No, she is not the angelic beauty, magnificent and blinding in her charm, but has the kind of sweet-faced attractiveness of the girl-next-door. Neatly arranged ringlets in the darkest hue of coffee hang about olive skin, hinting at some tropical heritage. Large eyes rimmed by almost opulent lashes look out with a kind of calm, collected attitude to them, settled as they are on either side of a rather aristocratically prim nose. Short and somewhat chubby, she still seems comfortable with her physique.

Practicality is evidenced in every stitch of her sturdy, light weight clothing - loose and breezy to help combat the humidity and tropical heat of Ista Weyr. Wonderfully thin, cool cotton comprises her pale, camel-hued blouse, scoop-necked and short sleeved. Rust colored trousers cover short legs, likewise light weight cotton that flows easily with her movement. Wher hide sandals cover small feet, revealing her toes to keep them cooler than heavy boots would accommodate. On one shoulder hangs the elaborate orange, gold and black knot of the Istan Weyrwoman.

Almond-shaped liquid brown eyes are the most striking thing about her. Easy steps carry tall and lithe frame with the grace of flowing water. Cascades of midnight are tied back harshly from her face, bound several times, the runnertail twisted into dozens of tiny braids. Her nose is wide, lips full and slightly off-colour. Lovely skin, like the softest brown dragon's hide wraps around her very tall form and only gets darker with the heat of the sun. She's not so beautiful as she is exotic, an innocence to her upright carriage and flashing dark eyes.

Soft, melded brown material wraps around her slim, yet slightly curvaceous form., the shirt ending at her hips. A softer brown skirt flares outwards from her hips, the edges embroidered in winding patterns. Her clothing isn't overly fine, but flattering on her nonetheless.

The blank, pale complexion of one that rarely sees the sun leads off this young woman's appearance, like delicate bone china, in stark contrast to the jet black of her gently waved hair. Her slim body shows little sign of muscle, as though she keeps active, but rarely does anything strenuous, making her appear even moreso fragile, and perhaps a little waif-like. Perhaps five foot five is her height, but certainly little more than that, although she strains higher on the balls of her feet, as if walking on a cloud of air. Deep, coal shaded eyes are set back in her face, slightly sunken, passing shadows onto her slim, long nose, and defined features. A scarlet ribbon -- a startling contrast to her colorless appearance -- acts as a headband, pulling her hair from her face, and letting said hair fall gently onto her shoulders, although the style makes her younger than her 20 turns.

Fine linen has been shaped into her airy tunic of deep green, thin and sculptured around her body, and worn over flowing, creamy-shaded pants of a light cotton. Fawn-shaded boots with only a very little tread indicate that her work is indoors, and have been painstakingly dyed a rich scarlet to match the ribbon in her hair. On the rare occasions that she is seen outdoors, a straw hat of a complicated weave protects her pale face from the rays of the sun.

Shaded and cool, there is an almost soft feeling to the stone interior of the Hold, the windows nothing but long, deep slits that allow slow sifts of exterior illumination to filter into the hall. Flung with tapestries, the environs are colorful if not necessarily lively, for most of this tropical Hold's population is generally at seaside errands that prevent them from having too much time for socializing in the great hall. Still, there are always warm, sweet scents that waft in from the kitchens, setting stomachs to grumbling as the drift over to the attentive nose.

Tables are arranged in regular rows along the floor, benches beside them with wide aisles to allow easy passage. A swinging doorway leads into the kitchen, while a flight of stairs leads deeper into the Hold. Lesser exits diverge here and there, leading to a maze of inner corridors. The great, metal doorway that leads to the courtyard is almost always left open so that gently salted breezes will flutter inside.

<Public> Shansi notes that Shansi was one of those rescued on the ship, but promptly disappeared within the Hold to pamper herself after all that trauma. And has taken this entire time getting herself calmed and prettied. And is just now emerging.

Saimea runs her fingers through her own tangled mess of black hair. "Was that him I heard hooting and hollering when the whole thing started?" an amused grin dances across her lips. "It was scary, especially when that man started shaking." she shivers at the memory. "I wish I knew more about healing, I could have done more than throw blankets over people."

Grinning to bounce off a nod, Alyssa replies, "That was probably A'poc, yes. He's a sturdy old fellow, just not all there, you know?" She chuckles fondly after that particular old bluerider, shaking her head at the man's utter lack of regard for his own safety. Then, glancing up at J'sen's approach, she blinks and finds herself with a pile in her lap. "Wherever did you find them? Lord Corwyn might take offense to our grubby Weyr hands riffling through his stores."

Shansi arrives in time to catch the end of Saimea's comment, and she gives a little toss of her head -- perfectly dry (not to mention artfully arranged) blonde curls bouncing faintly. "Indeed. You might have made it much more comfortable for some of us." She crosses her arms over her chest, fingers tapping almost impatiently. "I should have demanded a rider to take me, and I knew it." No explanation or introduction is offered, as if she simply expects people to know who she is.

J'sen snorts and pours himself a cup of klah. "Lord Corwyn can bite my brownriding butt, Weyrwoman. If it weren't for us, he'd have a bunch of dead bodies washing up on shore come the morning." Well, it doesn't get more blunt than that. "And it's not as if we won't replace anything we take." He plunks down on a bench with a groan. "So, you have dry clothes. Wear them."

Saimea grins from where she lays on the floor, hands tucked behind her head. "Well, I don't suppose it's such a bad thing to be a little loose now and again, as long as it doesn't endanger, right?" not that she really knows. She stifles a yawn, tiredness really starting to creep into her form. She looks like she's about to drift off, when Shansi's snap brings her to alertness. She sits up, her own dress in tatters, an off-colour sweater draped around her form, hair in a mess of frizz. The tall girl looks over the Holder with interest, brows furrowing. "Excuse me?" she utters in disbelief. Surely she couldn't have been aboard the ship, not if she looks like that already.

Alyssa looks up and over at a new entrant, no doubt startled to see anyone out and about in this sort of a storm. "You should have demanded?" she repeats, a brow arching as she makes to remove herself from the confines of her chair - a very slow, drawn process that may take several long seconds to complete. Weariness settles in chilled bones too quickly at times. Surprise, however, takes longer and leaves her dark gaze dropped on J'sen, "You will remember that we are guests in his Hold, Wingleader, and bite your tongue."

J'sen mutters something softly under his breath, takes one look at Shansi and drops his head to his folded arms on the table. It seems all these women are more than he can deal with, because only a moment or two passes before soft snores become audible.

Shansi pales a bit at the mention of dead bodies, even beneath her perfect tan. And then she arches one brow at this brownrider, "But that's just it. My clothes were on the ship, and a great lot of good they'll do me now. Probably been taken away by thieving Weyrfolk, from the sound of it." Tap, tap, tap go the fingers on elbow. "Of course, though, I've changed clothes. I couldn't simply walk around like that -- like some ... sodden beast or another." She eyes Saimea as she speaks, then abruptly murmurs, "It feels so much better to know I'm looking nice, even in such retchedly cheap, borrowed material." She stops her tapping long enough to pick at the material on her shoulder in disdain.

Ismaye ambles in, body all scrunched up as if she's trying to hide under her huge, floppy straw hat. It isn't working very well, but this doesn't appear to have phased her in the slightest, since she straightens, and pulls of the hat. "Good -- night? Yes, good night." And why she needed a hat at night is just as peculiar.

Saimea looks Shansi over once again, the very tall young woman rising to her feet, bare toes flapping slightly on the ground. Her dress is in tatters around the edge, and she looks much more like someone who was just washed up in a shipwreck than the girl before her. "You should be a little more greatful you know." she returns steadily, the edges of her sleeve of the too-big sweater dipping below her hands. as she jestures with a finger. "If it weren't for those riders, you would have drowned."

Frowning slightly, the rather tired Alyssa heaves a great sigh, absently folding the clothes over her forearm and looking Shansi over with obvious disappointment. "Child? Would it have pleased you more to sink with your belongings?" She nods toward Saimea, apparently approving of the comment before she glances beyond toward the girl with the hat. "Good? Well, that's a new word for it," with a vaguely entertained laugh.

Ismaye is dripping wet, too, but not shivering. No, she seems quite at home being cold. Her eyes raise slightly at Alyssa's words, and she half-manages a grin, "Well, it could be worse. Snow'd be worse, for you lot. Not that that'd ever happen here." She fingers her hat, eyeing the sopping straw, "But I believe you're probably more right." She shakes, quickly, sending a bit of water about, and then heads for the serving table.

Shansi flicks her gaze towards Ismaye, visibly measures the girl, and then ... dismisses her, gaze returning to those currently being given complaint. "Oh, sure, that's dandy. But why did those stupid men not know better than to sail into a storm? And I wasn't even the first person saved -- imagine that, daughter of a Lord Holder having to fight the seas until someone finally assisted me." She pouts a little, then turns to address Alyssa, "Weyrwoman, do let me convey High Reaches' thanks to your riders, all the same." An innocent and neutral smile of politic forms on her lips, as if she'd not just been bemoaning those riders' lack of order.

Saimea rolls her eyes at Shansi, but she stops short at the mention of her title. Of course, she just /slipped/ that in there conveniently, right? She frowns, glancing over to Alyssa in hopes of gaining help, or at least getting permission to say what's on her mind to this girl without fear of sullying the Weyr's reputation. She's not a rider, after all, not really a representative. She grits her teeth, and holds her tongue for the most part, except to say, "How were they supposed to know who you were with all those people out there? You'd rather be pulled out first, and have people who were in greater need die in the meantime?" so, something did slip by. It's not half of what she was meaning to say. This also isn't a good state for her, exhausted both physically and mentally, and now annoyed by this girl.

Shaking her head some at this girl and her talk of snow, Alyssa is inclined to comment, "Too true, dear. Too true. I hope you haven't been out in this... mess." For lack of a better word. She only returns to Shansi, as contained as one long evening will allow, "And allow me to return Ista's duties to the Reaches and her well-bred daughters." Somewhere between coming and going, the Weyrwoman lingers only for the necessary pleasantries, it seems.

Ismaye shrugs her shoulders gently, eyeing Alyssa's knot for a quick moment, "Only briefly, Weyrwoman." She turns her head, regarding Shansi a moment, and puts her nose in the air, turning away. No use trying the impossible. A trail of drips forms behind her as she heads towards the tables, klah in hand. "I don't know if I want to join the lot of you, but I don't think you'll mind if I do?"

Shansi shrugs, "That's not my concern; the fact is, that water was very cold, and I was scared. Who's to say I couldn't have just given up and slipped under?" But, enough of this. Shansi flicks one hand in distraction, then pauses to peer at her nails a moment. "Hmm..." Finally, she looks back at Saimea, "It's all right, though. I'm certain my parents will be very forgiving when they find that I *am* okay. Unless I catch a cold, which would certainly be dreadful." Ismaye's question earns another brief glance, followed by what might pass for an indifferent shrug. (nevermind that she's only just joined this little group, and without question or introduction)

"Well," says Alyssa, finally starting to move on toward the inner recesses of the Hold, "I'm glad enough to hear that." The statement could have been meant for either Ismaye or Shansi; the Weyrwoman doesn't deignt to clarify. "If you'll excuse me, I should get changed and find someplace to bed for the evening, hm? Stay out of the rain, ladies."

Saimea gives up on Shansi for the evening, finding sleep - even at her spot by the hearth on the rug (and a fur she managed to procure) preferable to arguing with her. She sinks back to it, tugging a found blanket up over her, hands tucking into the sleeves of her oversized sweater. And like the others before her, she drops into a deep, peaceful, and much-needed slumber, oblivious to the words of those still present, no matter how loud the voices may get.

Shansi finally includes Ismaye in more than a passing gaze, as if suddenly caught by some intriguing fact or another. "Snow, you say? I quite like it, myself. But that's my parents. Where *did* you say you were from?"

At this point, someone else catches Shansi's attention by hauling one of her trunks through the cavern. And she abruptly stands, with just an "Excuse me, but that dolt is mishandling my things. Why, if my father could see this...!" Like that, the girl has rushed off to scold the poor man.