Right now the amphitheater is serving as the choir's practice room. The performers stand on a tiered platform, and wear color-coded robes - brighter colors for the higher pitched voices (and with Eeee, that can be extremely high) transitioning to darker ones for the baritones (which apparently also has some Eeees). There is a mix of Nagas, Eeees, Karnors, Vartans and humans.. and a few brightly robed Silent-Ones and even a Korv and a Vykarin. They aren't all evenly spaced either, as the size differences vary widely.
When Tasha arrives, she's immediately handed a gray robe and led to the front row of seats, where several other gray-robed people sit. Captain Frane stands at the conductor's podium, wearing a plain white robe - but Tasha can see the Vartan's tail is adorned with colorful ribbons.
Tasha sits with her hands in her lap, leaning forward as she watches from her seat. Like much of her experience in this institution of higher learning, she fights the distinct feeling of being out of place, alien, and a bit lost. The robe, while bland and uniform, is something she's never worn before and she's certain no one has ever wanted to hear her sing unless they were very, very drunk.
Still, she has to admit it's not the feel-bad sort of lost she used to feel. In the days she's been here, she's begun to acclimate and has finally reached a point where she doesn't feel like she's about to be told to leave, fail, or be laughed at. And, thinking she's worried quite enough about fitting in and feeling different, she pushes herself to focus on the practice infront of her.
Without a word, Frane begins to conduct. The piece starts slowly, with only the tenors. The words they sing are meaningless to Tasha, if they're even words at all. Because what it really is .. is music. And it's large. Like with the marching band, it seems to take over parts of the body, forcing the rhythms to sync up.
When the music starts up, Tasha's ears perk. As it continues, her eyes begin to widen. She's never heard anything like it; To her, it sounds like the chorus of angels -- the voice of heaven -- yet sad on a level she can't place and doesn't understand. As the chorus rises to envelope the singers, the room, and her, she swallows hard, ears flattening as it hits her. To her, it sounds like what waits for her on Arcadia, something bigger, and grander, and somehow sacred, threatening to consume her and overwhelm her in its majesty. A shining brightness, casting long shadows of her fears and insignificance.
Eventually all of the voices join in, and it really is best described as a religious experience. When Frane lowers his baton, he critiques, "Howard, Juny and Fester.. you were a bit slow in sixth verse." He then turns to look at the rookies in the first row. "Well, for some of you this was probably the first full choir you've heard. What did you think?"
As the chorus dies down, tasha finds herself staring at her hands, ears flattened. It isn't that she didn't like it, or even that the negatives memories were too much, but that the intensity of emotion and religious connotations were too much for her. She might liken it to staring at the sun, or in to the gulf of time and the turning of the centuries. A sense of enormity that is always there, yet outside of the realm of normal consideration. A humbling vastness she has struggled to deal with ever since she first learned that her people came from the stars.
"I don't know what to say," the red woman replies honestly, unwilling to look up for fear that her emotions might betray her.
"It doesn't seem possible," the human boy next to Tasha says nervously.
"It is very possible," Frane claims. "It is natural. People want to harmonize. All people. It is only by coming together, harmonizing together and surrendering ones ego to something greater that we prove we are civilized, and not just animals with pointed sticks and watches. This is how the voice of god is heard."
"It sounds like that feeling I get when when I stare in to the absolute, or try to understand the vastness of time. It's like looking at the sun," Tasha adds a second later, forgetting her earlier admittance in the struggle to understand. "It does sound divine. It's almost unbearable."
"The point is that it is bearable," the choirmaster says. "More than bearable. It is healing, for those who add their voices, even if only as a single note in the sea." He gestures back to one of the Silent-Ones in the choir, who can probably only produce a single sound.
"This is not about talent, or having a pretty voice," the Vartan explains. "It does not matter if you can't carry a tune, or sound like you gargle with gravel every morning. Anyone can do this."
Tasha doesn't look up and her ears are still down, her hands fidgeting. She didn't think she'd be brought to remember those vast things that haunt her future and lurk in her dreams; Not here, surrounded by people. When the choir master notes that talent isn't important, she manages a weak smile and says, "Well, at least I don't have to worry about that."
Frane turns again to dismiss the choir, although the ones he called out earlier linger behind at the edges of the stage. "Alright, time to find your ranges," the Vartan notes, and points down at Tasha first. "Red, come up here."
"Um," goes Tasha as she steps forward, ears flat and head tilted curiously. "Yes?"
"Up on stage," Frane says, gesturing to the stairs at the side of the orchestra pit.
"Alright." Tasha spreads her wings, vaulting up to the stage and landing with a clatter of hooves before turning, right hand gripping her left arm. She looks to the choir master expectantly.
From up there, Tasha can see that the auditorium isn't empty. There are still some people in the audience - mostly Silent-Ones, but also some Nagas and Eeee. Frane taps his baton on the side of the podium to get Tasha's attention though. "Do you know the scales?" he asks.
The motion and noise catches the mostly Vartan's attention quick enough. "The what?" She goes.
"Scales... here, just do this," Frane says, and then in a not-quite-singing voice recites, "Doe ray mee fah so la dee doe."
"Um," goes Tasha, the first note in the uncertainty scale. She shakes her heada moment, ears flicking, then clears her throat and repeats, "Doe ray mee fah so la dee doe?"
"Again please, but hold each note for twice as long," Frane requests.
"Doooee raaaay meee faaah sooo laaa deeee doooe," goes Tasha.
The Vartan nods, and then asks, "Now, do that again as loudly as you can."
No stranger to being loud, Tasha repeats, "DOOOE RAAAY MEEEE FAAAH SOOOO LAAA DEEEE DOOOOE," despite the fact that it makes ehr flatten her ears and shift embarassedly.
Frane writes down some notes. "I'm going to place in the soprano-to-tenor group," he says. "Your voice seems smoothest there."
"What does that mean?" The red woman asks, leaning forward.
"It means you have a young voice in the middle ranges," Frane explains. "Now, can you sing something for me? Anything will do, even a lullaby."
"Uhhh," goes Tasha, who if she hadn't looked before, looks really uncomfortable now. She seems suddenly very interested in the floor. "Most of the songs I know are ... um ... "
"I'm a soldier," Frane reminds. "There are no children here."
"Hoookay," goes Tasha, who runs a hand through her hair as she stares off in a direction without people. "Here goes." After taking a deep breath, she begins to sing.
Across the skies,
and through the air.
There traveled pretty,
maiden fair.
Her feathers glossy.
Her chest was bare.
She was the pretty
sailor snare.
Her wealthy father,
noble heir.
He kept the pretty,
maiden fair.
She lived a life,
without a care.
She was the pretty,
sailor snare.
By chance to meet her,
through the air.
She smiled pretty,
maiden fair.
I thought I loved her,
virgin maiden rare.
She was the pretty,
sailor snare.
Her father saw us,
noble heir.
Fearsome voice,
icy stare.
For fearsome guards,
Did he blare.
She was the pretty,
sailor snare.
Though I did love her,
In the air.
came her father,
noble heir.
Run I did,
Away from there.
She was the pretty,
sailor snare.
By the time she's done, Tasha's inner ears are distinctly redder than when she started. The jaunty, vaguely wistful drinking song is something she remembers from her time on The Rake -- and one of the few she rememebers in its entirety not the least of which is because she had several people sing it to -- or rather at -- her.
"Hmm, you have a good lyric memory," Frane notes. "Decent timing, but a bit rough. First time you've sung that sober? I hope it isn't autobiographical.."
"Errrrrr, no," Tasha assures the choir director without looking at him, and certainly without pointing out her early life was much worse. "I most remember it becaused, um, I heard it. Sung. At me. A ... few times." She pauses, then adds uncomfortably, "When I wasn't drunk."
"I have had several singers who could only sing well when drunk," Frane notes. "It made for interesting practice sessions. Now that I have an idea of where you will do best, do you have any questions?"
"I don't think I know enough to ask questions, unless you have something to drink?" Tasha asks, risking a glance over and a raise of both the brows and the ears. "I could really use it right now."
"There's a refreshment table backstage," Frane says, and gestures off to where the three choir members are loitering. "Tamerlane, you're up next," he tells the human that was sitting next to Tasha.
Relieved to be off the stage, Tasha hurries off to the refreshment table and all but blurts out, "So what do we have?" And then, "Anything will do."
"We have distilled water," the human woman in a pink robe notes. "And coffee or tea.. or just hot water if you like," she adds. The other two (presumably Howard and Fester) are a rather skinny Vartan and a not very skinny Naga.
Tasha's ears go askew. "Oh. Right. No liquor." She eyes the refreshment bar, sighing in longing, then shakes her head. "Tea will do." She steps forward and begins to see about that, noting, "I'm Ta- er, Red, by the way."
"Juny," the woman introduces herself. She looks ordinary, and probably in her thirties.. but she has shocking electric-blue hair. "That's Howard," she notes, introducing the Vartan, who is likewise brightly colored (including wings with green, red, yellow and blue in them), "and this is Fester." The brown Naga bobs its head in greeting, showing two big black-and-yellow 'false eyes' on the top of his head.
"Nice to meet you," tasha notes as she finishes her tea, turning to face the trio with cup in hand. "I hope the singing wasn't too awful. I'm kind of nervous. I think I might be rambling."
"I apologize about the song," Red adds a second later before taking a sip.
"I liked it," Juny notes. "Don't get to hear a lot of new stuff. You're from Sinai, right? You have that sort of accent. Rephidim, I'm guessing. Oh, don't mind me.. I'm a linguist."
"That's right," Tasha confirms between sips. "I came here only recently. The song is an old drinking song I used to hear a lot in the taverns. And on the ship. And, um, occassionally on the docks. I, well, I like it too. It's just a bit embarassing. I'm not used to being in an institution like this and it always feels like that world and this one aren't meant to mix." She smiles a bit awkwardly, them notes, "They told me that choir would be good for me, but I don't know. I'm a bit uncomfortable, really, though not because I dislike it."
Tasha then makes a face, head shaking. "And here I thought I got rid of my accent. Well, at least I'm not clipping words, right? Or aye, as I would have said in what feels like years ago."
"It's a subtle thing," Juny notes. "I'm trained to pick it up though. I'm a spy, basically - or rather, I translate and interpret messages and documents."
"I'm a janitor," Howard says.
"I teach ballissstics," Fester adds in.
"Well at least you're a spy I know. Gods know I probably know more, but they're busy being subtle about it," says Red, who shakes her head about it before smiling at everyone and offering her free hand. She then takes another sip and says, "I'm joats student currently, though my normal position is pilot-cadet."
Hands are shaken, and nobody comments on Tasha's not matching up. But then, the choir supposedly has a lot of injured veterans in it.
"Yeah, saw your big Titan," Howard notes, opening his beak in a Vartan grin. "Could use a bit of color though," he says, with a practiced tone that suggests he says it often.
Tasha's smile is wry. "I'll tell him you said that. He's decided to learn how to be funny, except he's not good at at and I'm a bit mad at him at the moment. I can't be too mad at him though; I mean, he's saved my life."
"It has a ssssense of humor?" Fester asks, looking up from his tea. "Even the Confederate Titanss do not talk."
"A sense of humor and an opinion on my snoring and my cooking. My cooking!" Tasha shakes her head, heatedly staring in to her tea. "I mean really. It's not like I have a chance to practice it, and I was injured. I do not snore."
"Do you cook then?" Howard asks. "Sometimes we have big pot-luck dinners. The choir that is. I have my own oven that I made."
"Yeah, Howard claims to be a 'janitor' but he used to be a mechanic," Juny says. "And a blacksmith too I think."
"Apparently I don't cook well. I mean, it's not like I was a cook or anything. A served meals and made them for myself, and made them for the crew now and then -- who were also ungrateful I might add -- but that was it," Tasha mutters. She shakes her head as only the preterbed can, then looks up and asks, "A blacksmith, you said? Wow, I didn't expect there to be blacksmiths on this world, what with your -- our -- mechinization. It makes sense though. Some things you just can't automate well, and automation lacks the personal touch."
"When an old part goes bad or breaks, someone has to be able to make a new one," Howard says. Then he lifts his robe a bit so Tasha can see that he has metal hooves.. and feet. Possibly more, but he's not lifting the material that high.
"That's amazing!" Tasha says, leaning over to take a look. "I was always fascinated by the work the smiths did on Sinai, especially after being introduced to the spiritual style and artwork utilized by priests and priestesses belonging to my relgion and by the various houses. I wanted to learn, but there wasn't time."
"Nowadays I'm mostly customizing armor or making prosthetics and bone plates," Howard notes as he drops the hem of his robe. "You'd be surprised how many people here get skull fractures."
"Actually," Tasha says, reaching up to knock on the Vartan half of her head with her free hand, "I think I can see how that would happen. In the time I've been here, I've been so close to death so many times I'm starting to lose count."
"It isss a harsh planet," Fester notes. "But if you are accident prone, I sssugest avoiding artillery classses."
"Oh it wasn't an accident," Tasha notes, hand falling back to her side. "It's just part the job, I suppose? I'm the most combat capable individual we have at the moment, and I have the largest experience traveling and adventuring across worlds, so I'm the one on the front line whenever someone is needed."
"But I don't mind," the red woman adds, holding up her left hand. "It's just a bit rough. Some times. But I guess that's why I'm here, you know?"
"So you're looking to recruit more front-line people?" Juny asks. "Or is that next time? I saw the recruitment postings for your group, and they were all pretty non-military."
"Well, truth be told, we need more administrative, scientific and engineering personel than we need guards and scouts. We're also trying to avoid appearing as a military organization; At best we're paramilitary, but that only extends so far as defense of assets, exploration parties, dig sites, facilities, and if needed, dealing with unusual threats, such as hazardous artifacts, aliens, and so on. The latter is special-case though. We only intervene when it's in our purview to do so, the threat is significant, or else when we've been specifically requested to do so," the red woman explains. She takes another sip, then concludes with, "So, it looks like it will be up to me for the forseeable future, but that's fine. I can handle it."
"Well, come see me if you need any custom metalwork," Howard says, and looks back to the stage. "I think Frane is nearly done with the new guys."
"I'd like to stop by, and I always need metalwork," Tasha confirms, smiling. She then follows Howard's gaze and nods, "I guess we'd better get going? It was nice meeting you all. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other."
One of the things Tasha has noticed is that students tend to dress alike. There's some variation of a standard uniform, modified for the different body types, with colored patches for different disciplines and ranks - and the colors are specially chosen as well, since some Karnors can still be color-blind to certain hues. It doesn't take long for Tasha to find the campus tailor to see about getting her own.
The dispensary already had a lot of off-the-shelf basic attire, and since Tasha is mainly 'Vartan petite' she should be able to find something.. except that everything is marked by measurements, which is isn't familiar with.
"Do you need some help?" a Karnor woman asks. Her own uniform is different from the student model, and doesn't have any patches.
"Hrrm," murmurs Tasha as she browses through the racks, head shaking. She considers simply trying things on until she figures out the measurement system, but decides the plan would probably still lead to an unsatisfactory due to rough estimation.
Just when she's about to ask for help, help speaks up behind her! She turns around and smiles, then asks, "Hi, I'm new to the measurement system used to fit clothing and I'm not sure what the color coding means yet, either. Can you help me?"
"Certainly," the woman says, and gestures for Tasha to follow her.
"I notice your uniform is a bit different; Is that significant in some way?" Tasha asks, the young woman dressed in surplus military clothing under a red leather Abaddonian cloak. Having come from poverty, having a large wardrobe -- and indeed having money -- is still new to Tasha. Add in that she's come to another world with different fashion cues and customes that she's still figuring out, the young woman tends to simply use surplus outfits that can best be described as active, practical and only flattering in a rough-and-tumble sort of way.
At the fitting station, the woman has Tasha remove her cloak and jacket, and uses a cloth ruler to take various measurements, including things like the circumference of her biceps and the length of her limbs. "I'm not a student," she explains. "This is a staff uniform. I actually get paid a salary and everything." She writes things down as she works.
"Oh," goes Tasha as she watches herself be measured. "I only recently started getting paid, actually. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what to do with it beyond a few staples. I'm still getting used to the style here, and, well, having the money to even consider new styles." She holds up her arms as the measure goes around her chest, noting, "Of course, with uniforms, that's one less thing to worry about. I'm relieved, honestly."
"Well, the regular clothing shops are down in the Pit," the seamstress notes. "But they all use pretty much the same measurement system. You're good for Winged-Medium-Female-32C tops, and Vartan-34-30 pants. Either of those can be tailored to fit pretty easily. First year student I assume?"
"In more ways than one," Tasha says with a smile as she lowers her arms and follows the woman towards the correct rack. "I'm actually from Sinai."
"Really?" the Karnor asks, pausing. "I was wondering a bit at your mixing.. is that common on Sinai?"
The rack Tasha is led to has clothing in gray and green, and apparently there are a few different styles - although mainly it's subtleties in the cuts and how the colors blend. Even the stripes are varied.
"Well, no," Tasha says, stopping at the rack as the woman searches.. "My mixing is, well, it's unique. I'm the only one of my kind, and probably always will be." She them smiles, lopsidedly. "Well," she continues, "I will be unless I keep blowing myself up, then I'll be a plain Vartan."
Tasha eyes the clothing choices, ears going askew. "To be honest, again, I'm not very good at this sort of thing. What do you think would look good?"
The woman looks Tasha up and down. "Well, what sort of image do you want to project?" she asks. "A wide vertical on one side usually means you're serious and studious, or in on a military or martial track. The same style, but with the stripe on the left side is more for medical and support types. Diagonals, double stripes or belly-bands are more casual, relaxed styles, and the width of your collar lapels can say a lot too."
"Personally, I think you'd do best with something asymmetrical," the Karnor concludes.
"Well, I do pilot a Titan and do have a martial bent, but if you think assymetrical is better, then I'm fine with that," the red woman answers.
The woman selects a blouse with a fat strip on the right side that only reaches to just below the ribs before angling sharply to the left. It's not a right angle, so the strip reaches down to the left hip.
Tasha nods her head. "That looks good to me! I never knew that going to school would be this complicated or stressful," she notes as she accepts the top to carry.
"Well.. wait, you've never been to school before?" the woman asks as she finds a few more blouses with the same pattern, but slightly different cuts - from long enough to count as a tunic to short enough to appear sporty.
"No, this is my first time," Tasha notes as she follows along after the woman. The experience reminds her a bit of her time with Katherine Vesuvus, albiet with considerably less glamour. "Are schools common on this world? I thought only the wealthy, connected or talented could attend them."
"All of the nations have public education," the Karnor explains. "Going beyond that is either by merit or money though." Soon, Tasha has a selection of four different blouses and three pairs of pants (she hasn't seen anybody wearing skirts, female or otherwise). "I can have those altered in about an hour," the Karnor says, smiling. "You're on your own for footwear however - but there is a cobbler in residence who will sometimes make things from scratch."
"Really? Just ... Anyone ... Everyone goes to school?" Tasha asks in a tone of incredulousness as she hands over the clothing pile for alternation. "Oh, I should look in to the cobbler." Cobblers, at least, she remembers well -- at least the Vartan ones anyway.
"I'll give you his contact information," the Karnor notes. "Do you know how to use the laundry machines?"
"No, but I'm sure I can figure it out, right?" Tasha replies with a smile. "Anything else?"
"Just come back in an hour and everything will be ready," the Karnor promises. "You don't need any underwear do you? I know Vartans don't go in for brassieres.."
"Oh, um, a few pairs would be nice. My armored undersuit usually suffices, but sometimes it's nice to take it off," Tasha replies, head tilting.
"You wear armor for underwear?" the Karnor asks in surprise. "I'm sure we can find you something more comfortable than that. You can try some on while I have these outfits altered."
"Well, it's not uncomfortable ..," tasha notes as she follows along again. "It's made to be accomidating."
The room Tasha is led into is unlike any she's every seen before. Stockings, panties and various support garments are on display, and not all of them are plain and utilitarian. There's lace too.
Feeling like she just walked in to one of Katherine's many closets, the young woman pauses just inside the door. "Is it ... Is it okay to jyst have them out like this?" She asks, eying the room in a particularly scandalized way.
"How else are you going to see them?" the Karnor woman asks, looking amused. "We don't let the men in here, of course. They have their own room. And simpler stuff."
"Oh, really?" Tasha eyes the room with a new sense of appreciation, edging further inside. "The men, huh ..? Hmm." She reaches over to pick a lacey item off the rack, cocking her head in a particularly avian manner as she examines it, despite doing so as if she might be caught at any moment. "I can think of a certain man who might appreciation this. Um, is it okay if stay a while ..?"
"You've got an hour before I'll have the rest ready," the seamstress notes, then winks and leaves Tasha alone.
Scooting in further, Tasha looks around with an increasingly curious slant, along with correspondingly reduced trepedition and scandal. After several seconds she gets mischivious look in her eye, "Hmm"-ing as she walks towards the racks.