Welcome to Gaia! ::

It was her first time in a Weyr, but it was startling how very -welcome- the environment was. The first thing that struck her was the obvious intermingling between men and women. Talking, romancing, idle conversation. Every once and again two men or two women would come through the mess hall linked arm and arm, their relationship obvious and undeniable. Perhaps her androgynous clothing had been unnecessary, the unease roiling in the pit of her stomach letting its tight chords loosen and her shoulders relaxed as the evening meal went by.

One thing she loved about a Weyr was their ample amount of wine, none of that grain alcohol swill they used to keep the miners complacent back at the cot holds. She licked her lips greedily as she finished her third drink, waving her arm to call a drudge over to refill her empty mug. It would be her arm that was raised and not a hand, simply because there would not -be- a hand at the end of her right forearm, but rather a bandaged stump where it should have been. The wine was doing wonders for her, deadening the ache within her wound and the phantom itching pain within a hand that was no longer there. Damn that wher.. damn those men… Damn them all to the bitter cold of between.

She tucked back into her meal at the end of an empty table, her right forearm wrapped protectively around the plate as if she were afraid someone was going to take it from her. Where she'd grown up, that was something commonplace among workers who found it easy to snatch up another man's rations if they were too weak to fight for it. Though it looked as if no one was going to do such a thing here, old habits die hard.

So there she sat, cross-dressed in a man's tunic and pants, a layer of grit along her jawline that could perhaps be mistaken for stubble from a ways enough away. It would be easy enough to mistake her for one, but then again, possible enough that perhaps her ruse would fail if one had a keen eye for her softer shaped brow and lack of adam's apple. She looked rather… inhospitable a creature regardless of obvious gender, lurched over her food protectively. If that weren't enough, her cutlery has been abandoned of her personal belt knife, with which she speared every slice of greasy, gravy laden roast wherry with relish before pushing it into her face. She wore a miner's knots across her shoulder, dusty and ratty looking and in dire need of just being thrown away in preference for a new chord. The cleanest part of her body would be the fresh bandage, and she smelled of body odor. Perhaps that would be the thing that gave her away; she didn't -smell- male to someone who would know the difference. Of course, that didn't really mean she smelled -good-, either.