It's hatching time!
Date: Day 1, Month 1, Turn 24 of Interval 10
Summary: The day after turnover celebrations is just about the perfect time for Iskiveth's and Szadath's eggs to hatch.
Congratulations to our new weyrlings: Jolie, S'ren (Sho) and M'sar (Misar)!
NorCon MUSH - 10/22/2010
------------------------
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.
Contents:
Teris
K'del
Iskiveth
Szadath(#1824Qabep$0)
Obvious exits:
Galleries
The morning is slowly (painfully, for some, still attempting to sooth their big heads) ambling onwards, a quiet one for most people - except those roped in to clean-up from last night. And those preparing for yet another celebration which seems to be on the cards. It's not long after ten when the humming begins, first just a distant, low sound, but steadily, rapidly, rising into something unmissable, audible even as distantly as in the deepest caverns. Hatching time!
Poor Taikrin. And here she was, sprawled atop Szadath and trying to catch a nap in the pleasant heat and relative dimness of the hatching cavern. So much for sleeping off that nasty post-Turnover hangover!
Teris isn't really the sort to do a lot of partying. There's no hangover to speak of and she's been here keeping an eye on Iskiveth since the pointy queen first told her it was time. The dragon seems more calm than her rider for once, though, with Teris slowly pacing from one end of the reclining dragon to the other and back again, arms crossed over her chest.
The shallow twitches coming from within the Patterns Upon Patterns Egg have gained enough intensity, now, to begin to fleck away bits of coloured shell-- geometric patterns becoming increasingly less so as tiny shards work themselves free and begin to scatter upon the sands. The motion isn't - yet - enough to properly disturb the hatchling within, but those backwards and forwards motions are slowly, but steadily, beginning to gain momentum. The Tale in the Flame egg shudders, expanding and contracting in a way that makes it appear to truly be covered in dancing tongues of fire. Stress lines have appeared, wispy black shadows tracing from the apex on down. It gives another shiver, then subsides to bide its time once more.
K'del arrives on the sands, accompanying Tiriana-- with booze. A skin, in fact, dangling from his fingers as he hurriedly runs a hand through his hair and seeks out dam and sire. "Think Meara'll have the candidates out shortly. Shells. They pick the best times to hatch, don't they?" A hesitant, wary eye is cast over the eggs; he takes a long, deep breath.
Taikrin reluctantly slumps away from Szadath, rubbing a hand against her ear as if she could block out the bone-shaking humming with that simple motion. "Was it always this /loud/?" she grumbles sourly as she approaches the pacing Teris. K'del gets a /look/. "'Course they do. Reckon they're all sad they missed the party." And if K'del is getting a /look/, then his wineskin is getting a /deathglare/.
Jolie has arrived.
The candidates have barely made it to the sands before the increasingly frenzied undulations of the Crack the Code Egg send the thus-far more subdued X Marks The Egg rolling. With the momentum that follows, an awkward crash sends a petite, pale-hued green onto the sands... a green whose wings sit oddly: crooked and malformed. Though she teeters to her feet, the candidates nearest begin to back away. For one of the few weyrbred candidates, however, there is no escape: the green careens forward, sidesteps into her, and Impression is made.
Misar has arrived.
Jolie is among the first to arrive out before bowing, sticking close to a loose group of candidates while staying silent. Her attention remains on the eggs, her expression unreadable as already an Impression has been made.
K'del's cheerful when he offers, to Taikrin, "Hair of the dog?" No? The wineskin gets wiggled in her direction, but only for a moment: he's /rather/ distracted, not to mention utterly dismayed, as the first egg hatches, and, and-- "Oh, shells," he breathes, eyeing the damaged green and her somewhat wary new rider, as they're escorted from the sands.
Teris has little sympathy for her fellow riders for drinking more than they ought to have the night before. That bit of nervous energy she actually shows with the pacing certainly has nothing to do with booze and everything to do with the eggs that are starting to hatch. She pauses when that first green hatches and her face falls visibly. Iskiveth remains silent and she doesn't watch the green's progress as she impresses.
There are a number of wary eyes on the Crack The Code Egg as it shudders and twists, but when it does finally break into pieces, the brown left in its wake seems normal enough. He struggles into motion, angling almost immediately towards his chosen Candidate. The pair exit the sands together - all, apparently, is well. The Patterns Upon Patterns Egg is growing steadily more insistent, as though the life within is getting tired of this whole business, and would like to have been out /yesterday/. A hairline fracture has begun to spread across the aged bronze shell, and the flecking patterns are looking increasingly threadbare. It may only take a few more rocks, but for now, the hatchling remains within.
Taikrin was all prepared to shoot something snide and hungover-ish at K'del, but then there was a green hatching. /Hatching/. Smug pride fades abruptly as she gets a look at its wings, and her muttered curses are far more foul than K'del's. But Szadath? He croons a welcome, crowding closer to Iskiveth to share his eagerness. It was, after all, alive?
K'del is busy taking a long swig from his wineskin when that second hatchling arrives, so his sigh of what must be relief is muted almost to being not there at all. Still, when he pulls the skin away, he's grinning again. "Maybe it was just that one, right? One little broken one." See? Maybe everything /will/ be okay!
One final push is all it takes, and then the Patterns Upon Patterns Egg splinters and collapses in upon itself, a shower of shards raining down upon the wiry blue hatchling once held within. He shakes himself off, apparently surprised by this development, but otherwise undaunted: he launches forth with determination, seeking the adulation he no doubt richly deserves.
>---< Marauding Gargoyle Blue >----------------------------------------------<
He's a gargoyle of a dragon, blue, brash and bony, with a gritty dark hide
that might have been carved from solid granite. Glowering brows are so
prominent as to shadow the telltale bright colors of his eyes, and the
rest of him is all outcroppings and shadows too, all the way to knobby
wings and wiggly, wiry tail. But if sometimes he looks like a big rock,
he's also one that legions might have passed by: chipping at his
now-irregular neckridges, letting patchy lichens grow along his talons and
the underside of his tail, scratching graffiti along his ribs and staining
his flanks with yellow. It's a lot of wear and tear for one dragon, and he
may yet acquire more, but even now he flaunts those shadow-tattered
wingsails with pride.
>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Jolie shuffles her feet as subtly as she can, as if the heat wasn't starting to get to her already. Her gaze is taking everything in from where she stood - the clutchparents and their riders, the eggs, those around her, the Weyrleaders - everything and everyone was under her scrutiny before one of the eggs hatch into a blue little dragon. A couple of candidates 'ooh' together nearby her, and she sends a look their way.
Lienan, a weaver candidate, looks as though she'd rather like to run and hide at this point, despite the comforting hand holding on to hers. "They look so fast and /sharp/," she squeals, unhappily, tugging at the hand. "What if they hurt us? What if we can't get out of their way?"
Dov has set himself up with the rest of his clique of friends, all of them packing in close to Jolie. The bulky, dour young man can't seem to do anything but scowl: at the rocking eggs, at the candidate who impresses brown, even at the clutch sire. "Remember, we each need to end up with one. Bigger the better. Or /else/. Do what you have to." There's a pointed look directed at Jolie, and the corner of his lip tilts upwards. "Ready?"
The first handful of candidates examined by the Marauding Gargoyle Blue Hatchling are deemed unsuitable; there's not even so much as a backwards glance in their directions before he's moving on again, shuffling his wings and twitching his tail as he practices this /walking/ thing. He takes a longer moment in front of a hopeful-looking boy from Tillek, but-- no. Wrong, wrong wrong. He shuffles onwards.
Iskiveth's interest in the hatchlings picks up again when several more hatch. Several more completely /normal/ hatchlings. She tilts her head to bump her muzzle against Szadath, then continues to watch. Teris has stopped pacing to watch, too, only briefly glancing sidelong toward the weyrleaders and then Taikrin.
Jolie, despite her maintaining her silence, regards the group of shady-looking candidates when Dov speaks. Those squealing candidates from before catch that scowl from him and discretely start to shift away from them, and Jo sends a rather too-sweet smirk his way that doesn't have any warmth. "As if we can control this," she remarks his way with a look to the others, "but I'm -always- ready, darlin'."
K'del hands the wineskin to Tiriana as he attempts to get a better grasp on what is going on, and where. "Only that green was-- well. That's good. The rest look pretty solid, though that blue... kind of craggy, huh?" He might as well be talking to himself, apparently.
A fireball rolls across the sands-- no, it's the Tale in the Flame egg, suddenly mobile. Thicker cracks have spiderwebbed across its surface, full of the sparkling bits of sand it has picked up as it rolls a good several feet away from its initial resting point. With a sudden jerk it smacks into another egg, then goes terribly, ominously still. Slowly, carefully, the Another Man's Trash Egg starts to wobble on the sand, following some definite, but undefinable, pattern of movement. Those closest to it might - if the sands weren't so busy, if there wasn't so much else to notice - hear a faint tapping sound coming from within, as though the hatchling inside is testing with careful precision for a good breaking point.
Simaron slips past Dov to stand right next to Jolie, even seeking to snatch her fingers up. His grin is overbright, and his excitement bubbles over as he bounces on his toes. "I bet we /can/. What dragon wouldn't want /us/? Like-- that blue? Or-- which one was your favorite? Mine was this little whitish one, and it hasn't even hatched yet so maybe I'm going to get it!" He doesn't even seem aware that he's babbling: Dov's scowl goes completely unnoticed.
After the hatching of the relatively unattractive gargoyle blue, the clean, dappled oceanic greens of the hatchling that emerges from the Memories Upon Paper Egg is, perhaps, a relief. She shakes loose a few pieces of shell, and then totters off in the direction of a handful of girls from High Reaches Hold. When none of them are suitable, she backtracks, ending up in front of a distinctly surprised looking Simaron, who nonetheless reaches out to hold her close.
Jolie's studying the progress of that blue along with the others, her expression back to its gambler's mask despite the earlier theatrics. To al around, she's the picture of cool calm, as if the heat of the sands hardly had any effect on her. Her gaze even briefly goes toward the stands as if she was expecting someone there before she feels her hand suddenly being /snatched/. Shooting a startled glance Simaron's way, "Wanna put marks on that?" she's putting to Simaron then. Jolie then backs away once the green comes out of nowhere and lands before Simaron, her eyes slightly wide before remarking wryly, "Guess that bet's not needed. Congrats, Simaron." And she's looking to Dov to gauge his expression.
Dov's scowl deepens, and he reaches out to swat at Simaron, only to draw back, startled, as the young boy's favorite egg not only hatches out a green, but one that seems to-- "Hah! Well." Now he's smirking at Jolie, all confidence once more. "Told you. It'll be a bronze for me, then. That big egg-- I've got it all picked out."
Sho has arrived.
The Tale in the Flame egg pulsates beside its neighbor, dark cracks spreading over the entire surface of the ovoid like some fine lace. All at once, the egg is simply /gone/, bits and fragments of shells flying every which way, leaving a seared little bronze hatchling in their wake.
>---< Forged of Fire Bronze >------------------------------------------------<
Haughty bearing and clean, powerful lines spark a dangerous combination in
this average-sized bronze. He's molten in both curves and color, from the
very beginning of his nose, an aquiline beak that seems somehow as sharp
as his deliberately-placed onyx talons. Those echoes of flame ripple
throughout his classically-proportioned figure, though hints of mottling
also singe his joints: here some copper spattered over his shoulders,
there charcoal showing through cracks around his jaw and up to one
slightly narrowed eye. It is his wings, most of all, that resemble nothing
so much as half-worked metal. Delicate laceworks of shadow cross veins of
super-heated crimson that seem lit from within, tracing patternless chaos
across their broad sails. They appear in a perpetual state of cracking, as
if the slightest breeze would flake the unfinished planes of his wings
entirely apart.
>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Marauding Gargoyle Blue swipes awkwardly at a stockily built boy who is /in his way/. The lad steps back in a hurry, shielding his face with his arm, but the blue has already moved away, letting out a somewhat squeaky attempt of a rumble: has no one any respect? And where /is/ the one he wants, anyway?
K'del's breath catches, first at the arrival of the bronze, and then again, as a glance around sees the little blue swiping at one of the candidates. There's no blood, though, and he relaxes, turning his attention back towards the new bronze. "Not bad," is his assessment, somewhat critical. But even so: "Not bad at all."
Jolie returns that smirk of Dov's haughtily as they watch Simaron and the green move off. "Chance, nothing more," she says, rolling her eyes at his confidence. "I rather bet you on a green, if anything." Dark eyes land on the blue then as he swipes past a boy, a brow lifting at him. "Or maybe that blue's yer type," she adds dryly. "He seems to have yer personality. Perfect match."
Timaron, one of the youngest candidates, and one of the few weyrbred ones, strains on his toes to get a better look at the new bronze, his eyes wide and his mouth hopeful. "/Oh/. Maybe that one is for me?"
Wobble. Wobble. Crack. Burst. Pieces of shell fly everywhere as the dragon inside the Another Man's Trash Egg finds just that right spot to send propel pieces of his egg out towards the others around. The shards scatter: some hurtling off towards other, still motionless, eggs, some aimed at the not-too-distant candidates, some even offered towards the dam and sire. There's a low murmur of surprise as a /second/ bronze hatches, emerging from the remains of the DaVinci's Dinner Napkin Egg without any particular theatrics. Despite examining a handful of potential choices along the way, it doesn't take him too long to find the right one: boy and bronze leave the sands, all excitement.
"... i've got it all picked out..." Mutter, mutter. For Misar, a ghostly bit of a thing in that candidate's white robe amongst a sea of others, the sharp focus of his attention is neither on the eggs nor the distinctly alive hatchlings, but the questionable group of fellows he's edged behind -- clearly, close enough for some convenient eavesdropping. His hands are for no one's claiming, not that anyone would //try//, but are looped behind his head in a pose of casualness that reveals in it his discomfort. And his awkward pale legs.
Forged of Fire Bronze takes his time to gather his bearings, inspecting the remains of his shell with latent curiosity. There's not much interesting there, though: instead, he turns his attention to inspecting his wings, unfurling first the left then the right with slow, deliberate motion. He's really not all that interested in those candidates, over there: he himself is fascinating enough.
Sho is here of course and has been. He has been watching in general dilence, watching as eggs jatch and pairs move off. It is all so interesting. Ayup. Just watching as Sho never really does. Except now.
Iskiveth focuses her attention on the bronzes, warbling finally as though she hasn't been entirely sure she wants to acknowledge that these are all, you know, hers until now. Teris is still quiet but she moves slightly closer to Taikrin.
The Marauding Gargoyle Blue Hatchling careens past a cluster of craftbred candidates, scattering sand in their direction without seeming to pay much attention to their reaction: /they/ are not for him. The one who /is/ for him is just up ahead, though, and it's obvious in the way he struggles to get his ungainly, childlike limbs moving faster, and obvious, too, in the squeaking attempt at a rumble he lets loose as he teeters undeniably towards dark-haired Jolie.
The Hallowed Illuminations and Apple PIe From Scratch eggs seem to hatch at almost the same moment - a distraction, for some from the Impression of the bright-hued blue. The green and brown cross paths only briefly, before heading in opposite directions of the sands. The green Impresses easily enough, but the brown seems to about to lock eyes with a swarthy lad from the tannercraft when he seems to trip and fall, leaving pretty Kaitlin standing where he once was, meeting gazes with the brown with steely determination.
Dov smirks right back at Jolie, ignoring Ronsen entirely as the boy very nearly gets skewered by the blue. "I think a green is more /your/ style. It'll be a bronze for me." So very, very certain. The hatching of two bronzes in rapid succession draws his attention away, and he can barely spare a scowl for the first impression, because he's busy pompously shoving himself in front of his group of friends. "It's mine, you all stay back." He doesn't even seem to catch Jolie's impression.
Taikrin is rapidly forgetting her terrible hangover: Szadath's excitement about the hatchlings is truly contagious. "Did y'see?!" She's clutching at Teris' arm and pointing, all at once. "/Two/ bronzes, and look at those browns! That one was /huge/." The sire himself never had any doubt-- he's rumbling deep in his chest, purring rather like a giant feline.
Jolie tries to her keep attention on everything happening at once, regarding the hatchlings as briefly as she does everyone else. One would think she was standing there for her own health. Arms come to a fold across her chest, she was about to turn and say something to either Timaron or Dov when the very blue she was claiming a perfect match for Dov runs literally to her. She twitches, frowning heavily at the blue before she blinks a few times in her shock and drops her arms away. "Tac--Tacuseth?" she's saying the name as if in disbelief, stumbling from his nudge to her middle. She misses Dov's words completely, or ignores him, nodding once at something said before she mutters, "Yeah....uh, right. Same side." Clearly, the girl's in shock.
As his shell collapses around him, the tiny, barely-even-green-sized Laboratory Experiment Blue Hatchling steps away from the wreckage, giving his oversized head a good shake as if to clear away the remains of egg go and shell. Cleaned up and ready, he pauses, glancing around the hatching grounds with an inquisitive consideration. First things first: he needs a good plan.
>---< Laboratory Experiment Blue >-------------------------------------------<
He seems covered in toxic goo, this scrawny, runt-like dragon, wearing the
lurid electric blue of a science experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong.
It bubbles and froths in obscure markings around the blunted tips of his
neckridges, and extends exploratory tendrils down as far as the very tip
of his mischevious tail. Perhaps it simply hasn't reached his wings, as
pale as they are - or perhaps their color has been bleached away entirely,
leaving them as insubstantial wisps. For now, he's smaller even than most
greens, his undersized torso and wings largely overshadowed by his
enormous head which, at least, seems too heavy to be held straight by his
narrow shoulders and neck. There's crafty, eager intelligence in his
seeking gaze, though, and the promise of purpose in his every move.
>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Tacuseth nudges firmly at Jolie's legs, as if intending to batter her down-- or maybe just encourage her to move. His. Theirs. /Together/, woo!
One of the Weyrlingmasters heads directly towards Jolie and her blue, beaming brilliantly at the pair: "Will you come with me, please? There's food for him in the barracks."
Forged of Fire Bronze looks up at a rumble from his sire, then swings his head over to the line of candidates in startled surprise, as if he hadn't even noticed them. It is only with reluctance that he gets to his feet, wings still flared despite the awkward way it makes him walk. Seems he'd best inspect those candidates, too, since they did come all this way; he is clearly unenthusiastic about the task.
Almost immediately after the spectacularly lurid blue emerges onto the sands, another blue joins him: this one as pale is ice, remarkably fragile looking. He's hale and hearty, though - yet another healthy hatchling! - and takes no time at all to find himself a partner from amidst a large group of former crafters.
Jolie stumbles once more, and then she's dragging her steps as she gets nudged from her blue. Hair falling over her face, she catches one of the weyrlingmasters' words and with a mechanical nod devoid of any telling, she lets Tacuseth guide her out towards the barracks.
Jolie heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
Jolie has left.
Tacuseth heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
Tacuseth has left.
Okay, now Sho really /is/ here. He's not exactly hanging back but he's also not just sitting there with the rest of 'them' staring at the eggs. No. He's good to just watch from where he is. His amber eyes flick over the dragons as the eggs hatch one by one, smirking a bit as he watches. It is rather a sight to see, although he didn't expect it to be quite so interesting this close. As Jolie impresses Sho just hmms softly to himself. Well now, that's...interesting. Seems to be his word today. And then there's that group of rabble...and Sho doesn't seem to give one lick about what they're doing.
Laboratory Experiment Blue shakes off a bit of goo from the egg. Tiny little wings flip out and back. The dragon turns his head to stare at that movement, trying it again. Look! Wings move just like /so/. He flips his wings out a third time, testing the theory, before the dragon returns to the task at hand. There is, after all, a plan. The runt-like blue moves forward with a purpose heading closer to examine those white robed people.
Teris looks at Taikrin's clutching at her arm but doesn't pull away when she casts her eggs back out to the eggs and hatchlings and candidates. "Of course I saw. Iskiveth is happy with the bronzes. Except for that one green, they seem to be perfectly normal." She's very relieved.
The tanner boy, the one who tripped, is back on his feet again by the time the next hatchling wanders in his direction. He gives the malachite green from the Gleaming and Glittering Egg a hopeful glance, but she passes him by, choosing, instead, a former baker, who squeals with excitement as she reaches out to touch her lifemate.
Dov spares a flicker of attention for Kaitlin, then another, finally, for Jolie as she leads her new blue away. "Good girls," he mutters through teeth bared into what might be his impersonation of a welcoming smile. "Now, for that bronze." The two boys nearby - Ronsen and Misar - aren't given a glance, but rather a warning issued from one upheld arm: "You dimglows just stay back. I'll handle this."
K'del's head shakes. "Shells, but that blue? Some colour!" He's tipping his head towards the particularly lurid blue, head shaking over and over again. "Not very /pretty/, the most of them, I guess, but they're healthy enough, seems like." Which is something.
Controversy abounds as the blue from the Delicate Snare Egg reaches a cluster of candidates and seems just about to pick one, when that candidate goes flying. There's a squeal of protest, and Ronsen looks triumphant-- only to look deflated again a moment later, when the blue scuttles after the fallen candidate, leaning down to nudge at him with enthusiasm. Up! Look up!
Well, in the end Sho can only do so much watching. As one of the other candidates goes flying, Sho sighs and heads towards Ronsen, looking somehow like he doesn't care what's going on on the sands. Or maybe he's just preoccupied. "Ya got a problem or something? Ya really shouldn't be taking it out on other people, 'specially not with all these claws and such around. Could get hurt." A threat? Not likely, since it's coming from Sho. But he might mean it as such.
Ronsen? He GLOWERS at Sho. "Get the shell out of my way, kid," he tells him, brushing sand off of his robe. "I've a dragon to Impress."
Laboratory Experiment Blue moves close to a young blonde girl. He stares her over, using his over-sized head to give her a look from top to bottom. Nope. Not that one. He steps over, moving to look over the short, holdbred boy next to her. Still wrong. The tiny blue continues down the line, testing out each of the candidates in the clump in front of him. Maybe these arent the right subjects. The blue veers away from them, moving off towards another group of white robed figures. They seem to have something worth checking out going on over there.
The arm is good enough barrier for Misar to hang back behind, willing himself quiet despite the irritation that briefly narrows his eyebrows. "Just stay outta this one," he pipes up, only once it's clear Sho's coming over, "These types will screw their own selves over, in the end."
Forged of Fire Bronze is arrogance itself as he walks down the line of candidates, dismissing each and every hopeful boy with a wave of his nose. He seems utterly unaware of the shells fragments sticking to his still-damp hide, and when one girl giggles at the sight it very nearly turns deadly. But he merely glares at her a moment, then moves on. He doesn't pause again until he's at a cluster of boys, whom he eyes suspiciously.
Dov smirks triumphantly at the bronze as he halts, snaking a backwards look at Misar. "He's got good taste." He sidles over, positioning himself directly in front of the little hatchling and looking quite expectant.
K'del twists around, eyeing the remaining eggs-- well. Egg. It's pretty still, at the moment, and he watches it for a long, long couple of seconds.
Sho doesn't seem to mind the glower just as he's never cared about any other such look, not even from Taikrin. "Ya won't do it that way. All yer gonna get is a bloody nose if ya can't keep yerself from knocking people away. 'sides, if I was a dragon I wouldn't even come near ya." Sho says, glancing at Misar at his words and offering a slight shrug. "Maybe, but they don't need ta hurt others in the process." Sho seems to be more concerned for the safety of the other candidates then the hatchlings at the moment. Well, he always has been good hearted, if not exactly bright about what he's doing.
Forged of Fire Bronze Hatchling is tired of playing games. Heedless of the inherent fragility of the candidates arrayed for his perusal, he shoulders roughly past the hulking candidate trying vainly to capture his attention. Instead, he stares up at the other boy - the scrawny, blonde one - that he's been seeking all this time.
Any good plot must have a goal-- an end point. For the Laboratory Experiment Blue Hatchling this goal is focusing itself in on a certain candidate. The miniature blue flaps his wings, squealing, before setting off towards one more group of candidates. There! He almost makes it, too: it almost succeeds without a hitch. But gravity-- oh, alas! His legs tumble beneath him, he overbalances, and then goes head first into the sand at the feet of a skinny boy with amber eyes. Eagerly, he pushes his head upwards, his eyes widening and beginning to whirl, faster and faster, as he creels at Sho to help him out.
Dov stumbles aside, apparently unhurt though he's white with shock nonetheless. "What the flaming shells--" His disbelief obvious, he clenches a fist and advances on Misar and the bronze, only to falter at the last step as impression is, obviously, made. And not to him.
Mutterings and eye-rollings are the order of the day for Dov -- even for Sho -- as Misar prepares to cast his hand and dismiss the lot of them... all but this new, strange thing like an apparition in front of him. Skinny legs wobble visibly only because of his unfortunate garments, but otherwise the blond stares down the bronze muzzle with a criminal's skepticism. "Found, is it..." The flicker of movment -- hint of danger -- that is Dov has the boy's chin shooting up to look for the first place to dodge, yet he seems to have trouble detaching himself from the hatchling even so.
S'ren is still facing the rather bullyish candidate when the sand that was just warming his feet before sprays his legs and he looks down in surprise. The moment his amber eyes meet the blue's whirling ones and he's put into a shocked silence. Silence is rare for the youth. Thus it doesn't last long and he actually grins as he turns to try and help heft the dragon back onto his feet. "Cerveath, hmm? I like plans." S'ren says with a chuckle, not quite seeming to realize fully what's happened. Even so, he reaches out to flick a bit of remaining egg of Cerveath.
Two weyrlingmasters detach themselves from the group to separate, and head towards M'sar and S'ren, separately, inviting them to bring their lifemates along to the barracks-- where there's food to be had!
With the blue and bronze Impressed at last, there's just one egg left remaining: the Antique Treasures Egg, which still wobbles back and forth, apparently in no rush at all. When it /does/ hatch, it's all of a sudden: BAM. Left behind is a dainty green in a dark, dark shade, a green who rushes forward, all in a flutter, apparently choosing the first candidate she sees. Silence follows, the few remaining candidates glancing around, some in hopeful desperation, but there are no eggs left, no hatchlings left unimpressed.
Kushvetath doesn't spare even a glance for Dov: he only has eyes for M'sar. Ever so carefully he extends that shelled nose to touch the boy's midsection, eyes whirling a brilliant blue. Those flared wings raise, slightly, as if to wall M'sar off, to keep him safe from all comers.
S'ren heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
S'ren has left.
Cerveath heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
Cerveath has left.
M'sar heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
M'sar has left.
Kushvetath heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
Kushvetath has left.
K'del exhales, finally, as that last egg does, after all, hatch, and then Impresses so quickly. He glances around the remaining candidates (relatively few as they are), and then clears his throat. Finally; "Unfortunately, there were only thirteen eggs, this clutch, and that means only thirteen dragons. We've proved, now, that there'll be plenty more clutches in the future, though, and we /would/ encourage you to consider standing again for those. Mostly-- thank you, for being open to trying. Come celebrate with us in the caverns, and we can arrange your trips home - or your continued employment here, if that's what you prefer - tomorrow." And with that, he takes Tiriana's arm, and they head off of the sands.
Dov scowls ferociously at the empty eggshells that remain, muttering darkly, "You just bet I will." Ronsen's arm is snatched in a death-vise of a grip, and then the pair stalk off the sands, pushing angrily past a pair of disappointed girls, heedless of their startled exclamations.
Summary: The day after turnover celebrations is just about the perfect time for Iskiveth's and Szadath's eggs to hatch.
Congratulations to our new weyrlings: Jolie, S'ren (Sho) and M'sar (Misar)!
NorCon MUSH - 10/22/2010
------------------------
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.
Contents:
Teris
K'del
Iskiveth
Szadath(#1824Qabep$0)
Obvious exits:
Galleries
The morning is slowly (painfully, for some, still attempting to sooth their big heads) ambling onwards, a quiet one for most people - except those roped in to clean-up from last night. And those preparing for yet another celebration which seems to be on the cards. It's not long after ten when the humming begins, first just a distant, low sound, but steadily, rapidly, rising into something unmissable, audible even as distantly as in the deepest caverns. Hatching time!
Poor Taikrin. And here she was, sprawled atop Szadath and trying to catch a nap in the pleasant heat and relative dimness of the hatching cavern. So much for sleeping off that nasty post-Turnover hangover!
Teris isn't really the sort to do a lot of partying. There's no hangover to speak of and she's been here keeping an eye on Iskiveth since the pointy queen first told her it was time. The dragon seems more calm than her rider for once, though, with Teris slowly pacing from one end of the reclining dragon to the other and back again, arms crossed over her chest.
The shallow twitches coming from within the Patterns Upon Patterns Egg have gained enough intensity, now, to begin to fleck away bits of coloured shell-- geometric patterns becoming increasingly less so as tiny shards work themselves free and begin to scatter upon the sands. The motion isn't - yet - enough to properly disturb the hatchling within, but those backwards and forwards motions are slowly, but steadily, beginning to gain momentum. The Tale in the Flame egg shudders, expanding and contracting in a way that makes it appear to truly be covered in dancing tongues of fire. Stress lines have appeared, wispy black shadows tracing from the apex on down. It gives another shiver, then subsides to bide its time once more.
K'del arrives on the sands, accompanying Tiriana-- with booze. A skin, in fact, dangling from his fingers as he hurriedly runs a hand through his hair and seeks out dam and sire. "Think Meara'll have the candidates out shortly. Shells. They pick the best times to hatch, don't they?" A hesitant, wary eye is cast over the eggs; he takes a long, deep breath.
Taikrin reluctantly slumps away from Szadath, rubbing a hand against her ear as if she could block out the bone-shaking humming with that simple motion. "Was it always this /loud/?" she grumbles sourly as she approaches the pacing Teris. K'del gets a /look/. "'Course they do. Reckon they're all sad they missed the party." And if K'del is getting a /look/, then his wineskin is getting a /deathglare/.
Jolie has arrived.
The candidates have barely made it to the sands before the increasingly frenzied undulations of the Crack the Code Egg send the thus-far more subdued X Marks The Egg rolling. With the momentum that follows, an awkward crash sends a petite, pale-hued green onto the sands... a green whose wings sit oddly: crooked and malformed. Though she teeters to her feet, the candidates nearest begin to back away. For one of the few weyrbred candidates, however, there is no escape: the green careens forward, sidesteps into her, and Impression is made.
Misar has arrived.
Jolie is among the first to arrive out before bowing, sticking close to a loose group of candidates while staying silent. Her attention remains on the eggs, her expression unreadable as already an Impression has been made.
K'del's cheerful when he offers, to Taikrin, "Hair of the dog?" No? The wineskin gets wiggled in her direction, but only for a moment: he's /rather/ distracted, not to mention utterly dismayed, as the first egg hatches, and, and-- "Oh, shells," he breathes, eyeing the damaged green and her somewhat wary new rider, as they're escorted from the sands.
Teris has little sympathy for her fellow riders for drinking more than they ought to have the night before. That bit of nervous energy she actually shows with the pacing certainly has nothing to do with booze and everything to do with the eggs that are starting to hatch. She pauses when that first green hatches and her face falls visibly. Iskiveth remains silent and she doesn't watch the green's progress as she impresses.
There are a number of wary eyes on the Crack The Code Egg as it shudders and twists, but when it does finally break into pieces, the brown left in its wake seems normal enough. He struggles into motion, angling almost immediately towards his chosen Candidate. The pair exit the sands together - all, apparently, is well. The Patterns Upon Patterns Egg is growing steadily more insistent, as though the life within is getting tired of this whole business, and would like to have been out /yesterday/. A hairline fracture has begun to spread across the aged bronze shell, and the flecking patterns are looking increasingly threadbare. It may only take a few more rocks, but for now, the hatchling remains within.
Taikrin was all prepared to shoot something snide and hungover-ish at K'del, but then there was a green hatching. /Hatching/. Smug pride fades abruptly as she gets a look at its wings, and her muttered curses are far more foul than K'del's. But Szadath? He croons a welcome, crowding closer to Iskiveth to share his eagerness. It was, after all, alive?
K'del is busy taking a long swig from his wineskin when that second hatchling arrives, so his sigh of what must be relief is muted almost to being not there at all. Still, when he pulls the skin away, he's grinning again. "Maybe it was just that one, right? One little broken one." See? Maybe everything /will/ be okay!
One final push is all it takes, and then the Patterns Upon Patterns Egg splinters and collapses in upon itself, a shower of shards raining down upon the wiry blue hatchling once held within. He shakes himself off, apparently surprised by this development, but otherwise undaunted: he launches forth with determination, seeking the adulation he no doubt richly deserves.
>---< Marauding Gargoyle Blue >----------------------------------------------<
He's a gargoyle of a dragon, blue, brash and bony, with a gritty dark hide
that might have been carved from solid granite. Glowering brows are so
prominent as to shadow the telltale bright colors of his eyes, and the
rest of him is all outcroppings and shadows too, all the way to knobby
wings and wiggly, wiry tail. But if sometimes he looks like a big rock,
he's also one that legions might have passed by: chipping at his
now-irregular neckridges, letting patchy lichens grow along his talons and
the underside of his tail, scratching graffiti along his ribs and staining
his flanks with yellow. It's a lot of wear and tear for one dragon, and he
may yet acquire more, but even now he flaunts those shadow-tattered
wingsails with pride.
>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Jolie shuffles her feet as subtly as she can, as if the heat wasn't starting to get to her already. Her gaze is taking everything in from where she stood - the clutchparents and their riders, the eggs, those around her, the Weyrleaders - everything and everyone was under her scrutiny before one of the eggs hatch into a blue little dragon. A couple of candidates 'ooh' together nearby her, and she sends a look their way.
Lienan, a weaver candidate, looks as though she'd rather like to run and hide at this point, despite the comforting hand holding on to hers. "They look so fast and /sharp/," she squeals, unhappily, tugging at the hand. "What if they hurt us? What if we can't get out of their way?"
Dov has set himself up with the rest of his clique of friends, all of them packing in close to Jolie. The bulky, dour young man can't seem to do anything but scowl: at the rocking eggs, at the candidate who impresses brown, even at the clutch sire. "Remember, we each need to end up with one. Bigger the better. Or /else/. Do what you have to." There's a pointed look directed at Jolie, and the corner of his lip tilts upwards. "Ready?"
The first handful of candidates examined by the Marauding Gargoyle Blue Hatchling are deemed unsuitable; there's not even so much as a backwards glance in their directions before he's moving on again, shuffling his wings and twitching his tail as he practices this /walking/ thing. He takes a longer moment in front of a hopeful-looking boy from Tillek, but-- no. Wrong, wrong wrong. He shuffles onwards.
Iskiveth's interest in the hatchlings picks up again when several more hatch. Several more completely /normal/ hatchlings. She tilts her head to bump her muzzle against Szadath, then continues to watch. Teris has stopped pacing to watch, too, only briefly glancing sidelong toward the weyrleaders and then Taikrin.
Jolie, despite her maintaining her silence, regards the group of shady-looking candidates when Dov speaks. Those squealing candidates from before catch that scowl from him and discretely start to shift away from them, and Jo sends a rather too-sweet smirk his way that doesn't have any warmth. "As if we can control this," she remarks his way with a look to the others, "but I'm -always- ready, darlin'."
K'del hands the wineskin to Tiriana as he attempts to get a better grasp on what is going on, and where. "Only that green was-- well. That's good. The rest look pretty solid, though that blue... kind of craggy, huh?" He might as well be talking to himself, apparently.
A fireball rolls across the sands-- no, it's the Tale in the Flame egg, suddenly mobile. Thicker cracks have spiderwebbed across its surface, full of the sparkling bits of sand it has picked up as it rolls a good several feet away from its initial resting point. With a sudden jerk it smacks into another egg, then goes terribly, ominously still. Slowly, carefully, the Another Man's Trash Egg starts to wobble on the sand, following some definite, but undefinable, pattern of movement. Those closest to it might - if the sands weren't so busy, if there wasn't so much else to notice - hear a faint tapping sound coming from within, as though the hatchling inside is testing with careful precision for a good breaking point.
Simaron slips past Dov to stand right next to Jolie, even seeking to snatch her fingers up. His grin is overbright, and his excitement bubbles over as he bounces on his toes. "I bet we /can/. What dragon wouldn't want /us/? Like-- that blue? Or-- which one was your favorite? Mine was this little whitish one, and it hasn't even hatched yet so maybe I'm going to get it!" He doesn't even seem aware that he's babbling: Dov's scowl goes completely unnoticed.
After the hatching of the relatively unattractive gargoyle blue, the clean, dappled oceanic greens of the hatchling that emerges from the Memories Upon Paper Egg is, perhaps, a relief. She shakes loose a few pieces of shell, and then totters off in the direction of a handful of girls from High Reaches Hold. When none of them are suitable, she backtracks, ending up in front of a distinctly surprised looking Simaron, who nonetheless reaches out to hold her close.
Jolie's studying the progress of that blue along with the others, her expression back to its gambler's mask despite the earlier theatrics. To al around, she's the picture of cool calm, as if the heat of the sands hardly had any effect on her. Her gaze even briefly goes toward the stands as if she was expecting someone there before she feels her hand suddenly being /snatched/. Shooting a startled glance Simaron's way, "Wanna put marks on that?" she's putting to Simaron then. Jolie then backs away once the green comes out of nowhere and lands before Simaron, her eyes slightly wide before remarking wryly, "Guess that bet's not needed. Congrats, Simaron." And she's looking to Dov to gauge his expression.
Dov's scowl deepens, and he reaches out to swat at Simaron, only to draw back, startled, as the young boy's favorite egg not only hatches out a green, but one that seems to-- "Hah! Well." Now he's smirking at Jolie, all confidence once more. "Told you. It'll be a bronze for me, then. That big egg-- I've got it all picked out."
Sho has arrived.
The Tale in the Flame egg pulsates beside its neighbor, dark cracks spreading over the entire surface of the ovoid like some fine lace. All at once, the egg is simply /gone/, bits and fragments of shells flying every which way, leaving a seared little bronze hatchling in their wake.
>---< Forged of Fire Bronze >------------------------------------------------<
Haughty bearing and clean, powerful lines spark a dangerous combination in
this average-sized bronze. He's molten in both curves and color, from the
very beginning of his nose, an aquiline beak that seems somehow as sharp
as his deliberately-placed onyx talons. Those echoes of flame ripple
throughout his classically-proportioned figure, though hints of mottling
also singe his joints: here some copper spattered over his shoulders,
there charcoal showing through cracks around his jaw and up to one
slightly narrowed eye. It is his wings, most of all, that resemble nothing
so much as half-worked metal. Delicate laceworks of shadow cross veins of
super-heated crimson that seem lit from within, tracing patternless chaos
across their broad sails. They appear in a perpetual state of cracking, as
if the slightest breeze would flake the unfinished planes of his wings
entirely apart.
>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Marauding Gargoyle Blue swipes awkwardly at a stockily built boy who is /in his way/. The lad steps back in a hurry, shielding his face with his arm, but the blue has already moved away, letting out a somewhat squeaky attempt of a rumble: has no one any respect? And where /is/ the one he wants, anyway?
K'del's breath catches, first at the arrival of the bronze, and then again, as a glance around sees the little blue swiping at one of the candidates. There's no blood, though, and he relaxes, turning his attention back towards the new bronze. "Not bad," is his assessment, somewhat critical. But even so: "Not bad at all."
Jolie returns that smirk of Dov's haughtily as they watch Simaron and the green move off. "Chance, nothing more," she says, rolling her eyes at his confidence. "I rather bet you on a green, if anything." Dark eyes land on the blue then as he swipes past a boy, a brow lifting at him. "Or maybe that blue's yer type," she adds dryly. "He seems to have yer personality. Perfect match."
Timaron, one of the youngest candidates, and one of the few weyrbred ones, strains on his toes to get a better look at the new bronze, his eyes wide and his mouth hopeful. "/Oh/. Maybe that one is for me?"
Wobble. Wobble. Crack. Burst. Pieces of shell fly everywhere as the dragon inside the Another Man's Trash Egg finds just that right spot to send propel pieces of his egg out towards the others around. The shards scatter: some hurtling off towards other, still motionless, eggs, some aimed at the not-too-distant candidates, some even offered towards the dam and sire. There's a low murmur of surprise as a /second/ bronze hatches, emerging from the remains of the DaVinci's Dinner Napkin Egg without any particular theatrics. Despite examining a handful of potential choices along the way, it doesn't take him too long to find the right one: boy and bronze leave the sands, all excitement.
"... i've got it all picked out..." Mutter, mutter. For Misar, a ghostly bit of a thing in that candidate's white robe amongst a sea of others, the sharp focus of his attention is neither on the eggs nor the distinctly alive hatchlings, but the questionable group of fellows he's edged behind -- clearly, close enough for some convenient eavesdropping. His hands are for no one's claiming, not that anyone would //try//, but are looped behind his head in a pose of casualness that reveals in it his discomfort. And his awkward pale legs.
Forged of Fire Bronze takes his time to gather his bearings, inspecting the remains of his shell with latent curiosity. There's not much interesting there, though: instead, he turns his attention to inspecting his wings, unfurling first the left then the right with slow, deliberate motion. He's really not all that interested in those candidates, over there: he himself is fascinating enough.
Sho is here of course and has been. He has been watching in general dilence, watching as eggs jatch and pairs move off. It is all so interesting. Ayup. Just watching as Sho never really does. Except now.
Iskiveth focuses her attention on the bronzes, warbling finally as though she hasn't been entirely sure she wants to acknowledge that these are all, you know, hers until now. Teris is still quiet but she moves slightly closer to Taikrin.
The Marauding Gargoyle Blue Hatchling careens past a cluster of craftbred candidates, scattering sand in their direction without seeming to pay much attention to their reaction: /they/ are not for him. The one who /is/ for him is just up ahead, though, and it's obvious in the way he struggles to get his ungainly, childlike limbs moving faster, and obvious, too, in the squeaking attempt at a rumble he lets loose as he teeters undeniably towards dark-haired Jolie.
The Hallowed Illuminations and Apple PIe From Scratch eggs seem to hatch at almost the same moment - a distraction, for some from the Impression of the bright-hued blue. The green and brown cross paths only briefly, before heading in opposite directions of the sands. The green Impresses easily enough, but the brown seems to about to lock eyes with a swarthy lad from the tannercraft when he seems to trip and fall, leaving pretty Kaitlin standing where he once was, meeting gazes with the brown with steely determination.
Dov smirks right back at Jolie, ignoring Ronsen entirely as the boy very nearly gets skewered by the blue. "I think a green is more /your/ style. It'll be a bronze for me." So very, very certain. The hatching of two bronzes in rapid succession draws his attention away, and he can barely spare a scowl for the first impression, because he's busy pompously shoving himself in front of his group of friends. "It's mine, you all stay back." He doesn't even seem to catch Jolie's impression.
Taikrin is rapidly forgetting her terrible hangover: Szadath's excitement about the hatchlings is truly contagious. "Did y'see?!" She's clutching at Teris' arm and pointing, all at once. "/Two/ bronzes, and look at those browns! That one was /huge/." The sire himself never had any doubt-- he's rumbling deep in his chest, purring rather like a giant feline.
Jolie tries to her keep attention on everything happening at once, regarding the hatchlings as briefly as she does everyone else. One would think she was standing there for her own health. Arms come to a fold across her chest, she was about to turn and say something to either Timaron or Dov when the very blue she was claiming a perfect match for Dov runs literally to her. She twitches, frowning heavily at the blue before she blinks a few times in her shock and drops her arms away. "Tac--Tacuseth?" she's saying the name as if in disbelief, stumbling from his nudge to her middle. She misses Dov's words completely, or ignores him, nodding once at something said before she mutters, "Yeah....uh, right. Same side." Clearly, the girl's in shock.
As his shell collapses around him, the tiny, barely-even-green-sized Laboratory Experiment Blue Hatchling steps away from the wreckage, giving his oversized head a good shake as if to clear away the remains of egg go and shell. Cleaned up and ready, he pauses, glancing around the hatching grounds with an inquisitive consideration. First things first: he needs a good plan.
>---< Laboratory Experiment Blue >-------------------------------------------<
He seems covered in toxic goo, this scrawny, runt-like dragon, wearing the
lurid electric blue of a science experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong.
It bubbles and froths in obscure markings around the blunted tips of his
neckridges, and extends exploratory tendrils down as far as the very tip
of his mischevious tail. Perhaps it simply hasn't reached his wings, as
pale as they are - or perhaps their color has been bleached away entirely,
leaving them as insubstantial wisps. For now, he's smaller even than most
greens, his undersized torso and wings largely overshadowed by his
enormous head which, at least, seems too heavy to be held straight by his
narrow shoulders and neck. There's crafty, eager intelligence in his
seeking gaze, though, and the promise of purpose in his every move.
>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<
Tacuseth nudges firmly at Jolie's legs, as if intending to batter her down-- or maybe just encourage her to move. His. Theirs. /Together/, woo!
One of the Weyrlingmasters heads directly towards Jolie and her blue, beaming brilliantly at the pair: "Will you come with me, please? There's food for him in the barracks."
Forged of Fire Bronze looks up at a rumble from his sire, then swings his head over to the line of candidates in startled surprise, as if he hadn't even noticed them. It is only with reluctance that he gets to his feet, wings still flared despite the awkward way it makes him walk. Seems he'd best inspect those candidates, too, since they did come all this way; he is clearly unenthusiastic about the task.
Almost immediately after the spectacularly lurid blue emerges onto the sands, another blue joins him: this one as pale is ice, remarkably fragile looking. He's hale and hearty, though - yet another healthy hatchling! - and takes no time at all to find himself a partner from amidst a large group of former crafters.
Jolie stumbles once more, and then she's dragging her steps as she gets nudged from her blue. Hair falling over her face, she catches one of the weyrlingmasters' words and with a mechanical nod devoid of any telling, she lets Tacuseth guide her out towards the barracks.
Jolie heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
Jolie has left.
Tacuseth heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
Tacuseth has left.
Okay, now Sho really /is/ here. He's not exactly hanging back but he's also not just sitting there with the rest of 'them' staring at the eggs. No. He's good to just watch from where he is. His amber eyes flick over the dragons as the eggs hatch one by one, smirking a bit as he watches. It is rather a sight to see, although he didn't expect it to be quite so interesting this close. As Jolie impresses Sho just hmms softly to himself. Well now, that's...interesting. Seems to be his word today. And then there's that group of rabble...and Sho doesn't seem to give one lick about what they're doing.
Laboratory Experiment Blue shakes off a bit of goo from the egg. Tiny little wings flip out and back. The dragon turns his head to stare at that movement, trying it again. Look! Wings move just like /so/. He flips his wings out a third time, testing the theory, before the dragon returns to the task at hand. There is, after all, a plan. The runt-like blue moves forward with a purpose heading closer to examine those white robed people.
Teris looks at Taikrin's clutching at her arm but doesn't pull away when she casts her eggs back out to the eggs and hatchlings and candidates. "Of course I saw. Iskiveth is happy with the bronzes. Except for that one green, they seem to be perfectly normal." She's very relieved.
The tanner boy, the one who tripped, is back on his feet again by the time the next hatchling wanders in his direction. He gives the malachite green from the Gleaming and Glittering Egg a hopeful glance, but she passes him by, choosing, instead, a former baker, who squeals with excitement as she reaches out to touch her lifemate.
Dov spares a flicker of attention for Kaitlin, then another, finally, for Jolie as she leads her new blue away. "Good girls," he mutters through teeth bared into what might be his impersonation of a welcoming smile. "Now, for that bronze." The two boys nearby - Ronsen and Misar - aren't given a glance, but rather a warning issued from one upheld arm: "You dimglows just stay back. I'll handle this."
K'del's head shakes. "Shells, but that blue? Some colour!" He's tipping his head towards the particularly lurid blue, head shaking over and over again. "Not very /pretty/, the most of them, I guess, but they're healthy enough, seems like." Which is something.
Controversy abounds as the blue from the Delicate Snare Egg reaches a cluster of candidates and seems just about to pick one, when that candidate goes flying. There's a squeal of protest, and Ronsen looks triumphant-- only to look deflated again a moment later, when the blue scuttles after the fallen candidate, leaning down to nudge at him with enthusiasm. Up! Look up!
Well, in the end Sho can only do so much watching. As one of the other candidates goes flying, Sho sighs and heads towards Ronsen, looking somehow like he doesn't care what's going on on the sands. Or maybe he's just preoccupied. "Ya got a problem or something? Ya really shouldn't be taking it out on other people, 'specially not with all these claws and such around. Could get hurt." A threat? Not likely, since it's coming from Sho. But he might mean it as such.
Ronsen? He GLOWERS at Sho. "Get the shell out of my way, kid," he tells him, brushing sand off of his robe. "I've a dragon to Impress."
Laboratory Experiment Blue moves close to a young blonde girl. He stares her over, using his over-sized head to give her a look from top to bottom. Nope. Not that one. He steps over, moving to look over the short, holdbred boy next to her. Still wrong. The tiny blue continues down the line, testing out each of the candidates in the clump in front of him. Maybe these arent the right subjects. The blue veers away from them, moving off towards another group of white robed figures. They seem to have something worth checking out going on over there.
The arm is good enough barrier for Misar to hang back behind, willing himself quiet despite the irritation that briefly narrows his eyebrows. "Just stay outta this one," he pipes up, only once it's clear Sho's coming over, "These types will screw their own selves over, in the end."
Forged of Fire Bronze is arrogance itself as he walks down the line of candidates, dismissing each and every hopeful boy with a wave of his nose. He seems utterly unaware of the shells fragments sticking to his still-damp hide, and when one girl giggles at the sight it very nearly turns deadly. But he merely glares at her a moment, then moves on. He doesn't pause again until he's at a cluster of boys, whom he eyes suspiciously.
Dov smirks triumphantly at the bronze as he halts, snaking a backwards look at Misar. "He's got good taste." He sidles over, positioning himself directly in front of the little hatchling and looking quite expectant.
K'del twists around, eyeing the remaining eggs-- well. Egg. It's pretty still, at the moment, and he watches it for a long, long couple of seconds.
Sho doesn't seem to mind the glower just as he's never cared about any other such look, not even from Taikrin. "Ya won't do it that way. All yer gonna get is a bloody nose if ya can't keep yerself from knocking people away. 'sides, if I was a dragon I wouldn't even come near ya." Sho says, glancing at Misar at his words and offering a slight shrug. "Maybe, but they don't need ta hurt others in the process." Sho seems to be more concerned for the safety of the other candidates then the hatchlings at the moment. Well, he always has been good hearted, if not exactly bright about what he's doing.
Forged of Fire Bronze Hatchling is tired of playing games. Heedless of the inherent fragility of the candidates arrayed for his perusal, he shoulders roughly past the hulking candidate trying vainly to capture his attention. Instead, he stares up at the other boy - the scrawny, blonde one - that he's been seeking all this time.
Any good plot must have a goal-- an end point. For the Laboratory Experiment Blue Hatchling this goal is focusing itself in on a certain candidate. The miniature blue flaps his wings, squealing, before setting off towards one more group of candidates. There! He almost makes it, too: it almost succeeds without a hitch. But gravity-- oh, alas! His legs tumble beneath him, he overbalances, and then goes head first into the sand at the feet of a skinny boy with amber eyes. Eagerly, he pushes his head upwards, his eyes widening and beginning to whirl, faster and faster, as he creels at Sho to help him out.
Dov stumbles aside, apparently unhurt though he's white with shock nonetheless. "What the flaming shells--" His disbelief obvious, he clenches a fist and advances on Misar and the bronze, only to falter at the last step as impression is, obviously, made. And not to him.
Mutterings and eye-rollings are the order of the day for Dov -- even for Sho -- as Misar prepares to cast his hand and dismiss the lot of them... all but this new, strange thing like an apparition in front of him. Skinny legs wobble visibly only because of his unfortunate garments, but otherwise the blond stares down the bronze muzzle with a criminal's skepticism. "Found, is it..." The flicker of movment -- hint of danger -- that is Dov has the boy's chin shooting up to look for the first place to dodge, yet he seems to have trouble detaching himself from the hatchling even so.
S'ren is still facing the rather bullyish candidate when the sand that was just warming his feet before sprays his legs and he looks down in surprise. The moment his amber eyes meet the blue's whirling ones and he's put into a shocked silence. Silence is rare for the youth. Thus it doesn't last long and he actually grins as he turns to try and help heft the dragon back onto his feet. "Cerveath, hmm? I like plans." S'ren says with a chuckle, not quite seeming to realize fully what's happened. Even so, he reaches out to flick a bit of remaining egg of Cerveath.
Two weyrlingmasters detach themselves from the group to separate, and head towards M'sar and S'ren, separately, inviting them to bring their lifemates along to the barracks-- where there's food to be had!
With the blue and bronze Impressed at last, there's just one egg left remaining: the Antique Treasures Egg, which still wobbles back and forth, apparently in no rush at all. When it /does/ hatch, it's all of a sudden: BAM. Left behind is a dainty green in a dark, dark shade, a green who rushes forward, all in a flutter, apparently choosing the first candidate she sees. Silence follows, the few remaining candidates glancing around, some in hopeful desperation, but there are no eggs left, no hatchlings left unimpressed.
Kushvetath doesn't spare even a glance for Dov: he only has eyes for M'sar. Ever so carefully he extends that shelled nose to touch the boy's midsection, eyes whirling a brilliant blue. Those flared wings raise, slightly, as if to wall M'sar off, to keep him safe from all comers.
S'ren heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
S'ren has left.
Cerveath heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
Cerveath has left.
M'sar heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
M'sar has left.
Kushvetath heads to Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr.
Kushvetath has left.
K'del exhales, finally, as that last egg does, after all, hatch, and then Impresses so quickly. He glances around the remaining candidates (relatively few as they are), and then clears his throat. Finally; "Unfortunately, there were only thirteen eggs, this clutch, and that means only thirteen dragons. We've proved, now, that there'll be plenty more clutches in the future, though, and we /would/ encourage you to consider standing again for those. Mostly-- thank you, for being open to trying. Come celebrate with us in the caverns, and we can arrange your trips home - or your continued employment here, if that's what you prefer - tomorrow." And with that, he takes Tiriana's arm, and they head off of the sands.
Dov scowls ferociously at the empty eggshells that remain, muttering darkly, "You just bet I will." Ronsen's arm is snatched in a death-vise of a grip, and then the pair stalk off the sands, pushing angrily past a pair of disappointed girls, heedless of their startled exclamations.