High Reaches' 18th PC Clutching, Part 2

From the sands, Chey can't see T'ii's eyeroll, fortunately for everyone. It's now been 29 hours since she last woke up, and 23 or so of those hours have been spent on the sands supporting a laboring gold. This is definitely one of those "low-humor" times. At any rate, Mynwiyath seems to be building up a head of steam.

From the sands, The Skye Boat Egg
From the sands, The thick grey of roiling gunsmoke swirls over most of this egg, dark and mutinous. The abstract opacity tempts the eye to look for more, and there may in fact be shapes beneath: men wounded, dying, despairing; ominous dark weapons; the thick boggy grasses of too-open ground. The smoky veil dissipates in one patch near the base of the egg to reveal a patch of sea-green, cut across by the long dark shape of a boat.

Iasri comes up the stairs.

From the sands, The Renewable Airforce Egg
From the sands, A greyblue haze surrounds this medium egg in relative obscurity, with random blobs dotting throughout the sides— emerald greens and deep sapphire blues, the dark skybroom browns and brassy bronze, shimmering golds. And from the apex, silver menace streams down, careless, uncalculating, and unwary; little puffs of blazing-red and ash-grey are here and there where the fields of multi-colored blobs and streamers of chrome meet. Another endless struggle composed on living shell— at least this one has the soothing qualities of aesthetic value, even if the true battlefield is obscured by the seeming grey fog.

Rhaenyra doesn't bother to reply to Dredos' comment, though the genuine amusement in her snort as he leaves is obvious. "Right. Scrape to the weyrwoman. Perhaps he doesn't see the Herder colors on my shoulder," she states, amusement geuine. "Scrape and bow to the weyrwoman," she mutters to herself. "Tell that to Jadall." She glances over the tops of her hides to the trio of eggs just laid, and then glances over to Denalia. "It's okay," she states. "He's male. He really can't help the stupidity… they're bred like that."

It's getting to dinner time, and herders seem to be leaking out the ears of the Weyr… if High Reaches had ears. Iasri is making her way up the gallery stairs, a little dirty, but none the worse for wear. She'd been slaving all day with the herders, with the other Senior Apprentices. She'd gotten a repreave early in the day, but now she was making her way up to peer unabashed, at those eggs. She's weaving in and out of those seats, looking for an empty spot and a familiar face. Or at the very least, the coolest spot in the room.

From the sands, "It's okay, Mynwiyath. You're doing great," Chey says. "So well. You're doing so well…" She chants it like a litany as the gold lumbers up. The massive head swings over to regard Bandeleth. She looks tired. Go figure.

From the sands, Twenty-three hours of laying, 21 eggs. How many more to come?

Dredos steps away for a moment to scrawl out a message to someone.

"Agreed. Why do you think I date a boy that can't think for himself? Makes the relationship a LOT easier." Until she accidently slips that and they start arguing. Mmcough. "Whatever. He's probably bitter over not Impressing himself, last cycle. I've seen it before." From herself as well, probably. Denalia watches at even more eggs are laid, her eyes just growing. "Eich… She doesn't even look like she's finished." Iasri is noted, which makes Denalia bite her lower lip and turn her head. Yeah. She TOTALLY wasn't one of the guards that raided the herder hall.. nope.

Rhaenyra doesn't know anything about the raid on the Herder Hall. She definitely wasn't the mastermind of it. Oh shells no. "What do you think? I wagered on the number thirty-three. I may actually make something, this time," Rhae observes. "Probably not, but possibly." She glances to Iasri as she settles nearby. "Senior apprentice Iasri," Rhaenyra states, that same-old dry humor lurking in her tone. "How are you this evening?" She pauses to take another bite of her now-lukewarm meatroll.

"Tired." Iasri responds, shuffling over to where Rhaen and Denalia are sitting. She gives a small sigh, finding an empty seat and plops down with a huff. "Beka is a shardin' slavedriver. She didn't care that there was a clutching. Just that the herders needed washing, grooming and picking out of their hooves. Who cares about dragon's being laid." She flings dirty hands up into the air to make her point clear. "Anyways. The last time I was up here, I had to run back to the stables." She peers at the sands, chewing her bottom lip curiously. "Shards, thats a lot of eggs…" An absent glance at Denalia doesn't jog the girl's mind. "Oh… hi." She blinks. "You look familiar. Do I know you?"

From the sands, Mynwiyath draws herself up again, her voice rumbling with more strength across the sands. She flicks her wings out, then pulls them back in, tucked neatly against her torso. She scoops the sand from another shallow pit, and lowers herself again.

From the sands, Battle for Cybertron Egg
From the sands, Metallic colors clash and vie for dominance over this larger-than-life egg. Gunmetal grey and blackened steel crush up against bright starfire red and deep, brilliant blue. Vague crests can be seen, one that same brilliant guardian blue, one of darkened iron and rusted menace. The collision of colors intermingles without regard, so that no one combination of colors and forms lasts too long— hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. Even still, the struggle is apparent, even from afar: it truly is more than meets the eye.

From the sands, Nightmares and Nightingales Egg
From the sands, An explosion of white hot orange mushrooms across the dark expanse of this egg, inky smudges struggling to contain the ensuring chaos. Emerging from the turmoil is a pair of incandescent ovals, unseeing eyes focused on some distant goal. Shattered silver cogs tumble relentlessly against the apocalyptical kaleidoscope, bright and dark two sides bound together in the single illuminating shaft of red and white streamers that manage to pierce the rolling premonition of future destruction.

From the sands, Angels and Demons Egg
From the sands, The symmetry of this egg is almost perfect — as far as the shape goes, anyway. When it comes to the colour though, it's a completely different story. Two halves clash in the middle, feathered buttermilk colliding with leathery black. The former half is all light and air, patterned as if its embraced within a sun-flecked birds wing, while the latter appears hard, almost grainy, its soot-smeared black ticked with blood red.

From the sands, Not one, not two, but three eggs emerge, one after the other, to snuggle in the little hollow. Mynwiyath shifts the sand to embrace them, then begins anew, digging a groove in the sand.

G'deon comes up the stairs.

From the sands, Bandeleth grounds himself, drawing up to his full height and fanning his wings. He focuses.

Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows. "Three in a row." Yay for stating the obvious. As Iasri goes on… and on… regarding Beka, Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. "Master Beka understands her obligations." She will leave it at that, for the time being. "I like that first one." The metallic grey-and-black one. Her hazel gaze shifts back to Bandeleth for a moment, as he rises up, then she settles back in her seat, takes another bite of meatroll, and focuses again on her paperwork, shuffling a checked hide to the back and starting over with a fresh hide.

"Know me? Uhh…" Denalia eyes Iasri with wide, a little frightened eyes. But Deni, frightened? That's rather impossible! So, she gulps it back and looks away. "I visit the Herder Hall frequently to check on my mother's runners, you've probably seen me occasionally, there." Phew. That was close. "Aah, well, at least you got to come see them now. Looks like she's going to beat the amount she laid last time. It's a bit hard to really see them from here, though…" Especially since she's not in the front row, curses!

From the sands, Mynwiyath butts her head against Bandeleth gently, for all the world as if she were a cat: her neck arches against him, physical touch mattering for much in that minute. Chey twines her fingers with T'ii's.

From the sands, As Bandeleth leans in to his queen, so T'ii leans into his Weyrwoman; they both provide silent support.

From the sands, Mynwiyath pulls back again, circling her clutch proprietarily… a gap there, yes. She scrapes it out a bit and lowers herself to lay yet again.

From the sands, White Ribbon of World Domination Egg
From the sands, A single unsullied ribbon of snowy white divides the top and bottom, thinning and thickening as it winds its way across this globe. An untapped wealth of deep caramelized mahogany bubbles up beneath this snowy divider, its caffeinated richness seeming to collect and trap icy tendrils of the ribbon in a crackled grid. Upon the apex of this egg cyan and scarlet battle relentlessly, neither quite succeeding in gaining complete domination.

G'deon is fresh from the baths, by the look of things. Or so we can hope. His hair is wet and straggly, and his shirt, while crisp and clean, clings a bit as if he hadn't done all that thorough a job drying off. He's carrying a pot pie on a plate in one hand, lately out of the ovens and still steaming, and a tall mug of hot, spiced cider, also steaming. And he comes to this, the hottest spot in the Weyr. Brilliant. Gid nods a few greetings here and there but mostly stays to himself, picking out a spot on a bench where he won't knock elbows with people. "Heard the good news, had to see her for myself," he comments to one of the gallery neighbors. "Now that is one impressive clutch." And so he digs into his dinner.

From the sands, Mynwiyath leaves it at one this time, and circles looks for another spot. Gently, she nudges aside one egg, smoothing a trench beside it. A little hollow, a narrow gully… yes.

From the sands, CAT-aclysmic Contest Egg
From the sands, A little fuzzy, a little small, a little awkwardly placed, this egg could almostalmostbe considered cute. A chilling gloom, dark and ominous, envelops the base of this egg, seething forth with fell purr-pose to conquer, and rule, the whole. The pristine purr-fectionwhite unstained, unmarredthat caps the apex seems to catch the light of the caverns and infuse the shell with an otherworldly glow. Red sears the shadows, streaking from their depths, only to be matched, claw-for-claw, by the triumphant golden aura.

Rhaenyra glances from Denalia to Iasri, then at G'deon; the new egg, then back to her hides. Another bite of the cold meatroll. Rinse, repeat.

From the sands, Mynwiyath lifts her head and roars. Just cause. Then she hunkers down.

From the sands, 49,888 (And One Chicken) Egg
From the sands, Pebbly pigskin-brown encases this little egg, more oval-shaped than round and slightly pointed at each end. A thick band, navy blue and silver, slashes almost halfway around the egg's crown, and another stripe of mingled burgundy and gold mirrors it across the egg's base; perpendicular between the two is a thin line of white crosshatching, almost as if the shell was stitched closed.

From the sands, My Stapler In Jell-O Again Egg
From the sands, Aggressive lemon-colored and whimsically blob-wobbly in shape, this egg looks anything but noble. Thrown in sharp relief is a darker oblong shape harmlessly suspended in the softer yellow. Barely noticeable beneath the yellow is a perfect white circle at the egg's base, while glow-golden shadows trace its crown, giving it the illusion of all but wiggling from its spot on the sands.

From the sands, Balance to the Force Egg
From the sands, This egg's surface is a swirling miasma, some interminable struggle of an inky, seductive darkness threaded against a light that is brighter white-gold than Rukbat itself. End to end, around and around, shadow and light chase themselves across the shell. Almost invisible against the dizzying chiaroscuro vastness, tiny blades of color blaze, luridly visible against dark and light alike.

Iasri continues to watch the egg laying event with a bit of awe and disgust on the look of her face. "Man." She mutters to herself, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, "If that is anything like human labor, count me out of the whole miricle of life."

From the sands, Mynwiyath blows her breath out heavily and rises, stretching. One shallow trench, and two eggs into it. Plup. Plup.

From the sands, Brown v The Board Of Education Egg
From the sands, White and black will not be separated, no, not on /this/ egg. They appear in roughly equal proportions: no grey, no, but both extremes, swirled around each other so closely they sometimes seem to blur together. Once mixed, they will be impossible to separate, and here, it seems, they are well and truly combined. No further segregation of colors, just a beautiful melange of shades.

G'deon looks up from his meal. "Less sand in the human version," he offers to the young herder.

From the sands, Genius Has Side Effects Egg
From the sands, A piercing blue, this egg cants to one side as if forever favoring the other. A dark peppering grizzles the base, while the apex is dusted with a shaggy, honeyed wheat. Slender, attractive, brilliant, this egg still manages somehow to annoy.

From the sands, And at last. Finally. At long length. Mynwiyath is done. Exhausted, she lies down, curled around her brood. And she sleeps. Chey sways.

From the sands, T'ii catches Chey, a hand at her elbow, the length of his body up against hers. "Steady," he murmurs, while farther out on the sands, Bandeleth bugles once, quietly, then settles. He will watch; he will guard.

Tilla comes up the stairs.

Iasri glances at G'deon with a skeptical look, rocking back into her seat. Still uncomfortable. "I bet…" She mutters, "I'm sure the sand makes it uncomfortable. But can you imagine, 32 babies in your stomach." The thought causes the poor girl to clutch her own tummy and rub. Never, ever shall that happen to this one. Mark her poorly thought out words.

G'deon shovels another forkful of food into his mouth and watches the scene below. "This is why I don't bet. I'd be wrong every time," he comments to no one in particular as he starts scraping the crumbs together. "I'd lose every single time. Thought there'd be just one more egg." And there, meal is done. Cider is soon to follow.

Tilla shuffles in again, and plops down next to Rhaenyra. This time, equipped with a snack and something to drink. "Allo!" A surprised look is given to the now, very numerous eggs. Musta been napping for longer than she thought. She bites her lip. To Iasri, "Hello there Iasri, how've you been?"

Iasri gives Tilla a half-hearted wave, giving another glance over at the eggs, just in case they decided to multiple while not looking. "I'm good. How's your 'lizard doing?" She tilts her head over to Tilla with a small, tired look. "And I forget your name. I'm sorry." A tap at her forehead. "I'm not too bright."

Tilla grins. "Oh she's doing fine..well..except for scratching up my neck and shoulder on occasion." She winces. "Oh, its Tilla…don't worry about it. I usually have to write things down in my book so I can look them up later..because I tend to forget things too.." she gives a small laugh. She eyes the man's purple and white knot before venturing a "Purple and white..that means you are a healer, right?"
the knot of the man who is sitting nearby that is.

G'deon stares blandly at the scene below, which seems to be winding down. Then he blinks at Tilla. "Sorry, what?" he asks before wiping his mouth with a napkin. Plate and mug, both quite empty by now, are set beside him on the bench.

Iasri lets loose a small laugh at G'deon's reaction to Tilla's statement. "Well met again, Tilla." Shifty eyes back towards the dragonrider and she raises an eyebrown in a confused, bemused look. "Well, Tilla. I don't think he's uh.. a healer." A squint towards the man's knot. No.. no, that can't be purple and white. A bit faded, but definately a rider's rank. Whoops.

Tilla ehhehs, a little embarassedly. "Uh, your purple and white knot means you are a healer, correct? I was looking to talk to a healer..or even better, a dragonhealer, really" She rubs her sore neck and shoulder with the palm of her hand. And to Iasri "Oh, er, I should have looked more closely!" to the rider "Apologies, sir, I meant no disrespect" Got any more salt for her foot in her mouth? She could use some.

Salen comes up the stairs.

G'deon again abandons counting the pile of eggs below to peer at both Iasri and Tilla. "I don't have a Healer's knot. If you've never seen a Healer's knot, I'd strongly suggest visiting the infirmary as soon as possible, because you're overdue." His tone is even but mellow. Doesn't sound offended, really. Maybe amused. "The purple and white /strands/ in the rider's knot marks me as a dragonhealer, though, yes." The napkin is tossed on the empty plate as he leans back. "Why do you need a dragonhealer?"

Tilla flushes a little bit. "Uh yea..thats what I meant..the strands. Sorry again".. she trails off. "Oh well, I was talking with Rhaenyra and she suggested I talk to a dragonhealer due to a little 'problem' I have..and a question I had." She pulls her collar down a little bit and points to a scratch that is healing up. "I recently acquired a firelizard…the first one I ever had..and I love her but.." she winces "The little dear tends to want to curl up on my shoulder and when she does that..she scratches me..by /accident/. I was talking to Rhaenyra about this and I was wondering if there was a way to trim a firelizard's claws, or something? And she said 'talk to a dragonhealer maybe one would know'. Which is why I was hoping to talk to one really.." she ehhehs again.

Salen looks rather overawed as he walks in, climbing up a few rows to find a good place to watch the laying. His mouth moves as he counts the eggs, brows furrowing as he tries to figure out how many there are hidden behind their fellows. It's a remarkable experience for the Hold-bred guardling.

From the sands, T'ii goes home.

G'deon stares at Tilla a long moment, perhaps trying to decide whether or not she's joking. But no. Gid clears his throat a little and frowns as he sits up. "How to… trim…" He frowns more and turns his head slightly. "You don't trim a firelizard's claws. They're wild beings that sometimes decide to live with us. They're not pets." He looks away and schools his expression back to something more polite. "Just train it not to scratch you. It'll either stop curling up there, or it'll stop scratching you." He shrugs and sends a helpless expression towards Tilla and Iasri both.

Iasri 's own short attention span is bleak at best, and she turns her attention from Tilla and G'deon to the new able body in the galleries. This one, unline Denalia, was a face she recognized. That kidnapper! "Hey… /you/" She trusts a finger violently forward, shooting a glare Salen's way. "I /know/ you." Leer. Leer.

From the sands, Chey curls up against Mynwiyath's side, in the little hollow of the gold's front armpit. And then she, too, sleeps.

Tilla flushes again. Oh well, she /tried/. "Allright, I will try to do that then, thanks.." She adds in "Er thanks, I dont think I caught your name there? My name's Tilla" Yes, a polite introduction is at least a good idea in theory.

Salen blinks and looks over to the young woman who addressed him. He takes a step back, shock replacing awe, then both are replaced by a strained grin. "Oh, yeah. I guess you do. We stole some of your porcines." Not terribly subtle, that boy. "Well… borrowed." Poor recovery.

Rhaenyra was here the whole time. Just doing hidework. She looks up, after a moment, to gaze after Iasri as the other Herder goes off about 'knowing' people. She looks from Salen, to Iasri, and it's obvious that she is having a hard time stifling some sort of smile… or perhaps smirk.

G'deon nods to Tilla. "G'deon." There, that was easy. Gid plucks at his shirt a little. "Well… I need something cool. Good evening." And now, exit stage left. Except there's one of those pesky drudges with cold sangria. "Uh… thank you." Gid sits back down as his other dishes are cleared. "So. Thirty-one eggs, was it? And a beauty of a gold." Yep. He'll just sit and sip.

Iasri is glowering now, crossing her arms across her chest as she continues to leer at the boy. "Yeah, well. You did /steal/ them," she seems to snort, "and /we/ haven't gotten them back." All hoity toity in her tone, she's leaning forward now, brows knot, face frozen in a scowl. "From what I heard, Weyrwoman Chey agreed to disipline /all/ people involved. On Master Beka's terms." Whatever threat that meant, it's lost. Unless Salen knows the horrors of the violent nature of that Herder Master.
Tilla nods, her face returning a little bit to more its usual color. "Well met, G'deon. Have a good afternoon!" She notes the rising emotion and tone of what Iasri is saying and wisely decides to listen and say nothing. She opens her book and examines the leaves of the 'luck plant' she was given earlier and proceeds to scrutinize, describe and draw them.

Rhaenyra chokes a bit on her sip of juice. Something about 'Master Beka's terms', and that being applied to Salen. If she knows more than she lets on, well… She turns to G'deon, the nearest (sanest) individual in her vicinity. "I have a very new, large appreciation of gold dragons. Mares occaisionally take a long time in pre-labor, but they only pop out the one. She held out like a champ through it all," with a nod to Mynwiyath.

"Yeah, I know." And now Salen's leering a little. "They said you guys gonna steal one of /us/. Eye-for-an-eye kinda thing. Maybe even me. And that you're gonna do all kinds of /stuff/ to me, all you girls." And if he isn't entirely sure what he's trying to imply, well, he tries to keep it from showing on his face.

"Yeah, maybe." Iasri replies back smugly, leaning back in her seat, pursing her lips smugly. Whatever connotation Salen is trying to imply is lost. Really, truely lost. "You know, at the Herder hall, if you're caught stealing, we tie you to a runner and drag you across the pastures until you bleed and break." Lie. "And, /and/ if you *kidnap* someone, we lock you in a dark room for three sevendays with no food or water." More lies. "I hope we pick that greenrider with the nice thights over you. You might not survive." Dun dun dun.

"Please keep your tones and conversations civil or take them outside," G'deon butts in, leveling a look at Iasri and Salen both. "This is a happy occasion. Don't ruin it." He takes another sip of the sangria, then swirls it a bit, the chunks of ice clinking against the glass. He then nods to Rhaenyra. "She comes from good stock," he comments quietly.

"We didn't /kidnap/ anyone, anyway," Salen says, ignoring the list of threats. "Unless something has happened since we were there, Vostarik is still safe with you guys. We just… detained him. For questioning." Way to use those guard terms! But while Salen frowns a little at G'deon's interruption, he quells, sinking to one of the cushions and staring back out at the eggs. "They're… really big." Is his comment on the subject.

Iasri looks like a puppy that just got bapped on the nose. By G'deon. "Yes sir," the Senior Apprentice whimpers softly, sulking into her seat. She peers out at the eggs passively. "Is 32 a large number for a gold clutch?" She turns a sidelong glance the rider's way. Look, she's trying to change the subject, honest. "'Cause I've never been to a clutching before. I didn't know it took so long." Another look is shot Salen's way. If she can't be big and bad out loud, she'll silently seeth. No one touches her Vossy possy poo. Not even her.

Rhaenyra blinks. "I thought it was thirty-one," Rhaenyra comments aloud, quizzically glancing at the sands below. She shakes her head, and leans back, before nodding slightly at G'deon. "Good stock, I'm sure. Similar stock as your own bronze came from, I'm sure?" she questions. Dragon family lines are complex, from what Rhaen can gather.

Tilla does a quick count. "I would say 31 looks like. " Her head is tilted slightly in interest of the G'deon/Rhaenyra conversation. Dragon ancestry..interesting. She takes a swig of her waterskin and then puts it down next to her leg again.

"It would be a large clutch by early Pass reckoning," G'deon answers the apprentice. "By early Interval reckoning, it's massive." The look he gives Mynwiyath and her sleeping rider is a reflective one as he sips at his wine. He pulls his gaze away to look at Rhaenyra and smiles slightly. "Different lines. But all High Reaches, through and through." His jaw tightens a moment before he leans forward. "Mynwiyath, daughter of Cadgwith, daughter of Tiareth. Nylanth came from Ysbryth, daughter of Rhyath… daughter of Tiareth." His lips quirk. "So…" No, he'll stop. He traces a line of condensation down the side of his glass.

Salen completely ignores the look the Herder apprentice is sending his way. Sure, he's been wincing and paling at any mention of that incident by /adults/, but freak out just because some /girl/? Never! Instead, he listens to the conversation going on around him and hopes he'll pick up some new information about one of his favorite subjects: dragons. Even the relatively dry litany of names is met with interest.

Rhaenyra leans forwards, warming to the topic. "So, from maternal lines alone, we have Mynwiyath's granddam the same as your Nylanth's great-granddam." She reflects. "I've heard that Tiareth was a very prolific gold. Ah, Weyrwoman Nuff's, correct? Or was she Weyrwoman Areiah's?" It's all ancient history, from Rhaenyra's point of view, but fascinating nonetheless.

"Most of High Reaches' dragons' lines go back to Tiareth. Just the history of the thing." Which G'deon doesn't get into here. He's no Harper. "Nuff. Areiah was Ysbryth's rider. And Ysbryth was the first dragon Nylanth ever flew." Gross. "Do you think the Conclave would have a fit if we suggested mixing up those lines a bit? It's bad enough during a Pass. It only gets worse during Interval."

Pippa comes up the stairs.

Tilla focuses on one egg in particular. "Ooh!" she remarks to noone in particular..and points "That egg…its../glowing/?! Am i seeing it right?" she squints intensely and rubs her eyes. "Is that a special kind of egg? None of the others look like that.."

"Inbreeding?" Iasir quips in, sheepishly, a look of disgust wavering across her face. "Wait, wait. If you inbreed runner lines, the foals come out all strange and stupid." She cocks her head slowly to one side, thinking. That takes a lot of energy. "So, why don't the dragons come out all wobbly and dumb too? They seem all, like smart, capable, self-reliant creatures." The thought of an inbred, retarded dragon causes the herder apprentice to give a hiccup of laughter.

Rhaenyra furrows her brow. "And now the bloodlines have necked down through Mynwiyath, as the last remaining gold," she carefully sounds this out. "I think the Conclave should be more open to mixing of clutches, or bloodlines, to reduce the… blood redundancy," Rhaenyra coins a term, as she's unable to say the word 'incest'. Does Pern even have a word for incest? "I know that, in runners at least, we find our best crosses in lines that are drawn from stock that is not alike. Rofocale's Igen Thoroughbreds, for instance." Trust in the Herders to make an immediate leaping comparison from dragon to runner genetics.

Salen makes a small snort at all the talk about runners and bloodlines and dragons as he realizes that you can, in fact, get bored with something that just sits there and doesn't move. Yes, even something having to do with dragons. Sad but true. Giving them a last, long look (as if they're going to go anywhere), Salen stands and heads on back to the barracks.

Salen goes home.

"Exactly," G'deon replies, glancing at both Iasri and Rhaenyra. "Nyls did his part at Ista once," he adds, smile going a bit crooked before fading. "Sadly, most of those died during the Pass." What was that about this being a happy occasion? He picks up on Tilla's question instead. "That's the gold egg." And the sky is blue, the ocean wide.

Rhaenyra furrows an eyebrow at G'deon. "This is supposed to be a happy occaision," she throws his words back at him with a stern expression, only slightly marred by the fact that she has a small smile managing to surface past her struggle to keep deadpan. "No unhappiness allowed."

"I ain't gonna go anywhere, so don't you be- I said, don't you be giving me that look, /sir/. Now look, if you can't miss the fardling big ass of Jeyth perched right…" Pippa is a young lady of conviction, as her voice carries not only to her escort, but also to probably most of those in the galleries. Stairs or whatever are taking two at a time 'til she reaches the top, and from there comes the hesitation. "Okay, fine. But can you bring me some too? Please?" First sounding like some kind of whiny fishwife, her voice draws into a far more pleasant tone, ringing with tickles of coyish flirtation. "Oh, I knew you were my favorite, sir. Thank you." Yep, and the last is drawled off at a sing-song.

G'deon bows his head to Rhaenyra and raises his glass to her. "Duly noted, Madame Herder." He takes a long sip from the sangria, then throws manners to the wind and picks out a piece of citrus fruit just begging to be eaten. He licks his fingers while peering over at the vocal Pippa.

Iasri blinks, stunned silence. Way to go debby downer. "Yeah. But the Pass is over. So no more thread. And no more dragons dying." Way to state the obvious here. The girl has little more to add to the conversation. Please, please let it be a happy occasion. "I hope it's a happy time," Iasri responds to Rhaen with a hint of longing. "A lot of /unhappy/ things seem to have happened lately." All encompassing. The herder follows G'deon's own actions and turns to what sounds like, a particularly familiar voice. "Oh, I know that voice too." Shardin' Ias. She knows everybody.

Tilla looks enthralled. "Really? Do all gold eggs look like that, is that how you knew?" she makes no motion to hide her lack of knowledge in the area. Spying G'deon picking up a piece of fruit, she adds "May I have a piece of fruit too? Feel free to have some of my jerky!" and holds out her jerky bag to share.

Pippa gathers up her dark hair, pulling it out from under the collar of her riding jacket and dashing it free from the nape of her neck. Releasing it once more, her hands drop to her sides, fingers patting at her thighs in time with her steps, the young woman makes her way along the gallery aisle, rising to booted tippy-toes to peer down towards the sands. "I heard a rumor… 'n this is where everyone is, eh?" she drawls to nobody in particular, all in the room, whoever it works. But her ears pick up on a word, "Gold eggs look like what?" Eyes for the sands, ears for those here.

Rhaenyra grins, just slightly, at G'deon, then leans back. She curiously gazes over at the rather loud Pippa, an eyebrow cocked up curiously, before she shakes her head. "Unhappy times are over, Iasri. Well, other than your love life…" She sends the senior apprentice a rather devilish grin at that comment, and shuts up.

Plantagenet> "See? Empty. There are like, two people here 'cause they're all out ooh'ing and aah'ing the eggs. Whatever. They're eggs. Not like we haven't seen a billion of them, right?" That, and Il'ad has personal issues. Like those aren't /completely evident/? Anyway, he nods towards the leftovers—not quite what he was craving, but it's still something. "Can sit over here."

G'deon yet again stares at Tilla. He glances at the fruit in what's left of his sangria, then holds out the glass. "Be my guest?" His gaze drifts to Pippa again. "There's a gold egg," he offers the visiting weyrling, then to Tilla, "and no, they aren't always that obvious. But it's easier on our nerves when we know for sure it's there."

Iasri chokes, sputtering round to shoot icy daggers Rhaen's way. "Wait, what? NO." Iasri decides right then and there to not take the higher road and drop it. Or laugh it off, or just make a face. Nope, she does the irrational thing and whines. "I do not have a bad love life. In fact, I have no love life. And I'm happy that way." Thankyouverymuch. She swings her attention around back towards Pippa, because, she knows her. Kinda. "Pippa! Long time no see." Last time she ran into Pippa she came away with another firelizard. "Came for the clutching?"

Tilla picks out a small piece of fruit and nods. "Thanks! Ahh, I see. Interesting.." she nibbles the fruit and continues the scrabbling in her sketchbook."I grew up in WeaverHall and really..I've never seen a clutching before..so this is all new to me" she adds. And then just sits there, relaxing, listening and thinking.

Pippa has found excitement in a touch of freedom away from a certain island. Forgive her her vocal dramatics. She continues along to the very front of the gallery, hands resting upon the railing, tanned fingers curling over the edge as she leans forth with eyes to the eggs beyond. "Just happened today then? The clutching?" A glance is cast over her shoulder, head moving to toss dark hair away and to the side. Bright eyes eventually alite upon Iasri at the call of her name. "Collecting betweening points. I asked that we dally and get some cider and -you have /eggs/."

Rhaenyra mutters, "That's not what I heard from Vos…" and is quiet again, simply listening in to the conversations going around her.

"I hadn't guessed," G'deon drawls towards Tilla before turning back to Pippa and Rhaenyra. "Today and last night," he tells the former, then "So your apprentice and I both have bad love lives, I take it?" he asks the latter.

From the sands, Remember that exhausted Mynwiyath? Well, she opens one baleful eye at the galleries, then lifts her head to stare with the malevolence that can only come from sleep deprivation. Just had thirty-one babies. Little peace and quiet, please? She snarls.

Rhaenyra shifts to glance at G'deon, and opens her mouth to reply— but then she notices Mynwiyath's snarl. "Somehow," she states, in a tone just quiet enough to carry to the bronzerider- and Iasri, as the other person in her immediate vicinity— "I doubt your lovelife is as bad as Iasri's. Does she want us out?" is abruptly continued, nodding towards the gold on the sands. "Or us to shut up?" Yeah, way to go on keeping quiet, Rhae.

Mynwiyath's snarl makes Iasri smart, fast, and she's up on her feet almost automatically. "Rhaen, I think, um. We should go?" Question mark indeed, as she sends G'deon a troubled look. She'll ignore that last comment. "Should we probably get moving?" She's now tugging at Rhaenyra's sleeve. Girl doesn't want to die. She knows the lesson of strange, angry noises. Deserted Island flashbacks are happening right about now. "Comeon'… I get a hint when I'm given one."

Tilla starts up at the sound from the queen, her eyes widening. She nibbles at more jerky nervously. "Should we leave?" she asks in the general direction of Rhaenyra. "Mynwiyath looks very tired, but I don't blame her, really. So many eggs.." she trails off.

Pippa continues to tap her fingers along the railing, green-irised gaze sweeping over the newly clutched eggs with a fascination that probably would have been there a good turn ago. Her head tilts though, chin dipping as attention briefly falls elsewhere and without to her lifemate. Lips drawing into a ghost of a grin, she bobs her head and looks back to the others there, and even speaks in a lowered voice, "Shells, I think we arrived a little belated to all the fun. Just my luck."

G'deon shrugs as he sets down the glass and glances around for more servers. "She just wants to sleep, I'm sure," the bronze rider answers distractedly. "And I want more of that sangria. There's likely a celebration started in the caverns by now." Though he makes no move to stand just yet.

From the sands, Mynwiyath continues to glare.

From the sands, Bandeleth rattles his wings. Seriously, yo.

Rhaenyra knows when to take a hint. "Come on, girls," she states to all and sundry. "Let us follow G'deon's advice." And she strides out, after gathering her things.

Rhaenyra goes out.

Iasri is following Rhaen out. Yep. Kbai!

Iasri goes out.

Tilla follows Rhaenyra's example and quickly exits after gathering her things, making sure not to drop the flower from the book pages.

Tilla goes out.

G'deon watches the mass exodus with a crooked smile and sits back to enjoy the growing quiet, heat and atmosphere of a new clutch.

From the sands, Mynwiyath curls back up. To /sleep/.

Pippa goes out.

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