Fort Weyr

Fort Weyr - Bathing Cavern
A high, domed ceiling stretches far overhead, voices echoing in the distance. Warm, moist air fills the room, coming from the variety of pools scattered about. Vines have been planted in baskets and grow up the walls, thriving in the soft artificial light provided by glows placed at random intervals about the room.

Fort's springs may be warmer than her dead-of-winter, but it's presently still cool enough to prompt some to seek the all-over comfort that comes from immersing oneself into a heated bath. The bathing cavern isn't terribly full mid-afternoon; for every person that eventually leaves, one or two more might enter, and there's been little enough traffic over the past hour that claiming a pool for oneself isn't terribly difficult. It's hard to tell if Hanalee's shirt is stained with mud or some type of grease, but the dark stains that are everywhere garner a marked grimace as she heads for a pool closer to the back of the room. Accustomed to living in a weyr she might be after almost a turn, but old habits die hard - the soap gets nudged into the water first. It's not until there's a good amount of bubbles swirling that she frees herself from her soiled laundry and sinks into the water, eyes closing briefly with a little sound of relief before she practically sets to scrubbing.

Two sevendays - definitely not enough time for the poor, sheltered, hold-bred Morozko to settle in to anything in the Weyr, much less the communal nakedness that is the Bathing Cavern. Certainly, the young man has most often been found in the caverns very early in the morning, attempting to visit while they are mostly deserted, but alas, today the luck is not with him. What drives him to the bathing caverns in the middle of the day? It seems that the young man has had an unfortunate time in the stable yards, given the state of his clothes - and his general being. He appears not long after Hanalee has found a pool of her own, trudging in with a downtrodden, exhausted expression, eyes searching for a pool of his own, spotting one behind Hanalee. Boots and belt are at least shed to avoid the water ruining the leather - but then he is slipping into the pool, clothes and all - hopefully the laundry women appreciate his attempt to demuck things first.

It's a tricky thing, turning about in the water while staying mostly underneath layers of bubbles, but the harper manages well enough, submerging momentarily to thoroughly wet her hair while Morozko's trudging to that nearby pool. Squinting on emergence until she can grab her towel to pat at her face, she just catches a glimpse of Mo-and-clothes sliding into the water over there. The corners of her mouth twitch in silent amusement, even as she rubs something sweet-smelling into a lather to work on her hair, shoulders just visible above the froth. "Multitasking?" she prompts across the way without looking at the younger fellow, alto kept low to avoid disturbing the cavern's other occupants. "Or was it just that bad?"

Absently, Mo flails around in the water to grab some soap, which he starts the slowly scrub at his shirt, even as it starts floating up around his chest, the farmer-candidate frowning as he attempts to push it back under the water and against him to get some lather going. And so, it is a long moment before it occurs to him that maybe that voice is talking to him - and pausing in his attempt, he slowly turns to peer over the edge of the pool to the questioner. "It was that bad. At least farming is good clean dirt." As opposed to whatever he fell in this afternoon. With a sigh, he finally gives up, pulling the shirt over his head, dumping the soggy fabric on the edge of the pool. "You're.. a candidate, right?" The whole, lack of knot thing makes it hard.

As Hana wrings out her hair after taking another underwater dip, there's a narrow sort of look for the farmer in the wake of his pronouncement on 'good, clean dirt, ' or maybe that's just her attempt to keep the soap from getting into her eyes until she can dry her face again on the no-longer-neat towel up there. Perhaps it's just the latter, for her tone is a friendly one when she rejoins with, "Some might argue that dirt isn't clean at all." Shifting again so that she can better wash and talk simultaneously, she resumes scrubbing and tactfully avoids looking directly at his movements. This polite looking-but-not might be enough to allow her to keep both voice and countenance fairly even while they're both trying to get clean, so her eyebrow-arch gets aimed at a spot several inches removed from his boots. "I am. Hanalee, and either I've seen someone across the room who looks like you, or you're also among our number - and also not of the weyr, " she guesses, turning away to rinse again.

"Some would be wrong, then." There is a little grump from the other candidate, as he struggles to rub at dirt here and there, frowning at one particularly stubborn spot. "Runners, however. Runners are definitely not clean." He adds, if Hanalee maybe needs clarification on his stance on the animals. Mo carefully positions himself to not be rude - neither with his back fully towards Hanalee nor facing her directly - more than happy to continue the conversation over the distance between the pools. "I, uh, yeah. I was a farmer apprentice. I mean, I guess I still am. But a candidate, at least for a bit longer, now, too." More unnecessarily explanation and he lifts a hand to rub at his hair, forehead creasing as water drips into his face. "I'm Mo.." He offers, going for his preferred nickname - don't tell Zurii.

Hanalee is an efficient bather, all things considered, but adds another little bit of soap to the pool just the same, sinking back down into the warmth with a contented exhalation and eyes that soon close. "No, " she agrees, "runners certainly don't fall under the category of 'clean.' Books, on the other hand, " and there's a sideways curve of a smile, one hand lifting to swirl through the water next to her with neither direction nor apparent intent. "Farmer Mo, " says the harper thoughtfully, permitting a note of something idyllic into her voice as if she's being lulled by the comfort created by the warm water. "I've noticed that most people who are more comfortable here are quicker to put some distance between themselves and articles that need laundering. Where did you say you were studying before?"

Truly, clothes in pools are not only not helpful, they are a particular hindrance when trying to relax - and it seems that Mo's have at least soaked long enough for maybe the worst to be gone, for they are joining the soggy pile on the edge of the pool, even as the farmer is following Hanalee's lead, adding soap for a protective bubble layer - He is not one to disparage bubble baths. Mo has a rather blank look on his face as books are mentioned, slowly nodding, "Uhm, yes. Books." A hand rubs at his nose and he suddenly finds the bubbles quite interesting, thankful for the change in subject. "We've a plot maybe an hour cart ride from here. To test things out, for Fort. But I was on Ista Isle for a few turns. Good soil, that." His nods are used as punctuation, before he squints at her a bit. "I'm sorry, I've missed your name?"

There's a non-committal sort of noise from Hanalee's direction even as she gradually reaches to pull her wet hair back and up, twisting it in such a way that it will (hopefully) stay mostly in place for a few moments. "And has your plot been successful, or was Ista more to your liking with its lack of snow?" Taking that opportunity to rise enough to shake open her towel, she's quick to wrap it around her before sitting on the edge of the pool, apparently more at ease with this approximation of modesty. For her name, there's a patient repeat of, "Hanalee, " only this time she adds, "Harper journeyman, " after. And candidate, goes unspoken.

"It is a much different growing season, certainly, but it allows for more creativity. I've been working on a new project, with my Journeyman, hopefully it will make winters more interesting here." Mo rambles with a level of comfort that has been rarely displayed by the Farmer-candidate in the sevendays since he has arrived at the Weyr, and one that can only be attributed to his familiarity with the subject at hand. As Hanalee is shifting to sit on the edge of the pool - towel or not - Mo is blushing darkly, hurriedly setting his back to her and sinking into the water up to his chin. "Are you a music harper, or another law harper, or?" He asks, curious, even as he makes no move to turn around, perhaps resulting in gargled words.

Hanalee, feet still dipped into the warm waters of her own pool, misses Mo's blush; she's busy sifting through her belongings to find a second towel to wrap around her still-wet hair. "Archivist, " she answers mildly, once towel-and-hair have been retwisted into place. For all that she's clearly occupied with getting situated post-bath, there's the slightest turn of her chin in the other candidate's direction to show that she's paying closer attention to their conversation. "You've met a law harper, " she supposes, but doesn't outright ask whom. "One of our fellow candidates, perhaps? It's hard to keep up with all of the names and faces."

Mo's mouth opens and closes as he considers what exactly an Archivist does - and from the look on his face it is clear he wants to ask, but thankfully politeness keeps him from doing just that. "Fancy dressed one.. He seemed worse off in the stable than I did. And there was his friend.." Mo frowns a little as he considers the interation he had with Jian and Yunwei, before shrugging and shaking it off, remaining hiding in his own pool. "I think that's what I've heard they study. All you harpers, though, you'll be good for when the eggs hatch."

It's not out of the realm of possibility that Hanalee has noticed Yunwei's and Jian's faces in passing during the in-and-out of the barracks through the past couple of sevens, perhaps in glances just long enough to note that they must belong there now, too. Matter-of-factly, "Runner care typically isn't in our curriculum. I don't know the first thing about it, myself - although I'm given to understand that there are some harpers who enjoy it." As towel and air help to dry her off some more, she shrugs the towel down to her waist, sliding quickly into a clean shirt that buttons down the front; awkwardly, she struggles into her smallclothes underneath the top before fastening it - and successfully doesn't flash the boy behind her in the process. There's some maneuvering beneath the towel with another clean item before she steps into well-enough tailored slacks, not at all the sort one would wear for working in a stable or helping a maintenance crew. At length, she's acceptably attired enough that she can turn to face the back of his head more fully while carefully drying excess water from around the edge of her bathing pool. "You think so?" Blue eyes study what she can see of him from this distance, expression waxing thoughtful. "I wasn't aware that understanding dragons was in your curriculum, farmer Mo." Her lips curve slightly, tone amiable to soften what could sound critical. "Why do you suppose they wouldn't want someone who - I assume - spends time nurturing and caring for growing things?"

"I've been told it should help us with young dragons, should we Impress, but even though I am not sure I understand.." Mo admits with a shrug, shoulders visibly tense as Hanalee dresses - even carefully - behind him. Absently, arms shift enough to try and pull more bubbles towards himself in a concealing manner, even as he finally ponders her words, tilting his head up at her. "They know so much more. And that Ryan, she belongs here." A shrug, and Mo makes no move to meet Hanalee's gaze, instead staring at her feet. "There's a lot of us, traditional to give them a good choice, I know. And ain't right to say no to a dragonrider." A pause, and he finally glances up at her face. "Why did you say yes?"

Hana's feet are busy being mostly dried off with economical presses of that quite-damp towel, which finally gets set aside in favor of letting them wiggle their way into a dry pair of socks. "I don't know how to - what did you say - be creative with growing seasons, " she points out, gaze shifting away from his once their eyes meet to find a respectable spot a few inches away instead. "I helped with some crops near Boll once, but I was following instructions from someone who probably understands the wherefores. That's not my area of expertise, " and one hand dismisses that story with a little flick of her fingers. "Anyway, Mo. What I know about dragons is only what I've read and heard from various accounts, but the only thing I think most of those sources seem to agree on is that there's still no way to really know why a newly-hatched dragon goes for one person over another. We have hundreds of turns of records, and even if you simply looked at the origins of our weyrwomen alone, you'd be in there forever trying to find something that every woman had in common prior to their names becoming a matter of public record." After she finishes lacing up her shoes, a hand lifts to the crown of her head to undo that towel-turban and fluff at the wavy strands, lips pressing briefly into a line for his last. Her practical address of his concerns can't stall her answer any longer; finally, "It's a chance for a unique experience that probably won't come for me again. No one asked when I was fifteen, or twenty, or twenty-five, and I had just assumed it wasn't an experience that I was meant to have. I was planning to see my first one from somewhere up in the galleries." It's not the whole truth, perhaps, but enough of one.

While Hanalee is busy taking advantage of all that Harper Archivist knowledge to discuss the whys and hows of draconic selection, Mo is listening, certainly, but he is also quite aware of his soggy pile of clothes sitting right there as well. And so, it is a slightly distracted Mo that is shifting to try and reach one arm over the edge of the pool and gather his things into a neater, though still soggy, pile. Of course, there is that moment of honesty from Hanalee, and Mo looks surprised more than anything else. "Oh.." He offers softly, before tilting his head to peer up at her, actually looking at her now that there is no danger. "I'll be hoping for you, out there on the Sands together." He smiles as he says it, tilting his head. "For it to turn out however you want it to."

"Oh, " echoes Hanalee dryly, but returns his smile with a genuine one of her own. "Well, " she clears her throat, "How kind, Mo. I expect only for it to be memorable - and on that, I'm sure it'll deliver." And with that neat avoidance of the topic of what she wants, the harper pushes to her feet, carefully scooping up her towel and discarded clothing. "I'll leave you to the - relative privacy, " with a glance toward the doorway, "of your bath." She's not quite several steps away before she pivots to add, with lifted eyebrows, "When they're ready, I'll be hoping that you'll find yourself pleasantly surprised." For a moment, both eyes and expression assess - but smooth back into a grin. "Don't let your fingers and toes get too wrinkly, hmm?"

There is a bit of confusion, of suspicion, on Mo's face as Hanalee so neatly, so precisely sidesteps any comment on his remarks - or her true feelings on the matter, but then the Archivest is moving towards the door, and Mo is climbing partway out of the bath and stretching a wrinkly hand towards his towel. Her sudden turn has him freezing awkwardly, gasping rather like a fish out of water as he leans on the edge of the pool, nodding. "Uhm. Thank you. I won't." He finally manages, too awkward to move back into the water, or to just finish retrieving his towel - that is until she is gone, and he sets about finding something decent enough to get him to the laundry and back to the barracks.