Welcome to Gaia! ::

It was late, and the sun filtered red and golden through the clouded skies, lighting the clouds in a bright array of color. The clouds, too thin to resist the light, made the evening seem brighter somehow, bright enough even for Galeia to tune her gitar and set to plucking out a stretching tune to loosen her fingers. She sat near one of the lower, back entrances of the weyrs, most often used by traders and workers who went down the slopes to gather local greens and herbs. This late in the evening, with chores and dinner over, the entrance was empty and dust laid undisturbed on the ground. A few dragons sunbathed in the last warm rays on this side of the weyr, but the basking ledges and weyrs were too high up for her presence to be noted even by draconic eyes. She was not averse to company now, but playing in the Lower Cavern would have invited an audience, and she was more interested in playing with a few rhymes. They’d sprung up in her head over the course of the day during more tedious chores, and she wanted to set them to tune before she’d forget them. She hummed in even tones along with the gitar’s chords, relaxing her voice as well.

As intent as she was on playing, she might not have heard the approach if the footsteps hadn’t been discordant with her beat. Disturbed, she played a counterpoint and rematched the beat to the stride, noting it was short. She half turned, half ready to give a baleful look to a wandering child, but the visitor wasn’t that young, only carrying a heavy load. Her eyebrow cocked and her fingers came to a pause. In the still moment, her gaze had a nearly draconic cast, acutely observant and considering, but her eyes were too flat and still to continue the resemblance of a whirling-eyed dragon. “Oh, it’s you. I’ve seen you about before.” She had been sitting on a low outcropping of rock that jutted from the face of the weyr. She turned more fully, cradling her gitar, to face him. “I’m Galeia.” She’d been curious about the lad as she was most newly arrived candidates, but hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with him until now. That sack of his shoulder didn’t signal they would have much time for conversation, but her voice was unhurried and thoughtful.

Galeia nodded, apparently pleased at the introduction. “An apprentice, or I was. I’m playing at candidate now, so my studies are on hold until that develops or falls through.” She looked amused for some reason about that, and the emotion deepened as she continued. “Sorry you met me at my scratching practice. I would have struck a balad if I thought I’d have an audience.”

Galeia reserved a smug look. Her pride didn’t hear much about his lacking knowledge about music, hearing instead a potentially attentive listener. She noted him glancing about and it pulled her attention to the moment. “Good meeting you. I suppose you’d like to put that down, hmm?” She pulled the strap over her head and slung it behind her back as she rose, looking about. “I think the heap is down that slope. I’ll walk with you,” she offered in such a certain tone there was no room for argument. “What Hold are you from?”

She was pleased he was from the weyr’s beholden Hold. At least it was larger than some of the smaller-minded and bordered cotholds. “I was born here. Father is a brownrider, and Mother was a caverns worker, not that it masters much since most children here foster to their milkmothers.” The smell of the compost heap preceded its appearance, and she sniffed. “How long have you been here? Either I’ve been obtuse or you’re a quiet one, because I didn’t notice your arrival.” Her voice teetered between apologetic and annoyed about this.

A whole week? She’d noticed him – what? – three days ago? It was a good thing the stench was giving her an excuse for making a displeased expression. And a cotholder at that, though he didn’t seem to mind her manner, which she knew to be authoritive. She wondered if that was out of open-mindedness, or if weyr life was bearing down on him too harshly for trivialities to bother him. She paused, thoughtful about his claimed aloofness. All this internal debate was distracting her from her music, of course, but she thought of puzzling over people the same as she did tuning on her gitar. “How are you finding weyr life?” she asked.

Galeia grimaced in sympathy. They finally reached the compost pile. The stinking mound, riddled with insects and moldering, stood as a testament to their unfavorable duties. Her gitar was too delicate to risk swinging around with sacks of garbage, and she hoped he didn’t mind her standing aside and just watching him work now. “I miss my harper lessons,” she agreed from as close a distance as she dared. “Learning the balands on all the instruments was grueling, but it was a different sort of thing.” She brightened slightly. “If your craft requires nimble fingers, there are some rough stones down by the lake you can scrub your calluses off with. Works well enough for me.” Except for the ones on her fingertips tat helped her pluck strings, the calluses on her palms and the grooves of her fingers only stiffened her hands. “I was so terrified of not being able to play when I first started getting rough hands that I thought about dropping candidacy until I thought to scrub the worst of the calluses off. Makes your hands sore, but it works.”

Galeia snorted in an unladylike way. In fact, though she had a nicely feminine form and prettily structured face, she hardly seemed to do anything to cultivate her looks. Her linen pants were threadbare, she wore her tunic without overlying jerkin, and her arms were prickled with wherry-flesh in the cool evening air. Even her boots, though tightly laced, were dirty and needed a good scrubbing. Her hair at least seemed well washed, but rarely brushed it was mostly half-formed mounds of confused curls. She pushed a clump back (at least her fingers moved delicately thanks to her dexterous craft) and gestured to return up the slope, away from the smell. “Sometimes we have to clean them. It’s not often, but there’s so many parts to work with it’ll take your entire day when the chore comes. You'll have your chance then.”