Log: Hatching
May. 18th, 2012 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
citlaliContinued immediately from here!
BAM! Oh, Siyavri will have plenty to write in her notes about /this/ particular entrance. Merci stands there, hands on her hips as she bellows, "Gitcher robes on!" No need to elaborate, not that the brownrider's the type. The collective hum seems to thrum through even the ground of the Weyr, steadily gaining volume and intensity. Even Fang, perched on her should is giving his snarling trill.
Siyavri /might/ have said something else - something about Ruchik's stupid face probably encourages it - but Merci's entrance changes all that. The healer is up and off the edge of the cot she's been perched on in a moment, and strides confidently towards the brownrider, notebook still in hand. "Do you mind if I walk with you all?" she asks, in a tone that suggest she doesn't expect to be told no. The Candidates? Let them flail around; she's quite calm.
Citlali already dropped her pen -- now she's dropping her notebook, too, right on the floor as Merci appears. "Wh --" And then Siyavri speaks and she doesn't even get a chance to finish up the question, not that she seems to know which 'w' question word it might have even /been/. And then, to the displeasure of several of the other candidates, she tells the healer, "I don't." Siyavri is welcome, therefore, to assume Citlali speaks for everyone again. And then she's scuttling around to find her robe and throw it on. "Oh, sandals, where are you --"
"You're right, I should probably go--" Or not, as that hum fills the cavern, and Barrett is suddenly in need of a change of plans. And clothes. Thankfully, his robe is all waiting, nicely folded, for just such an occasion. Once he's got the old clothes off and the new ones on, he starts running the comb through his hair again, just in case.
Ruchik is standing right next to the door when Merci barges in. Her yell startles him, even with the familiarity he's managed to sort of achieve with the brownrider. He gives her a nod - actually respectful! - and is off his lean and heading for his cot. But not without tossing a, "Maybe you can borrow some white, too!" to Siyavri. Rucksack is stashed under his cot, clothes are changed without modesty, and it's a barefoot and white-clad trader who gravitates back to his brownrider, seemingly wiping his nose on his left shoulder as he goes.
Tovrin doesn't often need to be told twice to take off his clothes. Even if he's supposed to be putting other ones on in their place. He sits up, pulling off his shirt at the same time and moves to pull his robe out of the press at the end of his cot to change. Definitely no flailing involved.
Jedrek blinks. And again. Green eyes make rapid progress to surfaces in the Barracks, as if expecting the walls to come tumbling down around him. "Well I'll be'a wherry's uncle," he exclaims, voice laden with a kind of awe that perhaps has been lacking over these few months of candidacy. "So it's really happenin'," he murmurs. But soon, thankfully, instinct kicks in, and with a hasty movement he's un-buttoning his flannel shirt and making a dramatic reach for his candidate robe, wrinkled and strewn at the foot of his cot. It takes him a moment or two to get fully changed, but once so.. he glances down at himself and swallows, looking up to meet the eyes of Naamiah, the closest candidate to him at present. "Ya wanna hold ma hand?" Eyebrow arches and he flashes her that familiar charming smile, even if it is laced with nerves.
Khrysta rolls to her feet, and strips. After all this time, she gives no thought to modesty and would be surprised if anyone else did. In short order, she's got her white mini pulled on, and the belt tied, before she pads over to join the others in the duck-walk to the sands.
Merci roars again, "Hurry it up!" As if they're being slow, watching the flashes of flesh and scrambling without so much as a hint of a smirk. This is serious business. Free peep show is ignored- perhaps a pointed glance at Khrysta, and a grunt for those who're passing. "Don't care if you do," For Siyavri, "But HURRY YER ASS."
You travel out on hurried steps, through the caverns, waaaay across the bowl, around the throngs of people -- and finally, you're there. Good luck!
Wild Hunt Egg shivers: a rustle in the forest, a rumble in the jungle that grows in intensity until the shadows part, the dark shapes on the shell cracking away to reveal the fearsome creature within: perhaps it's the way he slips from the shards, shrugging them off while hardly noticing; perhaps it's the roar finally made vocal; perhaps it's just that he's unsettlingly large even for a hatchling bronze.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet
Forged in an enormity of molten bronze, fluid metal pools round every neck and back ridge, flowing over the wide anvil of his head and framing powerfully hunched shoulders, before pouring down his hide in wide jagged striations that taper and melt into the burnt orange furnace of his belly. Wings similarly aspire to fearful symmetry: the highlights of burnished wingspars that streak across darker topsails, lubs and undersails wrought with swathes of bright flame while distant deep night trails wing edges, bands his flickering tail, and ebons dread claws.
Skeptic Egg is not moving, it swears it. Well, maybe there was a little wiggle but that could be just swamp
gas.
Curse of the Lycan Egg quivers, making twisted branches seem to shudder in a sudden wind, then stills.
No sooner are the candidates out that an egg hatches -- and that's just the way it goes.
Siyavri is not, of course, one of the candidates: she's not wearing a robe, that's for sure. But she enters the sands alongside the others, darting off to one side only once they step out there-- she looks quite as if she thinks she belongs, and not at all as though she's completely out of place, scrambling madly to open up her notebook and, from a safe distance, begin to take notes. That there are hatchlings /already/, so soon, only makes her eyes go wide.
Hestiath couldn't be any prouder than if it really were her clutch and not just one she'd watched for Orlaith. She's crooning, honey sweet, to the eggs, and Imogen's standing at her head looking more happy and relaxed than she has in ages and trading relieved grins with Iona every few minutes.
Naamiah follows her fellow Candidates out onto the sands, and gives a shaky bow. Wide green eyes are trained on the eggs and the dragons, alike. Yet, still she tries to hold to the natural confidence and not let fear take hold -- and surprisingly, takes a spot in the front, not the back of the group!
Jedrek has made it onto the sands. One small step for man or something, right? After paying his respects with the rest of his candidate class to the dam and sire of the clutch, he walks with purposeful strides to stake out a patch of sand for himself. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, chuckling a bit to himself. "Here we go."
Surprised -- dumbfounded, even -- Rylsar steps wide-eyed onto the Sands. His bow is hasty and not necessarily the most graceful thing to ever be seen on the face of Pern, but it exists. After, he melds into the semi-circle of candidates, just another face with an expression verging on apprehensive.
Merci grunts as she reaches the sands, just as the first hatchling bursts free. "Shells! They ain't waitin' fer you!" Words are said with a bellowing laugh, Talimoth perched next to Hestiath. Just as she is surroproud, he is as well, perhaps even leaning into the gold. Aw, our (not really) babies!
Citlali actually almost shrieks /in Siyavri's ear/ before the healer manages to split off from them as the bronze instantaneously hatches and startles her. Or scares her. Or something. "Isn't bronze first supposed to be lucky?" she asks -- no one. Rylsar? Khrysta? Everyone, probably.
Barrett has made it to the sands in one piece, imagine that. And he's clearly excited about it, waving up towards the galleries, neck-craning to try to see someone up there, or maybe just gawking at how many people there are. "Far-ranth," he murmurs, more under his breath, and when there's bowing, he does likewise, before shuffling into whatever semicircleish arrangement they can manage or themselves.
Guardian in the Dark Egg gives a lurch, like something in there has just woken up from a looooong nap.
Khrysta's saunter picks up a bit once she hits the Sands. A quick bow is offered to the dragons watching over this clutch, and then she moves into the semi-circle - almost immediately starting the two-step shift dance perfected over the turns. "So I've heard.." she calls out to Citlali.
Tovrin moves with the herd onto the sands and it's pretty hard not to have his eyes on the eggs that are already moving. And hatching. Not much thought to who he's standing near. That's not very important right now.
Ruchik is one of the candidates, but is almost as concerned with Siyavri moving away from the rest of his peers as he is with getting himself onto the sands, mimicking some sort of a half-nod, half-bow to whatever dragons are out there, and doing his best to get away from anyone who might want to hold his hand. Those are tucked along either side, arms crossed. It takes a while for the challenge to touch his wide-eyed look once he actually sees the dragonet, though. Oh crap, things are real.
Underneath the Blazing Sky Egg moves restlessly, a shudder and a shake, and it won't be long now.
U'rr paces slowly on the sands ahead of the Candidates as he passes by the healer, "Maintain an awareness of the Sands, it would be unfortunate if you were mauled, healer." And then the brownrider goes to the region where the weyrlingmasters are standing.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet has effectively announced his arrival and now takes a few fluid steps in order to further shed himself from the camouflage of his egg. He no longer needs it. Only when his tail tip has cleared the fragments does he begin to conduct his business properly. Haunches, then belly, and finally his entire frame melts atop the hot sands, wings draped wetly on either side of him. The typically large eyes of a dragonet are half-lidded and look at no one while seeing all. Huh.
Siyavri's chin lifts as she tells U'rr, "I have no intention of being a casualty." Or an Impressee: perhaps that's why she's eyeing the eggs (and okay, also that dragonet) so warily, with only occasional sweeps over the candidates she's really supposed to be watching.
Between the kaleidoscopic Must Have Shiny Egg and the verdant greenery of A Forest Grew, the mess of shard and shell left behind is a riot of color. The dragons they hatch less so: two browns, bound in opposite directions. One impresses a quiet girl of crafter origin; the other, a local lad. First impressions, while that bronze on the sands sorts himself out.
Citlali definitely has her major focus on 'not dying,' more than anything else. As the bronze moves, she's making sure she is keeping her eyes focused on him -- and then the other Impressions, quite sudden as they are -- so that she doesn't become dragon bait in a food sense after all. "Speedy fellows."
D'yce is the poor sod that was stationed by the meat buckets for now. So when two dragons impress so quickly, he waves them over and just points at the beef. Really, no more needs to be said. Right?
Guardian in the Dark Egg rocks back and forth, back and forth, like a child's toy that never stays down no matter how hard you smack the darn thing. And then it stills, eerie in the midst of activity. Kathunk. Kathunk. KATHUNK. KATHUNK. The occupant hammers. His. Way. Out! A roar bursts forth from the sudden appearance of dark muzzle, spilling from the egg its occupant head over tail in an embarrassing display of overdone strength.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet
He's as dark and rough as the bark of a great tree whose strength has been tested by wind and lightning both, his form weathered until smooth across the powerful muscles of his chest and legs. The jagged marks of tan and amber that seem almost to split the rough hide across his back dwindle in size but not number as they race towards his great paws and long tail, returning once more to strike the tips of neckridges and singe a path down the dark curve of his belly.
Ruchik's attention draws away from that first big bronze to the other two eggs when they hatch. Challenge might even clash a little with hope in his eyes - until neither approach him. Well damn. Back to the bron- brown again! The bronze is watched the way one watches a rowdy man in a pub. The brown is watched the way one watches the pretty girl.
Merci joins the rest of the weyrlingmasters, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and watching. Mirror images, dragon and rider, both with faintly parted lupine grins. A glance in unison, before two sets of eyes are back on the sands, watching. "Two browns. Good, hearty clutch." Favortism shines through. Ignoring the bronze.
U'rr enjoys the sight of browns being Impressed and waves over to the girl and boy, "Over here Weyrlings, your dragons will require sustenance." The Weyrsinger, faux weyrlingmaster, steps forward to help guide them to the end of the sands. Imogen is given a nod in greeting, "They say that a bronze hatching first is good luck, if you believe in ridiculous superstitions."
Barrett seems to have spotted his family, at least from the much more active waving--whole arm put into it now--and the utter lack of attention to the fact that there are now dragons. On the sands. Impressing to people. It's only once people start talking more and a neighbor shoves an elbow into his ribs that he turns around to straighten himself out and try to look--something. Presentable. Impressable? Or at least less shaky, hands carefully clasped together.
Rylsar stands on the fringes of the array of candidates, strangely alone -- though he makes no immediate motions to /join/ anyone, either. Distracted from the cracking eggs, he scans the galleries in a vain attempt to recognize faces. That, obviously, isn't likely to yield any results - but doesn't stop him from trying!
Jedrek finds Naamiah in the crowd, finds her hand, and gives a, "Fardles," for the first impressions. So fast.
Khrysta flashes a bit of a smile as some of the candidates impress - there may even be a call of congratulations thrown out there - however, more wary than not, the Istan blonde is keeping her eyes on the moving teeth-and-stomaches.
Citlali doesn't shriek any louder at the booming brown than she did at the first hatching, but that doesn't mean she doesn't jump practically out of her skin. Okay, so she startles easily. What's it to you all? She only has a moment to glance toward the galleries and try to catch Caledan's eye -- hopefully succeeding -- before looking back to the dragonets. No greens, yet, but she can still hope.
Tovrin looks calm though maybe not so comfortable as he did laying on his cot in the barracks. Now he's alert, watching dragons hatch and trying to make sense of the whole impression thing. There's no one in the galleries for him so he doesn't bother putting any of his attention that way.
Naamiah can barely keep up with how fast the Impressions are going, but each of her fellow Candidates that do find lifemates are given bright smiles and a thumbs up. Quiet running commentary with Jedrek, once he's standing next to her, puts some humor and fun to an otherwise almost entirely overwhelming experiene.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet shakes off the sand that still clings to himself, and wiggles his rump to free himself of the remnants of shell that are there. But while he's doing so, he observes that he just plain has THE nicest rear end of all the hatchlings. Look at that finely formed.. and his /tail/. Is the rest of him this awesome? He flexes his wings to check. Yep. Oh, wait. He was supposed to be doing something... uhm... uhm... looking for someone! That's it. Duhr.
"Of course I do," Imogen returns to U'rr - not even his comments can weigh her down, not today. She leans against Hestiath's neck and looks out over the sands, satisfied, content.
Three greens in quick succession emerge from eggs on different points on the sand and all converge on a strapping young man who's just shy of the age that would make him too old to Stand. Now with his last chance, the greens all want a piece. The one who gets to him first makes Merek M'rek to her Rhoiseth, while the other two veer around behind and impress a pair of girls holding hands.
Siyavri's expression turns increasingly frustrated: there's too much to see, and not enough time to make note of it all. It only takes a few minutes before she gives up entirely, closing her notebook and stowing it carefully under one arm. At least /this/ way, she can keep tabs on what's going on, tracking past the first Impressees, to the dragonets still roaming the sands. Under her breath, she's murmuring something - something inaudible.
Underneath the Blazing Sky Egg crackles, crackles, and then quite suddenly burns up, all those flames writhing together and incinerating the shell, rocketing the dragonet inside free in a whirl of tangled wings and claws; an inauspicious beginning for an inauspicious-looking gold.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet
A regal poise belies a slender, compact body suffused in the watercolour glow of amber, brightest on her breastbone but washing out across her haunches until by the spade of her rudderlike tail nearly all shade has bleached away. That ethereal translucency is reflected in the faded golden quartz that shines through the skin of her broad, elongated wings, ragged crystalline sails and protruding spars; that tapering wedge of her head, prominent headknobs, and over-pronounced neckridges which lend her a gaunt, skeletal look; the glassiness of her powerful limbs offset by the starstruck granite of curvaceous claws.
Citlali resists the urge to actually snap her fingers as not one but /three/ greens pass her over. The brown, as he surveys himself as if to make sure he's all there, makes her laugh -- the gold gets a wary look, and she backs a little bit in the opposite direction, whichever opposite that is. Don't pick her. Don't pick her. No golds, please.
"A new Queen, Weyrwoman, an excellent sign. Even I am moved by her..." U'rr gives a blue eyed scan over the ghastly gold's form before he turns toward Imogen, "Orlaith must be... proud." Hestiath moreso.
Merci won't let a frown show on her face, not at a hatching. "Looks a lil' frail." She'll comment on the gold, genuine concern making her voice lower into a growl. But then, "Alright!" She's bellowing to those newly made weyrlings, beconing, "Say goodbye to the rest, yer mine now!" Was that supposed to sound ominous? But at least she's hoisting up a pair of buckets.
Rylsar raises his eyebrows at the sight of the latest-hatched. "/Gold/?" he wonders aloud: "Didn't see that'n comin'." Whoever is nearby to hear, does; everyone else is ignored, in what is becoming his standard.
Ruchik shoots a look about the sands for Siyavri when all those greens hatch. Whew. Nothing. He's watching, too, to make sure the brown doesn't go anywhere near her. The bronze isn't so much of a concern for that. And when a gold hatches - the trader makes a grumpy face, and goes back to lusting after that brown and trying to keep track of everything else.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet is right where he left himself. The bronze hasn't made any attempts to get up and hunt for that special someone... why bother? Instead, he seems to have become aware of his own massive paw. Head lowers just enough to make it clear that he's focused on his limb rather than what his siblings or the candidates are doing. Flexing his overlarge paw is much more interesting, watching those talons jump and flex taut against his flesh. The bronze is unbothered by what might be thought of him, of the murmurs stirred by his non-action. They don't know like he does.
Barrett has his back straight, chin up, but if nobody stops, then that at least gives him more time to gawk at the others, and the gold who has drawn all eyes certainly gets his as much as anyone else's. The bronze, though: "I thought they were supposed to be in a hurry. Hungry, or something," he murmurs to a neighbor, and maybe there's a hint of worry in his tone. Or more than a hint.
If her happiness dims in the mention of Weyrwomen, Imogen quickly waves it aside. "Indeed," she responds, equably. "It's funny, isn't it, how they hardly look like their parents? She's lovely." And with hardly a pause, "have you got any wine on you, U'rr? I need a celebratory drink!"
D'yce actually looks concerned at the odd appearance of the new queen, but keeps his own council. From where he is, he can only salute to the Weyrwomen and the others to signal his own approval of the dragonets so far. One weyrling pair already munches from a nearby bloody pile next to him.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet shakes herself free in a shower of shards and sand and sets about to smashing the biggest shell pieces underfoot. Crunch! An unconsciously destructive little thing, she whirls in a maelstrom of tail and wings, bumping hard against the closest eggs, enough to send it rocking. It keeps rocking and hatches a blue while she finally sorts herself out and looks for the next thing that makes a noise.
Siyavri has /not/ Impressed one of the greens, no, Ruchik. She's still right here, where she was before, though she's looking more and more unnerved. Perhaps it's the bronze, whose actions she watches for a few seconds, here; perhaps it's the brown, who also earns some attention. Or the gold - whose appearance surprises the healer, sending one foot back just slightly before she steadies herself.
Khrysta keeps rather back from the rest of the Candidates - letting them act as shields or just to watch their backs - either way, she makes no attempts to actually gain the attention of any of the new hatchlings.
Citlali was already backing away from the gold, but now she's sure she doesn't want to go near her. No making noise, right? She does, however, make the mistake of talking, just a light commentary on the bronze and the brown, "They all seem to be pretty focused on what they look like. Learning?"
Ruchik goes, "Hah!". It's something you can go. Especially when a gold, on one of your wary-glances, sends eggs knocking and breaking. "Like her," is gritted out to no one. The bronze gets a longer look this time, his lack of movement suddenly becoming suspect. When the rowdy guy gets quiet, it could mean an explosion. And that's reason to ignore the pretty girl. For a while.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet has no shame at all about sizing up these white robed people. He stops in front of a muscled stocky male, tilts his muzzle, and then headbumps him in disgruntlement before moving on and leaves him toppled over in the sand. Obviously not suitable. Scrawny kid - out. Smug arsewipe - out. Is there nobody who sees him for how awesome and strong and... what was that? Did he just hear an insult? Stalk, stalk, stalkity stalk... oh wait, it wasn't about him. Maybe.. hmm, who is that over there? Someone with appreciation for his fine wit and stunning appearance perhaps?
Jedrek keeps on holding Naamiah's hand. "Gonna rile up all sorts of bettin' men!" is crowed when the gold hatches(?) a blue. "If anyone called that, worth a fortune, I wager!"
Tovrin knows enough to know that he can't impress a gold. And enough to realize that's what that one is. So he doesn't give her any real attention so long as he doesn't have to move out of her way. More of his attention is focused on the bronze and brown and blue, slightly cautious.
U'rr shakes his head slowly toward Imogen, "I am afraid I have given up my last skin of wine to the family that he harassed in order to capture Varo. It seemed a fair trade." The brownrider shits on his feet before stepping forward to stare at the bronze, "We will have to focus on motivating that dragonet, it seems to ignore its hatching duty, Weyrwoman."
Siyavri, steadier now, straightens her stance and uses the back of one hand to wipe at her brow, now glowing under the heat of the sands. She seeks out each of the dragonets - again - one after another, lingering on none of them any longer than the others: it's all scientific interest, nothing more. She's been surprisingly silent, really, this whole time; very surprising for /her/.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet finally grows bored of his own paw, not that he looked excited about it in the first place. His duty is too himself, and any naysayers are welcome to kiss his tailtip. Speaking of, it begins to flick side to side, as if finally picking up on the agitation of the crowd. He slides to his feet, slinks with far too much grace /away/ from the candidates, following the path those who have found their bonds. He waits on the edges, not quite at the Weyrlingmasters, but closer to them than the candidates. He's hungry now.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet careens in the attempt to track down the source of the sounds echoing and amplified in the tremendous cavern. Disoriented, she can't set upon a single direction and stick to it: first left, then right, then forward. That stupid blue gets in her way, and she crashes into him, neither dragon steady on their newborn feet. Down they go. The gold, for all her seeming fragility, is stronger than she looks and staggers away first, while the blue calls out plaintively, left with a shallow gash on his side that will need patching up later.
D'yce points back out at the candidates when that bronze dragonet comes near. "I dont' think so, buddy. You find a human partner and /then/ you can eat. Not before." Stern, or trying to be, the brownrider just plain shakes his head. That one is just going to be trouble.
Naamiah's hand tightens on Jedrek's when the gold dragonet hatches, then more so when it breaks free a blue. After a deep breath she is able to loosen grip again, but she sends the other candidate a quick look, smile possibly a little shaky.
Citlali isn't laughing at the bronze. She knows better. Really. But she is smiling as if she's physically swallowing laughter at this point -- possibly because she overheard D'yce's serious commentary on the matter. She's not holding anyone else's hand, but she is rather holding her own, behind her back, fingers locked together.
Rylsar's distracted again -- hatching dragons apparently garner less interest than him trying to scan the galleries again. He must be looking for someone in particular, the way his eyes linger here and there.
Who's that kid? No one you know. But now he's D'vron, the littlest bluerider of them all.
U'rr walks by D'yce and the bronze with a shake of his head, "I do not believe you should be pointing with your index finger, Brownrider, unless you intend on losing it." Said in a dry voice before he moves to D'vron, "This way, weyrling, we should feed your new lifemate. Congratulations." And back to position, where he SHIFTS on his feet a little.
Ruchik's brownlust is tempered - first by the flanking of the bronze, then by the creel of the blue. He moves almost lightly on overheating bare feet, moving back through crowd of candidates, seeking a more solitary space, a wider range. And then seeking a proper foothold, ready to jump if there's going to be an attack. Eyes have started a steady tick-tock between all the dragonets. With occasional stitches in time to glare at Siyavri.
Merci bites back an oath, instead letting out a rumble of, "Might'a spoke too soon." As the Gold decides that the blue is in her way, frowning deeply at the injury. Poor little guy. Not that she'd ever utter so many words, "C'mere. We'll get a 'healer to look at 'im. I know it hurts." Walking past D'yce and the bronze, she freezes and eyes the stubborn dragonet. "Go on, GIT."
Barrett is uneasy on his feet, the heat and the commotion taking their toll even while he's left to sit. And watch. And wait. He rakes fingers back through his hair at one point, but afterwards carefully tries to fix the part again, which is easier than it sounds when you don't have a mirror handy and you're sweating pretty heavily already. "Oh, is that--well, I guess size isn't everything." That might perk him up a smidge.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet finally gets herself in order to go investigate, making enough noise for two dragons as she does so. Maybe it's that which draws her into a more silent space, intrigued by the possibilities there, the strange lack rather than the hushed whispers and exclamations. She winds up in front of Siyavri, candidate or no, uncaring about what /should/ happen and this is what occurs instead: she's come to haunt the healer for good.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Siyavri.
Citlali is completely torn between looking concerned, horrified, wanting to back away and giggling a little. Therefore, her facial expression is completely confused. That is, until she catches glimpse of the gold and where she's gone, and -- then she actually /whistles/. Even if it means Ruchik was right. "Hey, nice going, journeyman!" It kept gold away from Citlali, and now someone with a brain who likes paperwork is on one!
Somehow, despite the odds, despite the absolute unlikelihood of it all, Siyavri on gold doesn't surprise Rylsar whatsoever. Instead, he stands with an odd expression on his face, watching mindhealer and new lifemate for a long moment, before shaking himself to the here-and-now.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet makes a few more stops along the way, knocking over a hatchling here, making a candidate jump out of the way there. He does pause to appreciatively eye the queen who is on the sands with him, waiting ever so politely for her to find a lifemate first. And once that is done, he apparently follows her lead. A decision decisively made as he stomps forward and hip bumps another candidate out of the way of /his/. It was her that he's been looking for, obviously. Citlali who was properly intrigued by his actions. Even if her attention suddenly became /divided/. We can't have that! So he shoves his muzzle upwards to gain her attention forever.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Citlali.
First it's a tingle at the back of your neck. A little *zzzt!* that tells you that you're not alone. And then without warning it's a full-body shock that makes you feel as if the Hammer of Mjolnir itself has cast its judgement on you; a brilliant white light literally blinding you to all else. << I am Vedoriath >> is announced, in a thunderous voice that booms and echoes down to the very core of you. << Together, Cili, we will right all wrongs. >> That feeling, and aftershock, what is th... << But first, I am hungry. >>
Ruchik's scan catches that, and the candidate lets out a roar of, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHIFTING ME." That 'f' is probably just a result of too much rage and spittle flying, really. And by the time he scans to the brown again, he's impressed. So the bronze gets an angry, "Hurry the frig up!" Because Naamiah is too far off to be a target for displaced anger.
Curse of the Lycan Egg quivers and shivers one final time. A last swirl of fog brushes the moon, before the striations from cracking creep up like crimson smoke consuming the ebony blooms that adorn the occupants home. And as if the creature inside lifted his muzzle to howl his own entrance into the world, the egg top pops off in startling solidity to release the prisoner from its cell.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet
There's cinnamon sprinkled on his narrow head and a bit of burnt umber smudged beneath his eyes, all to warm the rich mahogany of his hide until it sparks and catches with a wisp of smoky gray that curls lazily down his tail and billows across slender 'sails. It darkens as it goes until it's near black at the tip of his tail, on the edges of his wings, the color of embers that cooled long ago, while the rest of his frame is sparse and trim, long and slim, with wicked ebon claws and 'ridges each tipped in red.
Iona, meanwhile, looks rather horrified. "Typical, /just/ like Orlaith's daughter!" And she glares accusingly at the gold.
"At least we will have a goldrider with some intellectual capability." U'rr says quietly as he moves over toward Siyavri to assist the newly Impressed, face still quietly solemn, "Unorthodox, but not improbable."
The sight of Citlali's Impression causes a whoop from the back -- one of the first sounds from Rylsar, actually, who has kept himself away from all the others. Is he grinning like a loon? Why yes, he is.
It's a Gas Egg hatches a blue nearly as dark who takes his sweet sweet time before settling on a girl from Gar. The green out of The Demon Within Egg is a whole lot quicker, running down her chosen candidate like a bat out of hell.
Jedrek gives a low whistle, and squeezes at Naamiah's hand without even realizing it. "Bets'll be all off f'that, too," is drawled out, almost giddily joyful in the adrenaline.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet stares. First at D'yce, before whirling eyes drop down to his digit until it's snatched away. Then his head lowers further, watching as the paired dragonets are allowed to stuff their face. Ah. It isn't either of the brownriders who have him standing once more, well after either turn him away. Turning around, there is far more purpose in his steps now though the bronze is as unhurried as before. This is a formality. This is so he can get food. A straight path is cut through the candidates, and like before he sits on his haunches in front of the One. He's known it all along.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Ruchik.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet tumbles straight from his shell to the sands and spends an excessive amount of time sorting through his limbs and wings until he finally manages to stand up, sliding a gaze from side to side. Nobody saw that, right? Legs managed, he swaggers forward with an inordinate amount of confidence for someone still wet with egg goo - some even seems to be in his eye, or is he actually trying to wink smoothly at that green over there?
D'yce steps forward to beckon Citlali forward towards the weyrlingmasters and buckets. "And you thought it would be a green." he murmurs, a nod of encouragement and a somewhat pleased expression on his face while he extends his congratulations to both her and Siyavri. "This way... hopefully he won't knock anyone over again."
Skeptic Egg shakes, or did it? Maybe it was just a trick of the light and shadows? No, it definitely shook and there is no mistaking the cracks blast around the mathematical equations. And certainly the gangly bronze that peaks its maw out cannot be faked, or is it a brown dragon? Either way the shards explode out all direction and out of the crash site stumbles It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet!
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet
Dusty and dull, he's a tangle of too-long legs and overlarge wings whose bronze is so oxidized as to be hardly recognizable. He's long and lean, too, with a million sharp edges and ridged knobs like meteorites that crashed long ago and lie, half-hidden, on the surface of his narrow shoulders, in the craters between his neckridges, at the bony protrusions of his joints. The middling bronze-brown of his hide is greening in great comet-tails that streak across the leading edge of his 'sails, dotted with constellations of ashy grime that spare neither the heavy head that seems far too large for the rest of his frail frame, nor the slender, wispy tail that's stained rusty copper and kinked strangely near the fork.
Siyavri is paying rather too much attention to miss the approach of that little gold dragonet, and in the end, her expression shows pretty clearly the progression of events: wariness, hesitance, shock, denial-- and then tears, as her notebook falls blindly from her hand and she drops towards the sands to meet whirling eyes, and to swallow, wordlessly. It's in a ragged, broken voice that she finally manages to say, sounding drowned, utterly lost: "Zahravath? What-- what have /done/?" It takes her rather a few seconds more to be able to turn her attention away, to see D'yce and register what he's doing. State of shock? Oh yes.
Imogen can spare a reproving glance for Iona, but her own look to Siyavri is only thoughtful, nothing more. There might be tears in her eyes, it might just be sand. She smiles encouragingly at any weyrling pair that gets near enough to see it.
Khrysta gets a peculiar expression, when Siyavri is found by golden Zahravath - half resignation, half congratulated envy (there is too such a thing!). That done, however, this time she'll call out, "Congratulations, beautiful! See you in a couple of turns!" Hey. A gal can hope.
There's a whole lot of rocking and eventually Cross My Palm With Silver Egg hatches too. The dragon looks dizzy and spends a lot of time wandering around before falling over on her new rider. Whups.
The latest Impression causes Rylsar's eyebrows to rise. /Ruchik/? On /bronze/? That -- that obviously doesn't compute. He shakes his head, though, and focuses on the others.
Citlali starts to yelp as the candidate nearby gets knocked out of the way by a big brown dragonet, but -- wait. Whoah. Hold on a minute there. Something -- somebody is /nosing/ at her, and then her attention most certainly isn't divided any longer. She reaches out slowly, to touch a fingertip to an eyeridge -- he is not the green she was expecting, but he is the brown she /needed/, isn't he? "I -- hungry. Right. Vedoriath. Wait, what did you call me?" She's still dwelling on the fact that apparently her name has changed as she is practically /shoved/ toward the food by Vedoriath's head.
Tovrin is not so oblivious that he doesn't notice where that gold ends up. But if he thinks anything about that outcome, he certainly isn't shouting it over the sands. It's not enough to hold his attention for long. Other places for his attention to be that are more important to his immediate person.
Jedrek squishes Naamiah's hand again. "This'll be a crazy ride for those 'lingmasters," is drawled amicably. And another bronze hatching earns another, "Fardles."
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet starts off much like his bronze brother, the lanky bronze (is he bronze? brown maybe?) just sits in the meteorological crash site and his blue-red eyes swirl actively around the scene. Analytical gaze examines each detail of the hatching sands, the adult dragons around him, the crowd in the galleries and finally the white creatures before him. But he does not move, instead the maybe-bronze spreads his frail wings and examines them carefully, measuring the curvature of the 'sails and estimating the approximate motion required to propel him forward. Too much calculus, this will take a few minutes.
Merci is frozen on the sands. Gold. Brown. /Bronze/. All are taken in, but it is the last which has muscles taut and fists balling. An explosion on the sands? Yes. Of anger? Disappointment? No. Pride. "GET OVER HERE!" Comes the roar from across the sands, arm beckoning in a wide arc. There will be critique for the lack of brown impression /later/.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet continues to strut across the sands, just slowly enough that everyone can get an eyeful of him - because they all want to, obviously - or maybe he's just trying to discover where he can do the most trouble. He sticks out a leg in an attempt to trip a tall Smithcraft boy who scuttles back at the last minute, then breezes on by like a puff of smoke blown by the wind.
Ruchik's scanning doesn't stop after he's vented some anger at the bronze. It doesn't get to finish a full loop, either; peripheral vision brings round blue eyes back to the big-headed bronze, and the trader is well aware of him even before he sits. He mouths something, a series of vowels that bring a furrow to his own big brow. The staring pair is interrupted by Merci's shout. "Come on," winds up being the best thing Ruchik can think to say, and he heads over, that bronze's name still a secret kept from everyone else. Typical.
Bad Moon Rising Egg splits down the side, the blue inside tumbles out backwards, head over heels, crashes into another egg, which rolls backwards and all of a sudden there's two blues and two green all tangled up in a pile and screeching at each other. One bounds off, its tail dragging another behind it, and all four impress to four candidates standing all in a row. How convenient.
The lastest-hatched causes broad-shouldered Rylsar to mince sideways, as if putting more potential distance between him and the dragonet. What -- Rylsar? Scared? /Never/.
Barrett loses the person standing right next to him to a very decisive green, and his face falls quite noticeably at that one, but there are fewer people in the vicinity now, and can that be anything but a good thing? He edges a little further over, now, to settle a bit closer to Tovrin: "It's all going to be all right, right? It's--there's a lot of them going, now." Yes, there might have been better place to turn for comfort.
Siyavri is wide-eyed and pale, and completely oblivious to everything else on the sands, even now, even a few minutes on. Zahravath's hunger is at least something she /can/ deal with, something concrete, no matter how disgusting the actual process might be. She just keeps /staring/ at the young dragon's head, her expression bewildered. What... just happened here? How? /Why/?
Tovrin glances sideways at Barrett, frowning slightly. Either at the question or the fact that Barrett is close enough to be talking to him. "Pretty sure that's how this all works, ain't it? They hatch and go." His bright blue eyes are intense right now but not looking at Barrett anymore.
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet cannot sit around too long, there are too many experiments to be done, too many variables to be tested. But this is his /spot/, it is specifically designed for excellent air flow and nearness to the food, he doesn't want to leave. Soon there is a squawking groan as the scrawny bronze pushes himself forward with a mean force of approximately two Newtons (maybe 2.16234234 Newtons if one ignores significant figures) and off dragonet goes propelling himself toward the candidate group. Halting to go face to face with the ubiquitous Minecraft Apprentice and scanning his face carefully. No, too stupid. The bronze paws the buff bod out of the way until he runs into a holdergirl. No, too female. And forward the creature goes, continuing his search for the electron to his proton, the matter to his anti-matter.
The blue out of Aleph-Mem-Tav is stocky and solidly built, in direct contrast to one of his paler brothers. They pair off; two more impressions made. Meanwhile a banshee green nearly knocks through a cluster of candidates on her way to a weyrbred girl who caught her eye.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet raises his head now and strikes a pose, muzzle lifted into the air, wings held just so, and then he's off again. He does a circuit of the candidates, then another, and finally strikes a path towards a tall man with dark hair - there's promise here, and surely even a Farmer could use three wishes.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Rylsar.
Merci will at least wait until Ruchik's in grabbing distance before wrapping an arm around the tall lad's neck and yanking him down to her height. Noogie. It all happens in an instant, duties pulling her away so that by the time the once-trader knows what's happened- all that's left is a bucket of meet. "Alright, c'mon you lot." Merci's already moved on, ushering the newly impressed over this way, tacking on the too-sexy-for-his-shell brown and his newest master. Or, victim. "Meat's over this way!"
Vedoriath may not actually be done eating -- it is possible that Vedoriath is a bottomless pit that will /never/ be done eating -- but he is at least stopping in order to whuffle curiously, welcoming, at sister Zahravath. Whose rider is a liiiiittle confused, and so it's Cili who's speaking up: "Siyavri?" Beat. "You all right?" And then -- "Rylsar!"
How long's that blue been wandering around now? Who knows, but at least he picks a rider at last.
The look on Rylsar's face is, indeed, hilarious. This -- well, this wasn't the thing he saw coming at all. Rylsar -- R'sar -- drops to his knees, and his hoarse voice for once enunciates perfectly: "His name is Imaarith!"
Jedrek's head is like one of those wind vanes in a hurricane. Two, fro, looking as eggs hatch, dragons impress. "So, hittin' or foldin'?" It's a question to Naamiah, and it's said with an awkward laugh, all nerves.
Siyavri is distracted, but not so distracted that she can't hear the sound of her own name - at least /that/ still belongs to her, regardless of anything. Even so, it takes her a few moments to properly narrow in on Cili, and her expression is no more at ease even when she has. "I--" she begins, but has to stop, swallowing. She sounds very far away, for all that one hand is unconsciously draping itself upon Zahravath, whose interest in Vedoriath is genuine and enthusiastic. "I will be." Maybe.
Soul for a Song Egg hatches! There's a green inside. She goes and impresses somebody.
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet seems to be getting vengeance for a past life as the kid that always got picked last in dodgeball, or at least that is what it seems as the bronze wanders across the sands as one of the last unimpressed dragonets. But there are too many factors to consider, one has to take their time and evaluate the pros and cons of every candidate. Then there is the hunger and the possibly-bronze's eyes swirl a deeper crimson and he lets out a pitiful squeal. And finally he reaches the man, height and weight proportional, able to lift heavy objects (just in case someone is crushed by a log or something), symmetrical face, some sort of intelligence, yes... this butcher boy will most certainly do!
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Jedrek.
R'uhk gives a, "Gyah!" when he's grabbed by Merci. He paws at the brownrider ineffectively, eyes shining just a little before the heat of the sands and a hard blink takes them out. The blazing bronze beside him looks over to Merci, flexes his talons, and heads for the meat, with or without the trad- weyrling. R'uhk gives Merci a smack to the shoulder and then follows after his dragon, eyeing him a bit askance, a bit unsure, a bit overwhelmed - and finding in Siyavri a happy distraction. A colourful word serves as adjective to the name of, "Cheater," that he applies to her.
J'ek seems slightly awestruck, blinking down at the awkward bronze in front of him like an unknown entity has just appeared. "Uh.. what?" is his initial response, green eyes large before he looks around and then back down once more. "Who's J'ek.. Zingath?" But then, something seems to fall into place, and the young man smiles. "Crackdust." J'ek and Zingath then move as a unit, although the gangly bronze seems to move at a slower pace, towards the edge of the sands.
Siyavri turns a glance up at R'uhk, apparently registering /his/ Impression only for the first time. She's too overwhelmed, too shocked, to even be able to glower at him: if this is cheating, who wants to win?
U'rr moves toward J'ek with a polite nod, "This way, weyrling, your creature looks a little... stunted and therefore it may be good to feed him." Then the brownrider paces beside Zingath slowly.
Imogen is probably supposed to say something, something about congratulations to those who impressed and sorry to those who didn't, probably an invitation to stand for future clutches - but all she actually does is smile beatifically and get away before anyone can corner her for polite conversation, especially any visiting dignitaries. Weyrwoman Win.
Merci takes all of R'uhk's shoving in stride, busy ushering in the rest of the newly paired weyrlings and their dragonets. She's taking a step towards J'ek, but then U'rr beats her too it and there's a glimmer of something. Maybe annoyance? No, tonight is too good for even that. Instead, the Weyrsinger gets a firm, stinging slap to his rump. "Who's the Weyrlingmaster here?" As in- Who's your Daddy? But in reality, he's just making her job easier.
Cili, whose name isn't the same and she's -- well, she's still not getting that -- just rolls her eyes at R'uhk, but there's affection in it when she does so. "I hear you get used to it," she tries to offer as comfort for Siyavri, and manages to keep her mouth shut on making any comment about how the healer didn't have advance time to adjust to the idea. She knows that, right? She's a mindhealer. Vedoriath, on the other hand, completely oblivious to all angst, is actually bowing his head a little bit to his golden sister. "Looks like she likes him, too," Cili starts, and just gets this /look/ from her brown. Like, duh she likes him.
Barrett is still there, at the end. And he probably ought to be upset. But instead, there's a little smile since Tovrin is still there, too. And then--well, the moment he can manage to, he's going to beat it off the sands to get changed, go give his mother a hug, and get the show on the road for the rest of his life.
J'ek nods slowly to U'rr, obviously still in a bit of a daze. "Yessir," he responds with a little nod, laying a hand on the bronze's hide before following the man off to the weyrling area.
U'rr jumps to the hand slap and moves out of the way, "I believe that you are the weyrlingmaster, hopefully you are competent enough to know that." The brownrider releases the bronze pair to the Real Weyrlingmaster and he rotates around toward Imogen with a nod, "I do believe you need to address the Candidates who did not Impress Weyrwoman."
"You can do it!" Imogen flings helpfully over her shoulder, and then she's gone!
R'uhk has fallen to feeding The Bronze With No (Public) Name. The trader might be in shock. Because after that one comment to Siyavri, he's not looking to her. Cili's not noticed. Even Merci doesn't get a second look, and he likes her. It's a meditative feeding, and he's not likely to move anytime soon. That dragon, though, that big old bronze, he looks easily to his clutchsiblings, with a longer gander to the gold. And it's not exactly threatening.
U'rr frowns again with a twitch on his face before he turns to the crowd of candidates, "It is unfortunate that it appears your lifemate was not present at this Hatching, but it does not mean you were not a qualified rider. Therefore we encourage you to continue to reside at Fort Weyr if you are interested, although if you choose not to, Fort Weyr offers wishes of good luck and other such superstitious nonsense." That is the Weyrsinger's form of politeness, I swear.
Naamiah stands still for a few bare seconds before realizing the call for the End has come. She gives a shake of her head, coming back from the cobwebs of her thoughts. With one last glance to those who remain with her and then one final look to the friends whose new lives have started, she takes her leave quickly from the sands. It's hard to tell if it's relief or grief that clouds her expression -- or a mixture of both, possibly. Still, she does manage to leave the sands with a bright (strained) smile plastered on her face!
Merci growls at U'rr, perhaps a bit too pleased at his response. "And don't you forget it." A firm nod, then she's leading J'ek and his new bronze bond to where there's food. Because honestly, Zingath needs to bulk up a bit. She'll linger, but only to gather up stragglers (looking at you, R'uhk) and usher them off.
Khrysta watches all the new weyr-ducklings get herded off the sands, then takes a moment to lace her fingers together, and give a good stretch towards the heavens. Then, after pushing her robe back down, meanders off the sands - U'rrs 'good wishes' given a faintly ironic grin.
BAM! Oh, Siyavri will have plenty to write in her notes about /this/ particular entrance. Merci stands there, hands on her hips as she bellows, "Gitcher robes on!" No need to elaborate, not that the brownrider's the type. The collective hum seems to thrum through even the ground of the Weyr, steadily gaining volume and intensity. Even Fang, perched on her should is giving his snarling trill.
Siyavri /might/ have said something else - something about Ruchik's stupid face probably encourages it - but Merci's entrance changes all that. The healer is up and off the edge of the cot she's been perched on in a moment, and strides confidently towards the brownrider, notebook still in hand. "Do you mind if I walk with you all?" she asks, in a tone that suggest she doesn't expect to be told no. The Candidates? Let them flail around; she's quite calm.
Citlali already dropped her pen -- now she's dropping her notebook, too, right on the floor as Merci appears. "Wh --" And then Siyavri speaks and she doesn't even get a chance to finish up the question, not that she seems to know which 'w' question word it might have even /been/. And then, to the displeasure of several of the other candidates, she tells the healer, "I don't." Siyavri is welcome, therefore, to assume Citlali speaks for everyone again. And then she's scuttling around to find her robe and throw it on. "Oh, sandals, where are you --"
"You're right, I should probably go--" Or not, as that hum fills the cavern, and Barrett is suddenly in need of a change of plans. And clothes. Thankfully, his robe is all waiting, nicely folded, for just such an occasion. Once he's got the old clothes off and the new ones on, he starts running the comb through his hair again, just in case.
Ruchik is standing right next to the door when Merci barges in. Her yell startles him, even with the familiarity he's managed to sort of achieve with the brownrider. He gives her a nod - actually respectful! - and is off his lean and heading for his cot. But not without tossing a, "Maybe you can borrow some white, too!" to Siyavri. Rucksack is stashed under his cot, clothes are changed without modesty, and it's a barefoot and white-clad trader who gravitates back to his brownrider, seemingly wiping his nose on his left shoulder as he goes.
Tovrin doesn't often need to be told twice to take off his clothes. Even if he's supposed to be putting other ones on in their place. He sits up, pulling off his shirt at the same time and moves to pull his robe out of the press at the end of his cot to change. Definitely no flailing involved.
Jedrek blinks. And again. Green eyes make rapid progress to surfaces in the Barracks, as if expecting the walls to come tumbling down around him. "Well I'll be'a wherry's uncle," he exclaims, voice laden with a kind of awe that perhaps has been lacking over these few months of candidacy. "So it's really happenin'," he murmurs. But soon, thankfully, instinct kicks in, and with a hasty movement he's un-buttoning his flannel shirt and making a dramatic reach for his candidate robe, wrinkled and strewn at the foot of his cot. It takes him a moment or two to get fully changed, but once so.. he glances down at himself and swallows, looking up to meet the eyes of Naamiah, the closest candidate to him at present. "Ya wanna hold ma hand?" Eyebrow arches and he flashes her that familiar charming smile, even if it is laced with nerves.
Khrysta rolls to her feet, and strips. After all this time, she gives no thought to modesty and would be surprised if anyone else did. In short order, she's got her white mini pulled on, and the belt tied, before she pads over to join the others in the duck-walk to the sands.
Merci roars again, "Hurry it up!" As if they're being slow, watching the flashes of flesh and scrambling without so much as a hint of a smirk. This is serious business. Free peep show is ignored- perhaps a pointed glance at Khrysta, and a grunt for those who're passing. "Don't care if you do," For Siyavri, "But HURRY YER ASS."
You travel out on hurried steps, through the caverns, waaaay across the bowl, around the throngs of people -- and finally, you're there. Good luck!
Hatching Sands
Breathless heat blurs the high gray contours of this gigantic cavern: intense, inexorable, it swallows the unaware in mirages of warped vision, sands-scorched feet, sounds that lose their origins in the echo and reecho of vaulting stone. Dim citrine light casts low shadows even when otherwise illuminated, the product of constellations of living, growing glows; they even limn the staircases winding high to the galleries that, like the dragons' ledges, center attention on this chosen home to generation after generation of Fort queens' clutches.
Wild Hunt Egg shivers: a rustle in the forest, a rumble in the jungle that grows in intensity until the shadows part, the dark shapes on the shell cracking away to reveal the fearsome creature within: perhaps it's the way he slips from the shards, shrugging them off while hardly noticing; perhaps it's the roar finally made vocal; perhaps it's just that he's unsettlingly large even for a hatchling bronze.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet
Forged in an enormity of molten bronze, fluid metal pools round every neck and back ridge, flowing over the wide anvil of his head and framing powerfully hunched shoulders, before pouring down his hide in wide jagged striations that taper and melt into the burnt orange furnace of his belly. Wings similarly aspire to fearful symmetry: the highlights of burnished wingspars that streak across darker topsails, lubs and undersails wrought with swathes of bright flame while distant deep night trails wing edges, bands his flickering tail, and ebons dread claws.
Skeptic Egg is not moving, it swears it. Well, maybe there was a little wiggle but that could be just swamp
gas.
Curse of the Lycan Egg quivers, making twisted branches seem to shudder in a sudden wind, then stills.
No sooner are the candidates out that an egg hatches -- and that's just the way it goes.
Siyavri is not, of course, one of the candidates: she's not wearing a robe, that's for sure. But she enters the sands alongside the others, darting off to one side only once they step out there-- she looks quite as if she thinks she belongs, and not at all as though she's completely out of place, scrambling madly to open up her notebook and, from a safe distance, begin to take notes. That there are hatchlings /already/, so soon, only makes her eyes go wide.
Hestiath couldn't be any prouder than if it really were her clutch and not just one she'd watched for Orlaith. She's crooning, honey sweet, to the eggs, and Imogen's standing at her head looking more happy and relaxed than she has in ages and trading relieved grins with Iona every few minutes.
Naamiah follows her fellow Candidates out onto the sands, and gives a shaky bow. Wide green eyes are trained on the eggs and the dragons, alike. Yet, still she tries to hold to the natural confidence and not let fear take hold -- and surprisingly, takes a spot in the front, not the back of the group!
Jedrek has made it onto the sands. One small step for man or something, right? After paying his respects with the rest of his candidate class to the dam and sire of the clutch, he walks with purposeful strides to stake out a patch of sand for himself. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, chuckling a bit to himself. "Here we go."
Surprised -- dumbfounded, even -- Rylsar steps wide-eyed onto the Sands. His bow is hasty and not necessarily the most graceful thing to ever be seen on the face of Pern, but it exists. After, he melds into the semi-circle of candidates, just another face with an expression verging on apprehensive.
Merci grunts as she reaches the sands, just as the first hatchling bursts free. "Shells! They ain't waitin' fer you!" Words are said with a bellowing laugh, Talimoth perched next to Hestiath. Just as she is surroproud, he is as well, perhaps even leaning into the gold. Aw, our (not really) babies!
Citlali actually almost shrieks /in Siyavri's ear/ before the healer manages to split off from them as the bronze instantaneously hatches and startles her. Or scares her. Or something. "Isn't bronze first supposed to be lucky?" she asks -- no one. Rylsar? Khrysta? Everyone, probably.
Barrett has made it to the sands in one piece, imagine that. And he's clearly excited about it, waving up towards the galleries, neck-craning to try to see someone up there, or maybe just gawking at how many people there are. "Far-ranth," he murmurs, more under his breath, and when there's bowing, he does likewise, before shuffling into whatever semicircleish arrangement they can manage or themselves.
Guardian in the Dark Egg gives a lurch, like something in there has just woken up from a looooong nap.
Khrysta's saunter picks up a bit once she hits the Sands. A quick bow is offered to the dragons watching over this clutch, and then she moves into the semi-circle - almost immediately starting the two-step shift dance perfected over the turns. "So I've heard.." she calls out to Citlali.
Tovrin moves with the herd onto the sands and it's pretty hard not to have his eyes on the eggs that are already moving. And hatching. Not much thought to who he's standing near. That's not very important right now.
Ruchik is one of the candidates, but is almost as concerned with Siyavri moving away from the rest of his peers as he is with getting himself onto the sands, mimicking some sort of a half-nod, half-bow to whatever dragons are out there, and doing his best to get away from anyone who might want to hold his hand. Those are tucked along either side, arms crossed. It takes a while for the challenge to touch his wide-eyed look once he actually sees the dragonet, though. Oh crap, things are real.
Underneath the Blazing Sky Egg moves restlessly, a shudder and a shake, and it won't be long now.
U'rr paces slowly on the sands ahead of the Candidates as he passes by the healer, "Maintain an awareness of the Sands, it would be unfortunate if you were mauled, healer." And then the brownrider goes to the region where the weyrlingmasters are standing.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet has effectively announced his arrival and now takes a few fluid steps in order to further shed himself from the camouflage of his egg. He no longer needs it. Only when his tail tip has cleared the fragments does he begin to conduct his business properly. Haunches, then belly, and finally his entire frame melts atop the hot sands, wings draped wetly on either side of him. The typically large eyes of a dragonet are half-lidded and look at no one while seeing all. Huh.
Siyavri's chin lifts as she tells U'rr, "I have no intention of being a casualty." Or an Impressee: perhaps that's why she's eyeing the eggs (and okay, also that dragonet) so warily, with only occasional sweeps over the candidates she's really supposed to be watching.
Between the kaleidoscopic Must Have Shiny Egg and the verdant greenery of A Forest Grew, the mess of shard and shell left behind is a riot of color. The dragons they hatch less so: two browns, bound in opposite directions. One impresses a quiet girl of crafter origin; the other, a local lad. First impressions, while that bronze on the sands sorts himself out.
Citlali definitely has her major focus on 'not dying,' more than anything else. As the bronze moves, she's making sure she is keeping her eyes focused on him -- and then the other Impressions, quite sudden as they are -- so that she doesn't become dragon bait in a food sense after all. "Speedy fellows."
D'yce is the poor sod that was stationed by the meat buckets for now. So when two dragons impress so quickly, he waves them over and just points at the beef. Really, no more needs to be said. Right?
Guardian in the Dark Egg rocks back and forth, back and forth, like a child's toy that never stays down no matter how hard you smack the darn thing. And then it stills, eerie in the midst of activity. Kathunk. Kathunk. KATHUNK. KATHUNK. The occupant hammers. His. Way. Out! A roar bursts forth from the sudden appearance of dark muzzle, spilling from the egg its occupant head over tail in an embarrassing display of overdone strength.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet
He's as dark and rough as the bark of a great tree whose strength has been tested by wind and lightning both, his form weathered until smooth across the powerful muscles of his chest and legs. The jagged marks of tan and amber that seem almost to split the rough hide across his back dwindle in size but not number as they race towards his great paws and long tail, returning once more to strike the tips of neckridges and singe a path down the dark curve of his belly.
Ruchik's attention draws away from that first big bronze to the other two eggs when they hatch. Challenge might even clash a little with hope in his eyes - until neither approach him. Well damn. Back to the bron- brown again! The bronze is watched the way one watches a rowdy man in a pub. The brown is watched the way one watches the pretty girl.
Merci joins the rest of the weyrlingmasters, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and watching. Mirror images, dragon and rider, both with faintly parted lupine grins. A glance in unison, before two sets of eyes are back on the sands, watching. "Two browns. Good, hearty clutch." Favortism shines through. Ignoring the bronze.
U'rr enjoys the sight of browns being Impressed and waves over to the girl and boy, "Over here Weyrlings, your dragons will require sustenance." The Weyrsinger, faux weyrlingmaster, steps forward to help guide them to the end of the sands. Imogen is given a nod in greeting, "They say that a bronze hatching first is good luck, if you believe in ridiculous superstitions."
Barrett seems to have spotted his family, at least from the much more active waving--whole arm put into it now--and the utter lack of attention to the fact that there are now dragons. On the sands. Impressing to people. It's only once people start talking more and a neighbor shoves an elbow into his ribs that he turns around to straighten himself out and try to look--something. Presentable. Impressable? Or at least less shaky, hands carefully clasped together.
Rylsar stands on the fringes of the array of candidates, strangely alone -- though he makes no immediate motions to /join/ anyone, either. Distracted from the cracking eggs, he scans the galleries in a vain attempt to recognize faces. That, obviously, isn't likely to yield any results - but doesn't stop him from trying!
Jedrek finds Naamiah in the crowd, finds her hand, and gives a, "Fardles," for the first impressions. So fast.
Khrysta flashes a bit of a smile as some of the candidates impress - there may even be a call of congratulations thrown out there - however, more wary than not, the Istan blonde is keeping her eyes on the moving teeth-and-stomaches.
Citlali doesn't shriek any louder at the booming brown than she did at the first hatching, but that doesn't mean she doesn't jump practically out of her skin. Okay, so she startles easily. What's it to you all? She only has a moment to glance toward the galleries and try to catch Caledan's eye -- hopefully succeeding -- before looking back to the dragonets. No greens, yet, but she can still hope.
Tovrin looks calm though maybe not so comfortable as he did laying on his cot in the barracks. Now he's alert, watching dragons hatch and trying to make sense of the whole impression thing. There's no one in the galleries for him so he doesn't bother putting any of his attention that way.
Naamiah can barely keep up with how fast the Impressions are going, but each of her fellow Candidates that do find lifemates are given bright smiles and a thumbs up. Quiet running commentary with Jedrek, once he's standing next to her, puts some humor and fun to an otherwise almost entirely overwhelming experiene.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet shakes off the sand that still clings to himself, and wiggles his rump to free himself of the remnants of shell that are there. But while he's doing so, he observes that he just plain has THE nicest rear end of all the hatchlings. Look at that finely formed.. and his /tail/. Is the rest of him this awesome? He flexes his wings to check. Yep. Oh, wait. He was supposed to be doing something... uhm... uhm... looking for someone! That's it. Duhr.
"Of course I do," Imogen returns to U'rr - not even his comments can weigh her down, not today. She leans against Hestiath's neck and looks out over the sands, satisfied, content.
Three greens in quick succession emerge from eggs on different points on the sand and all converge on a strapping young man who's just shy of the age that would make him too old to Stand. Now with his last chance, the greens all want a piece. The one who gets to him first makes Merek M'rek to her Rhoiseth, while the other two veer around behind and impress a pair of girls holding hands.
Siyavri's expression turns increasingly frustrated: there's too much to see, and not enough time to make note of it all. It only takes a few minutes before she gives up entirely, closing her notebook and stowing it carefully under one arm. At least /this/ way, she can keep tabs on what's going on, tracking past the first Impressees, to the dragonets still roaming the sands. Under her breath, she's murmuring something - something inaudible.
Underneath the Blazing Sky Egg crackles, crackles, and then quite suddenly burns up, all those flames writhing together and incinerating the shell, rocketing the dragonet inside free in a whirl of tangled wings and claws; an inauspicious beginning for an inauspicious-looking gold.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet
A regal poise belies a slender, compact body suffused in the watercolour glow of amber, brightest on her breastbone but washing out across her haunches until by the spade of her rudderlike tail nearly all shade has bleached away. That ethereal translucency is reflected in the faded golden quartz that shines through the skin of her broad, elongated wings, ragged crystalline sails and protruding spars; that tapering wedge of her head, prominent headknobs, and over-pronounced neckridges which lend her a gaunt, skeletal look; the glassiness of her powerful limbs offset by the starstruck granite of curvaceous claws.
Citlali resists the urge to actually snap her fingers as not one but /three/ greens pass her over. The brown, as he surveys himself as if to make sure he's all there, makes her laugh -- the gold gets a wary look, and she backs a little bit in the opposite direction, whichever opposite that is. Don't pick her. Don't pick her. No golds, please.
"A new Queen, Weyrwoman, an excellent sign. Even I am moved by her..." U'rr gives a blue eyed scan over the ghastly gold's form before he turns toward Imogen, "Orlaith must be... proud." Hestiath moreso.
Merci won't let a frown show on her face, not at a hatching. "Looks a lil' frail." She'll comment on the gold, genuine concern making her voice lower into a growl. But then, "Alright!" She's bellowing to those newly made weyrlings, beconing, "Say goodbye to the rest, yer mine now!" Was that supposed to sound ominous? But at least she's hoisting up a pair of buckets.
Rylsar raises his eyebrows at the sight of the latest-hatched. "/Gold/?" he wonders aloud: "Didn't see that'n comin'." Whoever is nearby to hear, does; everyone else is ignored, in what is becoming his standard.
Ruchik shoots a look about the sands for Siyavri when all those greens hatch. Whew. Nothing. He's watching, too, to make sure the brown doesn't go anywhere near her. The bronze isn't so much of a concern for that. And when a gold hatches - the trader makes a grumpy face, and goes back to lusting after that brown and trying to keep track of everything else.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet is right where he left himself. The bronze hasn't made any attempts to get up and hunt for that special someone... why bother? Instead, he seems to have become aware of his own massive paw. Head lowers just enough to make it clear that he's focused on his limb rather than what his siblings or the candidates are doing. Flexing his overlarge paw is much more interesting, watching those talons jump and flex taut against his flesh. The bronze is unbothered by what might be thought of him, of the murmurs stirred by his non-action. They don't know like he does.
Barrett has his back straight, chin up, but if nobody stops, then that at least gives him more time to gawk at the others, and the gold who has drawn all eyes certainly gets his as much as anyone else's. The bronze, though: "I thought they were supposed to be in a hurry. Hungry, or something," he murmurs to a neighbor, and maybe there's a hint of worry in his tone. Or more than a hint.
If her happiness dims in the mention of Weyrwomen, Imogen quickly waves it aside. "Indeed," she responds, equably. "It's funny, isn't it, how they hardly look like their parents? She's lovely." And with hardly a pause, "have you got any wine on you, U'rr? I need a celebratory drink!"
D'yce actually looks concerned at the odd appearance of the new queen, but keeps his own council. From where he is, he can only salute to the Weyrwomen and the others to signal his own approval of the dragonets so far. One weyrling pair already munches from a nearby bloody pile next to him.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet shakes herself free in a shower of shards and sand and sets about to smashing the biggest shell pieces underfoot. Crunch! An unconsciously destructive little thing, she whirls in a maelstrom of tail and wings, bumping hard against the closest eggs, enough to send it rocking. It keeps rocking and hatches a blue while she finally sorts herself out and looks for the next thing that makes a noise.
Siyavri has /not/ Impressed one of the greens, no, Ruchik. She's still right here, where she was before, though she's looking more and more unnerved. Perhaps it's the bronze, whose actions she watches for a few seconds, here; perhaps it's the brown, who also earns some attention. Or the gold - whose appearance surprises the healer, sending one foot back just slightly before she steadies herself.
Khrysta keeps rather back from the rest of the Candidates - letting them act as shields or just to watch their backs - either way, she makes no attempts to actually gain the attention of any of the new hatchlings.
Citlali was already backing away from the gold, but now she's sure she doesn't want to go near her. No making noise, right? She does, however, make the mistake of talking, just a light commentary on the bronze and the brown, "They all seem to be pretty focused on what they look like. Learning?"
Ruchik goes, "Hah!". It's something you can go. Especially when a gold, on one of your wary-glances, sends eggs knocking and breaking. "Like her," is gritted out to no one. The bronze gets a longer look this time, his lack of movement suddenly becoming suspect. When the rowdy guy gets quiet, it could mean an explosion. And that's reason to ignore the pretty girl. For a while.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet has no shame at all about sizing up these white robed people. He stops in front of a muscled stocky male, tilts his muzzle, and then headbumps him in disgruntlement before moving on and leaves him toppled over in the sand. Obviously not suitable. Scrawny kid - out. Smug arsewipe - out. Is there nobody who sees him for how awesome and strong and... what was that? Did he just hear an insult? Stalk, stalk, stalkity stalk... oh wait, it wasn't about him. Maybe.. hmm, who is that over there? Someone with appreciation for his fine wit and stunning appearance perhaps?
Jedrek keeps on holding Naamiah's hand. "Gonna rile up all sorts of bettin' men!" is crowed when the gold hatches(?) a blue. "If anyone called that, worth a fortune, I wager!"
Tovrin knows enough to know that he can't impress a gold. And enough to realize that's what that one is. So he doesn't give her any real attention so long as he doesn't have to move out of her way. More of his attention is focused on the bronze and brown and blue, slightly cautious.
U'rr shakes his head slowly toward Imogen, "I am afraid I have given up my last skin of wine to the family that he harassed in order to capture Varo. It seemed a fair trade." The brownrider shits on his feet before stepping forward to stare at the bronze, "We will have to focus on motivating that dragonet, it seems to ignore its hatching duty, Weyrwoman."
Because I can't resist, reaction to that typo (wherein all RP stopped for like five minutes):
[FCand] Ruchik: U'rr, you're disgusting.
[FCand] Rylsar: In front of everyone, too.
[FCand] U'rr facepalms.
[FCand] Merci DIES.
[FCand] U'rr /just/ noticed.
[FCand] Citlali had to read it three times to get it, omg.
[FCand] Ruchik: Next to the weyrwoman, man!
[FCand] Rylsar: I hope you're not stepping /too/ forward.
[FCand] U'rr has to keep things interesting.
[FCand] Khrysta: Over the head and muzzle.
[FCand] Ruchik: Poop is funny, not interesting.
[FCand] Khrysta mumbles.
[FCand] U'rr is doing his duty.
[FCand] Qylia: Naturally ;)
[FCand] Rylsar: In front of everyone.
[FCand] Citlali: This is staying in my log.
[FCand] D'yce: Well, someone had to crap themselves over the awesomeness of the dragons right? Right?
[FCand] Khrysta: Shouldn't that be dooty?
[FCand] Ruchik resists the urge to use that for his log title.
[FCand] Imogen: ... I don't think I can pose back to that really! What is there to SAY!!!
[FCand] U'rr: SHIFTS
[FCand] D'yce: How about 'For Faranth's sake, U'rr! Wipe yourself!'
[FCand] Imogen dies and dies and dies.
[FCand] Khrysta: P'ees don't do that?
Siyavri, steadier now, straightens her stance and uses the back of one hand to wipe at her brow, now glowing under the heat of the sands. She seeks out each of the dragonets - again - one after another, lingering on none of them any longer than the others: it's all scientific interest, nothing more. She's been surprisingly silent, really, this whole time; very surprising for /her/.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet finally grows bored of his own paw, not that he looked excited about it in the first place. His duty is too himself, and any naysayers are welcome to kiss his tailtip. Speaking of, it begins to flick side to side, as if finally picking up on the agitation of the crowd. He slides to his feet, slinks with far too much grace /away/ from the candidates, following the path those who have found their bonds. He waits on the edges, not quite at the Weyrlingmasters, but closer to them than the candidates. He's hungry now.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet careens in the attempt to track down the source of the sounds echoing and amplified in the tremendous cavern. Disoriented, she can't set upon a single direction and stick to it: first left, then right, then forward. That stupid blue gets in her way, and she crashes into him, neither dragon steady on their newborn feet. Down they go. The gold, for all her seeming fragility, is stronger than she looks and staggers away first, while the blue calls out plaintively, left with a shallow gash on his side that will need patching up later.
D'yce points back out at the candidates when that bronze dragonet comes near. "I dont' think so, buddy. You find a human partner and /then/ you can eat. Not before." Stern, or trying to be, the brownrider just plain shakes his head. That one is just going to be trouble.
Naamiah's hand tightens on Jedrek's when the gold dragonet hatches, then more so when it breaks free a blue. After a deep breath she is able to loosen grip again, but she sends the other candidate a quick look, smile possibly a little shaky.
Citlali isn't laughing at the bronze. She knows better. Really. But she is smiling as if she's physically swallowing laughter at this point -- possibly because she overheard D'yce's serious commentary on the matter. She's not holding anyone else's hand, but she is rather holding her own, behind her back, fingers locked together.
Rylsar's distracted again -- hatching dragons apparently garner less interest than him trying to scan the galleries again. He must be looking for someone in particular, the way his eyes linger here and there.
Who's that kid? No one you know. But now he's D'vron, the littlest bluerider of them all.
U'rr walks by D'yce and the bronze with a shake of his head, "I do not believe you should be pointing with your index finger, Brownrider, unless you intend on losing it." Said in a dry voice before he moves to D'vron, "This way, weyrling, we should feed your new lifemate. Congratulations." And back to position, where he SHIFTS on his feet a little.
Ruchik's brownlust is tempered - first by the flanking of the bronze, then by the creel of the blue. He moves almost lightly on overheating bare feet, moving back through crowd of candidates, seeking a more solitary space, a wider range. And then seeking a proper foothold, ready to jump if there's going to be an attack. Eyes have started a steady tick-tock between all the dragonets. With occasional stitches in time to glare at Siyavri.
Merci bites back an oath, instead letting out a rumble of, "Might'a spoke too soon." As the Gold decides that the blue is in her way, frowning deeply at the injury. Poor little guy. Not that she'd ever utter so many words, "C'mere. We'll get a 'healer to look at 'im. I know it hurts." Walking past D'yce and the bronze, she freezes and eyes the stubborn dragonet. "Go on, GIT."
Barrett is uneasy on his feet, the heat and the commotion taking their toll even while he's left to sit. And watch. And wait. He rakes fingers back through his hair at one point, but afterwards carefully tries to fix the part again, which is easier than it sounds when you don't have a mirror handy and you're sweating pretty heavily already. "Oh, is that--well, I guess size isn't everything." That might perk him up a smidge.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet finally gets herself in order to go investigate, making enough noise for two dragons as she does so. Maybe it's that which draws her into a more silent space, intrigued by the possibilities there, the strange lack rather than the hushed whispers and exclamations. She winds up in front of Siyavri, candidate or no, uncaring about what /should/ happen and this is what occurs instead: she's come to haunt the healer for good.
Noises In The Night Gold Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Siyavri.
Citlali is completely torn between looking concerned, horrified, wanting to back away and giggling a little. Therefore, her facial expression is completely confused. That is, until she catches glimpse of the gold and where she's gone, and -- then she actually /whistles/. Even if it means Ruchik was right. "Hey, nice going, journeyman!" It kept gold away from Citlali, and now someone with a brain who likes paperwork is on one!
Somehow, despite the odds, despite the absolute unlikelihood of it all, Siyavri on gold doesn't surprise Rylsar whatsoever. Instead, he stands with an odd expression on his face, watching mindhealer and new lifemate for a long moment, before shaking himself to the here-and-now.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet makes a few more stops along the way, knocking over a hatchling here, making a candidate jump out of the way there. He does pause to appreciatively eye the queen who is on the sands with him, waiting ever so politely for her to find a lifemate first. And once that is done, he apparently follows her lead. A decision decisively made as he stomps forward and hip bumps another candidate out of the way of /his/. It was her that he's been looking for, obviously. Citlali who was properly intrigued by his actions. Even if her attention suddenly became /divided/. We can't have that! So he shoves his muzzle upwards to gain her attention forever.
Light(n)ing the Way Brown Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Citlali.
First it's a tingle at the back of your neck. A little *zzzt!* that tells you that you're not alone. And then without warning it's a full-body shock that makes you feel as if the Hammer of Mjolnir itself has cast its judgement on you; a brilliant white light literally blinding you to all else. << I am Vedoriath >> is announced, in a thunderous voice that booms and echoes down to the very core of you. << Together, Cili, we will right all wrongs. >> That feeling, and aftershock, what is th... << But first, I am hungry. >>
Ruchik's scan catches that, and the candidate lets out a roar of, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHIFTING ME." That 'f' is probably just a result of too much rage and spittle flying, really. And by the time he scans to the brown again, he's impressed. So the bronze gets an angry, "Hurry the frig up!" Because Naamiah is too far off to be a target for displaced anger.
[FCand] U'rr: I hate you Ruchik.
[FCand] Ruchik: I love you, U'rr.
Curse of the Lycan Egg quivers and shivers one final time. A last swirl of fog brushes the moon, before the striations from cracking creep up like crimson smoke consuming the ebony blooms that adorn the occupants home. And as if the creature inside lifted his muzzle to howl his own entrance into the world, the egg top pops off in startling solidity to release the prisoner from its cell.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet
There's cinnamon sprinkled on his narrow head and a bit of burnt umber smudged beneath his eyes, all to warm the rich mahogany of his hide until it sparks and catches with a wisp of smoky gray that curls lazily down his tail and billows across slender 'sails. It darkens as it goes until it's near black at the tip of his tail, on the edges of his wings, the color of embers that cooled long ago, while the rest of his frame is sparse and trim, long and slim, with wicked ebon claws and 'ridges each tipped in red.
Iona, meanwhile, looks rather horrified. "Typical, /just/ like Orlaith's daughter!" And she glares accusingly at the gold.
"At least we will have a goldrider with some intellectual capability." U'rr says quietly as he moves over toward Siyavri to assist the newly Impressed, face still quietly solemn, "Unorthodox, but not improbable."
The sight of Citlali's Impression causes a whoop from the back -- one of the first sounds from Rylsar, actually, who has kept himself away from all the others. Is he grinning like a loon? Why yes, he is.
It's a Gas Egg hatches a blue nearly as dark who takes his sweet sweet time before settling on a girl from Gar. The green out of The Demon Within Egg is a whole lot quicker, running down her chosen candidate like a bat out of hell.
Jedrek gives a low whistle, and squeezes at Naamiah's hand without even realizing it. "Bets'll be all off f'that, too," is drawled out, almost giddily joyful in the adrenaline.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet stares. First at D'yce, before whirling eyes drop down to his digit until it's snatched away. Then his head lowers further, watching as the paired dragonets are allowed to stuff their face. Ah. It isn't either of the brownriders who have him standing once more, well after either turn him away. Turning around, there is far more purpose in his steps now though the bronze is as unhurried as before. This is a formality. This is so he can get food. A straight path is cut through the candidates, and like before he sits on his haunches in front of the One. He's known it all along.
Burning Bright Bronze Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Ruchik.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet tumbles straight from his shell to the sands and spends an excessive amount of time sorting through his limbs and wings until he finally manages to stand up, sliding a gaze from side to side. Nobody saw that, right? Legs managed, he swaggers forward with an inordinate amount of confidence for someone still wet with egg goo - some even seems to be in his eye, or is he actually trying to wink smoothly at that green over there?
D'yce steps forward to beckon Citlali forward towards the weyrlingmasters and buckets. "And you thought it would be a green." he murmurs, a nod of encouragement and a somewhat pleased expression on his face while he extends his congratulations to both her and Siyavri. "This way... hopefully he won't knock anyone over again."
Skeptic Egg shakes, or did it? Maybe it was just a trick of the light and shadows? No, it definitely shook and there is no mistaking the cracks blast around the mathematical equations. And certainly the gangly bronze that peaks its maw out cannot be faked, or is it a brown dragon? Either way the shards explode out all direction and out of the crash site stumbles It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet!
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet
Dusty and dull, he's a tangle of too-long legs and overlarge wings whose bronze is so oxidized as to be hardly recognizable. He's long and lean, too, with a million sharp edges and ridged knobs like meteorites that crashed long ago and lie, half-hidden, on the surface of his narrow shoulders, in the craters between his neckridges, at the bony protrusions of his joints. The middling bronze-brown of his hide is greening in great comet-tails that streak across the leading edge of his 'sails, dotted with constellations of ashy grime that spare neither the heavy head that seems far too large for the rest of his frail frame, nor the slender, wispy tail that's stained rusty copper and kinked strangely near the fork.
Siyavri is paying rather too much attention to miss the approach of that little gold dragonet, and in the end, her expression shows pretty clearly the progression of events: wariness, hesitance, shock, denial-- and then tears, as her notebook falls blindly from her hand and she drops towards the sands to meet whirling eyes, and to swallow, wordlessly. It's in a ragged, broken voice that she finally manages to say, sounding drowned, utterly lost: "Zahravath? What-- what have /done/?" It takes her rather a few seconds more to be able to turn her attention away, to see D'yce and register what he's doing. State of shock? Oh yes.
Imogen can spare a reproving glance for Iona, but her own look to Siyavri is only thoughtful, nothing more. There might be tears in her eyes, it might just be sand. She smiles encouragingly at any weyrling pair that gets near enough to see it.
Khrysta gets a peculiar expression, when Siyavri is found by golden Zahravath - half resignation, half congratulated envy (there is too such a thing!). That done, however, this time she'll call out, "Congratulations, beautiful! See you in a couple of turns!" Hey. A gal can hope.
There's a whole lot of rocking and eventually Cross My Palm With Silver Egg hatches too. The dragon looks dizzy and spends a lot of time wandering around before falling over on her new rider. Whups.
The latest Impression causes Rylsar's eyebrows to rise. /Ruchik/? On /bronze/? That -- that obviously doesn't compute. He shakes his head, though, and focuses on the others.
Citlali starts to yelp as the candidate nearby gets knocked out of the way by a big brown dragonet, but -- wait. Whoah. Hold on a minute there. Something -- somebody is /nosing/ at her, and then her attention most certainly isn't divided any longer. She reaches out slowly, to touch a fingertip to an eyeridge -- he is not the green she was expecting, but he is the brown she /needed/, isn't he? "I -- hungry. Right. Vedoriath. Wait, what did you call me?" She's still dwelling on the fact that apparently her name has changed as she is practically /shoved/ toward the food by Vedoriath's head.
Tovrin is not so oblivious that he doesn't notice where that gold ends up. But if he thinks anything about that outcome, he certainly isn't shouting it over the sands. It's not enough to hold his attention for long. Other places for his attention to be that are more important to his immediate person.
Jedrek squishes Naamiah's hand again. "This'll be a crazy ride for those 'lingmasters," is drawled amicably. And another bronze hatching earns another, "Fardles."
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet starts off much like his bronze brother, the lanky bronze (is he bronze? brown maybe?) just sits in the meteorological crash site and his blue-red eyes swirl actively around the scene. Analytical gaze examines each detail of the hatching sands, the adult dragons around him, the crowd in the galleries and finally the white creatures before him. But he does not move, instead the maybe-bronze spreads his frail wings and examines them carefully, measuring the curvature of the 'sails and estimating the approximate motion required to propel him forward. Too much calculus, this will take a few minutes.
Merci is frozen on the sands. Gold. Brown. /Bronze/. All are taken in, but it is the last which has muscles taut and fists balling. An explosion on the sands? Yes. Of anger? Disappointment? No. Pride. "GET OVER HERE!" Comes the roar from across the sands, arm beckoning in a wide arc. There will be critique for the lack of brown impression /later/.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet continues to strut across the sands, just slowly enough that everyone can get an eyeful of him - because they all want to, obviously - or maybe he's just trying to discover where he can do the most trouble. He sticks out a leg in an attempt to trip a tall Smithcraft boy who scuttles back at the last minute, then breezes on by like a puff of smoke blown by the wind.
Ruchik's scanning doesn't stop after he's vented some anger at the bronze. It doesn't get to finish a full loop, either; peripheral vision brings round blue eyes back to the big-headed bronze, and the trader is well aware of him even before he sits. He mouths something, a series of vowels that bring a furrow to his own big brow. The staring pair is interrupted by Merci's shout. "Come on," winds up being the best thing Ruchik can think to say, and he heads over, that bronze's name still a secret kept from everyone else. Typical.
Bad Moon Rising Egg splits down the side, the blue inside tumbles out backwards, head over heels, crashes into another egg, which rolls backwards and all of a sudden there's two blues and two green all tangled up in a pile and screeching at each other. One bounds off, its tail dragging another behind it, and all four impress to four candidates standing all in a row. How convenient.
The lastest-hatched causes broad-shouldered Rylsar to mince sideways, as if putting more potential distance between him and the dragonet. What -- Rylsar? Scared? /Never/.
Barrett loses the person standing right next to him to a very decisive green, and his face falls quite noticeably at that one, but there are fewer people in the vicinity now, and can that be anything but a good thing? He edges a little further over, now, to settle a bit closer to Tovrin: "It's all going to be all right, right? It's--there's a lot of them going, now." Yes, there might have been better place to turn for comfort.
Siyavri is wide-eyed and pale, and completely oblivious to everything else on the sands, even now, even a few minutes on. Zahravath's hunger is at least something she /can/ deal with, something concrete, no matter how disgusting the actual process might be. She just keeps /staring/ at the young dragon's head, her expression bewildered. What... just happened here? How? /Why/?
Tovrin glances sideways at Barrett, frowning slightly. Either at the question or the fact that Barrett is close enough to be talking to him. "Pretty sure that's how this all works, ain't it? They hatch and go." His bright blue eyes are intense right now but not looking at Barrett anymore.
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet cannot sit around too long, there are too many experiments to be done, too many variables to be tested. But this is his /spot/, it is specifically designed for excellent air flow and nearness to the food, he doesn't want to leave. Soon there is a squawking groan as the scrawny bronze pushes himself forward with a mean force of approximately two Newtons (maybe 2.16234234 Newtons if one ignores significant figures) and off dragonet goes propelling himself toward the candidate group. Halting to go face to face with the ubiquitous Minecraft Apprentice and scanning his face carefully. No, too stupid. The bronze paws the buff bod out of the way until he runs into a holdergirl. No, too female. And forward the creature goes, continuing his search for the electron to his proton, the matter to his anti-matter.
The blue out of Aleph-Mem-Tav is stocky and solidly built, in direct contrast to one of his paler brothers. They pair off; two more impressions made. Meanwhile a banshee green nearly knocks through a cluster of candidates on her way to a weyrbred girl who caught her eye.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet raises his head now and strikes a pose, muzzle lifted into the air, wings held just so, and then he's off again. He does a circuit of the candidates, then another, and finally strikes a path towards a tall man with dark hair - there's promise here, and surely even a Farmer could use three wishes.
Rub Me The Right Way Baby, Brown Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Rylsar.
Merci will at least wait until Ruchik's in grabbing distance before wrapping an arm around the tall lad's neck and yanking him down to her height. Noogie. It all happens in an instant, duties pulling her away so that by the time the once-trader knows what's happened- all that's left is a bucket of meet. "Alright, c'mon you lot." Merci's already moved on, ushering the newly impressed over this way, tacking on the too-sexy-for-his-shell brown and his newest master. Or, victim. "Meat's over this way!"
Vedoriath may not actually be done eating -- it is possible that Vedoriath is a bottomless pit that will /never/ be done eating -- but he is at least stopping in order to whuffle curiously, welcoming, at sister Zahravath. Whose rider is a liiiiittle confused, and so it's Cili who's speaking up: "Siyavri?" Beat. "You all right?" And then -- "Rylsar!"
How long's that blue been wandering around now? Who knows, but at least he picks a rider at last.
The look on Rylsar's face is, indeed, hilarious. This -- well, this wasn't the thing he saw coming at all. Rylsar -- R'sar -- drops to his knees, and his hoarse voice for once enunciates perfectly: "His name is Imaarith!"
Jedrek's head is like one of those wind vanes in a hurricane. Two, fro, looking as eggs hatch, dragons impress. "So, hittin' or foldin'?" It's a question to Naamiah, and it's said with an awkward laugh, all nerves.
Siyavri is distracted, but not so distracted that she can't hear the sound of her own name - at least /that/ still belongs to her, regardless of anything. Even so, it takes her a few moments to properly narrow in on Cili, and her expression is no more at ease even when she has. "I--" she begins, but has to stop, swallowing. She sounds very far away, for all that one hand is unconsciously draping itself upon Zahravath, whose interest in Vedoriath is genuine and enthusiastic. "I will be." Maybe.
Soul for a Song Egg hatches! There's a green inside. She goes and impresses somebody.
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet seems to be getting vengeance for a past life as the kid that always got picked last in dodgeball, or at least that is what it seems as the bronze wanders across the sands as one of the last unimpressed dragonets. But there are too many factors to consider, one has to take their time and evaluate the pros and cons of every candidate. Then there is the hunger and the possibly-bronze's eyes swirl a deeper crimson and he lets out a pitiful squeal. And finally he reaches the man, height and weight proportional, able to lift heavy objects (just in case someone is crushed by a log or something), symmetrical face, some sort of intelligence, yes... this butcher boy will most certainly do!
It All Started With The Big Bang Bronze Dragonet's whirling gaze fixes upon Jedrek.
R'uhk gives a, "Gyah!" when he's grabbed by Merci. He paws at the brownrider ineffectively, eyes shining just a little before the heat of the sands and a hard blink takes them out. The blazing bronze beside him looks over to Merci, flexes his talons, and heads for the meat, with or without the trad- weyrling. R'uhk gives Merci a smack to the shoulder and then follows after his dragon, eyeing him a bit askance, a bit unsure, a bit overwhelmed - and finding in Siyavri a happy distraction. A colourful word serves as adjective to the name of, "Cheater," that he applies to her.
J'ek seems slightly awestruck, blinking down at the awkward bronze in front of him like an unknown entity has just appeared. "Uh.. what?" is his initial response, green eyes large before he looks around and then back down once more. "Who's J'ek.. Zingath?" But then, something seems to fall into place, and the young man smiles. "Crackdust." J'ek and Zingath then move as a unit, although the gangly bronze seems to move at a slower pace, towards the edge of the sands.
Siyavri turns a glance up at R'uhk, apparently registering /his/ Impression only for the first time. She's too overwhelmed, too shocked, to even be able to glower at him: if this is cheating, who wants to win?
U'rr moves toward J'ek with a polite nod, "This way, weyrling, your creature looks a little... stunted and therefore it may be good to feed him." Then the brownrider paces beside Zingath slowly.
Imogen is probably supposed to say something, something about congratulations to those who impressed and sorry to those who didn't, probably an invitation to stand for future clutches - but all she actually does is smile beatifically and get away before anyone can corner her for polite conversation, especially any visiting dignitaries. Weyrwoman Win.
Merci takes all of R'uhk's shoving in stride, busy ushering in the rest of the newly paired weyrlings and their dragonets. She's taking a step towards J'ek, but then U'rr beats her too it and there's a glimmer of something. Maybe annoyance? No, tonight is too good for even that. Instead, the Weyrsinger gets a firm, stinging slap to his rump. "Who's the Weyrlingmaster here?" As in- Who's your Daddy? But in reality, he's just making her job easier.
Cili, whose name isn't the same and she's -- well, she's still not getting that -- just rolls her eyes at R'uhk, but there's affection in it when she does so. "I hear you get used to it," she tries to offer as comfort for Siyavri, and manages to keep her mouth shut on making any comment about how the healer didn't have advance time to adjust to the idea. She knows that, right? She's a mindhealer. Vedoriath, on the other hand, completely oblivious to all angst, is actually bowing his head a little bit to his golden sister. "Looks like she likes him, too," Cili starts, and just gets this /look/ from her brown. Like, duh she likes him.
Barrett is still there, at the end. And he probably ought to be upset. But instead, there's a little smile since Tovrin is still there, too. And then--well, the moment he can manage to, he's going to beat it off the sands to get changed, go give his mother a hug, and get the show on the road for the rest of his life.
J'ek nods slowly to U'rr, obviously still in a bit of a daze. "Yessir," he responds with a little nod, laying a hand on the bronze's hide before following the man off to the weyrling area.
U'rr jumps to the hand slap and moves out of the way, "I believe that you are the weyrlingmaster, hopefully you are competent enough to know that." The brownrider releases the bronze pair to the Real Weyrlingmaster and he rotates around toward Imogen with a nod, "I do believe you need to address the Candidates who did not Impress Weyrwoman."
"You can do it!" Imogen flings helpfully over her shoulder, and then she's gone!
R'uhk has fallen to feeding The Bronze With No (Public) Name. The trader might be in shock. Because after that one comment to Siyavri, he's not looking to her. Cili's not noticed. Even Merci doesn't get a second look, and he likes her. It's a meditative feeding, and he's not likely to move anytime soon. That dragon, though, that big old bronze, he looks easily to his clutchsiblings, with a longer gander to the gold. And it's not exactly threatening.
U'rr frowns again with a twitch on his face before he turns to the crowd of candidates, "It is unfortunate that it appears your lifemate was not present at this Hatching, but it does not mean you were not a qualified rider. Therefore we encourage you to continue to reside at Fort Weyr if you are interested, although if you choose not to, Fort Weyr offers wishes of good luck and other such superstitious nonsense." That is the Weyrsinger's form of politeness, I swear.
Naamiah stands still for a few bare seconds before realizing the call for the End has come. She gives a shake of her head, coming back from the cobwebs of her thoughts. With one last glance to those who remain with her and then one final look to the friends whose new lives have started, she takes her leave quickly from the sands. It's hard to tell if it's relief or grief that clouds her expression -- or a mixture of both, possibly. Still, she does manage to leave the sands with a bright (strained) smile plastered on her face!
Merci growls at U'rr, perhaps a bit too pleased at his response. "And don't you forget it." A firm nod, then she's leading J'ek and his new bronze bond to where there's food. Because honestly, Zingath needs to bulk up a bit. She'll linger, but only to gather up stragglers (looking at you, R'uhk) and usher them off.
Khrysta watches all the new weyr-ducklings get herded off the sands, then takes a moment to lace her fingers together, and give a good stretch towards the heavens. Then, after pushing her robe back down, meanders off the sands - U'rrs 'good wishes' given a faintly ironic grin.
