It takes a few days before Galatea finds it within herself to visit the sand pit, the knowledge that there would be people (too many, always too many) settling like an iron weight in her stomach. Her fingers anxiously tangle themselves within the ends of her shawl as she nears the stands. There are already small crowds watching and murmuring, as there will be until the eggs hatch.

(She's not even sure if any of this has a point, for her -- perhaps she's already too old, not that she'd know, and that thought seems to reassure more than disappoint.)

The cloth of her shawl is drawn tightly around her head, bulging out in strange places due to the shape of her helmet. It draws the occasional stare, but Galatea's learned to not care. (Or, at least, she's learned enough to pretend.) The sand in the pit shifts in the occasional breeze, and she squints her single good eye to shield herself from it.

Something moves to her left and she shies away instinctively, turning her head to look -- and losing her balance. She hits something (someone?) with her right shoulder and stumbles, careening into one of the stands and falling onto her behind. Galatea isn't too sure as to what just happened, but she manages a disoriented and slightly woozy, "I-I'm so sorry," to whoever may have been caught up in her mishap.