LOG: The Iovniaths Are Here, Part One
Date: Day 18, Month 11, Turn 19
Location: Hatching Sands, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Iovniath and Cadejoth's eggs hatch in the first snow of the season. Complete with Iovniath/Cadejoth adorableness.
Stolen from brazenbronzer
Hatching Sands, High Reaches Weyr
Whether one enters from the main bowl entrance or one of the smaller tunnels at the back of the cavern, golden-brown sand glitters and swelters in every direction. Close inspection reveals that while the large egg pieces have been gathered up, small fragments remain mixed into the hot sand, record of a thousand hatchings. The main source of light is a huge window of sky high in the wall that also serves as an aerial entrance, its overhang just deep enough to admit light and cooler air but fend off harsher weather.
The sands' setting designs them to be the focus of the vast amphitheater, with tiers upon tiers of galleries rising up its southwestern side near the tunnel to the bowl, and rings of dragon ledges higher yet: heat and architecture combining into what can be a palpable sense of pressure.
All morning is cloudy, the sky that dull gray that heralds snow in the forecast. Sometime around noon, it finally begins: the first snowstorm of the season, slowly but steadily whitening the bare ground. By mid-afternoon, there's an inch or so built up, and then--then the dragons start to hum. The noise vibrates the very stones, and, snow or no snow, the Weyr rapidly becomes a flurry of activity as everyone rushes to places in time for the hatching.
It's the dark Also Good for Cornbread Egg that moves first: towards its shadow and then away, backward and then forward again. Just that, and it goes still again to all outward appearances, but a scratching sound becomes increasingly audible from within... audible, and increasingly urgent, enough to free a silvered fragment that dangles from the ripped inner membrane. And from this movement, a shiver of a breeze seems to pass through the meadow on the Cowflop Egg making the heads of purple and yellow blossoms nod to and fro. That patch of brown though, doesn't move, though some might almost imagine the stench that the ruffling wind might carry to them.
Cadejoth - of course - has been here for hours, watching with enormous fascination the silent, still clutch of eggs. Of course, now that the humming has started? He's louder than anyone. Possibly even loud enough for the force of the reverberations to hasten on the hatching of the eggs. K'del takes a little more time in making his way onto the sands, though his first reaction upon arrival is to eye his lifemate dubiously, as if to say 'is all that really necessary'? Yes, yes it is. At first wobble, Cadejoth's trumpet is /loud/.
Boom! Goes The Egg. Goes BOOM! Literally. It doesn't shiver for long before it simple explodes outwards in a million tiny sparkling pieces. Left behind is a splay-legged brown who shakes his head a few times like he can't quite figure out what just happened. Finally he picks up his feet and goes sliding along through the sands, stopping here and there to investigate. Shells. Other hatchlings. Oh hey /people/. They all get scrutinized but only one holds his attention turning a questioning creel into a happy croon as the pair walk off together.
No surprises, really: the Weyr's known it's soon, today, sometime. So Tiriana is already at the sands, already at Iovniath's side as both of them stare at the eggs like they can just will them into hatching. Or rocking, at least. and when that first one does, Iovniath's hum takes on a more maternal air, and even Cadejoth's brassy noise can't upset her today, as she hovers just to the side of the carefully arranged eggs. And then there's the first one, and she, too, is crooning at the brown that emerges, practically glowing with pride. Even Tiriana's a goofy mess, pointing at it as she hails K'del. "It /hatched/!"
Leova's ventured the sands swiftly, a waterskin swinging from her hip, over the jacket that's clipped to her belt for later trekking into the cold. And that loud trumpet? It has her hands over her ears as she makes it the rest of the way to the earlier-discussed lineup, muttering about proud papas. Or something. Her hands retreat as the echoes die, and she mentions to her confederates a little more audibly, "Caught a snowflake on my ton..." and then the expletives are audible too. One down. Already. She marches on over to take the brown and his rider in hand, get them towards the barracks. /Already/.
K'del looks, briefly, exceptionally dubious at Tiriana's hail, but he can't seem to help himself either, and hurries towards her. "/Saw/. Hatched and - that was so quick. Is it always that quick?" The Weyrleader folds his arms in front of him, beaming in delight, as Cadejoth lets out another enormous rumble of pride and pleasure. "Though that? Is going to get old, quick. Shh, Cadejoth, it's quite-- all right." The candidates get a glance, perhaps intended to be encouraging, and then his attention returns to those rocking eggs.
Isziyo strides in, shoulder-to-shoulder with Mikandros, walking as if he's expecting a fight. Or flight. Or something. The High Reaches native's gaze flicks to and fro, focuses in on the clutchparents; he bows, precisely, to both, and then drags Mik and Ajatha after him to a place within the loose semi-circle forming.
There are a few more random, peculiar shapes to be seen upon the Random Peculiar Shapes Egg, as pieces go flying off in all directions under the less-than-tender ministrations of the hatchling within. The seafoam-shaded green within hurtles free, leaping instantly into the kind of wobble-legged walk so commonly seen amongst the newly hatched. It takes her almost no time at all to make her way directly into the waiting grip of her chosen one, the smallest, daintiest girl amongst the candidates falling to her knees in exultant delight as her breath catches. It takes her a few tries to get her mind around it all, and then: "Quesath, of course I'll be your Mai." Further cracks have begun to web the Also Good for Cornbread Egg, visibly pale against its dark shell, but it's that first hole that distorts the most: from the dark tip of a muzzle every few moments, its nostrils flaring for breath, the scratching becoming a hurried scrabbling from patience as yet unlearned.
A'son arrives there on the sands, brushing at his new hair cut. Brushing at the handmade sweater that he has on. He's simply just brushing his whole body with his hands, looking incredibly nervous. He's also messing with the new knot on his shoulder. Like it just doesn't fit right. Leova is eyeballed as she passes him by, bringing the already hatched pair inside. It goes so fast.
C'sel stands calmly to the side, hands clasped behind his back, until there's action on the sands. The brownrider does lean over for a moment to offer a quiet word of encouragement to A'son, polite as usual, then there's a new weyrling pair to go intercept and he's gone for a few minutes dealing with that.
Mikandros is so not ready for this to be happening. Rubbing his hand over his now-short hair and making it spike upwards ridiculously as he walks with Isz, his own bow towards gold and bronze happening half-a-beat behind his pal's. And then he's getting dragged, not unwillingly, and oh hi Ajatha.
Meara, unfazed by the alacrity of the hatching eggs, moves to take on green Quesath and Mai but C'sel is then there first and so those capable hands fall to her side where eventually her thumbs find her pockets and her heels rock against the sands. "Loud, isn't he?" she remarks companionably across to K'del and the seemingly-very-proud pappa.
"Of course it's this fast. Don't you remember yours? It was just last week, wasn't it?" Tiriana says, but even her retorts are lacking bite today, as she steps away from Iovniath and all but bounces. "A brown first, that's not bad, right? You couldn't give us a bronze to lead off with. More!" She might just be more excited than the candidates--but then again, her life's not exactly depending on the results of this shindig, either.
Whitchek is invisible. Nonexistent. Or trying to be, as well as he can. He follows in somewhat behind Isziyo and Mikandros--easy not to be noticed next to them. By dragons, or anybody else. He ducks a bow as he passes along with so many others, and ends up alongside Mikandros. "This isn't happ--wait, what?" Eyes frantically trying to track hatching eggs already. "Oh, my. Ohmy."
Carobet seems a bit dazed as she makes her way onto the sands, pausing to bow politely to the clutchparents. And then her eyes search among her fellow candidates for someone to stand beside. "Betegal?" Where'd her partner go?
The dark muzzle disappears for longer and longer from the small hole in the Also Good for Cornbread Egg, as though the hatchling were weakening, until finally it never appears again at all. Silence. And then the shell abruptly bowls over, rolling toward the candidates, as the hatchling scuttles free from the /other/ side and the larger hole he had crafted there. The awkward little bronze spends no time on fancy poses: it may take all but tripping over his own wing, but he just /gets out of there/, out to where he can get a moment's breathing room to scan the cavern and begin hunting for boys.
>---< Tattered Shadows Bronze >---------------------------------------------<
This lanky dragon seems all wings and tail and shadows, hued the deep,
dark golden bronze of sunlight all but lost to nightfall. So dark is his
shade that it could obscure the serpentine sharpness of his lines, from
his long, pronounced profile through jutting shoulders and wingspars to
the rake-edged ridges that die out along his tail, if it weren't for the
slightly lighter tint that stipples along them and emphasizes their
irregular nature. One eyeridge is somewhat higher than the other as well,
and a few of his claws are that same, scarcely paler gilt as though the
shadows had begun to be rubbed away. Even darker, all-but-black pockmarks
exaggerate the gauntness of his belly and lend a scraggly, tattered air to
the trailing edges of his long wings. The boniness may not linger through
maturation, but the asymmetry, combined with the tilted way he tends to
hold his head, suggests a treacherous edge whether he wills it or no: one
that may not adequately be belied by the oft-assessing whirl of his eyes,
their colors more muted than that of his kindred as though shadow obscures
his very outlook. Not yet strong, not yet coordinated, still he has more
than physical grace left to learn.
>---------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Betegal walks. That's about all he's good for at the moment. He pauses to offer the requisite, respectful bow to the clutches sire and dam and then he's moving to find somewhere to stand. Carobet's voice finds him and he looks around uncertainly before finding and moving toward her. "Thank you," he says.
K'del twists his attention towards Meara, apologetic. "He's... excited." Cadejoth lets out another rumble, just to prove it. "Course, can't /really/ blame him. Look at them go!" Tiriana's jibe doesn't seem to hit too deeply, not today, because the young rider only laughs. "Brown's perfectly respectable. None of that stuff matters, anyway, just so long as they're all healthy. Shells, look at that one!" That would be the new bronze, which draws K'del to beam brilliantly: "Shells, he's something. A bronze, Tiriana, that's excellent!"
Fashythise stays to herself... for all of two minutes. The female candidate does the shifty eye thing, as a dragon or two already hatch. "Shards," She is so totally not ready for this. Moving in a beeline towards Mikandros and Isziyo and whoever else may be around them. Almost forgetting the bow! But she does it, really rough, but there it is. "So... uh..." Fash has nothing to say, which is a first. Feet are shuffled, lower lip is worried, and she just /stares/ at the eggs.
Ajatha saunters across the sands hot on the heels of Mikandros and Isziyo, her hand shifting to tough each of the boy's arms as she worms her way to stand between them. Wow, there's a scary effect. If anything, it might make her appear smaller than she is, or more intimidating with the pair, but she seems not to mind. She executes a graceful bow between them and moves off to put herself squarely in their midst. MINE. No, not shields. Eye candy! "Hey, boys. Miss me?" All silky and casually. There's not a jitter at all. Fashythise's approach lifts a hand her way. "Fash!"
Tattered Shadows Bronze tries out a few more footsteps, fits and starts of movement and stillness until he's cutting at an angle through the line of candidates, close enough that the nearby girls might touch his hide if they weren't so quick on their feet to get out of the way, if they weren't so obedient. He rounds behind them now, daring Iovniath and Cadejoth's territory, but it's to sniff out a possibility from behind. The kid's a short dark boy, a scribe's son from an outlying Hold, who whirls around with a caught breath. The two meet eyes, and it's almost as easy as that... but when the bronze steps forward he keeps going. Past the boy, after all. Heading for some others, an older trio. Keeping close. Not staying out in the open for long.
Isziyo hipchecks Mik, and nods once, a chin-jut, towards Tattered Shadows Bronze. "See that? You see that, right?" Hold me. His eyes are darting back and forth and all over, and one hand reaches out to close over Ajatha's arm, lightly steering her closer. (Hold me.)
Mikandros' expression, in that sidelong look for Whitchek is surprisingly sympathetic instead of annoyed. "C'n pinch ye if ye like." As jokes go, it falls painfully flat beneath the nerves in his voice. "Sh-- shells."
Again the Cowflop Egg trembles a nasty crack forming along the surface of the cow pie tucked away in the green of the meadow. It almost seems to ooze as the egg shifts back and forth. Wait, it /is/ oozing, a little trickle of goo slowly sliding down the surface of the shell as the dragonet within tries to find a way out. As if moving away from this festering sore, ashen grey shifts against pale sand as the Watch Your Step Egg takes an initial, experimental movement. Once. Twice. A third time - for luck, maybe. But then it goes still again, as though those skeletal fingers had never wavered, as though it were nothing but a rock in the middle of the sands. In the same vein, the Arson Egg just barely twitches once, and then it goes into full-scale convulsions. The wild motions make it gyrate across the sands, bumping into its clutchmates and leaving a long squiggly trail in its wake.
Carobet smiles reassuringly to Betegal, likely for her own benefit as much as his. "Team Bet, right?" She says, laughing nervously, and then is distracted by the sight of the bronze making his search among the candidates. "Ooh!"
Tiriana, at K'del's shout, swivels her head around to find the bronze. And he might not be the prettiest dragon out there, but it makes her relax anyway to see it, and the other dragons still emerging around it. "This... might turn out okay," she concedes then. "Maybe. Faranth." And Iovniath, too, surveys them all with motherly pride, her head snaking down to get a closer look at the bronze who drifts close to her and her mate.
Whitchek manages a high, nervous laugh. "Um. No. No, I think that's okay. Think--" Breathe, breathe. Every movement of his chest is labored, intentional, like he might possibly have forgotten after the last one. He scuffs at the sand with his shoe, keeps an eye on the bronze's movements, edges a little bit behind the larger Mikandros at his side. "Think I'm awake. When I have nightmares about this, they're... um... bigger."
Ajatha ever so easily hooks her arm into the loop of Isziyo's and latches the other around Mik's, nudging her shoulder into each of the boys' shoulders. "Hey, breathe. It'll be okay." Big talk for someone whose feet are shifting between leaning on one to leaning on the other, her steely eyes on the hatchlings that run rampant over the sands.
Dragon> To Cadejoth, Iovniath's mind glows whiter than it's likely ever been, so cold, painfully cold with her maternal pride. << Cadejoth, >> is all she says, but there's some measure of approval in there, for him, for their children now emerging.
Meara has an age-defying giggle for Cadejoth and that rueful shake of her head. She might not /understand/, but she can imagine just well enough, as says the sparkle of her warm eyes. From her pockets, the two thumbs dislodge so her arms might come up to fold across her chest and from sire and sire's rider, her gaze drifts to the row of candidates and the dragons out on the sands.
Fashythise almost lunges at Ajatha, in a 'oh-good-someone-mildly-sane' way. "Hi." She says, her normal mouthy ways put to the wayside. "Don't waste time, do they?" Her thumb points in the direction of the eggs and dragonets. "So I wasn't ever listening, if they come bounding towards us, we just get outta' the way right? Or push like Zizi in the way and run for it?" Cause that's totally what she's doing.
Betegal won't pass out. He won't! "Team Bet. Right," he says to Carobet, offering her a brief glance and a nervous smile before his eyes shift to keep track of the hatchlings with an excited sort of wariness. It's impossible not to get a little caught up in it all, after all.
Dragon> To Iovniath, Cadejoth's mind, in contrast, clatters and blings, metal chains and bones ringing against each other in pure, unadulterated excitement. << We made beautiful babies, Iovniath! >> This is far too much excitement even for her snow to dissipate, though he attempts, manfully, to stop making /quite/ such a racket. For her. And their babies.
Isziyo breathes, at Ajatha's request, and glares over at Fashy. "I heard that, wench," he calls, a growl to his voice-- but also a tone of amusement, of relieved laughter obscured. "Mik, hang in there, big guy." Yeah, he's projecting. And tightening an arm on Jathi's nearest arm.
The punch of talons from within punctuates the shell of the Cowflop Egg, sharp little tips sweeping downward to slice the egg open. Shaking off debris and more ooze, the Sensual Serenity Green takes a single tentative yet poised step forward, regally regarding those who await her on the sands with bright inquisitiveness held in the yellow-tinged facets of her eyes.
>---< Sensual Serenity Green >----------------------------------------------<
A wash of pale, tea-green sisal clothes this poised dragon in fluid lines,
the loveliest of distractions from the subtle capability beneath. The most
jaded artist might find inspiration in the way she wears her wings, as
ready to fan shut in evocative reproof as to flutter to their widest span,
inviting only those winds she chooses to have their way with her
translucent sails. Those wingsails have a shimmer to them when unveiled,
embroidered with subtly darker green where ichor curves just beneath the
surface, tipped with the same silvery shade that adorns the talons of
strong yet graceful paws. Though her proportions are harmonious, from the
delicate cup of her muzzle to the sensual curve of her tail, she owes
nothing to corsetry but only to the fine bones of her heritage combined
with the way she carries herself: elegant yet earthy, aware of her own
worth, complete to the bright, charismatic wit displayed in those large
rainbowed eyes.
>---------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Dragon> With all his childish glee, Cadejoth receives almost as much motherly head-patting as any of the hatchlings do. << Yes, Cadejoth, >> she agrees. << We did. >> (Iovniath to Cadejoth)
Cadejoth is terribly interested in that bronze who gets so close: so small! It's not hard to see his train of thought in all of this. K'del grins at Meara, albeit a little awkwardly, given the difference in their ages, and then, to Tiriana: "Think it will. They all look great. /Interesting/, even when not outright beautiful. We did good!"
Undulating in place the Peril From The Skies Egg looks like it's either going to fall over or throw up. Ultimately though what happens is that the top blows right off the thing and /then/ a pair of legs come out. Backwards. Butt first. And brilliantly green. The hatchling shakes the rest of the egg off and pulls her goo-drippy nose out of the shell, turns to look this way and bounds forward without hesitation to pick /her/ weyrling out of the lineup. With a sneeze that decorates a white robe liberally with yolky splatters. Chemical Burn Egg has been quiet for a while, as if its been biding its time to make a movement. But it suddenly wobbles with intensity, moving back and forth like something inside has suddenly made a decision. Then it stops altogether, a pensive stillness hanging over it.
Mikandros will belatedly get around to answering Isziyo, really. "'M not -blind.-" shifting slightly then to glance at Whit-edging-behind. "No." One arm reaches back, aims to drag the shorter man back around if he can grab hold. "If one goes fer ye, it sure as shardin' ain't gonna be goin' through me!" Front and centre! "Hang in yerself, baldy," he frets back to Isz, eyes roving across the sands to try and look everywhere at once.
Dragon> Today? Is not the day that that will bother Cadejoth, if, indeed, it ever would. Will. Does. Wheeeee! (Cadejoth to Iovniath)
Tattered Shadows Bronze pauses yet again, at some sound, or maybe it's motion, unless it's just his sire's interest: tall Ebeny, shivering from excitement and the sudden shift between snowfall to hot, hot sands. His low warble might as well be a mutter because he's moving on, on, he's spotting what he wants: not that one, not /that/ one, definitely not the girl but there, there, those muted red-whirling eyes don't bother with the short-spiked hair because it's just another disguise like an accent that he can see right through. /There/. Now, all he has to do is get to him, to fix that roving gaze on him alone.
Ajatha glances sharply at Fashythise and purses her mouth at the woman. "You will not! I'll drag you all along! And just be vigilant." The corners of her mouth twitch upwards with a thread of laughter in her voice, in spite of her words, thankfully too. "Hush, you. It won't go straight through you, if you watch where they are. And move when they look like they might mow you down. Careful." Now her tone's growing serious, a hand reaching back to drag Fashy up to their group too before latching back onto Mik.
Tiriana agrees, "We did good," and actually beams at K'del, even. Something is in the air, must be. Of course, then there's one green backing out of her shell and sneezing everywhere, and she amends, "Well. Except maybe on that one."
Whitchek is hauled forward, cringing, cringing, because there's a dragon in the vicinity and he's not going to have anything to do with it. "You're bigger than I am. You can handle it," he insists to Mikandros, attempting to pull away if not doing especially well at it. "Besides, none of them are going to go for me because I don't want one, so I'm just trying to stay out of the way." This makes sense, right? Even if it doesn't ring totally true.
Fashythise twiddles her thumbs, eyes unable to stay still as she watches everything going on. "I don't like this at -all-!" She states, suddenly, arms crossing defensively. "It's... they're /everywhere/!" And that just makes her uncomfortable. Edging even closer to Ajatha, before she's dragged over anyway. "Vigilant nothing, I have no issues throwing someone under the wagon to save my skin." Though Fash seems to relax a tad, closer to the group.
Isziyo bounces on his toes, a jittery motion that belies the calm look of serentity. "I think they would be hard-pressed to mow through Mik or I," he states to Jathi. "Whit, quit being a /wuss/." No question who that one is. He sidles closer to Fashy. To keep an eye on her, ya know.
One big deep breath, visibly taken seems to be all that the Sensual Serenity Green needs to prepare for what comes next, though she also performs a quick check: feet? Yes, free of encumbrances, all there, and she flexes her talons a little as if testing out this new thing called 'walking'. wings are rustled then fan open and her head turns to regard their neat folds, blinking at their contours, then folds them carefully shut once more.
Leova returns not long thereafter, arms crossed. She glances at Iovniath, watching the way she is. At Meara, with her boss's knot. And the hatchlings, and whom they've already chosen, are choosing. She shivers too, pausing by the candidates just long enough to mutter a, "Take it easy," of her own to a particularly young and nervous-looking boy. Younger than K'del, even.
K'del, looking more triumphant again, given Tiriana's approval, just laughs. "Sure she'll grow out of it. They're babies: they'll grow out of /heaps/ of stuff, I swear." His head twists and turns, attempting to follow the movements of hatchlings, Cadejoth's own extending neck glances, everything. "Feels like it's going to be over in no time. Almost disappointing." Pause. "Almost. Except that it's hot out here, no matter how cold out /there/."
Carobet eyes her fellow candidates sidelong as they chatter between themselves, her lips pursing slightly in place of any words she has to join in the conversation. Just nervousness, light tugs at her white robe, wide eyes for the hatchlings searching the sands.
Mikandros almost laughs at Whitchek. Almost. Instead what comes out is a rather sick-sounding wheeze. "Yeah, right. Tell -them- that." Them being the hatchlings, chin jerked forward. "Through, maybe not. Over, probably, and I ain't so keen on scars."
Over? Yes.
It's not that he never wavered, but in the end, the Tattered Shadows Bronze claims a tall but otherwise unremarkable-looking man as though he'd never let him go. Nudging isn't enough: in the search to truly make the man his own, he'd climb up and onto the former trader if he could, the better to envelop him in shadow and fully meet those dark brown eyes. His own no longer seem red nor muted, but instead resemble ephemeral rainbows, made all the more brilliant against his equally dark and drying hide.
In a relatively impressive burst of yellow shards, the Prankster's Stash Egg collapses in on itself, leaving behind a honeyed-brown hatchling wobbling on one foot. Righting himself, he dashes forward, one wing tangling with the other until he ends, ultimately, tumbling to the sands at the foot of a girl from Benden Hold. She breathes his name so softly that even the girl next to her has to strain to hear. Teary eyed, the girl keeps one hand on her brown all the way off the sands.
Betegal shifts his weight from one foot to the other just because if he stands still for too long, something will happen. Something not good. His gaze roams over the other candidates, wide-eyed. He watches the bronze but it's hard to tell exactly what's happening anywhere so he doesn't really focus on anything in particular.
A'son is back, having escorted a weyrling into the back at some point over the past few minutes. When he sees Leova, he gives her a little nod of his head. Then he just gets out of the way and waits for the next pair to come his way.
Isziyo is bug-eyed. Excuse him. "Mik... Mik?!" The candidate suddenly looks very, very lost, pulling Jathi away from the bronze-and-candidate. Excuse him. Time to go freak out now.
Sensual Serenity Green walks around the curve of a shaking egg, regarding its movements with open curiosity. She remains for a moment, head tilted to the side, waiting until the egg breaks open and her new clutchmate emerges. There's a quiet croon of welcome, then she resumes her search, looking to and fro with interest, steps dainty as she moves serenely from candidate to candidate. Then must go around another egg to reach another cluster of young people in white to consider.
K'ndro has no choice, a protective shove aimed at those he stands beside even as there's a dragonet trying to climb his frame. But rather than trying to escape or redirect, he's falling into a crouch so Xadovith doesn't have to reach so high, arms looping about that shadowed delight. Claimed, claimed, claimed.
Again. Again. Again. Was that the Watch Your Step Egg again? Yes: there it goes. Is that the Chemical Burn Egg making those sudden movements again? Again! Both eggs begin to move, the former sharper, more defined in its determined rocking, the latter a little more wild, though the end result is still the same for both: hairline fractures streaking across the shells through ash and crimson and garish green until a hint of a talon or a grizzled brown muzzle pokes its way out.
Ajatha scoffs in Fash's general direction and jerks her eyes up at Isziyo with a grin. "Good. I don't want you two getting plowed over. Although a few scars could be hot, y'know." She turns that on both of them, and even manages a little leer at Mik, although the next second, there's a too-close bronze near them, and she pulls back, grasping Iszy's hands now and dragging Fash back with them.
"If they're not dignified from the start--" Tiriana begins, with a glance at Iovniath; but she's smirking at the haughty, proper gold's ticks. "Disappointing? Whatever--ready for this to be over. All of it." And she kicks a boot in the sand, gives it a brief glare; not long, though, because that first bronze is choosing and she's eyeing the boy he picks. "That one? The one that makes me wish we had uniforms?" She snorts, shakes her head. The dragons might be beautiful, but apparently their choices still don't necessarily live up to expectation.
Whitchek is at least able to get away, duck in the direction of not-anywhere-near-that-hatchling--but then the worst possible thing in all of Pern happens and how is he supposed to hide, now? "Oh, no. No. Nonono." Probably not the most congratulatory thing he's ever said. Tries again: "Oh, no." Yeah, it's just not happening.
Fashythise shuffles in place, not so much cause of the heat, but of sheer nervousness. And the moment Mikandros impresses, she's just staring. Completely dumbfounded. "He... huh... it..." Yes. Words. She suddenly gets jerked back, thanks to the lovely Ajatha. "It... it... /look/!" She points, waggling her fingers around. "MacDaddy!" There is a total whine in all of that.
K'del can only laugh, and laugh again, at Tiriana. Or maybe /with/ Tiriana. "Cheer up. Sure they'll be fine. They /look/ great." After a moment, he admits, "Guess I wouldn't have wanted to spend all that time out here, either, so I take your point. We'll have a great party, afterwards, though. It's going to be fantastic, the whole thing. The hatching, the--" he's beginning to babble, and stops, finally, looking rueful.
Isziyo attempts not to hyperventilate, and stands there, contemplating the world. Or just one of his best friends, now a bronzerider. This could be good. Or it could be bad. Carry on. He eyes Sensual Serenity. "She's sure taking a while, compared to some others." Things are happening all over. How the heck can one keep up?
A slashing motion from within dissolves the Watch Your Step Egg into nothing but a pile of shards, sharp talons gleaming with egg-goo as the Loyalty and Logic Bronze draws himself out into the world. He gives his wings an experimental shake, stretching himself out before, with head raised high and eyes intelligent despite their rapid, red whirl, he takes a single dignified step out into the world.
>---< Loyalty and Logic Bronze >--------------------------------------------<
Like a feat of engineering made real under the dedicated hands of a
mastercrafter, he's perfect, this bronze. Each line, each curve, each
powerful muscle appears designed as much for beauty as it is function,
drawn together into a sleek, aerodynamic package that moves as gracefully,
ever careful, upon the ground as he will, one day, in flight. Gleaming,
polished bronze shades his hide, an even, true metallic tone that spreads
from the tips of his slightly pointed headknobs to the muscular curve of
his chest, and right down to the tip of his searching tail. In all those
slick lines, only his eyeridges stand out: though as sleekly crafted as
the rest of him, they're large and dark, set at an expressive slant above
his coolly discerning eyes. The rounded tips of each of his neckridges,
like a row of rivets stamped all the way down his back, are that same
darkly burnished shade, as are his wings, though even they glitter, as if
bedecked by thousands of tiny stars amidst an endless gilt sky.
>---------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Location: Hatching Sands, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Iovniath and Cadejoth's eggs hatch in the first snow of the season. Complete with Iovniath/Cadejoth adorableness.
Stolen from brazenbronzer
Hatching Sands, High Reaches Weyr
Whether one enters from the main bowl entrance or one of the smaller tunnels at the back of the cavern, golden-brown sand glitters and swelters in every direction. Close inspection reveals that while the large egg pieces have been gathered up, small fragments remain mixed into the hot sand, record of a thousand hatchings. The main source of light is a huge window of sky high in the wall that also serves as an aerial entrance, its overhang just deep enough to admit light and cooler air but fend off harsher weather.
The sands' setting designs them to be the focus of the vast amphitheater, with tiers upon tiers of galleries rising up its southwestern side near the tunnel to the bowl, and rings of dragon ledges higher yet: heat and architecture combining into what can be a palpable sense of pressure.
All morning is cloudy, the sky that dull gray that heralds snow in the forecast. Sometime around noon, it finally begins: the first snowstorm of the season, slowly but steadily whitening the bare ground. By mid-afternoon, there's an inch or so built up, and then--then the dragons start to hum. The noise vibrates the very stones, and, snow or no snow, the Weyr rapidly becomes a flurry of activity as everyone rushes to places in time for the hatching.
It's the dark Also Good for Cornbread Egg that moves first: towards its shadow and then away, backward and then forward again. Just that, and it goes still again to all outward appearances, but a scratching sound becomes increasingly audible from within... audible, and increasingly urgent, enough to free a silvered fragment that dangles from the ripped inner membrane. And from this movement, a shiver of a breeze seems to pass through the meadow on the Cowflop Egg making the heads of purple and yellow blossoms nod to and fro. That patch of brown though, doesn't move, though some might almost imagine the stench that the ruffling wind might carry to them.
Cadejoth - of course - has been here for hours, watching with enormous fascination the silent, still clutch of eggs. Of course, now that the humming has started? He's louder than anyone. Possibly even loud enough for the force of the reverberations to hasten on the hatching of the eggs. K'del takes a little more time in making his way onto the sands, though his first reaction upon arrival is to eye his lifemate dubiously, as if to say 'is all that really necessary'? Yes, yes it is. At first wobble, Cadejoth's trumpet is /loud/.
Boom! Goes The Egg. Goes BOOM! Literally. It doesn't shiver for long before it simple explodes outwards in a million tiny sparkling pieces. Left behind is a splay-legged brown who shakes his head a few times like he can't quite figure out what just happened. Finally he picks up his feet and goes sliding along through the sands, stopping here and there to investigate. Shells. Other hatchlings. Oh hey /people/. They all get scrutinized but only one holds his attention turning a questioning creel into a happy croon as the pair walk off together.
No surprises, really: the Weyr's known it's soon, today, sometime. So Tiriana is already at the sands, already at Iovniath's side as both of them stare at the eggs like they can just will them into hatching. Or rocking, at least. and when that first one does, Iovniath's hum takes on a more maternal air, and even Cadejoth's brassy noise can't upset her today, as she hovers just to the side of the carefully arranged eggs. And then there's the first one, and she, too, is crooning at the brown that emerges, practically glowing with pride. Even Tiriana's a goofy mess, pointing at it as she hails K'del. "It /hatched/!"
Leova's ventured the sands swiftly, a waterskin swinging from her hip, over the jacket that's clipped to her belt for later trekking into the cold. And that loud trumpet? It has her hands over her ears as she makes it the rest of the way to the earlier-discussed lineup, muttering about proud papas. Or something. Her hands retreat as the echoes die, and she mentions to her confederates a little more audibly, "Caught a snowflake on my ton..." and then the expletives are audible too. One down. Already. She marches on over to take the brown and his rider in hand, get them towards the barracks. /Already/.
K'del looks, briefly, exceptionally dubious at Tiriana's hail, but he can't seem to help himself either, and hurries towards her. "/Saw/. Hatched and - that was so quick. Is it always that quick?" The Weyrleader folds his arms in front of him, beaming in delight, as Cadejoth lets out another enormous rumble of pride and pleasure. "Though that? Is going to get old, quick. Shh, Cadejoth, it's quite-- all right." The candidates get a glance, perhaps intended to be encouraging, and then his attention returns to those rocking eggs.
Isziyo strides in, shoulder-to-shoulder with Mikandros, walking as if he's expecting a fight. Or flight. Or something. The High Reaches native's gaze flicks to and fro, focuses in on the clutchparents; he bows, precisely, to both, and then drags Mik and Ajatha after him to a place within the loose semi-circle forming.
There are a few more random, peculiar shapes to be seen upon the Random Peculiar Shapes Egg, as pieces go flying off in all directions under the less-than-tender ministrations of the hatchling within. The seafoam-shaded green within hurtles free, leaping instantly into the kind of wobble-legged walk so commonly seen amongst the newly hatched. It takes her almost no time at all to make her way directly into the waiting grip of her chosen one, the smallest, daintiest girl amongst the candidates falling to her knees in exultant delight as her breath catches. It takes her a few tries to get her mind around it all, and then: "Quesath, of course I'll be your Mai." Further cracks have begun to web the Also Good for Cornbread Egg, visibly pale against its dark shell, but it's that first hole that distorts the most: from the dark tip of a muzzle every few moments, its nostrils flaring for breath, the scratching becoming a hurried scrabbling from patience as yet unlearned.
A'son arrives there on the sands, brushing at his new hair cut. Brushing at the handmade sweater that he has on. He's simply just brushing his whole body with his hands, looking incredibly nervous. He's also messing with the new knot on his shoulder. Like it just doesn't fit right. Leova is eyeballed as she passes him by, bringing the already hatched pair inside. It goes so fast.
C'sel stands calmly to the side, hands clasped behind his back, until there's action on the sands. The brownrider does lean over for a moment to offer a quiet word of encouragement to A'son, polite as usual, then there's a new weyrling pair to go intercept and he's gone for a few minutes dealing with that.
Mikandros is so not ready for this to be happening. Rubbing his hand over his now-short hair and making it spike upwards ridiculously as he walks with Isz, his own bow towards gold and bronze happening half-a-beat behind his pal's. And then he's getting dragged, not unwillingly, and oh hi Ajatha.
Meara, unfazed by the alacrity of the hatching eggs, moves to take on green Quesath and Mai but C'sel is then there first and so those capable hands fall to her side where eventually her thumbs find her pockets and her heels rock against the sands. "Loud, isn't he?" she remarks companionably across to K'del and the seemingly-very-proud pappa.
"Of course it's this fast. Don't you remember yours? It was just last week, wasn't it?" Tiriana says, but even her retorts are lacking bite today, as she steps away from Iovniath and all but bounces. "A brown first, that's not bad, right? You couldn't give us a bronze to lead off with. More!" She might just be more excited than the candidates--but then again, her life's not exactly depending on the results of this shindig, either.
Whitchek is invisible. Nonexistent. Or trying to be, as well as he can. He follows in somewhat behind Isziyo and Mikandros--easy not to be noticed next to them. By dragons, or anybody else. He ducks a bow as he passes along with so many others, and ends up alongside Mikandros. "This isn't happ--wait, what?" Eyes frantically trying to track hatching eggs already. "Oh, my. Ohmy."
Carobet seems a bit dazed as she makes her way onto the sands, pausing to bow politely to the clutchparents. And then her eyes search among her fellow candidates for someone to stand beside. "Betegal?" Where'd her partner go?
The dark muzzle disappears for longer and longer from the small hole in the Also Good for Cornbread Egg, as though the hatchling were weakening, until finally it never appears again at all. Silence. And then the shell abruptly bowls over, rolling toward the candidates, as the hatchling scuttles free from the /other/ side and the larger hole he had crafted there. The awkward little bronze spends no time on fancy poses: it may take all but tripping over his own wing, but he just /gets out of there/, out to where he can get a moment's breathing room to scan the cavern and begin hunting for boys.
>---< Tattered Shadows Bronze >---------------------------------------------<
This lanky dragon seems all wings and tail and shadows, hued the deep,
dark golden bronze of sunlight all but lost to nightfall. So dark is his
shade that it could obscure the serpentine sharpness of his lines, from
his long, pronounced profile through jutting shoulders and wingspars to
the rake-edged ridges that die out along his tail, if it weren't for the
slightly lighter tint that stipples along them and emphasizes their
irregular nature. One eyeridge is somewhat higher than the other as well,
and a few of his claws are that same, scarcely paler gilt as though the
shadows had begun to be rubbed away. Even darker, all-but-black pockmarks
exaggerate the gauntness of his belly and lend a scraggly, tattered air to
the trailing edges of his long wings. The boniness may not linger through
maturation, but the asymmetry, combined with the tilted way he tends to
hold his head, suggests a treacherous edge whether he wills it or no: one
that may not adequately be belied by the oft-assessing whirl of his eyes,
their colors more muted than that of his kindred as though shadow obscures
his very outlook. Not yet strong, not yet coordinated, still he has more
than physical grace left to learn.
>---------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Betegal walks. That's about all he's good for at the moment. He pauses to offer the requisite, respectful bow to the clutches sire and dam and then he's moving to find somewhere to stand. Carobet's voice finds him and he looks around uncertainly before finding and moving toward her. "Thank you," he says.
K'del twists his attention towards Meara, apologetic. "He's... excited." Cadejoth lets out another rumble, just to prove it. "Course, can't /really/ blame him. Look at them go!" Tiriana's jibe doesn't seem to hit too deeply, not today, because the young rider only laughs. "Brown's perfectly respectable. None of that stuff matters, anyway, just so long as they're all healthy. Shells, look at that one!" That would be the new bronze, which draws K'del to beam brilliantly: "Shells, he's something. A bronze, Tiriana, that's excellent!"
Fashythise stays to herself... for all of two minutes. The female candidate does the shifty eye thing, as a dragon or two already hatch. "Shards," She is so totally not ready for this. Moving in a beeline towards Mikandros and Isziyo and whoever else may be around them. Almost forgetting the bow! But she does it, really rough, but there it is. "So... uh..." Fash has nothing to say, which is a first. Feet are shuffled, lower lip is worried, and she just /stares/ at the eggs.
Ajatha saunters across the sands hot on the heels of Mikandros and Isziyo, her hand shifting to tough each of the boy's arms as she worms her way to stand between them. Wow, there's a scary effect. If anything, it might make her appear smaller than she is, or more intimidating with the pair, but she seems not to mind. She executes a graceful bow between them and moves off to put herself squarely in their midst. MINE. No, not shields. Eye candy! "Hey, boys. Miss me?" All silky and casually. There's not a jitter at all. Fashythise's approach lifts a hand her way. "Fash!"
Tattered Shadows Bronze tries out a few more footsteps, fits and starts of movement and stillness until he's cutting at an angle through the line of candidates, close enough that the nearby girls might touch his hide if they weren't so quick on their feet to get out of the way, if they weren't so obedient. He rounds behind them now, daring Iovniath and Cadejoth's territory, but it's to sniff out a possibility from behind. The kid's a short dark boy, a scribe's son from an outlying Hold, who whirls around with a caught breath. The two meet eyes, and it's almost as easy as that... but when the bronze steps forward he keeps going. Past the boy, after all. Heading for some others, an older trio. Keeping close. Not staying out in the open for long.
Isziyo hipchecks Mik, and nods once, a chin-jut, towards Tattered Shadows Bronze. "See that? You see that, right?" Hold me. His eyes are darting back and forth and all over, and one hand reaches out to close over Ajatha's arm, lightly steering her closer. (Hold me.)
Mikandros' expression, in that sidelong look for Whitchek is surprisingly sympathetic instead of annoyed. "C'n pinch ye if ye like." As jokes go, it falls painfully flat beneath the nerves in his voice. "Sh-- shells."
Again the Cowflop Egg trembles a nasty crack forming along the surface of the cow pie tucked away in the green of the meadow. It almost seems to ooze as the egg shifts back and forth. Wait, it /is/ oozing, a little trickle of goo slowly sliding down the surface of the shell as the dragonet within tries to find a way out. As if moving away from this festering sore, ashen grey shifts against pale sand as the Watch Your Step Egg takes an initial, experimental movement. Once. Twice. A third time - for luck, maybe. But then it goes still again, as though those skeletal fingers had never wavered, as though it were nothing but a rock in the middle of the sands. In the same vein, the Arson Egg just barely twitches once, and then it goes into full-scale convulsions. The wild motions make it gyrate across the sands, bumping into its clutchmates and leaving a long squiggly trail in its wake.
Carobet smiles reassuringly to Betegal, likely for her own benefit as much as his. "Team Bet, right?" She says, laughing nervously, and then is distracted by the sight of the bronze making his search among the candidates. "Ooh!"
Tiriana, at K'del's shout, swivels her head around to find the bronze. And he might not be the prettiest dragon out there, but it makes her relax anyway to see it, and the other dragons still emerging around it. "This... might turn out okay," she concedes then. "Maybe. Faranth." And Iovniath, too, surveys them all with motherly pride, her head snaking down to get a closer look at the bronze who drifts close to her and her mate.
Whitchek manages a high, nervous laugh. "Um. No. No, I think that's okay. Think--" Breathe, breathe. Every movement of his chest is labored, intentional, like he might possibly have forgotten after the last one. He scuffs at the sand with his shoe, keeps an eye on the bronze's movements, edges a little bit behind the larger Mikandros at his side. "Think I'm awake. When I have nightmares about this, they're... um... bigger."
Ajatha ever so easily hooks her arm into the loop of Isziyo's and latches the other around Mik's, nudging her shoulder into each of the boys' shoulders. "Hey, breathe. It'll be okay." Big talk for someone whose feet are shifting between leaning on one to leaning on the other, her steely eyes on the hatchlings that run rampant over the sands.
Dragon> To Cadejoth, Iovniath's mind glows whiter than it's likely ever been, so cold, painfully cold with her maternal pride. << Cadejoth, >> is all she says, but there's some measure of approval in there, for him, for their children now emerging.
Meara has an age-defying giggle for Cadejoth and that rueful shake of her head. She might not /understand/, but she can imagine just well enough, as says the sparkle of her warm eyes. From her pockets, the two thumbs dislodge so her arms might come up to fold across her chest and from sire and sire's rider, her gaze drifts to the row of candidates and the dragons out on the sands.
Fashythise almost lunges at Ajatha, in a 'oh-good-someone-mildly-sane' way. "Hi." She says, her normal mouthy ways put to the wayside. "Don't waste time, do they?" Her thumb points in the direction of the eggs and dragonets. "So I wasn't ever listening, if they come bounding towards us, we just get outta' the way right? Or push like Zizi in the way and run for it?" Cause that's totally what she's doing.
Betegal won't pass out. He won't! "Team Bet. Right," he says to Carobet, offering her a brief glance and a nervous smile before his eyes shift to keep track of the hatchlings with an excited sort of wariness. It's impossible not to get a little caught up in it all, after all.
Dragon> To Iovniath, Cadejoth's mind, in contrast, clatters and blings, metal chains and bones ringing against each other in pure, unadulterated excitement. << We made beautiful babies, Iovniath! >> This is far too much excitement even for her snow to dissipate, though he attempts, manfully, to stop making /quite/ such a racket. For her. And their babies.
Isziyo breathes, at Ajatha's request, and glares over at Fashy. "I heard that, wench," he calls, a growl to his voice-- but also a tone of amusement, of relieved laughter obscured. "Mik, hang in there, big guy." Yeah, he's projecting. And tightening an arm on Jathi's nearest arm.
The punch of talons from within punctuates the shell of the Cowflop Egg, sharp little tips sweeping downward to slice the egg open. Shaking off debris and more ooze, the Sensual Serenity Green takes a single tentative yet poised step forward, regally regarding those who await her on the sands with bright inquisitiveness held in the yellow-tinged facets of her eyes.
>---< Sensual Serenity Green >----------------------------------------------<
A wash of pale, tea-green sisal clothes this poised dragon in fluid lines,
the loveliest of distractions from the subtle capability beneath. The most
jaded artist might find inspiration in the way she wears her wings, as
ready to fan shut in evocative reproof as to flutter to their widest span,
inviting only those winds she chooses to have their way with her
translucent sails. Those wingsails have a shimmer to them when unveiled,
embroidered with subtly darker green where ichor curves just beneath the
surface, tipped with the same silvery shade that adorns the talons of
strong yet graceful paws. Though her proportions are harmonious, from the
delicate cup of her muzzle to the sensual curve of her tail, she owes
nothing to corsetry but only to the fine bones of her heritage combined
with the way she carries herself: elegant yet earthy, aware of her own
worth, complete to the bright, charismatic wit displayed in those large
rainbowed eyes.
>---------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Dragon> With all his childish glee, Cadejoth receives almost as much motherly head-patting as any of the hatchlings do. << Yes, Cadejoth, >> she agrees. << We did. >> (Iovniath to Cadejoth)
Cadejoth is terribly interested in that bronze who gets so close: so small! It's not hard to see his train of thought in all of this. K'del grins at Meara, albeit a little awkwardly, given the difference in their ages, and then, to Tiriana: "Think it will. They all look great. /Interesting/, even when not outright beautiful. We did good!"
Undulating in place the Peril From The Skies Egg looks like it's either going to fall over or throw up. Ultimately though what happens is that the top blows right off the thing and /then/ a pair of legs come out. Backwards. Butt first. And brilliantly green. The hatchling shakes the rest of the egg off and pulls her goo-drippy nose out of the shell, turns to look this way and bounds forward without hesitation to pick /her/ weyrling out of the lineup. With a sneeze that decorates a white robe liberally with yolky splatters. Chemical Burn Egg has been quiet for a while, as if its been biding its time to make a movement. But it suddenly wobbles with intensity, moving back and forth like something inside has suddenly made a decision. Then it stops altogether, a pensive stillness hanging over it.
Mikandros will belatedly get around to answering Isziyo, really. "'M not -blind.-" shifting slightly then to glance at Whit-edging-behind. "No." One arm reaches back, aims to drag the shorter man back around if he can grab hold. "If one goes fer ye, it sure as shardin' ain't gonna be goin' through me!" Front and centre! "Hang in yerself, baldy," he frets back to Isz, eyes roving across the sands to try and look everywhere at once.
Dragon> Today? Is not the day that that will bother Cadejoth, if, indeed, it ever would. Will. Does. Wheeeee! (Cadejoth to Iovniath)
Tattered Shadows Bronze pauses yet again, at some sound, or maybe it's motion, unless it's just his sire's interest: tall Ebeny, shivering from excitement and the sudden shift between snowfall to hot, hot sands. His low warble might as well be a mutter because he's moving on, on, he's spotting what he wants: not that one, not /that/ one, definitely not the girl but there, there, those muted red-whirling eyes don't bother with the short-spiked hair because it's just another disguise like an accent that he can see right through. /There/. Now, all he has to do is get to him, to fix that roving gaze on him alone.
Ajatha glances sharply at Fashythise and purses her mouth at the woman. "You will not! I'll drag you all along! And just be vigilant." The corners of her mouth twitch upwards with a thread of laughter in her voice, in spite of her words, thankfully too. "Hush, you. It won't go straight through you, if you watch where they are. And move when they look like they might mow you down. Careful." Now her tone's growing serious, a hand reaching back to drag Fashy up to their group too before latching back onto Mik.
Tiriana agrees, "We did good," and actually beams at K'del, even. Something is in the air, must be. Of course, then there's one green backing out of her shell and sneezing everywhere, and she amends, "Well. Except maybe on that one."
Whitchek is hauled forward, cringing, cringing, because there's a dragon in the vicinity and he's not going to have anything to do with it. "You're bigger than I am. You can handle it," he insists to Mikandros, attempting to pull away if not doing especially well at it. "Besides, none of them are going to go for me because I don't want one, so I'm just trying to stay out of the way." This makes sense, right? Even if it doesn't ring totally true.
Fashythise twiddles her thumbs, eyes unable to stay still as she watches everything going on. "I don't like this at -all-!" She states, suddenly, arms crossing defensively. "It's... they're /everywhere/!" And that just makes her uncomfortable. Edging even closer to Ajatha, before she's dragged over anyway. "Vigilant nothing, I have no issues throwing someone under the wagon to save my skin." Though Fash seems to relax a tad, closer to the group.
Isziyo bounces on his toes, a jittery motion that belies the calm look of serentity. "I think they would be hard-pressed to mow through Mik or I," he states to Jathi. "Whit, quit being a /wuss/." No question who that one is. He sidles closer to Fashy. To keep an eye on her, ya know.
One big deep breath, visibly taken seems to be all that the Sensual Serenity Green needs to prepare for what comes next, though she also performs a quick check: feet? Yes, free of encumbrances, all there, and she flexes her talons a little as if testing out this new thing called 'walking'. wings are rustled then fan open and her head turns to regard their neat folds, blinking at their contours, then folds them carefully shut once more.
Leova returns not long thereafter, arms crossed. She glances at Iovniath, watching the way she is. At Meara, with her boss's knot. And the hatchlings, and whom they've already chosen, are choosing. She shivers too, pausing by the candidates just long enough to mutter a, "Take it easy," of her own to a particularly young and nervous-looking boy. Younger than K'del, even.
K'del, looking more triumphant again, given Tiriana's approval, just laughs. "Sure she'll grow out of it. They're babies: they'll grow out of /heaps/ of stuff, I swear." His head twists and turns, attempting to follow the movements of hatchlings, Cadejoth's own extending neck glances, everything. "Feels like it's going to be over in no time. Almost disappointing." Pause. "Almost. Except that it's hot out here, no matter how cold out /there/."
Carobet eyes her fellow candidates sidelong as they chatter between themselves, her lips pursing slightly in place of any words she has to join in the conversation. Just nervousness, light tugs at her white robe, wide eyes for the hatchlings searching the sands.
Mikandros almost laughs at Whitchek. Almost. Instead what comes out is a rather sick-sounding wheeze. "Yeah, right. Tell -them- that." Them being the hatchlings, chin jerked forward. "Through, maybe not. Over, probably, and I ain't so keen on scars."
Over? Yes.
It's not that he never wavered, but in the end, the Tattered Shadows Bronze claims a tall but otherwise unremarkable-looking man as though he'd never let him go. Nudging isn't enough: in the search to truly make the man his own, he'd climb up and onto the former trader if he could, the better to envelop him in shadow and fully meet those dark brown eyes. His own no longer seem red nor muted, but instead resemble ephemeral rainbows, made all the more brilliant against his equally dark and drying hide.
In a relatively impressive burst of yellow shards, the Prankster's Stash Egg collapses in on itself, leaving behind a honeyed-brown hatchling wobbling on one foot. Righting himself, he dashes forward, one wing tangling with the other until he ends, ultimately, tumbling to the sands at the foot of a girl from Benden Hold. She breathes his name so softly that even the girl next to her has to strain to hear. Teary eyed, the girl keeps one hand on her brown all the way off the sands.
Betegal shifts his weight from one foot to the other just because if he stands still for too long, something will happen. Something not good. His gaze roams over the other candidates, wide-eyed. He watches the bronze but it's hard to tell exactly what's happening anywhere so he doesn't really focus on anything in particular.
A'son is back, having escorted a weyrling into the back at some point over the past few minutes. When he sees Leova, he gives her a little nod of his head. Then he just gets out of the way and waits for the next pair to come his way.
Isziyo is bug-eyed. Excuse him. "Mik... Mik?!" The candidate suddenly looks very, very lost, pulling Jathi away from the bronze-and-candidate. Excuse him. Time to go freak out now.
Sensual Serenity Green walks around the curve of a shaking egg, regarding its movements with open curiosity. She remains for a moment, head tilted to the side, waiting until the egg breaks open and her new clutchmate emerges. There's a quiet croon of welcome, then she resumes her search, looking to and fro with interest, steps dainty as she moves serenely from candidate to candidate. Then must go around another egg to reach another cluster of young people in white to consider.
K'ndro has no choice, a protective shove aimed at those he stands beside even as there's a dragonet trying to climb his frame. But rather than trying to escape or redirect, he's falling into a crouch so Xadovith doesn't have to reach so high, arms looping about that shadowed delight. Claimed, claimed, claimed.
Again. Again. Again. Was that the Watch Your Step Egg again? Yes: there it goes. Is that the Chemical Burn Egg making those sudden movements again? Again! Both eggs begin to move, the former sharper, more defined in its determined rocking, the latter a little more wild, though the end result is still the same for both: hairline fractures streaking across the shells through ash and crimson and garish green until a hint of a talon or a grizzled brown muzzle pokes its way out.
Ajatha scoffs in Fash's general direction and jerks her eyes up at Isziyo with a grin. "Good. I don't want you two getting plowed over. Although a few scars could be hot, y'know." She turns that on both of them, and even manages a little leer at Mik, although the next second, there's a too-close bronze near them, and she pulls back, grasping Iszy's hands now and dragging Fash back with them.
"If they're not dignified from the start--" Tiriana begins, with a glance at Iovniath; but she's smirking at the haughty, proper gold's ticks. "Disappointing? Whatever--ready for this to be over. All of it." And she kicks a boot in the sand, gives it a brief glare; not long, though, because that first bronze is choosing and she's eyeing the boy he picks. "That one? The one that makes me wish we had uniforms?" She snorts, shakes her head. The dragons might be beautiful, but apparently their choices still don't necessarily live up to expectation.
Whitchek is at least able to get away, duck in the direction of not-anywhere-near-that-hatchling--but then the worst possible thing in all of Pern happens and how is he supposed to hide, now? "Oh, no. No. Nonono." Probably not the most congratulatory thing he's ever said. Tries again: "Oh, no." Yeah, it's just not happening.
Fashythise shuffles in place, not so much cause of the heat, but of sheer nervousness. And the moment Mikandros impresses, she's just staring. Completely dumbfounded. "He... huh... it..." Yes. Words. She suddenly gets jerked back, thanks to the lovely Ajatha. "It... it... /look/!" She points, waggling her fingers around. "MacDaddy!" There is a total whine in all of that.
K'del can only laugh, and laugh again, at Tiriana. Or maybe /with/ Tiriana. "Cheer up. Sure they'll be fine. They /look/ great." After a moment, he admits, "Guess I wouldn't have wanted to spend all that time out here, either, so I take your point. We'll have a great party, afterwards, though. It's going to be fantastic, the whole thing. The hatching, the--" he's beginning to babble, and stops, finally, looking rueful.
Isziyo attempts not to hyperventilate, and stands there, contemplating the world. Or just one of his best friends, now a bronzerider. This could be good. Or it could be bad. Carry on. He eyes Sensual Serenity. "She's sure taking a while, compared to some others." Things are happening all over. How the heck can one keep up?
A slashing motion from within dissolves the Watch Your Step Egg into nothing but a pile of shards, sharp talons gleaming with egg-goo as the Loyalty and Logic Bronze draws himself out into the world. He gives his wings an experimental shake, stretching himself out before, with head raised high and eyes intelligent despite their rapid, red whirl, he takes a single dignified step out into the world.
>---< Loyalty and Logic Bronze >--------------------------------------------<
Like a feat of engineering made real under the dedicated hands of a
mastercrafter, he's perfect, this bronze. Each line, each curve, each
powerful muscle appears designed as much for beauty as it is function,
drawn together into a sleek, aerodynamic package that moves as gracefully,
ever careful, upon the ground as he will, one day, in flight. Gleaming,
polished bronze shades his hide, an even, true metallic tone that spreads
from the tips of his slightly pointed headknobs to the muscular curve of
his chest, and right down to the tip of his searching tail. In all those
slick lines, only his eyeridges stand out: though as sleekly crafted as
the rest of him, they're large and dark, set at an expressive slant above
his coolly discerning eyes. The rounded tips of each of his neckridges,
like a row of rivets stamped all the way down his back, are that same
darkly burnished shade, as are his wings, though even they glitter, as if
bedecked by thousands of tiny stars amidst an endless gilt sky.
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