with a little laugh, legs unfolding in an almost smooth fidget. "I don't expect it to be of significant interest to very many. It's not the sort of thing most people would read for pleasure, is it?" As for knowing a lot about everything and perhaps all the rest, she gives a small shake of her head in the negative, lips pursing for a moment. "Hardly everything. A little about a lot, perhaps, but there's always something new to learn. I have colleagues who are far better suited to teaching littles. Given my druthers, " she confides as she gathers her book, smooths a crease-that-isn't along her slacks, "I'd prefer a task that doesn't involve children. We're not all made for teaching and singing, popular and necessary though those disciplines are." Matter-of-fact, but at least her expression is kind as she gets to her feet. "I'm think I'm going to get a little walk in and return this book before curfew, " and if she's lucky, perhaps truly find some solitude in which to read for a few minutes along the way. "It was nice to meet you, Ansia. I'm sure I'll be seeing you." Especially if their cots aren't so very far apart.

Ansia listens, though there's an obvious point where her vocabulary and that of Hanalee diverge and a look of honest incomprehension takes over. It's almost a relief when the Harper-Candidate stands up, and this time Ansia doesn't even try to hide her disappointment. "They don't let you keep them?" At least she doesn't make any attempt to stop her from leaving, or worse attempt following her. "Almost guaranteed. It was nice talking to you, Hanalee." She waits a moment, turning away as soon as it wouldn't be too rude. Just rude enough to be careless rather than insulting. "Mint. It's probably more mint. Sure is pretty."

"Not the ones you borrow, " Hana replies with similar disappointment. And as Ansia turns away, the blonde takes a few steps up to walk along the back wall toward the exit. For a moment, she pauses to dust off her slacks - or better observe the potter's profile while she's looking outward, expression openly amused before it mostly smooths. There's a half upward curve that lingers about her mouth as she resumes her course for the antechamber, footsteps steady.