High Reaches' 12th PC Hatching

Nuff's gold Tiareth x Desba's brown Dyamith
12th December 2004
Logged by O'don


Cobwebb'd Caverns

Rhaedyn picks her way into the cavern without any sort of glow, which, as a result, causes her to stumble a bit over the odd bits outcroppings of rock here and there. Looking over her shoulder, she curses under her breath at a particularly tricky part in the path, and, when she turns back, notices Crepe and Rysta there. "Oh," she says, eloquent speaker that she is. "Didn't mean to interrupt or anything." She then waves her set of scrub brush shoes in the air for clarification, saying, "Just came to put these in…" For lack of a name, she just points to the crate lying a little ways off.

Rysta is settled looking through the peekhole. Looking up as she hears Rhaedyn, she smiles to her and nods a bit. Looking at the crate of lost chores, she wonders what her own contribution should be. Shaking her head a bit, she murmurs, "Don't worry about it, Rhaedyn. Nice to see you. I wonder what I should put in there."

Rhaedyn steps around a short boulder, picking her way by what little light the peephole provides, and tosses her scrub brush shoes into the crate. Brushing her hands together, she sighs, apparently glad to be rid of that misadventure. Then she turns back to Rysta with a noncommittal shrug. "Whatever you used most often during chores, I guess." Or in Rhaedyn's case, something that should never have been used at all.

Rysta chuckles a little as the scrub brush shoes goes into the crate and then pulls out the rag that she kept from the caverns in her hurry to get here when no one was looking. Nodding, she murmurs, "Well, I used a rag the most, but, not sure it's all that appropriate. Do you think? I mean…I also was on my knees a lot scrubbing the gallery. I'm sure I can find something…Oh!" She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small tassle. "This came off one of the cushions in the galleries. And when I took it to get it put back on, they replaced it with a new one. As many times as they had me scrubbing the galleries, that's appropriate, I think."

Rhaedyn snorts out a short, gutteral chuckle, nearing Rysta to take a closer look at the little tassle. "Yeah, that's good," she remarks as she peers at it. "You could also tie the rag to it to label where it came from." She shrugs, indicating that what she says is mere suggestion. Then her eyes catch a bit of movement through the peephole, perhaps the movement of the mommy dragon or the passing of a wandering rider, and leans down a bit to peer through. "Eggs look harder, even. Didn't think it was possible."

Rysta throws the tassle into the crate and chuckles. "Naw, let them wonder. Maybe some candidate will ask someday and we can laugh about it then, you know?" She grins and then glances out the peephole herself. "Hmmm, you know you're right. I think they are harder even."

Out on the Sands, Pyrene moves into the heat, shimmered and blurred by the ripples that rise off the Sands.

Rhaedyn turns away from the peephole only after several moments of silent staring. She orients herself against one of the sloping cavern walls, and, with a quick glance to make sure she won't be crushing any creepy crawlies, leans against it. Crossing her arms across her chest, she purses her lips and remarks, "Maybe they'll just keep getting harder 'n harder 'n never crack," a distinct grumpy impatience coloring her tone.

Rysta settles down on a nearby rock and chuckles a little, shrugging. "Maybe. But I highly doubt that, Rhaedyn. They'll hatch. Perhaps soon. Perhaps later. But they will hatch. It's in an egg's nature after all."

Out on the Sands, Jungle Book Egg is still and unmoving. Because there's no humming, y'see.

"I know," Rhaedyn rebuts defensively. "Just /seems/ that way." She frees one of her hands and begins to pick at the grit that's accumulated there from the days chores. Eyes wander about the cavern, and so does her mind. Eventually though, she returns to conversation, saying, "Wouldn't it be bad if you were lost down here and the hatching started?" She chuckles again at the thought, turning to peer through the hole again. Yup, still no humming, no shaking. They're safe.

Chuckling slightly, Rysta nods to Rhaedyn, offering a friendly smile to show she meant no offense. "Yes, it does seem that way. It seems like we've been here forever." Her tone puts emphasis on the forever as she too glances out toward the still eggs. "Yes, it would be bad if we were lost down here. But you know? I'm not sure I'm ready to go back. I mean…they might try and find a chore for us to do."

Rhaedyn nods emphatically. "Oh, I wasn't suggesting we go back," she says, snorting at the thought. "Nah, I've had enough of scrubbing galleries and… well, scrubbing in general." Surprising even herself with her aversion to hard work, a tiny crease forms between her unruly eyebrows. But it is soon smoothed, as she sighs and gives a half shrug, sliding down the wall until she's in sitting position, knees bent, elbows resting on them.

Rysta nods to Rhaedyn and grins again. "Well, you see I have too. And what's bad is, I don't mind hard work. It's just…there's been so much of it lately. I mean, it's like they've tried to keep us massively busy on purpose or something."

Out on the Sands, The Highwayman Egg rocks just slightly. Testing, testing… hey, is this thing on?

"Keep us from staring at the eggs all day, I guess," Rhaedyn says as her eyes are simultaneously glued to the sands on the other side of the peephole.

Rysta nods and chuckles then blinks. "Did…did one of those things just move?" She looks to Rhaedyn. "Umm…do you think we should go out, just in case?"

Out on the Sands, Lauria moves into the heat, shimmered and blurred by the ripples that rise off the Sands.

Rhaedyn waves her hand at Rysta's worry. "Prolly just the heat makin' ya see things. Besides the dragons haven't even started humming yet."

Rysta nods to Rhaedyn and sighs a bit. "You're probably right." She sighs a bit. "I just had a wishful hope all of a sudden."

Out on the Sands, Tiareth lifts her long golden neck and begins a soft humming. Dyamith soon joins in with the queen's humming. The eggs are hatching!

Rysta blinks as the humming begins. She looks at Rhaedyn and is up and out of the cavern in a flash. "I need my robe…oh shards!"

** travel spam **

Candidate Barracks

Rhaedyn comes trotting in, out of breath, looking amazed herself that she made it back in time. "Humming… on the sands…" she gasps, then heading for her cot to pick up her robe and struggle to get into it while maintaining her modesty.

Alexandros wakes up from his rumpled bed, blinking briefly before stretching his long bronzed arms and sitting up. In nothing but underwear, he grabs a crumpled white sheet and throws it over his head, fitting his arms into the holes. "Yes, time. Dragons don't normally -hum-, do they?"

Rysta runs into the barracks on the heels of Rhaedyn. Her hands grab her robe she so recently put away and then doesn't even think twice as she quickly changes, trying at least a little to maintain her modesty as she does so. Finishing quickly, she turns around and stands at her cot, running a hand through her shoulder-length hair trying to straighten it.

Silas is sitting on his bunk, knitting an extra scarf for himself as the humming start. Eyes widen and he sits up straigt. "Time?" he says with a kind of shocked tone, scrambling to put away his knitting and find his robe. How he'd know to do that is anybody's guess, but maybe he actually heard Pyrene's order.

Amongst the panicked flow of candidates racing into the barracks appears a drudge with a couple of chilled wineskins. Pyrene takes them off her with a thanks and bades her get to the galleries while she can still get a good view. These secured, she flaps them recklessly at candidates who she doesn't consider to be moving fast enough. "Come on, come on! They're not going to wait, y'know. Donis, get moving. Rhaedyn, everybody's too busy to look at you."

Beagallette squints up and over at Pyrene from where she's hunched over her clothes by the bed. She's slipping off her shoes and putting on sandals. "What? What's that you say?" She mutters under her breath, standing up and making general motions to straighten her already rumpled candidate robes. "You say today is… hatching day?" She peered at Pyrene, then at Alexandros with a rather grumpy expression. "Of course they do."

"Hatching time." Donis grins at the others, looking as nonchalant as he can manage as he fastens the belt-cord of his white tunic, and then sits on his cot to rub something into his bare feet. Asbestos, hopefully. That done, he strolls over to Pyrene and gives her a broad smile. "Ready?" he offers.

Seabert staggers out of his cot, yawning. "Hrm? What? It's finally time?" A quick search of the immediate area turns up a slightly small robe. Better than nothing, and in just a few seconds he has changed into it and slipped into his sandals. "Alright, 'm ready."

It takes a lot of bustling to draw Mraleh's attention, but that eventually works, and the overwhelming amount of white is immediately indicative to him. Entirely ungracefully, Mraleh struggles to put his robe on straight, tugging harder to get his left arm through the tighter armhole, all the while moving toward the forming lines.

Rhaedyn gapes at Pyrene in the middle of changing, then setsh er mouth to a thin line, frowns and pulls on her robe and quickly laces up her sandals. Clearing her throat as she finishes, she leaves her cot in a complete mess and walks over to the far side of the barracks that leads out to the sands, sidling up to some random candidate. "Ready," she mumbles, tugging at the hem of her robe to try and straighten it.

Silas hops on one leg to get into line, trying to put on his left sandal and tie the strap. "It's really time, then? The eggs are hatching?" Not nearly as nonchalant as Donis to be sure and not calm at all about this whole thing. Setting down his foot, he straighten and calls, "ready," to Pyrene.

Late as usualy, Crepe peeks up from her journal as soon as the chaos starts. "Huh /what/?" Pause. This isn't a drill, is it? "Er/lack/." Thankfully, though, she has been keeping her robe tucked under her pillow for just an occurrence. Briskly, she yanks it out and in record-crepe-speed, pulls it tightly over herself. She joins the others in a steady line, missing one thing - shoes, but that's alright. "Okay. I'm ready."

"Tell me -when-, then," Alexandros replies with a quick tone and a sneer. "I've never heard a dragon hum any sort of tune when it was sane." He stands up, creases like veins decorating his otherwise white robe.

Pyrene is dry. "Actually, the dragons are saying today is Hatching Day. I'm just saying you don't want to argue with Tiareth." She eyes over the candidates, although she doesn't quite get as far as producing a comb to tidy their hair or spit on a handkerchief to wipe their cheeks. "Those of you with bare feet, Nuff will be proud, but you're really going to regret it. Ah, well, it's too late now. Let's go. Don't forget to bow and to keep your eyes open." And she leads them out.

Pyrene follows, heading off the Sands.

Rysta throws the sandals that she's been given to use on and then moves into line with the rest of the candidates. She runs her hands over her robe self-consciously, trying to smooth out invisible wrinkles. She then moves with the others.

The Candidates head for the Sands.

Sands
Heat rises - ripples - wavers in a stifling curtain that envelops dragons and eggs while smothering riders and visitors. The black sands have been raked into ruts and dips, an alien, uneven surface for anyone trying to walk across them. Some say tension seers the heat: residue of hope, fear, relief, sadness, pain and ultimate joy staining high grey walls and lurking about the many viewing ledges that speckle the walls. Ancient murals of dragonlore fade across the walls near gallery and entrances.
Gold Tiareth and brown Dyamith are here.
You see Mound of Eggs, Arabian Nights Egg, Brave New World Egg, Jungle Book Egg, Le Petit Prince Egg, That Other Apocalypse Egg, The Highwayman Egg, and Venus and Adonis Egg here.
Desba, Lauria, Pyrene, Rhaedyn, Mraleh, Donis, Silas, Seabert, and Crepe are here.


THE EGGS!
The 7 PC eggs:

Arabian Nights Egg
Star-lit sand sweeps over the majority of this perfectly-shaped ovoid. At intervals, a gilded treasure peers forth from beneath the serpentine dunes. At these points, the shell appears to be inlaid with rare gems: ruby, lapis, and an occasional diamond of magnificent size. A shred of semi-sheer white silk blankets this opulance around the egg's center, enticing those who see it to question what lies below it. It seems as though one thousand nights of examining this egg would not detract from the beauty or the mystery that surround it.
Brave New World Egg
Colourful in artificially harmonious shades of grey, mauve, green, khaki and black, the initial impression of this large egg is one of childlike joy, the colours splashed about with abandon in various amounts. But a more lingering look reveals disturbing conformity, the greys and mauves centered on the crown of the egg, their discrete groups ignoring the mass swirls of identical patterns in the lower levels of the egg, picked out dull and simple in the remaining three colours. None stray from their appointed place… really, none would even think of wanting to. The surface of the egg bears an odd feel to it, slick and unhealthy, like a film of some drug hazing the mind.
The Highwayman Egg
Darkness shrouds the egg like nightfall, billows of midnight blue swirling through eddies of delicate, moon-touched silver. A dab of white like misplaced paint makes a ghostly moon on the imagined night sky, giving the impression of a ship at sea in shadowed clouds. Below, a ribbon of cream winds like a pathway through shades of purple twilight. A small, solitary figure of twinkling claret hues rides the moonlit ribbon, mimicking the jeweled glitter above.
Jungle Book Egg
Vine-patterns of rich greens twine sinuously about the dark base colour of this egg, curving amongst the cool stone greys and deeply murky river blues until they're nearly lost from sight in places, feathered out by the verdant canopy. Unsettling glimpses can be caught here and there, sleek black in stylized cat-shapes and a hint here and there of alarming tiger stripes, seen sidelong and then vanish'd when looked at head on. There's a presence about this egg, ancient and alive, and alien to the world of men. One would be wise to heed the jungle law.
Le Petit Prince Egg
To dream is to imagine this watercolored egg, this planetoid of pale distant blue, this asteroid of imagination: small, round, and cherished. A pastel wash of faint royal violet splashes the shell with childish abandon, purple and blue beneath the occasional violent explosion of lava's gold and red; wispy tendrils of smoke curl and coil across the surface and twine silver around the weedy green of baobab trees. Along the top of the shell, a singular mark of beauty gleams as lonely as a solitary rose: pink, pale, mysterious and perfect.
That Other Apocalypse Egg, formerly Good Omens Egg
The light of good twinkles ever so brightly along half of this egg, shimmering not yellow or gold but pure radiant white. Conversely, the opposing malicious side is lightless, an inky blackness. Yet, as both sides converge, the pureness begins to subside as black and white intermingle in a meshing of love and hate, good and evil. Two distinct figures emerge within the grey area, winged silhouettes of dull white and faded black, cursed to their domain. Perched upon the apex of all are four red doomsday figures, peering down upon all from their mighty … motorcycles.
Venus and Adonis Egg
Spiral of blue chases a soft blush of pink with the haste of passion sped and unrequited desire. What flesh does spurn bold-faced suitor's love freely given? Court does she, of blue, round this egg of dark of night, yet cupid has not pricked his heart of red, and dismisses he all advances. So dance blue and pink across this rounded bosom of an egg, till the darkness of night turns to lily white of day. Then flesh is speared through by white tusk and blood runs down the unmarred light of day, and Venus' blue tears mingle here. And so the egg's shell ends in tragedy leaving the dance of two colors in courtship in the tears and blood of death.

The remaining 9 NPC eggs:

A Clockwork Orange Egg
O my brothers, an initial coat of uniform white forms this malenky eggiwegg's backdrop, milky and cool. It's grazzy and merzky, however, for despite the pristine whitewash, spatters of darker colors begin to infringe here and there, like something is being desperately repressed. Pale shades of green and grey bubble up, frothing in a bolnoy hue behind more striking sprays of red which perhaps incite that unease. This krovvy color is applied randomly across the eggiwegg's surface, in pools and dribbles and streaks of crimson keeshkas, as if someone has been the unfortunate victim of an angry, oozhassny beating. It's only a bit of the old ultraviolence, you see.
Crime and Punishment Egg
Airy lines of white frost move over the mottled grey of this egg, but do not soften it. The frost increases and decreases by increments in a systematic cycle - from the bitter snap of a world frozen with condescension to the invisible chill of a cold waiting under the concrete, to emerge again in the morning and leave the sidewalks slick. If watched very carefully, beneath the monotonous, repetitive series of greys and whites, a brief line of dull red will shine in the recesses. The egg presents an air of unsteady indifference, the unsteadiness of ice coming into slow, but growing contact with an unpredictable, and much warmer world.
Ender's Game Egg
A spark of genius, a haze of promise, this little egg may be the smallest of the clutch, but it's presence is worthy of another look. Black and white swirl to contour this tiny ovoid - brilliance marred by limits, limits marred by potential, and potential marred by it's far bigger clutch-mates. From top to bottom, this little egg nearly shivers with promise. A dash of red, a blossom of orange, and this small oviod's genius is soon to be seen.
Farenheit 451 Egg
Heavy plumes of thick, grimy smoke billow from within a soiled, curling mass of blackened pages - tongues of brilliant orange flame licking around the swarthy base to engulf the charred skeletal structure of what was once a home. Lancing in and out of the holocaust, spidery lengths of polished steel glitter and gleam eerily in the unnatural light of the fire, the ghastly shadow of their insectoid owner lurking deep within the smothering belt of ash and smog that has settled around the egg's sombre girth.
Fool's Fate Egg
A classic to be, this mid-sized egg, with its tawny shell brightly woven of autumn's fires and fletched with fool's gold; a brazen shell whose intensity is tangled into a twisted cloak of caliginous shadows and the blue brilliance of ice fire. The radiance does not dull or fade into the darkness, it is the day that weaves its way alongside the night and turns from a gilded, glittered, flashy amber to the deeper warmth of hearthlight and dusk. There is an ending somewhere in the sunset, a loss of something genuine and good as the night falls alone into patterns of starlight and the loving embrace of old moonlight. The blackness of assassin, spy, skillmaster and friend (striped with the ubiquitous badger's stubborn silver), softens finally into the warm matte grey comfort of banked ashes.
Green Egg Without Ham
It is not big; it is not tall. For a dragon egg it's small. Brighter than others you have seen, its shiny shell is sickly green. It's round: no corners like a box. It's smooth, not fuzzy like your socks. Upon the green is blue and red so vivid it could hurt your head. There's no real pattern, just random marks. It seems to glow when in the dark. It sits upon the searing Sands. If you don't like it, you should scram.
Make Way for Ducklings Egg
This egg is awash with noisy, vibrant color; the shapes are indistinct but seem to pulsate with vitality and energy. Bisecting the chaos along the length of the shell is a perfectly straight row of soft brown - a corridor of calm that bids the noise and haste to pause, just for a moment, to let it pass unharmed to the safe, still pool of shimmering blue that semes to have collected at the larger end.
Stardust's Egg
A picturesque landscape splays as dreary background across this egg, solemn grey stormy sky atop, grey-green forest below. Forever somber, the depiction seems to have been washed in rainwater and smeared, colors merely differing shades of gray in imperfect lines. Still, the brightest of greys (though tainted by a black gash across the back) is large, in the shape of a virgin's unicorn, silver in the hooves and a shimmer in the deadly horn. Atop the grey of the unicorn is a yet brighter figure, silvery hair falling to her back, a blue-grey to her dress. Tethered to her side by a bright white line of rope between the wrists is a skinny grey melancholy boy, trotting beside the unicorn.
A Tale of Two Cities Egg
It was the best of eggs, it was the worst of eggs, it was the egg of wisdom, it was the egg of foolishness, it was the egg of belief, it was the egg incredulity: a season of Light, a season of Darkness, spring's hope and winter's despair split the shell into two halves. On one side, rich hues of pink, blue, yellow, green and purple swirl in a silky dance of gay abandon, a wealth of colors, a carefree tapestry of decadence and delight. In contrast, dingy greys and browns hungrily devour the other side as a tragedy of shadows: afflicted, oppressed, and barely alive, there is dangerous tint of red brewing beneath the ugliness and despair. In the middle, the two sides clash together in a spray of bloody crimson and the violent, vibrant orange sparks as steel collides.

Desba stands near her dragon's hind legs watching, his excitement spilling over into her. She taps her foot anxiously as she watches the candidates start filing out onto the sands.

Ravyn steps from shadows to sand, joining the eggs.

Pyrene leads the little line of candidates onto the Sands, but she detaches herself from them quickly enough, waving them out around the eggs, while she trots via a more circuitous route towards Nuff and Desba and the other riders on weyrling/casualty duty. "I've got chilled wine!" she calls, waving her two skins triumphantly.

Venus and Adonis Egg shudders and shakes. Will passion make this egg the first to break?

The Candidates all file out from the barracks, uneven lines of white, some calm and composed, others quite visibly nervous, some more focused on the sudden heat of the Sands. They form a vague arc, hardly the finest display of form, but the motion of so many white-clad bodies together in a bow of acknowledgement to the clutchparents is still impressive.

Donis straightens from his bow, takes a deep breath, and starts to shuffle his feet nervously. He's more intent on the crowd in the galleries than on the eggs, checking for friends and family, and clenching his fists at his sides to stop himself waving.

Rysta moves with the candidates and once the bow is completed, she settles somewhat nervously into her place in the loose arc around the eggs and looks at them as they begin to shake and move. Glancing up at the galleries, she tries to see who all might be up there, but returns her attention to the eggs again, her hands at her sides, unclenched for now.

Desba gives a soft nod of the head at the candidates bow and then pries her wiggling hands apart. "Please, Pyrene, please." Is said, formality lost in the nervousness.

Silas is one of those visibly nervous ones and has trouble following the bow, though somehow manages and comes up to glare at the galleries in awe and surprise. "So many people," he whispers, but forgets all about them when he turns his attention to the eggs. "Are they moving?"

The Highwayman Egg rocks experimentally, just once, testing its current range of motion.

Mraleh glances a bit longer than the rest at the adult dragons before turning with a heavy breath to face the eggs. His right foot thumps irregularly at the sand, a nervous tic as opposed to a reaction to the heat.

Alexandros disassembles from the arc, striding confidently towards the eggs as though he owns not only them but the sands around them as well. He stands the heat, the shininess of his skin not showing any sweat. "Not so bad."

Crepe breaks the formation, overwhelmed and face-flushed. "Um. Um. /Rysta/," she squeaks out, carefully fumbling for the girl's arm. "Hi." Unlike the others, Crepe doesn't even look at the galleries, because she knows that no one'll be up there. But that's alright. 'Cause she has an arm to cling to.

Rhaedyn bows and raises, eyes skimming over the sea of white and not even bothering with the initial shudderings of the eggs. Picking her way carefully through the deep sand, she sidles up next to Silas. They're both Garish, you know, and must stick together. She awkwardly clears her throat as she finds a place next to him and answers him, "Yeah, they'll shake for a bit before they actually crack." Then focusing her eyes on the eggs themselves for the first time since she walked in, she heaves a huge sigh. "Ya ready for all this?"

Pyrene passes a skin to Desba and then tips another one to Nuff. "First to Hatch?" she asks the older weyrwoman companionably. "And no, you can't say purple."

Beagallette shuffles off to the side once she's bowed, brushing slightly tangled hair from her face with a sigh. Her bright eyes flit like finches to focus on the eggs as she scootches closer to Silas. "They look like it." Her voice is papery-dry from disuse.

Jungle Book Egg shudders violently, and then lies still in wait. Patience is a virtue.

Venus and Adonis Egg rocks with a greater enthusiasm. It's ready to burst.

Seabert turns from the eggs and clutchparents immediately after he pulls up from the bow. Grinning, the lad examines the crowd in the galleries. He wonders how many of them are here to see him. Rhaedyn's movement attracts his attention, and nervously recalling that there are eggs about to hatch and minature dragons that could /maul/ him, he slips over to join her and Silas.

Silas gives Rhae a grateful smile as she comes up beside him and nods, though with little confidence, "right.. Like firelizard eggs," he says and swallows, his eyes firmly locked on the eggs. "Ready..? Who could ever be ready for /this/?!" He's already breaking a sweat and they've only been on the sands for mere moments.

Rysta looks to Crepe as she joins her and offers her fellow candidate a smile. As the girl grabs her arm, she chuckles slightly and then places a hand on Crepe's as it holds onto her arm. "Hi. You'll be fine, Crepe," she offers in soft encouragement. Her eyes look at the eggs again, and swallows slightly, trying to contain her nervousness for Crepe's sake.

Alexandros stands alone in his brave foolishness, looking manly and ready. "Nothing like firelizard eggs," he throws back at Silas. "Nothing like firelizard eggs at all."

Dyamith warbles like the proud clutchfather he is, as the eggs being to wiggle. The candidates are given a low rumble at the bow.

Donis, like Alexandros, is standing alone, though lingering near a group of the others - Silas, Rysta et al. He certainly doesn't feel the need to hold hands. He shifts his feet and starts to actually watch the eggs, eyes narrowed.


Venus and Adonis Egg shivers further as the pitch of noise around it seems to reach a peak. The hunt is nearly over and there's nowhere left to hide. Of course, a cornered animal is the most dangerous; the best form of defence is attack. A crack suddenly resounds and with one blow the dragonet bursts forth on the world that has craved to see him. But now prey has become predator….

Patroclus Junior Blue Dragonet
Classical patrician angles and a sleek, powerful form lend this dragonet an undeniable sense of beauty; lean of head and knobs, long of limb, and strong through his shoulders and flank, vigor and verve are his to command. His hide is conquered from muzzle to tail tip with a royal lapis lazuli blue, an elegant and regal hue that is challenged only by the Indian paint of his broad feet. His wingsails are all damask silver and grey, marbled throughout with stolen gold, while spars and trailing edges of his wings are tipped bloody crimson. A warriors dragon, this one, charismatic, clever, commanding and as willful as an onrushing storm.


Mraleh does not look particularly manly or ready compared to Alexandros, but he gives the taller Candidate a wide-eyed look, almost of disapproval and certainly of nervousness.

Rhaedyn gives Silas' response a weak smile, merely saying, "Right." She may seem ready herself, feet planted firmly, standing stonily in place while she wears an expression of calm indifference on her face, but the beads of sweat and the nervous jumpings of her eyes beg to prove otherwise. Said eyes glance at

Seabert as he wanders nearer, and she offers a slight, "Hey there, boy," with a half-hidden grin. Head is turned by the sound of a resounding crack, and gazes at the blue.

Crepe begins to feel the heat under her feet. Ow. /Ow/. "Are you nuts? I was just relaxing and.. /whompha/. Now I'm here, frying my feet. And.. /jeez/. How do the dragons sit here hour after hour without toasting themselves?" A nervous glance up at Rysta makes her feel a little bit better - and a little bit childish. Crepe -is- the oldest one of the candidates, after all. And here she is. Whimpering and - oh. "It popped!"

Silas stares at Alexandros for a few moments, his shout having drawn his attention away from the eggs, "should he be standing out there along?" he hisses to Rhaedyn with a worried look on his face, but jumps as there's a crack of an egg. "Oh.." he mumbles in surprise, staring at the blue who came out.

Jungle Book Egg begins to shake again, rolling itself around a bit, then simmers down again.

Alexandros turns his attention towards the first-cracked egg, nodding in approval. "That is a blue dragon. You see how he doesn't cower behind all the rest?" Another sneer is sent back at the candidates.

Dyamith's tail thumps lightly on the ground, that's his first son! He does look apologetically to Pyrene, however.

Rysta looks to Crepe and barely notices the hot sands beneath her feet. Oh it's there and she's sure to feel it later, but now, her eyes are on the eggs and then on the blue as it bursts from the first hatched shell. "Oh…he's a beauty," she murmurs slightly, her eyes wide as she gazes at the blue and watches to see where he might go.

Mraleh takes a step back, his right foot stomping harder with the gesture, all in reaction to the first blue's arrival. "He can get hurt…alone, he could get hurt…" That's more concerning him than Alexandros' statement of the obvious.

Beagallette chuckles, amused. "Sandles, m'dear… sandles." She pipes up cheerfully at Crepe, the adventure ahead affecting her. "Oh! Look at that one." She says, brushing past Silas to examine the newest arrival. "Never seen one quite like that." She comments, filing the sigh away for later study.

Pyrene grudgingly passes a mark to Nuff. "I tell you, it's bad luck," she mutters, before moving across to Desba. "So… excited? Nervous? Relieved it's about to all be over?"

Donis gives a pleased grin as the blue breaks shell, then gives Alexandros a scathing look. "Yes, it's a blue dragon. And what others are there to cower behind?" He shrugs, and scuffs a bre foot against the sand with a scowl.

Seabert lets out a very unmaly squeak as the eggs begin to hatch. Sweet Faranth, he's going to hurl. No, no he's not! Swallowing hard, he focuses on the other candidates nearest him. "Hey yourself, Rhae… don't worry. (is she worried, or is that just him?) I won't let any of them trample you." The heroic words make him feel better, though he hopes he doesn't have to follow through with them and throw himself in the path of an oncoming dragonet.

The Highwayman Egg rocks a little more, one big, slow circle around its hollow in the sand.

Rhaedyn moves her gaze to the candidate Silas is talking about and simply shrugs, saying, "Can do what he wants, I guess. More likely to get caught by a rushing dragonet, prolly, though." And something under her words somehow points to the fact that she might not mind him getting caught by a wayward talon or two. Her stance shifts a bit, her feet having sunk a bit too deep into the scathing sand. She merely gives a squinty-eyed glare at Seabert, straightening her shoulders and mumbling something about "not being at all worried, thank you very much."

Crepe points, gawks, and gapes. It's an awfully nice blue, eh? Nothing like her firelizards' spawn which were.. mortifying. She barely hears Beagallette from the buzzing in her ears, though some parts come through clear. "Sandals. I knew I forgot something." Pause. "Ohoh, I hope a dragon sits on -him-," she murmurs at Rysta, obviously wishing for Alexandros to go *squish*. That'd teach him.

Patroclus Junior Blue Dragonet shakes the last bits of shell from his royal hide. He trumpets a greeting, well he tries, it comes out as a dignified squeak. The blue rises above the indiginity of his voice and looks about, there must be one here worthy of ruling beside him.

Silas hasn't even taken note of the hot sands yet, but at Beagallette mention of sandles the heat suddenly seems to rush right through the soles of his own sandles. "Ow.. That /is/ hot," he exclaims, but forgets it just as soon as he discovers it with the girl rushing past him and almost toppling him. "Hey, watch it, will you!" he says, his eyes still locked on the blue who seems so sure of himself, "amazing.."

Desba eyes Pyrene and takes another swig of the wine before handing it back. "A little nervous, excited, but all in all I'll be happy to return to my normal work schedule, and it will be nice to be able to fly more agian." She grunts softly.

Mraleh forgets his nerves just long enough to smile a bit at the squeak. He thinks it's a good squeak, but that may be because he's never heard one so close up before. And then it hits him…he is VERY close. He therefore shuffles closer toward Rysta and Crepe.

Alexandros huffs slightly at Donis. "He goes first. He's not afraid of it. He's a /blue/." Alexandros accents the word to emphasize the vast greatness that wanders as a dragonet before them.

Rysta smiles at Crepe and nod s to her a bit. "Yes, sandals would have been good," she murmurs to her friend and then looks to the blue and then laughs at Crepe's comment about it and sitting on Alexandros. "Well, I was sort of hoping not to see any injuries this hatching. We'll see." She winks at Crepe then offers a smile at Mraleh as he moves closer toward the two of them.

"Yeah, well, just don't say that blues are the best too loudly if you're by Pyrene, alright?" Donis advises Alexandros, and takes a few mincing steps which completely undermine any sort of authority there might've been in his tones.

Pyrene mms absently. "Yes, yes… it's all good," she prattles without listening to what either she or Desba are saying. She watches as a few more eggs rock heavily, hopeful of some more interesting colours being out soon.

Patroclus Junior Blue Dragonet strides across the sands, who will be his right hand man? The blue passes a group of females, with little more than a wiff, they will certainly not do! He continues his regal walk through the candidates he turns his head as he passes Donis and Alexandros, and stops. One of these too. He can sense it. Which one, which one.


Jungle Book Egg goes still with the oppressive silence of the predator waiting to pounce. Then both peace and shell are rent by a crack as claws part the vined-patterns. And yet no roar accompanies the beast bursting from within - instead it is a joyous cry as no tiger but a dragon welcomes the sheer glory of life.

Earthmother Mother Earth Ninhursag Green Dragonet
A secret garden, a sacred grove, an ancient outcropping of grey and green: life has reclaimed the rocky foundations of this dragon's slate-solid frame. Verdure blossoms forth from her neck and and along the spars of her feral wingsails. Her pebbled underbelly of verdigris is fringed by the nascent greenery creeping up her broad chest and sides, revitalizing her misted hide and weathering her rough-hewn legs and feet. Lichen tickles chin, brow, and ridges: shy silver-edged petals that adorn the blunt lines of her profile and soften the rugged landscape of her eternal self.


Alexandros stands up straight, his heels clicked together as he stands for inspection. Only a small bead of sweat runs down from his forehead to his cheek to his chin.

Donis frowns as the blue stops in front of him, and shifts his feet again, half-taking a step back.

Rhaedyn is thrown off by whatever girl candidate rushes past, and stumbles a bit, bumping into Seabert as she does so. She grumbles, but whether it's a simple "sorry" or something else is inaudible. Straightening, she tries to crane her neck to see over those in front of her the blue dragonet that just wandered out of sight.

Rysta eyes go wide as the green dragon breaks the next shell and her eyes are riveted to the beautiful dragonet. "Oh my," she murmurs softly, her hands clenched now for the first time, Crepe almost forgotten as she watches the new dragonet burst onto the sands. "Isn't she pretty?" she asks Crepe then, remembering the girl now.

Silas watches as the blue walks along the group of candidates, swallowing as first one, then two, then more are rejected and takes a deep breath, glancing toward Rhaedyn. "He's getting closer, isn't he?" he says nervously and glances over the sands for a moment to notice a green out there. "There's another!" he says and points with a shaky finger.

Nuff shuffles a few squidges over towards Desba and just grins foolishly. "Blue blue blue. I used to want Tiareth to be blue." She glances at her lifemate and grins again, "Yes dear, you're good enough as you are."

Mraleh is too busy watching Alexandros to even catch sight of the green yet. He hates to admit that he wants to see something shut the statuesque candidate up. At first, the green's cry registers as coming from the blue, and it's only at Rysta's exclamation that he even things to look elsewhere.

Crepe half-beckons Mraleh with a wave. Yes. Come huddle and observe from far, far away. Safe from clumsy dragon bums and frightening blue-hardies. "Oh, wow. Another one. A green." Apparently so. "And yes, she is a lovely green. They're all so big!" Big eggs, big dragons.

Rhaedyn shakes her head at Silas, saying over her shoulder, "I can't see." The bulky candidate in front of her doesn't seem to take the hint, for he doesn't move an inch. With a breathy sigh, she falls back down onto her feet, wincing as the heat agains sears through the soles of her sandals. From the mutterings around she gleans some information, which she then relates, "I think a green just hatched."

Pyrene considers the green. "Well, that's an improvement," she says cheerfully. She tips her head critically at the green. "Certainly healthy looking. Big and strong. And grey. Looks like Dyamith's youth isn't cancelling out Tiareth's age."

Seabert stumbles a bit as a fellow candidate rushes past, and then as Rhaedyn bumps into him. The movement hikes his too-small robe a few inches up his thigh, and he spends the next minute tugging it down to avoid an indecent exposure, and simultaneously attempting to keep Rhaedyn between him and… "Yup, that's a green," …the green that just hatched.

Patroclus Junior Blue Dragonet gives Donis the royal inspection first. He sniffs in appriasal, no not this one, he's much too picky. This royal blue needs someone who will follow his command without question, and so he turns to Alexandros. The names a little long, but he'll fix that. The blue dragon pushes his head into Alexandros' stomach.

Nuff gives Pyrene one of those looks, y'know, like if she had a tail, it'd be twitching. As it is, its left to Tiareth to flick her tail at the Weyrwoman and shower her feet with Sand as if to explain, yet again, that /Nuff/ is old. She is not. Nuff keeps grining, "Yes, well, Dyamith is a fine fine dragon."

Earthmother Mother Earth Ninhursag Green Dragonet slinks out of the remnants of her shell and plants her paws firmly into the sand. A small snort is all the greeting to the world she gives, and then she begins to eye the white figures warily. No running, no bounding, no confusion. She just looks and stares at each and every one.

Donis takes another step back, looking vaguely relieved as the blue chooses Alexandros over him. But then there's that green… He retreats across the sands back to that clump of familiar candidates.

The Highwayman Egg has determined that its' current location just isn't in the right tactical location. One slow and steady tip sideways, the egg rolls over the edge of its nesting hollow and begins a bit of wobbly recon work.

Silas waves at Rhaedyn, stepping sideways a bit, "c'ere, there's an open spot here, Rhae," he says and pushes his way into the gap in the line of candidates, glancing toward Alexandros with a note of the blue pushing at him, "did he Impress?" Standing tip-toe, he tries to detemine whether or not the blue had found the one he was looking for.

A'ndros suddenly breaks into a crying sag, his entire demeanor broken for the perfection that placed its head in his stomach. Perfection. "Before you, Hephaistionth, no one was worthy for me…" He sobs obligingly and crumples into the blue dragon.

Beagallette seems to have thrown a couple few of the candidates off balance. But ah, what's that when she has a important work to do? Like study. "Green. And there goes Alexandros." She licks her lips, speaking in a mutter to nearby candidates.

Rysta looks at Crepe and nods to her. "Well, yes, they're big. But they're going to get bigger!" She looks back to the green, her eyes glancing to the blue only a bit to see that it has headed toward Alexandros. As her eyes return to the green, she catches sight of the other egg moving. "I think another's about to hatch." But then she looks back at the green and grins slightly. "So pretty," she murmurs as the green looks over the various candidates.

If Mraleh were paying attention to the older riders, he might note that age of the parents doesn't change how young the babies are. Because he's observant like that. It's just slightly less blatant that Alexandros's observations. He's expecting a declaration of the color of the second hatchling from Alexandros, in fact, but his expression turns to one of a mixture of excitement and extreme surprise as a name is shouted instead.

Desba grins at Nuff and shakes her head. A small sigh of relief escapes as Pyrene makes the mention of Dyamith's youth not causing to many problems. "I'm still worried, only two have hatched."

Rhaedyn turns to look at Seabert and catches a bit of an eyefull. She averts her gaze quickly, and keeps it glued on the back in front of her as he tugs at his robe, clearing her throat awkwardly. Hearing Silas, and all too glad for the distraction from Seabert, she steps closer to Silas. "Ah, I see now. Yeah, looks as though /that/ one Impressed the blue. And the green… is just sitting there," she says, eyes lingering on the green hatchling curiously. Never seen one do that before.

Crepe watches, eyes glued on that blue and that /other/ candidate. "Well look at.." Stopping mid-sentence, she raises an eyebrow at the dragonet's actions. "He's not going to.. eat him, is he?" Why else would he put his head by his stomach? Then, rousing Crepe's unspoken envy, the boy goes all weepy. "Oh, well, I guess not," she mutters, sounding almost a tad disappointed. No one's allowed to rain on her parade today. Right?

Somewhere within the clutch, Crime and Punishment Egg twitches. It's not a shiver or a nervous jolt. It's a very calculated twitch, particularly for something unborn. It knows exactly what it's doing, and now is not the time.

Silas's attention is turned back toward the green and he nods slowly, "well.. I dunno, never been to a Hatching before, so.. It's not normal, then?" he says to Rhaedyn, then looks around at the candidates, frowning, "Rhae… Do you see Dellena anywhere?"

Earthmother Mother Earth Ninhursag Green Dragonet beings to pace, slowly. Time is hers. She walks a bit closer to the robed people, giving a few more attention than others. Crepe gets a sniff, but she shakes the smell out of her nose. Mraleh is eyed from a short distance away, and she quickly decides to move on. There must be /something/ worth her precious time out there.


The Highwayman Egg seems as though there's a little B&E going on within. Breaking and -exiting-, to be exact. None of the frantic rocking and rolling and cracking for this egg, just the repetative scratch of a young dragon's claw scoring the inside surface of the shell. Scratch, scratch, scraaaaaape - the sound goes mostly unnoticed amongst the clamour of the Sands, and that's just the way the egg's occupant likes it, lying in ambush until she's ready to make her move. At length, a perfectly oval segment of the shell is broken loose, and then the hole rapidly widened, leaving the egg in shards as Beaten But Unbowed Boudicca Green makes an appearence to see what battles the outside world will bring.

Beaten But Unbowed Boudicca Green Dragonet
Shades of moss are daubed over lean musculature, casting aside intense greens in favour of functional, practical earth tones. Deeper hues of sap arbitrarily stipple the dragon's evenly proportioned form, cloaking and concealing her hide all the way down her slightly long limbs to dense black talons, except where thin, ragged slices of jade rake across the backdrop of living green. Blunt ridges march along her neck and back, to vanish into the cover of her dark-touched tail, whilst tawny dust and dirt abrade the freshly bruised sage of her wingsails. Her acute gaze evaluates thoughtfully, crystalline eyes within the solid and serious expanse of chiseled features neither softened by the elegant sweep of her headknobs nor left dull by the coarse olive hues that weather her muzzle and head.


Rhaedyn nods, saying, "They usually come out and wander right off," waggling her hand a bit to symbolize 'wandering.' Her attention brought to the missing candidate, she peers around while maintaining her solid position rooted in the sands then shrugs subtly. "Dunno. Haven't seen her all day actually," she says, unconcerned. Then she notes, "Another green hatched," slowly and quitely. Patiently maintaining her place, she watches the two greens, biding her time until they Impress and the other eggs hatch.

Le Petit Prince Egg's peak shifts tentatively to the left, the sand around its base trickling away from the egg before all is still once more - the poor dragonet within left leaning at a slight angle.

Rysta looks at the green as she comes close and sniffs at Crepe and then eyes Mraleh. She just watches the Mother, a slight smile on her lips as she does so. Her hands remain clenched at her sides and she seems to be standing as still as she possibly can. She doesn't even speak as the green looks around as if searching for someone.

"Well, congratulations," Donis finally remembers to call to An'dros as the weyrlingmasters escort him and the long-named blue away. He watches the latest green hatch, and rubs his hand across his cropped hair. Getting sweaty down here.

It's probably good that Mraleh didn't catch the green's gaze directly. Seeing that he was specifically regarded would have been another reason to dig his foot further into the sands than he already seems to have been doing. Nevermind the heat. Concentration can do strange things to other perception. He's actually decided to watch the eggs for now.

Seabert isn't one to be left behind, and so, still keeping a hand on the hem of his robe to prevent it from hiking back up, he finally follows Rhaedyn closer to Silas to get a better view of the eggs. "It's /moving/ now," he mutters, refering to the first green of course, and stating the obvious. His eyes dart from candidates dragonets. More are hatching every minute. He'd cower, but that's just not dignified. "I'd give anything for a good glass of wine," he mumbles, eyeing the drinking riders off on the side.

Desba grins, "Look more greens. Can't have too many greens. Backbone of the weyr…" Her speech about the need for greens while fighting thread goes on but turns into a mumble as she watches the hatchlings search for their bonds.

Crepe's eyes might have well just lobbed out of her head as the green approaches, sniffs, and discards. Now, not only is she a bit disappointed, she has gained a smelly-complex. "Um." Sulk. "Um. Do I.. offend?" She asks Rysta with wide, distressed eyes.

Patroclus Junior Blue Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Alexandros, and steps forward.

The corner of Silas' mouth twithces at the thought of Dellena missing the hatching, but his attention is drawn back to the eggs and the next green out there. He nods at Seabert, swallowing a lump in his throat, "It is getting hot out here, isn't it?" he says and lifts on foot, then the other in the Candidate's Dance.

Pyrene waves A'ndros over to Tatia and her assistant weyrlingmaster cluster. "He'll be a difficult one," she muses to Nuff and Desba.


Part 2

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