Daira will just... grab her bags and stand in the corner, unless Pradnakt points her at something to do.

A few minutes and a couple of muffled thumps later, she's back, with a folded camping cot on wheels and an armful of bedding. She dumps the blanket and pillow on the bench, rolls the cot into place, and tries to extend it, but there's not quite enough room; she folds it back up again to scoot the other machine out of the way as well, and this time it unfolds just fine. "All right, back in a minute," and she brings the second machine to the back as well.

"I can make the bed, unless you have some Force trick that'll do it in a second." (Daira kind of wants there to be a Force trick. Force tricks are interesting.)

"It's easier with telekinesis, but not by that much," she chuckles.

No Force trick, okay. Daira drops her bags by the foot of the cot and drags over the bedding, then adds to Pradnakt over her shoulder, "Are there any shelves I can use for my things? If not it's fine, I don't have a lot."

"Not offhand, but I can make some."

Nod, smile.

"Tomorrow, I think. Oh, and - I can keep this up to give you time to adjust, but I'm going to want to go back to my natural sleep schedule, sunrise to noon."

"I don't mind."

She nods. "I figured, if you've been on ship's time. Anyway, I'll be up late tonight, but not that late."

Daira finishes the cot, and flops dramatically onto the covers. "A real bed!"

Pradnakt chuckles. "Yup."

"Do you mind if I go see the rest of the house?"

"Sure, no problem." She waits for her to get up before starting the tour. "Bathroom's in there," she waves at the as-yet-unopened door next to the kitchen, "and this is my room."

The room is full of beautiful clutter: the space is dominated by a huge bed, as wide as it is long, with a soft dark grey comforter embroidered with black and blue and silver swirls, and with a mountain of pillows in subdued dark colors piled on the back half. The bookcases next to it are full of boxes - mostly decorated - and books and sculptures and curios, and the walls and ceiling are hung with draped fabric, more artwork - mostly metal sculptures, in a similar style to the art Daira has already seen here - and framed poetry rendered in precise calligraphy. The wall opposite the bed has two doors, both closed, and the wall opposite the door they came through has a third.

She reaches out to touch the sculptures, then pauses and glances at Pradnakt. "Can I...?"

"Sure."

Daira runs her hands over the sculpture, feeling the shape of it with closed eyes. If Pradnakt pays attention, there's a little bit of the Force in how she watches it, reaching out for the metal.

Cute.

She sits on the bed to wait for her to be done.

She finally puts it down, running her thumb over the sharpest edge once as a quick farewell. "You made these?"

"Mmhmm. I've always been an artist."

Pradnakt doesn't make sense - "Are they meant to be anything?"

"Not - in the way people usually mean, when they ask that."

"In what way, then?"

"Like poetry. Like this-

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward   
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into   
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom."

[source]

"That doesn't mean, it... feels. I see what you meant about poetry teaching me about the Force."