HRW's 22nd PC Hatching Log!

(courtesy of Syriene)

Candidate Barracks

Serviceable, this low-ceiling'd room runs right and left from the heavy canvas curtains that function as a door:  relatively bare of ornamentation, tidy glows light the few worn tapestries that adorn the walls and depict a variety of dragons in flight or at rest.  But it is the cots, lots and lots of cots, that distinguish this room from the others, their blue or black coverlets tucked neatly over relatively fresh rushes.
 
Candidate's haven, this is their escape from the bustling world of chores and Weyr; visitors are welcome if invited.
 
It vibrates in the very stone, the slitting hum of the dragons, spreading from throat to throat until it trembles down the bones of every living thing with in the Weyr. R'yst soars atop it as a small darting bird, whipping his jacket off his shoulders as he enters the barracks as a brisk stride. "Robes, please." He says it like a thrown dart that multiplies and spears into every living thing within the barracks. "Now." 'Please' and 'now' carry the same tonality. "It's time."
 
"What the? … " It is the humming of the dragons that awoke Kanika from her cat nap, but it is R'yst's command that snaps her back to reality and she grabs her robe.
 
No matter how prepared Paige /thought/ she was for this moment, it shows in her expression that she is inevitably /not/.  Blue eyes widen as her limbs freeze in place, the girl holding stock still for a moment as she watches the hustle and bustle of changing and the building of adrenaline in those around her.  Her movements are slow, precise, as she slowly steps out of her clothing and into the pristinely white and tailored candidate robe.  Adjusting the fabric around her muscled frame, she takes a second to breath before pulling back her mass of dark brown hair.  Shoes are an afterthought, and simple slip-on sandals complete the ensemble even as she's making her way towards the sands along with many of the others.  There's a smile tossed towards some of the more anxious members of her group, but she sticks to the back, arms crossing over her lower torso as she steels herself for what's to come.
 
Rikane is here, omg, wtf, bbq, ROBE, humming, NAKED KANE, more humming, MORE NAKED KANE, omg omg, why is the rock vibrating, why is all his junk out there, WHAT THE SHELL IS THIS, misery, misery, angst, angst, /sisal/, no really, /sisal?!/, more man-angst, dejection, robe on, salute, ready.
 
Dirna is busy messing with what looks like the world's deadest bedsheet. A pile of rags lies on the bed, the remains of her not-particularly-wonderful hatching robe, and now… now she has to cinch a belt around her waist to hold the sheet on and try not to look anybody in the eye. As R'yst makes his announcement, she stands up ramrod-straight, salutes, and blushes bright, bright red.
 
The hum had already gotten Arienne starting to slip into her robe, and she's quickly, albeit messily setting the ties on her sandals.  As instantly as she completes the ensemble, she's to her feet and offering a salute to R'yst.
 
Syriene doesn't understand the humming - it simply doesn't compute with her. The faint vibrations draw a frown and a glance down at the ground, but otherwise the girl merely shakes her head and continues to attempt to organize her plants into some semblance of order. However, as R'yst enters and makes the announcment, she freezes, staring at him - then, with a squeak of dismay, lunges for her press and the robe carefully folded within. Without thought for things like 'modesty', she shucks her work clothes, pulling the white fabric over her head and twisting it backwards in her haste. With a string of curses, she rights it, and herself, and stares, breathing heavily, at the Weyrlingmaster.
 
Rysta /was/ doing her nails. Calmly. Lounging without a care in the world. The mild request gets her standing with a minimum of fuss. Her robe is already accessible atop her clothes press. There is no modesty when time is of the essence - or as all. Off goes her day wear. All of it, underwear included. Stark naked, she lifts her arms and shivers into her well-tailored, if rather revealing robe. Bare feet are slipped into sandals, which are tied up to mid-calf. Hair is pulled back into a simple thong. And then she's strolling over to R'yst, ready. Calm. Outwardly, anyway.
 
"Noooooooo…" Shizl WAS on his way to the latrine. Talk about major suckage. "I really gotta drop a deuce. Think they can wait for that?" Nevertheless, the young man turns on his heels to go throw his sheet over his head before stripping off his pants. Ta-da! DONE.
 
Oh. The entire Weyr is /vibrating/. Yalishean perhaps noticed this long before she actually registered R'yst's presence, or registered R'yst's speech. But then - there it is. Those words. It's time. And with those words, she's shoving the two infant firelizards onto pillows and whispering at them to just stay there or go find T'ii or something but don't bother /her/, and now there isn't just naked Kane but also naked Yali as she hurries to get her robe set, her hair set, her sash tied just so. "Run," she offers to Shizl, as he does so. "Yes, like that -" And then she catches sight of Kane and breaks into laughter.
 
Who received not one, but /two/ professional-issue robes? Yzabet, bitches. Feet plant with the expected pound of thundering soles against stone, body leaning forward to stand with slow deliberation. Snow-white garb rests atop her trunk of foodstuffs, fingers questing backwards for it. Clutched in hand, she strips her normal attire without any modesty - no curves here, with her stick-thin boy body. A flash of ivory, and perfectly tailored garment falls down over her head, dashing in all its fine craftsmanship. She might even do a spin.
 
Lucian looks up from his woodwork with a quizical look. Placing it down upon the cot, the tall boy takes the cue from the Weyrlingmaster and the rest of the candidates, slipping into his rather plain and shoddily put together robe. "Sir." Lucian brings himself to attention and salutes the rider.
 
Rilhden has a very wrinkled nose and he quickly unfolds a brown wrapped package containing the robe he was gifted. "I don't get why he couldn't have just given me his.." Rilh grumbles, which most likely gets eaten by all the noise and commotion of the humming and candidate insanity. Nonetheless the teen is naked and into the semi-tight, and short robe in no time flat. A much newer pair of sandals are shoved on his feet before he's fully ready to get out onto those sands!
 
Here we go! Good luck! Remember this takes you OOCly direct to the Hatching Sands, so behave accordingly. Thanks for all the fun!
 

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.
 
Anticipation has wrung all emotions dry, but that which drains is only revived, for they manifest in that which will be the future of High Reaches: bright-eyed, pale-faced, nauseated. That girl is showing too much leg. That boy isn't showing enough. That girl's robe looks kind of green. That boy's face looks kind of green. They /all/ look green, untried, unready. But they face the challenge of the eggs, of the future, as a solid, singular, choate unit. United. Together. Movement. They bow, as one, some late, some early, some perfect, some too low, some too shallow. The clutchparents are honored as tradition's due. Only once this gravid responsibility is over does the giggle start. A person here, a person there. Frenetic laughter, nervous, it catches like wildfire. Are they drunk? Who knows. As a ripple of white against the dark, dark Sands, they spread into a half-moon around the clutch.
 
Spiraling Infinity Blossom Egg spins and rotates, faster, faster. Its brilliant network of colorful shards collapse together, fold apart and then bloom anew into a thousand fractal geometric patterns woven together and then /unwoven/ by the next rotation. Changing, expanding shrinking - they glitter and sparkle as multicolored funhouse mirrors, glimpses of gypsy glass slithering in illusions - lo, a crack. The pretty glass-tinkle shatter of crinkling windows and this egg seems less to break than it does unfold a dazzling carpet of a million colors upon which to pour loose the dynamic, spindly shape of the master of illusions, Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Dragonet.
 

Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Dragonet

Ornate spired 'ridges crown a fraudulent glamor; in a shifting veneer of flamboyance stalks forth the master to his stage, stretched serpentine long and whip-thin lean. Gemstone glitz glosses this lanky shadow of darkling head-to-toe copper-brown with a thousand coats of showman's dazzle: insidious patinas cast oil-slick flickers of iridescent trickery, faint firelicks of emerald and amethyst skating in whispers of murky magic and twinkling mayhem. Elongated limbs snatch limber-quick below the dynamic reach of pearlescent wingsails, their dragonfly shimmer flawed just subtly with faint surface crackles of violet veining, circumferenced in gold gilt. Illusions reign from bony underbite of face, where elusive refractions of silver hint a mirage of mask that flashes like tinsel and then winks from sight, to the final inch of over-long tail, slipping away as but a lingering tendril of witch's smoke.
 
Paige raises her body out of that group bow with a kind of awkward grace that does not at all become her.  Body fully righted, she takes a few steps to the side, and a few steps back, allowing herself some space of her own on the sands, even if her senses are being bombarded.  The noise, the smell, the visuals of rocking eggs, all of these distractions have the young Trader  glancing around the sands, as if unsure where to focus.  Toes curl in her sandals, and her grip on her own forearms, once her arms are securely crossed in a defensive position, is enough to turn her knuckles white.
 
ClickWhrrrrrrrrrrrrBmp! Egg still doesn't move. Nope. Nothing. Maybe a dud? Meeeh.
 
Micro-Robotic Vtol Egg is inching deeper into that deliciously grainy sandpile.
 
Impeccably Innocuous Egg is certainly a dud.  Too many candidates rubbed on it.  Broken.  Woe.
 
Awkward? Who's awkward. Rysta has been here. Done this. She picks her way delicately onto the sands, trying not to flash anyone with her too-short robe. Really, she's not leaving much to the imagination. A saunter, however, turns into a bit of a skip as an egg /hatches/ right as all that bowing nonsense gets done with. So Rysta stops, not too close and not too far, hands on her hips. Watching. Waiting.
 
Rikane seems to have just stumbled onto the Sands, with a wobble here, a weeble here: is he on a boat? Whatever. He's sailing. And there's a brown dragon right there. "Holy sh-" He's totally stumbling to a side, hissing about how hot the Sands are. Complain, complain, bitch, bitch, whine, whine. Is there someone he can hide behind?
 
Syriene straightens from her bow - it was wobbly, and it was probably just a little too deep - but she comes out of it with a smattering of aplomb. That done, she's spreading with the others, arrowing in on a familiarly sexy form as fingers dart out to clutch at Rysta's, accosting her sister-in-arms. "Ho, wha - tha' was fast," she squeaks, staring at the brown that was once where an egg that tried to squish her was.
 
Shizl takes his spot closest to the entrance, possibly hoping for some sort of breeze as sweat begins to build across his hairline. The second he looks back, the first egg hatches. "Damn, they ain't taking their time." Brown. BROWN.
 
Micro-Robotic Vtol Egg jumps! It jumps again! Then starts to tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilt to the side, until it crashes up against another egg, probably the As Seen on TV Egg. As it slides down that egg, the main body of it's shell starts to crack and for a brief moment, looks as if it's little colored legs are moving. Twitch! Twitch! Twitch! Then? BOOM! Without the usual crack-crack-crack-then-hatch formula, egg shells are shot EVERYWHERE and what lies behold?! A sparkling new-penny bronze explodes forth and barrels out into the sands! Watch out! The Ever Impressive, Long Contained, Often Imitated But Never Duplicated Genie of the Hoooookah Bronze Dragonet is on the lose!
 

The Ever Impressive, Long Contained, Often Imitated But Never Duplicated Genie of the Hoooookah Bronze Dragonet

Uniformity of color is given in rich copper that flows over the bust of his form like molten metal; orange-red fire gilds the sharp corners of a bulky carriage, highlighting the strength that comes natural to the breadth and width of shoulders, while bronze's shiny finish flares 'round a barrel chest. Large wings spread in charismatic stance, showing the same uniformity of shiny, newly minted copper that ends in over-sized wingspars given to showman's pizazz; delicate sails are shadowed in the faintest shade of lavender's shadow branded in barely seen pattern'd filigree. Vivacity of spirit matches the proud tilt of a small head, the sweeping posture of a short neck and the strut that comes with the roundness of a large chest. As molten metal washes over the length of a long and supple back, it comes short of his legs. Forge-fired brilliance of heated copper cools to tempered bronze in the spindly stance of legs far too small for the bulk of upper body; while ankles lie shackled in pure, yellow-gold. Tail's length is molded of cooled metal hardened to rich red-bronze, a counterpoint to the flash and glamor of new-penny metallic gleam. Atop such glitz is the faint shadow of antiquated bronze to dim the brightness of such molten metal, gripping to slightly bent headknobs before fading into the liquid flow of copper. From nose to tail tip, metallic shimmers in the overabundance of spirit and style, strutting forward with an indomitable lack of fear. Talons are tipped in fire-orange, given to an almost infernal glow.
 
Dirna stands well back, her eyes finally showing the terrified, glassy gleam of terror- uh, anticipation. She seems not to even notice the other candidates, simply tugging at her destroyed-weyr-property bedsheet/robe with, indeed, an expression of extreme nausea on her face. THERE'S A FUCKIN DRAGON. SHIT.
 
Bundles of Wires Egg is doing the hokey pokey and turning itself about! That's what it's all about. Yeah!
 
Barely out on the sands and out of her bow, and Arienne is faced with the cracking and tumbling eggs.  For now, she's on her own, not staying with any of the other candidates as she focuses on the little brown hatchling that just burst forth.  Blink, blink.  Where is the little guy going to go?  She's already sweating, drops forming.
 
Kanika comes up from her bow. One of the first ones giggling nervously she shifts from one foot to the other, the two young girls next to her catch the giggle. But then the group is silent, dead silent. First dragon.
 
Yalishean just walked /past/ that egg. And jumps, just a little. "What the -" Stare. The egg gets a look. The brown gets a look, as she hunts for hands to hold and people to crowd with; where's Yzabet? Yzabeeeeeeeet? "That was /ridiculous/," she mutters - and before her sentence is done? There's /another/ one.
 
Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Dragonet stands amidst the brainbow-dazzle brilliance of his shattered cathedral, glinting multicolored gypsy glass shards glint and wink as a spread out carpet for him to cut his first steps. Which he takes his SWEET time doing. Serpentine tail whiplashes from /right/ where he is, poised dynamic and surveying all these poor, poor suckers around him. Without him paying it any mind, one single paw sliiiiips forward, his head turned to look the /opposite/ way. His talons sink thoughtfully into the black sand and Ahhhh. That feels NICE. He all but /throws/ himself forward onto this foot and he is abruptly pouring in a liquid stroll across the sands as a spill of hot oil, his tail drifting behind him as but a slip of lingering smoke. Small final flashes off stained glass glitter trail from the silent pads of his feet as he moves, until his once-brilliant egg is left behind as just one more illusion.
 
Rilhden makes his way away from the others, trying to get some distance, some /air/ in this mass of bodies and piping hot sands. He tugs at his robe, trying desperately to make it cover more of his bean-pole legs but sadly the old robe doesn't go any further. "Shards." Is muttered as eggs start popping and a brown and bronze have already made an appearance.
 
Look: Yzabet made it to this hatching, fingers firmly threaded through Syriene. Flawless grace seems to possess her taffy-stretched limbs, deceptively willowy proportion still an undeniably small presence ther eon the sands. A blink of topaz gaze registers two dragonets: brown and bronze. A nod dismisses them both. "Two already." Disinterest at its finest.
 
ClickWhrrrrrrrrrrrrBmp! Egg still ain't doing much here. Though hey, lots of other eggs moving. Show offs.
 
Even Eth'n is surprised at how fast the eggs are cracking, eyebrows raising.  Though what's murmured is either lost to the sands or only for Rhaeyn's ears, because the Weyrleader stays wisely silent.
 
Impeccably Innocuous Egg is BROKEN.  Too much TOUCHING.
 
Rysta grabs Syriene's arm back and gives it a little squeeze. "You'll be fine," she murmurs. Her eyes, however, are on the dragons. "They really ain't takin' their time." A trickle of sweat makes her twitch a little. Hopefully this robe won't get /too/ wet as she stands here, shifting from foot to foot against the heat.
 
Silently, Yalishean makes her way over to the Rysta-Syriene-Yzabet conglomerate and attaches herself to it. "It's crazy." Her eyes are set in permanently-wide mode: not in shock and awe of the dragonets, just in sheer, sheer WTF.
 
Rikane holy crap there's a bronze. "He's /gaudy/," the man complains of the Hookah bronze, keeping a wary eye on Streamers of Shadow. "Hey." YOU. "Yalishean." He's hiding behind you, mmkay? kthxbai.
 
Lucian stumbles over his feet as they begin to crack. The redhead seems awkward navigating the Sands and watching the chaos in front of him. "Huh." He tries to move closer to the new bronze, seeing if getting his attention would help.
 
Dirna steps even further back as egg shards just keep flying through the air. Then she decides hey, safety in numbers, right?? And sidles up to the clump that's agglomerating, wordless.
 
Paige keeps her arms crossed over her chest in a little self-hug, watching things keenly, light on her feet and ready to move if need be - or stare the hatchlings down.
 
R'yst does not join the Weyrleader nor Weyrwoman on their lofty perch - he stalks the sands. Kind of stripping while he's at it. NON-ESSENTIALS MUST GO. Too hot. They strewn the parameters in little R'yst leavings.
 
Thar Be Dragons Egg wiggles first one way.  Then the other.  Holy Faranth.  Thar be dragons!  Nets.  Dragonets.
 
Strike of Twelve Egg ticks. Tick-tick-tick. No, that's it.
 
Shizl gets a shard or-maybe sand? Dust? A bug? SOMETHING. There is /something/ in his eye, coincidentally at the same time the bronze hatches. Both eyes blink vigorously against fingers that rub the grit against his cornea. Yep, he's gonna love that later. "They're all gaudy when they hatch, doof. Nothing beats my dad's though. /Damn/, she is UGLY." And can't eat him down here, right?
 
Wind-Up Toy Mouse Egg does this sorta… circling thing. Oddly. Almost as if a giant, invisible hand is… winding it up?
 
Yalishean just - blinks over her shoulder at Kane, and eventually manages, "Yep!" That is her, and she is right there. And sure, she's pretty tall, and almost taller than most of the class, but - is she really going to be able to hide /Rikane/?
 
Arienne bites her lip, moving back, forth, looking at the other candidates to see if anyone has Impressed yet.  Seeing no one moving off the sands yet, she just keeps an eye on them.  Even as the other eggs begin throwing shards and rocking around her.
 
Yeah, disintrest isn't the word to describe Syriene; no, she's definitely more of OMGBOUNCYBOUNCY. Her sandals manage to stay attached - barely - to the Sands, but whether they will continue to do so or not is questionable as curls flip against her back, fingers twining with Yzabet and Rysta and squeeeeeeezing. "They're so… shiny," she murmurs, twisting her head to peer up at Rysta, no doubt entrusting the woman with life and limb as she takes her wary gaze from the wandering dragonets.
 
"Yeah, your dad's /is/ fugly," Rikane can only agree with a shudder. "Damn." So hey, here's Shizl. Totally hideab- oh, who are we kidding. Shizl is about as imposing as Rikane's pinky finger. He totes hides behind Yali. Coward.
 
Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Dragonet flickers and flashes amongst the candidates like a gaudy mirage, light and easy and quick as snake strikes. A dance! A prowl! What a delightful game. A wink of silver mask suggests itself across his sly face and just as quickly winks away, trickery gilded in the affable humor of his snatching movements. He stalks parallel to the bronze for a time as a slinking shadow, rumbling thoughtful as he goes. My my. Decisions, decisions.
 
ClickWhrrrrrrrrrrrrBmp! Egg has no need for all those dramatic movements of the other eggs around them. No, that was never apart of the plan. Sometimes, slow and steady does win the race. Finally, though, there is something of a quiver from this egg. Not so much a movement, but a vibration or a flexing of strained shell against dragon hide. A crackling is heard and a forearm breaks free. Talons clawing at the encasing around the body still trapped within. More snapping sounds and - CRACK - another leg free! And another! Then another! All four flail about, shards breaking off, raining to the sand. With one more mighty internal PUSH, the head and neck are out, the rest of the shell splintering off of the body of Lines In The Sand Blue Dragonet and leaving him wide in the open. So much for no dramatics.
 

Lines In The Sand Blue Dragonet

Luminous with the subtle glow of gray-washing dawn, he rises up a measured study of sophisticated enlightenment. From the fell blue-violet coal of broad dark paws and sable glints of gunmetal talons, gray-blue of nighttime fog ascends the short, straight conformity of balanced legs. Lighter and lighter, shadow-slips lose their grip in gossamer fingers to descending skeins of shoulder's silvered frost; woven tendrils of enfolding iron claim haunch and hip to trail long tail, gradually unraveling into darkened tip. From this dim swim of lower extremities rises the fine faded blue of encroaching day: above the promise of genteel chest and long-body leanness, washed-out icy blue gathering delicate throatwork with pale cool pearl until here, holding the light: a face of near white, the aristocratic delicacy of bone structure powdered ashen blue, silver-slivered in sharp eye ridges and sweeping curl of crowning 'knobs. Swept wide about him, great scoops of snowy wings, waxy mother of pearl beneath snowmelt, are held in by fine wingbones of most delicate articulation.
 
"They definitely take after their grandfather, Aojadinth." Yzabet contributes this, staring down the gaudy brown. Nearby, a trembling candidate she dislikes invites torment: "Watch out, they're /hungry/."
 
Rysta ruffles Syriene's hair and smiles down at her for a bare moment. "Hot, isn't it?" Meaningless chatter to cover the fact that she might be shaking just a little. Eyes go back to the dragons, so many of them prowling the sands and finding their partners now. "They're a lot flashier than the last group I saw. Overcompensatin' a bit?" It might be tactless. At least she says it under her breath. She grins over at Yzabet. "Doesn't bode well, last group he sired…"
 
Words, words, words streak past Dirna at the speed of light, and she sees only the shiny, lethal, terrible and beautiful shapes of the stalking dragons. Her breath seem to be caught in her throat. Also? The world is kind of blurry and sparkly. Ooooh yeah. That breath thing. She'll try that again. Yes. Shit.
 
"Lots of males," Kanika isn't sure what to say, she breaks the silence of her little group. She looks as awkard as she feels. Hands wringing as she hops like a bunny from one foot to the other. No one else is saying anything and it makes her even more nervous. She eyes the dragons, then the girls around her, she can't handle this any more, she edges over towards the hiding Rikane. "Um. They're big."
 
Rikane cowers. Here comes ANOTHER ONE. "Damn, he has some long wings," Rikane comments to Yalishean. "And that brown looks effing scary." It's always the "affable" ones who /hide things/ behind a /facade/, right? Isn't he right? Right? … maybe.
 
Eruption: crackle! Four eggs unload their cargo, a brown scatters left, two greens scatter right and there, cruising down the center, a bronze dragonet cycles forth to freedom, rolling easy to the feet of young blond Rollins - NO MORE! "Wheelth?" He muses. "Yes. We /will/ travel far, won't we. I will be your R'ollin."
 
The Ever Impressive, Long Contained, Often Imitated But Never Duplicated Genie of the Hoooookah Bronze Dragonet  bursts from his egg. WITH FLARE! BAM BOOM, he's HERE! Over-sized wingspars flap and inflate, whirling the lavender's shadow around himself as if whirls of rich, incense smoke. TA-DA! Chest thrust out and head held high..before he totally loses his confidence. A,B,C,D,E,F,GEEEEE there are so many people out here! He blinks, and widens his eyes, and it is apparent he makes quite the decision. The decision to flaunt and fluff and huff around EACH AND EVERY ONE! Starting with that hot goldrider with the dark hair. Friend? Will you be my friend? Dripping egg-goo and whuffles all around!
 
Lucian stays out of the other candidate's conversations, meandering around the eggs with a shuffling of feet. The sand is hot, so very hot. So much going on around him. He focuses on only a dragonet at a time, and right now, it's the bronze. Let's hope the others don't maul him in the meantime.
 
"Are you afraid the bronze's gonna eat you?" Yalishean asks, again, over her shoulder. It's the easiest way to talk to Kane, and that way she can avoid getting the crap out of the way of all of the eggshells flying so she doesn't get decked in the head - that's just her luck. "The brown's pretty, actually. And holy /crap/, I think he's got some long /everything/."
 
Shizl snorts, "Yeah, I hope they eat YOU!" Yzabet: Tastes better with ketchup. "Maybe /you'll/ impress the bronze. You're built like a boy. Just sayin'." Sucks being flat-chested, doesn't it? As the bronze heads towards the weyrwoman, Shizl nearly chokes. "See? You have a chance after all!"
 
Lines In The Sand Blue Dragonet takes a few tentative steps away from the remains of what was his 'home' for so many, many months. A lingering look may focus briefly, very briefly, on his clutchparents, before the dragonet disregards them and looks forward once more. He has a mission that needs to be completed, after all, a very strict step-by-step plan that even now is being shifted. Changed. It encompass the differences in what he thought into what is. Those first steps become the second, then the third. A slower trotting gait for now, tail purposely dragging against the granules behind him. Better to check his progression that way, to ensure all is going as is now written in the sands. Directions shift, he veers to the left, perhaps basic instinct calling him there.
 
Yzabet kicks sand at Shizl in response. Revenge is that simple. "Yeah, well, I hope you Impress a green. Like your dad. Fruitcake." Her carefully put-upon facade just crumbled. Shizl dunnit now.
 
Rikane snorts at Yalishean. "Are you serious?" He pulls Kanika in towards him. Yalishean can hide BOTH of them. "They're taking their damned time," he mutters. But it still counts! Somehow. "Is that green trying to eat her own foot?" He points at a random NPC. What? Seriously, it looks like it.
 
The blue breaks out and Arienne skips to the side, causing black sand to fly behind her.  Well, hello!  Keep your balance, girl.  She looks about to the other eggs as well, her lips curl.
 
"They really are hungry… ent they…" mutters Dirna to herself.
 
Syriene wrinkles her nose at the hair-fondling, but her answer to Rysta is an impudent grin. "Just a touch - imagine we'll put a lie t' the rumor that females don't sweat, hey?" Though how, after thousands of turns of Hatchings, anyone can believe that is just beyond her. A sidelong look at Yzabet, and the other girl gets an extra squeeze. "I promise, I'll drag ya away if one decides t' nibble on ya, k?"
 
Rilhden steps from one foot to another, eyes flickering to every hide that resembles bronze before he cringes and tracks its movement. The candidates and their banter are pretty much shut out as he focuses on the newly hatched and their movements. Although Arianne's movement draws his attention, "Are you okay?"
 
Yes. Yalishean is so, so tall that she can hide EVERYONE. Okay, so she's tall - that won't make her wide enough to protect themselves. "I think my definition of pretty is - it's being expanded to include newly-hatched dragonets. Which isn't really conventional pretty." It's that Weyrlingmaster blood.
 
Impeccably Innocuous Egg siiiiiiits.  Yeah.  Were there sparks and mechanical things, this egg'd be broken.  Used up.  TOUCHED BY EVERYONE.
 
Lendai raises an eyebrow at the bronze dragonet, arms crossed. "Barking up the wrong tree there, baby." It takes all her restraint not to coo at the baby dragon and love it FOR-EVER. She keeps her distance. "Get on towards the candidates now! Shoo-shoo!" Hands motions are made, pointing towards all those white-robbed peeps ovah thar.
 
The Ever Impressive, Long Contained, Often Imitated But Never Duplicated Genie of the Hoooookah Bronze Dragonet  finds that Weyrwoman not to his liking. Smells like sad! Smells like..pink. EW! So he whirls around and trips over one of his smaller legs. OH GOSH NO, YOU SAW NOTHINg. NOTHING. BAA BAA! I'm a sheep! He gets down on all fours and starts charging the crowds..until he trips on an eggshell and falls on his bum. I mean't to do that! Wingspars flailing, he tries to regain his composure, fluffling them around his head in a whirl of activity. Regal am I. Composed am I. Oh look..a V'tol! Distracted am I…
 
Paige shifts her weight from foot to foot, shaking a bit of sand from her sandal and shifting towards the back of the semi-circle of Candidates.  Just watching.
 
Kanika is drawn next to Rikane, ever her protector - her dangerous, dangerous protector. Still he seems safer than the dragonets. "I think being eaten would be better than being this nervous. At least it would /over/." She eyes the green Rikane is pointing out, "Is it…okay?"
 
Lucian quickly dodges to the side as Arienne swiftly moves. "You okay?" But there's no time, there's dragonets on the sands and they're moving. A lot.
 
Rysta snorts a little and rocks back on her heels, calming a little as the prowling continues. "Some of 'em are in a hurry. I think some of 'em just wanted the attention." She nods toward the brown and bronze, quick to hatch but taking their sweet time. She glances toward Yza and the discussion of eating. "Y'all know they don't /really/ eat people, right? Just maul 'em up a bit." It's better! She reaches down to scratch her thigh, which has somehow gotten /sandy/. It makes the robe contort interestingly, but she hardly notices.
 
"Did he really think Lendai was good for anything?" Rikane has his judgmental face on for that bronze's actions. JUDGMENTAL FACE. "I think so," aside to Kanika: "Maybe." Dubious.
 
Dirna slides a glance to Paige, and tries for a companionable grin. Instead it looks like she just swallowed a rotten lime.
 
Did that bronze just try to Impress Lendai? Yalishean notices this belatedly, and laughs just as Kane speaks. "I think maybe he's just a /little/ confused. And distractable. And - yeah." She gives up. Shrug.
 
Lines In The Sand Blue Dragonet was perhaps wrong, though perhaps not. He pauses in his movements, still headed to the left from where he originally was. Plan A is discarded, Plan B no longer applicable, it seems that Plan C will need to commence. It is so, the blue now using a combination of dragon instinct and his own tactical intelligence to gear him in the right way. Or rather, the left way. Still it calls to him, this other /thing/ he seems to be seeking. The warm sands starting to get kicked up as his slow trot  kicks it up a notch. Not too fast, though. He must be exactly sure as to where he is going. Anything else would be unplanned for.
 
Shizl would punch Yzabet if he could. But, y'know, things could happen. Instead he sticks his tongue out childishly at her. "And maybe you'll impress bronze and we'll get it ON!" Gyrations say what? Ew. Actually, the whole thought gets him to shiver, or maybe it's the clumsy bronze that just fell o his ass. "Seriously?"
 
Paige looks back at Dirna and gives her a curious look, but returns the semi-smile just the same.
 
Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Dragonet stalks like a whisp, trails like a panther. Oh ho ho, these boys and girls are marked, tagged and PROCESSED as he passes them, long limbs all but frisking here, sinking loooow there. Kicking and scuffling, backbiting - oh, these candidates are JUST his style. But he needs more. The dazzling showman's cape of his trailing wings flutter flamboyantly, no, no, not you either. He doesn't want the little chickadees, he wants the /momma/ bird. He sees her there, his other half, the accomplice he needs, tending to her own with that eternal laugh he knows so well. Or maybe he just likes all that hair - dazzle camouflage, baby. He edges in to QUARANTINE Rysta aside, huffing a warm breath of her scent. You. You'll do JUST fine.
 
Yzabet frowns at Rysta. "You don't have to tell the vast majority that." Eyeroll. Shizl gets an EYEROLL. Syriene though, she resurrects something of a smile. "Thanks." Teeth flash.
 
"Shizl, that is SO YOUR DRAGON," Rikane calls. "He just tripped over his own ass!" That totally makes him a match made in heaven for the little shrimp. "Uh. Wait. Is- /shit/. /Rysta/?"
 
The Ever Impressive, Long Contained, Often Imitated But Never Duplicated Genie of the Hoooookah Bronze Dragonet  finally comes to a stop infront of that one candidate. A male. Hmm. Will he do? A sudden urge to flex his neck and rub it on his side takes over and he furiously massages. But..ahem. Back to business. Smelling his light brown hair, the bronze widens his eyes again. Smells like…happy? Maybe he'll massage his neck and make the pain go away?
 
"Never seen nothing like this before," Dirna murmurs to the other Candidate. And then Rysta is Chosen and she is reduced to gaping. "He's so pretty…"
 
"I'm okay," Arienne calls to those asking.  Or is she?  There's so much going on that it's unclear if the sweat starting to soak her robe is from the heat or her own worry.  She looks back to the large assortment of dragons.  Why did there have to be so many eggs again?  The yells start causing her to look up.  "Rysta?"
 
"That blue is walking around like it is drunk." She glances at Rikane warily. "I'm not sure any of these…" Oh but wait that brown seem to have picked Rysta!" She waves a hand at Rysta, "Congrats!"
 
Yalishean - freezes. Someone said - it was Rikane who said that. "RYSTA!" There is actually squealing, here. And bouncing.
 
Syriene's eyes go wide, and she steps away from Rysta as the brown approaches, stuffing a hand in her mouth to stiffle a cry. "Rysta?" It's a muffled question, choked out around fisted fingers, even as she sways into Yzabet in her haste to avoid messing up her friend's moment. "Congrats," she whispers, glee and consternation battling for position in those wide green eyes.
 
R'yst stares. Just stares. He might have Searched Rysta himself once but you know, some people you just never expect…
 
Lines In The Sand Blue Dragonet moves even faster now, his trotting abandoned for a full out run. There are some falters in his steps, spindly baby legs entangling a time or two, but the dragonet figuring it out before he would fall, always righting, always double-checking. He's dead set on his course of action now, tail no longer need to map his progress. Almost. Almost. So close. The plan of attack is just about finished, this mission will truly be a success in… just… another… moment. Talons dig in, motion is disrupted, and all the while not one does Lines In The Sand Blue Dragonet lose his footing. It was all according to plan, just as the tall, red-haired teen is. Muzzle is lifted, swirling eyes meeting wide, grey ones. Ready to partner up, Yalishean?
 
Rysta is /nudged/ aside by one of the dragons, which knocks her half out of skin and, erm, other things. But she's looking down a moment later, perpetual amused smirk falling as she stares into the showy brown's eyes. And then a slow grin curves her lips and she reaches down to put a possessive, eager hand on the dragon's head. "Oh, I'm ready, Finmaraisth. I'm ready."
 
Ride the Lightning Egg hums with flashing electric, kinetic energy. Dashing bolts of thrashing lightning twist and grasp along its vacuous central black nucleus, battering brilliant tentacles of light against its glass prison. Thunder and flash! The battle rages on until hairline fissures mark the beginning of the storm's end. Pale features can be seen caged within the dark, going about their careful machinations of deliberate violence to achieve their freedom. Higher and higher! The power increases, the light glows bright! The egg /vibrates/, it overloads, its short circuits - it EXPLODES, and finally the seal is broken. Shell shards erupt every which direction and crouched in the decimated remains is Monster's Gilded Cage Brown Dragonet, the prisoner at large.
 

Monster's Gilded Cage Brown Dragonet

Phantom pallid, from the forward thrust of throat in froth-cream pale spears a monster's skull of snarling muzzle and scissoring jaws. Crypt-dust faded hues of washed-out ghostly brown flank spine in faint veins of silver bars amidst the raised razors of tan shrapnel steel, cruel cutting blades of 'ridge pikes, lined as pickets to serrate the elongated sweep from far-reaching neck through expansive tail. Between skeletal white wingbones and haunted billowing of ghostship sails, perfection hangs in svelte cold-carved marble. Low-slung creeping carriage of frost-faded beige is sleek and lean t'wix ripple swells of crouched limb's brutish muscle, bloodless tawny buff water-thinned to uneven shades of waxy once-wheat. Each stealthy foot claims an innermost talon with an exceptional wickedness: the tearing hook of a 'raptor's killing claw. Softer, sweeter, a tomb's breath of heartbroken lilac, dried to faintest dust-kiss of bruised lavender ghosts, imprisoned as but hollow echo-patters of gently decayed footsteps, fleeing the light to the dungeon dwellings of lean underbelly.
 
"Rysta. And -" Rikane is suddenly POINTING. "HA. HA. I CALLED IT." If any other candidate had yelled it, well, it would have been normal. But for /Rikane/ to yell it … it's kind of loud. And maybe obnoxious? And - "Whoa he's too cl… Yali?" Rikane is dropping back suddenly, pulling Kanika with him, eyes wide.
 
Bundles of Wires Egg has become quite violent in it's movement. The ovoid jerking around with wild abandon, caring not if any of the other eggs or remains of shells are in the way. They are all simply a means to an end as it is. Like many of the others that have come before it, crashing into it's siblings helps to cause several more chips to fly away, slowly revealing the color of the entity inside. Spider web cracks flare away from these portions of missing shell, the very structure of the ovum starting to vibrate with the pressure now being forced against it from the inside out. The sound of whip cracking in the air is what announces the explosion of egg bits now floating down from the sky. In the wake of the destruction, now free from her prison, stands Weapon Wreathed In Ivy-Shoots Green Dragonet.
 

Weapon Wreathed In Ivy-Shoots Green Dragonet

Fruit of the spirit of life abides in the vine of sinuous form, rippling in waves of milky jade that spills out from the epicenter of dainty nose in ever darkening waves of color. Lo, the birth of dawn lightly touches upon twisted headknobs and etched, stonework'd neckridges with the hint of creamery gold, lending brilliance to jade's pasture in gilded glory. Ever darkening green hugs the sharp contours of gaunt ribs and down to the soft swish of hips, a stark contrast against skeletal bones of a long neck and the gauntness of her chest. Neon's verdant green accents upon the spiked contours of neckridges, at the bend of joints, and is hinted in the shade of skeletal ribs. Reality is made anew with the creeping vines that curl up from diminutive, bony feet, tipped in wine-dark talons; lines of a darker black-green, complete with leafy growth, twine and entangle tiny legs to finally gather in the trellis of her underbelly. Whipcord thin, vine-like protrusions yearn for the spare hint of dawn at the upper reaches of her jade-cut form, clinging up the column of her neck. Long, sinuous tail ends in darkness, as if reality itself were a thing unraveled. Tail's abyssal darkness is tipped at the very end with the single kiss of starlight, faint against the black-green only to shine beneath the sun's brilliant flare. Continuity of motion sweeps outward, to rippling wings wrapped in the richness of spring's new growth. Outspread, the wingsails are the thinnest and touched in golden light while bundles of ice-green and grape's royal purple gather at the apex of each long, delicate wingbone. Wingspars flow with the fruit of the vine, the faint blush of wine-red.
 
Wind-Up Toy Mouse Egg still swirling around over here. Circle, circle, circle. This is gonna be one seriously wound up egg.
 
Strike of Twelve Egg keeps on keepin on. Tick tick tick. … Crap. Did it stop. Tick. Okay.
 
"Cervilaevarth?" Yalishean isn't even thinking about responding to anyone. Yalishean is in shock. Yalishean - isn't Yalishean. That's not her name anymore. Not according to him; not according to this mastermind who has entered her space and taken control of her plan. Which now she has: a Plan, as his sire has a Purpose. "Cervilaevarth," she repeats, trying it out. "And - Shea. Yes. Tell me all about it."
 
"HA HA, you're so funny!" And yet predictable. Somehow, /somehow/, Shizl's on his ass next, face to face with the bronze. Hi. Well, one eye's on the bronze, the other's squinting and slightly swollen. His mouth opens to speak, one hand raising an index finger, but the only thing out of his mouth is "Lakenheath? Oh thank Faranth I can actually say that." Yay! New BFF! Who needs N'ayl.
 
Dirna steps further and further back as the candidates around her start to get /snatched/ up by dragonets. So many reasons to run and hide… "C-congratulations!" She manages to the Yalishean. Or… Shea.
 
Arienne gives great smiles towards the Impressions that are already occuring for those in her Candidate group, but there's still so much before her.  "Congratulations," she calls to those so far.  There's too many to really keep up with the individuals, not when there's eggs cracking around her.
 
There were so many dragons, and then none, and then two more crack open, Kanika is almost overwhelmed with everything, but she still have Rikane near her, as she watches her friends and her "friends" impressing. "…Shards."
 
Rikane clings to Kanika. No, wait. He's… he's /defending/ her, really. Uh huh. "Holy shit," he repeats himself. "Did that just happen?" He doesn't even offer Yalishean a congratulations, because he's too busy staring. W. T. F. Dragonpocalyspe.
 
Dirna seems to have become magnetically attracted to Rikane. Because he's /large/. And not in charge, but more so than she is, maybe. Thonk. Right into his elbow.
 
Rikane latches magnetic onto Dirna, like a paper-clip zeroing in on a larger magnet. "Hi." Don't look at him like that.
 
"Rysta." Yzabet indulges a smile, swept aside with Syriene to make way for the flashy brown's claiming of his lifemate. Then there's Shizl, who makes her look INCREDIBLY displeased. "Faranth, N'ayl will be /pissed/." And then, "Please never let him catch gold."
 
Weapon Wreathed In Ivy-Shoots Green Dragonet is quite amused as swirling eyes zero in on what was her shell. The small hunks of egg get knocked this way and that from, her front forepaw the stick batting them away. It's a game of sorts, starts out friendly, than turns violent. Harder she smacks them, sending them flying. This simple action distracting, enthralling. A large chunk is near by. The green dragonet sees it clearly now, body turning tense. With a graceful /POUNCE/ the brittle remainders are turned into smaller sized chips. Her fun runs out fast, and truly, so much /else/ is going on. Sidestepping a few lengths, then two steps back, annnnd finally she goes forward. Head held high, tail swishing back and forth with volatile motions, a simple childlike innocence on the face of a youth wielding a weapon they do not understand.
 
Kanika is being held? If it weren't for the baby dragons running around to keep her mind off it should probably blush, and faint, but then Innocuous Egg is still out there, so someone is bound to have a very good night indeed. "Congrats, Yali!" But there are other things to attend to, large things, large hungry things.
 
Syriene can't keep up. "Yali - Shizl," and there's a beam for one, a faint frown for the other, but the expressions are washed away as yet more dragons enter the Sands. Brown earns a well-deserved shiver, and green a thoughtful, and long, glance - then it's more eye flickers; to eggs, to remaining Candidates, to hatchlings on the Sands.
 
Lucian is a bit relieved no one's been hurt so far, but the Impressions on the Sands catch him by surprise. The chaos is getting worse and easing up at the same time.  Uh…
 
Monster's Gilded Cage Brown Dragonet stalks low, his terrible shoulders rocking the silver'd cage confining his spine. Cold is he, unmindful of the egg scraps and moist goo glistens trickling in rivets off his pale, pale hide. Low carriaged, the manner in which his limbs reach forward, grasp the ground and then /pull/ him forward could be almost a CLIMB across the ground. He powers in a liquid prowl amongst the candidates, regarding them seeming more as a bland food to his culinary palate.
 
Strike of Twelve Egg sits motionless save the quiet steady pulse throbbing at its center. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The sands fall away into expectant chaos but still it awaits the right time. Tick, tick (crack) tick, tick, CRACK. It splits along the wood grain creases, its time piece face collapsing inward. A glimpse of inky black movement pauses within. Holds its breath, halfway through. tick, tick… tick- Utterly silent. Wait for it. Suddenly, dramatically, as if it had all been a great cosmic joke, the whole thing peels outward with a casual ease, spilling forth its rumpled cargo with a loose instinctive flare, and Devil in the Details Blue Dragonet falls into the first few steps of defining his OWN pulsing life tempo.
 

Devil in the Details Blue Dragonet

Darkness pulses in discord harmony, the instigator stands charming as razors and spun of fine glass. His shoulders hang loose as running rivers, his nape soldiered with the bristling ridges of obsidian spears. His elongated body, narrow of chest, tensile of haunch, glistens raven-black, pelted mad will fallen stars. Ultraviolet flecks embed the black ink of serpent's spine in iambic intervals, long and short shrapnel-shreds of iridescent indigo: coldfire apocalypse supported recklessly by long angular legs. Strange nightflowers bloom between dagger'd silver wingspars: the outer edge of darkling 'sails haunted by oily opal ghosts of gossamer turquoise, sliced through by black ribbons into striations of stained glass. A third eye spearheads his gaze, his face sharply boned and masked in shadow-murk: between the twin spines of jagged eyeridges, it glows as a diadem of searing cobalt, electric and unblinking from his brow, asleep or awake.
 
Is someone supposed to escort the newbies to the side and out of the way? Well, who cares? Finmaraisth and his newly Impressed have plans of their own. Plans that, for the moment, anyway, involve getting out of the way of further baby dragon insanity. She sees nothing and nobody, hand still on the flashy brown's head, mind somewhere else entirely.
 
Paige's eyes travel across the sands, watching her fellows impress.  Briefly she glances to the galleries, and then back to the hatching dragonets.
 
"Yalishean." Single word of solidarity from Yzabet. You done our kind proud, kiddo.
 
Rilhden is trying so hard to keep track of hatching dragons and and impressions, his eyes flying from each new dragonet to the faces of the newly impressed, the ones he shared the barracks with for so long. He cheers at the proper times and avoids any hatchlings that prowl a bit too close.
 
Rikane stares at the latest blue, and shakes his head, before his wary gaze is reclaimed by that /brown/. "I take back my opinion of Rysta's brown. He appears much scarier." Matter-of-fact, really. "Yzabet," he calls over, "That green totally looks like she's made /juuuuuuust/ for you!"
 
Wind-Up Toy Mouse Egg stops all that circling noise. Not it just wavers back and forth some. Never really stopping or anything. Do de do!
 
*Weapon Wreathed In Ivy-Shoots Green Dragonet* cannot seem to keep her attention on any such thing for long. Oh, oh! Another sibling of hers has hatched! But wait, now there's another as well! Look look! Now one of them has Impressed! How simply marvelous, so much going on, all of it exciting, enticing. Now wait, what are those? Not too far away, but still quite a few strides from her. Short attention span is grasped, the white robes now the shiny attraction her mind craves. Before anything else, she must see what those are and why they seem to beckon her on.
 
R'yst is throwing up a hand, barking out across the PANDEMONIUM of hatching, "Over here!" To those that have succumbed. Er. To those that have Impressed.
 
Oh, she's really sweating now.  Arienne looks left and right, her mouth twitching.  "Congratulations," she calls again.  She's not meaning to be impersonal, but the nervousness is really getting to her, as she tries to keep her eye on those looking for lifemates.
 
Finally and egg that doesn't explode, Kanika can barely keep up. Hop, bounce, hop, don't get run over. Stay near Rikane. He's a bigger target. Her eyes dance between the dragonets circling the sands, "I didn't expect it to be so…" Well they did warn them, but who can be ready?
 
"At least nobody's been /mauled/ yet," Rikane comments sideways to Kanika. "Right?" Someone better knock on his head for luck after that comment, seriously.
 
Sh'z finally gets to his knees and stands, beckoning his new friend off towards the Weyrlingmaster. "Or YOU!," he then says as he gives Rikane a little nudge from behind along the way. "You're such a pussy." Meow.
 
Tilla has been here, the whole time. Really. Drinking a generous skin of wine. Trotting over to R'yst, she is doing about the same thing. Except jumping up and down and waving her arms, which gets the boobles going on a jigglefest. "Over.." jump "Heereeee!" Boingoingoing.
 
Impeccably Innocuous Egg topples over.  Wait not really.  It's stilllllllllllllllllllllllllll sitting here.  Like a friggin' lump.  NO VIBRATING FOR JOO.
 
While it's Shea who first /hears/ R'yst, it's Cervilaevarth who actually begins to move in that direction first - because in that direction lies the simple indulgence of food, and over food they can discuss the next steps. Or else, that is what he will think until they actually /get/ to the food, and then likely will forget. Entirely. "Sir," Shea says to R'yst with a HUGE GRIN, and a bob of her head. Her face must be hurting, and those dimples she usually tries to mask? Huge.
 
Mutter: "Fuck off, bronzerider." Because Rikane can, and because Sh'z /is/, now. Right? Right. Wait, wait, dragons have to WAIT, because Tilla's amazing funbags are totally capturing him in rapt attention. Holy breasteses, batman.
 
Monster's Gilded Cage Brown Dragonet moves, yet remains unmoved. He stalks the predator, powerful rolling muscles carrying him with a liquid danger. Innocent, soft pads of pale lavender wash beneath his lean belly, shouldering between the cursed obstacles of clutchsibling and candidate alike. Disregarding the unnecessary. Stalk-stalk-stalk.
 
Dirna watches the green dragonet pouncing about and the deliberate stalk of the brown, and then that one egg hatches. The ticking one, and yet another dragonet spills out upon the stands. "What's that on its head…?" She whispers. She digs Rikane with an elbow. "Yet. Lucky you're a better target than me. Thanks!" She grins up at him in nervous sarcastic mischeivousness.
 
Lendai sucks at her job already! The junior-weyrwoman-turned-assistant-weyrlingmaster omfgwtfbbq. Moving out towards those that have impressed. "C'mon, c'mon. Let's be moving your tails over to where Tilla is jumping around."
 
Weapon Wreathed In Ivy-Shoots Green Dragonet moves at a leisurely pace, every so often getting sidetracked by another happening. Her mind wonders, attention wavers. Luckily, always the white in her vision carries her further. Dragon paws move gingerly, mushing into the sands and kicking up a spray when it amuses her to do so. Sand falling back to the earth a thing of intrigue and mystery. A few more times she does this, talons sending it up, gravity taking it down. Gets kinda boring fast though, so onward, closer and closer. Candidates all lined up before her, but it matters little. Already she has made her choice. Marching straight up to a blue-eyed female, Weapon Wreathed In Ivy-Shoots Green Dragonet reached out her muzzle, opens her maw, and bites DOWN upon the robe covering the girl. Yanked once or twice, trying to free the cloth from the person. It stays, alas, though just as well. Paige and the robe will BOTH be hers.
 
Cracks and fissures texture the shivering vessels like cast thread! The unraveling eggs unbind their cargo one after another, loose as cast spools a bronze here, a brown there. Two blues bound as if knit together until the final moment when they part to select respective a brunette girl to the south and to the north: Mifayn finds himself embracing his lifemate. "Scarfth? What kind of a name is that?" They move to the side at the beckoning of an AWLM, heard murmuring as they go, "M'fy, huh? Could have been worse…"
 
Devil in the Details Blue Dragonet could go anywhere he wanted. But he doesn't. Once he's loosed from his shell, he takes one step, two. A third. In order, one-two-three-and then four and he stops, frozen in place. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Leaning more to his left leg than another, he could be a cowboy propped up against a bar, casual as day. Hmm. One wing even droops lower than the other, flashing an oily turquoise undertone along his sails. Only the last foot of his loooong snaking tail moves in rhythmic pendulum-twitches. Twitch-twitch-twitch-twitch-LASH, he breaks his own pattern and, as if waiting for this sign he is /moving/. It's an easy stroll, his head cocked and not seeming to particularly be paying attention to where he's going. Only incidentally is he glancing along the candidates assorted. H'lo. Hi. Nothing to see here. Pad-pad-pad - FREEZE. He's back to it again.
 
Lucian shifts as even more eggs are moving about. "Grats, everyone." He looks to the latest awkward blue.  "Lost there, little guy?"
 
As the numbers dwindle, Yzabet will gravitate inward to the throng of candidates, gaze as severe as ever. Shizl - Sh'z, gone, her lacking mood reclaims blank expression, fingers tugging Syriene along. Closer to Rikane.
 
"The dragonets, Rikane!" Kanika elbows the one-track mind male, look who is saving who now. "What's that blue up to? Aren't they /hungry/?" She eyes the stalking brown and then the stop and go blue.
 
Rikane wants the box. Can he have the box, Eth'n? Pleeeeeeeeease? Pretty pleeeeeeeeeeease? "They're - hatching." And there is a moment of morose commentary. Morose? Can't be morose. He can DRINK after this. He tugs Kanika closer, even going so much as to drape one arm over her in a very protective fashion. On the other side, Yzabet-and-Syriene-ways, it wiggles in invitation.
 
"Tilla." R'yst says /very/ lightly. "If you're drunk, you will want to STEP ASIDE. Now." He smiles indulgently down at Yalishean - or so he would call her for now. "Congratulations." Pride? Well. He does love when the ones HE Searches Impress.
 
The box is not for RIKANE's!  Pff.  Eth'n GUARDS his box jealously!
 
Syriene takes a breath, eyes flickering outward - brown. Green. Blue. Each hatchling is marked - especially when the green takes up with Paige, and she grins broadly at the girl. This is more exciting than she thought, and she says as much to Yzabet as her fingers tighten on the other girl's, allowing herself to be dragged towards Rikane. "This is more exciting than I thought it would be!" See? Toldja.
 
Thar Be Dragons Egg shivers suddenly, rocked by a gust of imagined wind. Bumps and scrapes sound suddenly from behind the multicolored shell, followed a moment later by silence as the egg's antics subside. Suddenly, talons poke through the side, ripping the shell asunder and making way for the dragonet inside. This can mean only one thing. Time to get this show on the road!
 

Moonshine and Muddy Waters Blue Dragonet

Along the world's grim reality and toughened landscape of rolling shoulders and hard-packed chest, the weight of winter's frost surrenders to glacier's deepest shadows, bruised blues rising and falling as breath with each contour of a brawny hide. And yet aloft, the yearning many-peaked 'ridges of pale ice reach up from the darkness, straining for the light, full soul, this blue brother. Dark crystals stretch down knobby-sparred wings, yielding with fitful lashes to sky blue 'sails and sun-kissed trailing edge. Twilight softens 'round squat headknobs of navy suede, embracing broad brow and melting like molasses toward prominent cerulean maw, tumbling in cobalt rapids toward marbled underbelly of spring's ice melt. Chaotic crags of silver-echoed jags fade to brushed velvet coating the steely strength of limbs, only to plunge back into razor-sharp obsidian of talons so nimble.
 
Paige is in utter shock, even (despite?) a dragonet biting at her robe.  "Don't," she murmurs, pushing at the green's head and staring down at her new lifemate, eyes wide.  "Eriphyliriuth…" she murmurs, saying the name carefully and slow.  "Y-yes."  Blinking a few times, the girl gives her head a firm shake and looks around, and then leads her new lifemate towards the food and the Weyrlingmaster staff.
 
Is Arienne's lip about to draw blood?  Okay, maybe she's not biting it that hard, but she is ten kinds of nervous.  "Congrats, Paige!" she calls.  At least she's tried to pay a little more attention as the numbers dwindle.  She side steps a couple more rocking eggs and looks to the number of blues about.
 
Sh'z isn't gone, but turning focus to Tilla's infamous funbags, per Lendai's instruction. Well, it was something like that. "Don't worry Yza, there'll be another bronze for you, I'm sure!" Funbags or not, there's always room for taunting from the sidelines.
 
Tilla snorts. "I am not drunk.  Pleeease. I can hold my wine." Better than her player, that's for sure. Arms crossed, she scoooowls. And then her expression brightens. "Congrats, Yalishean. Fine looking blue you have there."
 
"Dunno," Dirna says to Kanika. "LIke he's only half payin' attention…" She watches the stalking brown and then can't help but be caught up in the tick-tick-tick-tick of the blue again. And now there's /another/ blue… They're still coming, and there's so many!
 
Yzabet bares her teeth at Shizl, almost hissing, like a vicious, vicious feline.
 
Mew.
 
People keep Impressing! Shea can't keep up. She also can't even remember her own name, so it's not like R'yst needs to worry - he's not alone. But then Tilla says it, and so she gets the chance to introduce: "He says it's 'Shea' now," with a shrug. "I thought, since everybody calls me Yali - But Shea it is. /Thank/ you." Glowing with pride. Cervilaevarth is ignoring everyone in order to indulge.
 
Of course Rikane wants the box. It's a box. Kanika is pulled in closer and seems to calm down a little. Her big brother will take care of any mauling dragons, another egg down. "Another blue.." Is commented, "You think…you think many more will hatch before these impress?" Too many to be safe. Glance to Rikane and then the other girls.
 
Wind-Up Toy Mouse Egg shimmies some now, getting down with it's bad self. Uh yeah, uh uh, uh yeah! Shiiiiimmmmmiiiiieeeeeee, OW-YEAH!
 
Impeccably Innocuous Egg moves.  WAIT.  Yes.  There's movement.  Vibrate on low setting, baby.
 
Rikane can't keep up, either. He stares left, he stares right, and he replies softly to Kanika, "I dunno, sweets." His gaze scythes over to Dirna, then farther over to Syriene and Yzabet. "This /is/ - exciting." Exhilerating. Surviving it is going to be epic. Epic DRUNKENNESS. If you ain't go no money, take yo' broke… "Hey, the weyrleader has a box."
 
"I think they're just gonna go for the stands in a bit," Dirna replies, getting a little bit of her normal flippancy back. "Or for Rikane."
 
Monster's Gilded Cage Brown Dragonet dismisses the churning herds of walking meat that part around him. Dirty waters, he moves apart from them, restrained purely by his own cold inner fortress. Not yet. His mouth hangs open, /breathing/ in these rich smells of fear. Of adrenaline. His is not joy, but surely it could be an excitement, for he catches something else now. The sharp bite of a young girl's hiss. So small. So fragile that baring of teeth, in all of her snowy white and chaste skirt pleats. He descends upon her as a closing iron trap, and it is Yzabet he drives from her childhood cling of candidates. No more. Now, she shall be HIS.
 
Rysta surfaces finally, as if from a long plunge into swampy water. She shakes her head a little and looks down at the newly hatched Finmaraisth, who looks back at her with silver flaring glibly across his face. "Oh, you're a dangerous one," she murmurs. She grabs a bucket of meat and starts feeding, but she spares a smirking look over at R'yst. "Surprised, sug?" she purrs.
 
Syriene is a dragon attractor - for everyone but herself. As her other hand-mate is claimed, the herder-girl can't repress a squeak and drops Yzabet's hand like a hot potato, scurrying towards Rikane and grasping at him instead. "Congrats!" she calls to the other girl from a safe distance.
 
Moonshine and Muddy Waters Blue Dragonet shrugs off a piece of shell, shakes off a glob of goo, then adjusts the round, flat bit of egg that sits cockeyed on his head, tilted by his dark blue headknobs.  Wings ruffle as he takes a peek at that line of white-robed candidates.  Well, what do you know?  A ready-made audience.  Yeah, he can dig it.  The newly hatched dragonet grabs the bit of shell on his head, stark white against the obsidian of his talons, then flicks it at the nearest group of white robes.  Time for auditions, cats.  Let's see you all dance.
 
R'yst dips his head, smiling thin. "Shea. Of course." He EYEBALLS Tilla in a classical 'do not make me murder you in front of the children' way, but it does not last. He hooks an elbow upon Tilla's shoulder proprietarily - she IS his! - and makes a sort of dazzled shake of his head to Rysta as she approaches, "My fault if I am. You do like to surprise."
 
Arienne blinks.  "Yzabet?"  She blinks again.  "Congratulations!"  And she means it, seriously.  But now her attention is on the pink egg.  Oh, that terrible pink egg.  It's moving.  Rather, it's vibrating.
 
Hot, hot, one foot, other foot. Lucian does the lovely little dance of one with feet just a little too big for his sandals on sands just a little too hot. The general chaos of hatchings and impressions going on around him and he finds some interest in… a bit of broken shell. No not to pick it up, simply to peer at it, and see how it once fit with the shards around it.
 
Rikane is still here. Kind of. "The scary one Impressed Yzabet?" His voice is kind of miserable.
 
Wait. Wait - Shea spots the action out of the corner of her eye, as the brown selects Yzabet. "Oh! Yzabet!" She claps a little, and Cervilaevarth gives her this /look/ like - I'm trying to /eat/ here. Shea stops with the clapping, though she is bouncing a little. The whole thing feels unreal. Her bouncing takes her a bit closer to Rysta. "Nice dragon you've got there," she offers.
 
One down in the mass of dragonets roaming around. "What's wrong Rika…" But her sentence is cut off as she eyes the newly hatched blue, "Did that dragon just flick a shell at candidates?" Great. They are attacking.
 
Rikane also snags up Syriene. He has a HOST OF WOMEN. What man could possibly be less-than-pleased by that? Him and all these girls. All his girls, actually, come to think, sans Yalishean… Irony.
 
Jerushai, here all the time. Just hiding. And squeaking when dragons get too close.
 
One down in the mass of dragonets roaming around. "What's wrong Rika…" But her sentence is cut off as she eyes the newly hatched blue, "Did that dragon just flick a shell at candidates?" Great. They are attacking. Kanika, who's player is way to nervous to not hit enter at the wrong time, eyes the nearest exit. Too late to run?
 
Zeyta's face blanches white as her only human contact is torn away from her. Eyes grow cold, and her skin is marble. Her expression waxes at its most dour, and then, she is announcing in monotone, loud and clarion clear, "Kczyslawborth." No, not gibberish; its this MONSTER's name.
 
When the brown goes for Yzabet, Dirna jumps backwards like she's on springs… and then looks even worse off when she realizes that the two are now one of the potentially most terrifying pairs in the world. But something seems to solidify, even as she watches the new Zeyta come to accept her situation, and the girl stands up straighter. And… smiles, a little? "Think so," she grins at Kanika. "Can't be far from eatin' people now."
 
Tilla raises her eyebrows, "Yes, /Shea/," she says, with emphasis, trying to commit it to memory now…before all the other names flood her brain and she becomes confuzzled. A pause, "Rysta." she says, nodding. "A brown, how delightful! Excellent." She leans into R'yst's shoulder hook with a smirk, whispering "Your arm is bony. It kinda hurts." Laugh.
 
Moving about the chaotic bursting of eggs, frantic candidates, and quick little dragons is much like a dance to Lendai. Gaining near to the newest impressees, the goldrider makes a come hither motion. "Yzabet? How about you and Kcy… Kczys… K…lalalalalalalath come on over with me to the side, hmm? Waiting with the rest of your clutchsiblings."
 
Devil in the Details Blue Dragonet isn't slow. He's just timing it by the /cosmos/. He has all the time in the world, really, standing there like a moonstruck calf in a black so dark he could be a bad omen. But it's a wicked-amused omen at that. Tick-tick, his tail swings, just incidentally slipping around a fumbling weyrling as he goes with a sideways prance. It could be a gambol, it could be clumsy, but he fails to seem in any danger of tripping as he falls into a padding trot that could very well have been synchronized with hours of practice, dipping and weaving now, sniffing here. Pausing ABRUPTLY with his head yanking back there as if hearing some unknown sound. Frozen. Oh. Nevermind. He huffs, and resumes trotting along the heart beat of the world, this careless stranger.
 
"Did Lendai just call that dragon Klalalalalalalath?" Rikane is curious, okay? Okay? Because NOW, /now/ Yzabet - Zeyta - is so never, ever, EVER, /NEVER/, EVER *ever* getting laid.
 
Eth'n coughs behind his hand, slanting a look at those around them to see if they caught Lendai's name blunder.  Still, the beribboned box in his hand remains so innocuously held.  So ribbony.  Pink.  Perfectly shaped to fit nicely in his hands.  Doot, doot, doot.  Eggs!  Hatching!
 
Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am! In the sweltering heat and to the cheers of the crowd, they're pounding loose their exit portals! A bronze and green tear free at once, followed up by a charging blue that breaks into bounds the instant he's through. Last and weighty, the oaken weight of a meaty brow batters loose the gates of his egg and impacts the young man once known as Batter. "Ouf! B'tr…" he croaks, a hand around his abdomen. "Yes, we /do/, Ramth… yes we do."
 
Kanika nods solemnly at Rikane, "Yah, she did." Dirna is shot a fierce glance, "That's okay, they'll eat Kane first…he's bigger." And he'll do that for her, right. Right?
 
Moonshine and Muddy Waters Blue Dragonet trundles along the line, now and then stopping with head tilted as his eyes whirl with red-streaked tinges of orange.  Brother's /hungry/, but this gig's not quite done yet.  Those deep, dark talons sink into the sand until he stops, head low, nodding as if to some secret beat.  Sun-kissed wings flutter slightly, then his tail gives a thump against the sand, sending a spray against Rilhden.  Potential.  Hey!  Not bad!  But not here.  He moves over toward another huddle of candidates, eyeing them carefully.
 
Rysta's grin at R'yst turns positively feline, though she keeps a weather eye on what she's shoving into Finmaraisth's mouth, just in case she accidentally grabs a Candidate or something. "It was all part of the plan, sug. Missed the first time to keep y'all guessin'." Her grin to Yalishean, or whatever she's called now, has less teeth. "He's /trouble/." There's a blank look followed by a smirk down to the dragon that's equal delight and horror. Oh /dear/.
 
Half of the Sands have cleared, but there's still so much causing Arienne to be nervous.  Her hair is stuck to the sides of her face, both hot and fidgetty.  She tries to get out of the way of a swiftly moving dragonet who doesn't intend on stopping at her.  At least not at the moment.
 
Rikane thinks Eth'n could be less innocuous about the damned box, too. WTF, man. WTF. "These blues are taking their damned time," he bitches, just to bitch, at his two .. three? .. girls.
 
"They have to make sure they make the right choice, Kane." Kanika looks up at the man, "Otherwise they would have the wrong lifemate, that would be awful. Maybe one of those blues is looking for you."
 
The two blues are holding most of Dirna's attention for now, though maybe just because one of them's looking really hungry. "S'right," she says to Kanika. "They got all the time they want…" Her mutter to Rikane trails off as she goes back to watching the other blue, the one that came from the ticking egg. Headshake. "Yeah, 'Kane, go hunker down and stare'em in the face, see if they bite."
 
Jerushai is edging in closer to what of the group remains, his face very white still. "Are they just going to wander forever? What if they want someone who's not here? Don't they just-die, then?" he wonders aloud, glancing to Kanika and Rikane as they share similar thoughts.
 
"Hell no they ain't," Rikane retorts, speedy-quick. "They're looking.. for.. you and Dirna!" He will TOTALLY sacrifice BOTH of them to the blue-dragon gods. Here, dragonet, dragonet~
 
Wind-Up Toy Mouse Egg tilts hither and yon, just enough that it seems like the little pink nose is twitching. The sweep of whiskers seem to writhe as cracks form along these darker striations. The cracks wide until bits and pieces start falling away, the belly of the little egg busting forth. The wind-up power source clings to the gooey gem that spills out of the egg's shell. Giving a shake of her head, Faerie's Blade and Lace Hand-Fan Green Dragonet strikes a pose, that ridiculous piece of egg shell still clinging to the slope of her plushie hips. Toss! New life begins with a hiss to her mother, before those first little dancing steps are taken forward…
 

Faerie's Blade and Lace Hand-Fan Green Dragonet

Manifested as if a thousand emeralds have been squeezed of their color and shaded by the abyss, this dark, eddying green forms the base coat, liquid swirls of glossy bronze tinted jade spill through the richness of hue like free-flowing swirls. Nothing lighter than the brilliance of the faint copper-bronze tinted fire of dark emeralds emerges from the sweeps of color that spill from rounded snout, down the short length of neck, across the curve of her back to end in the tip of her tail. In stance, she echoes the influence of sinister's call to shadow for the sharply pointed 'ridges and low-carriage rise of dainty legs. Viscous globules of soot veiled malachite emerge across the surface of richly appointed curvature of ribs and delicate, rounded shoulders. Elegance incarnate comes from the outstretched perfection of wings; painted in liquid ruby-in-zoiscite with the faint shimmer of red-violet reminiscent of the peacock's fan. Delicate wingsails collect watermelon-tourmaline, spotted with clarity of moss agate, like eyes against feather'd ebony in peacock-like plumage that form the foundation of her wings. Glittering mawsitsit gains a foothold in rounded headknobs, the brilliance of pure, vibrant green touches upon the cuteness of upturned snout. Talons are of tawny gold, tipped in shadow'd forest green; jasper-stoned curvatures of wicked sharpness. Underscoring the dark coloring is an opalescence that shimmers beneath the soft caress of light.
 
Syriene curls her fingers around Rikane's hand, hovering near him as she watches the dragons, worrying at her lip. Fewer and fewer eggs remain intact, and eggshells are starting to outnumber the grains of sand.
 
Eth'n has a box of DOOM.  Or, y'know, one that Rhaeyn /doesn't know what's in it/.
 
Rhaeyn thinks that Eth'n isn't getting any tonight unless that box has something that vibrates in it.
 
Rilhden jerks back as a blue gets close enough to spray him with sand. "Hey now." But luckily the dragonet moves on and the boy releases the remaining air from his chest. Potential? Psh, Rilh is no potential anything!
 
Impeccably Innocuous Egg vibrates a little harder and ends up slooooooooooow-listing to the side.  Never fear, it does not topple!
 
Zeyta stares at Lendai, sharply correcting, "It's Kczyslawborth." Without looking back, she heeds instruction to move ahead of her new lifemate - brown - and join the ranks along the sidelines.
 
R'yst is keeping an off-hand glance in the direction of Eth'n and his SHE-BITCH Weyrwoman, in case they're training crossbows or something at the back of his head. Or spreading anthrax from that little snuffbox of Eth'n's. "Is it?" He asks Tilla as if this was /fascinating/ news, though he does retrieve his arm off the AWLM's shoulder. He POINTS at Rysta, "Be good. You'll die." Is he threatening her or just warning her of the dangers of screwed up lifemate bonds? IT COULD MEAN ANYTHING.
 
Peer at the shards just a moment longer, thoughtful hum, shrug, move on. The shapes may be used as part of a bowl project some day. Of course its only halfway through it that he will realize all the bits were not from the same egg. The chaos pulls him away again, though, and he shifts his weight between his feet, stepping back into the line of fire, eyes focusing on the dragonets.
 
Green. Blue. Blue. Whatever. Dragonets /everywhere/. Shea has given up trying to keep track - she is keeping a vague eye out on Rikane, Syriene and Dirna, but for the most part she is focusing on making sure that Cervilaevarth does not completely attempt to scarf down every trace of every food in existence. He seems interested in it all. "No. No, that's Finma - ma - crap. Rysta, what's his name? That's his food."
 
Lucian peers at the shards just a moment longer, thoughtful hum, shrug, move on. The shapes may be used as part of a bowl project some day. Of course its only halfway through it that he will realize all the bits were not from the same egg. The chaos pulls him away again, though, and he shifts his weight between his feet, stepping back into the line of fire, eyes focusing on the dragonets.
 
"Yeeeeah. Whaaatever. I'll just call him 'K' from now on." Lendai states, a droll look on her face, eyebrows raised as she moves with the newest brown weyrling over towards the side of the hatching sands. "R'yst, Tilla." Her new boss and co-worker are given a look. "I think I maybe should've waited till /next/ clutch to… try out this whole weyrlingmastering thing, dun'cha thing? Should've known better than to try it with Aevryscienth and Ysvarth offspring."
 
Tilla laughs at Lendai's pronunciation blunders, "And you thought /I/ was drunk?" she winks. "Yes, it is quite bony. Does it snap like a twig?" An odd expression, "I totally am not going to try to break your arm. Seeeriously." A pause, "So what do you think is in that pink box that Eth'n has? Handcuffs? Panties? Fellis?" A laugh towards Rysta, "Seriously. Be good. Or else." Eyebrow waggle.
 
Rikane shakes his head, sudden, and draws himself up. All this is, after all, is one more kick in the teeth, right? He shifts, foot by foot, keeping a wary eye on the two blues. "/Really/ takin' their time," he denotes. Loudly. What?
 
Faerie's Blade and Lace Hand-Fan Green Dragonet is all sly movements and silky motions, from the turn of her head used before to express her distaste at her clutchmother, to the now forward steps as each dragon paw moves in front of the other. Those behind her are already forgotten, left for better or for worse. Better than they, this green is. A pause in her walking, calculating gaze sent out at all that is hers. All that she commands. Forepaw is risen, her head sinking lower to hide all but her swirling eyes with the appendage as a sibling walks past. The barest of snarl, the quickening of eye is all that she allows to be seen and heard until the other dragon fully passes by. They are but another piece to her ploy.
 
Impeccably Innocuous Egg has just about had enough.  ENOUGH.  It's time.   Is it… moving?
 
Impeccably Innocuous Egg shudders, a slow oncoming seismic activity that rocks through the baby-pink shell as the occupant inside works to break free. Flakes of shell fall away, starting first on the sides and then the top, leaving behind only a pure and unadulterated darkness from which a creature moves. Glittering bronzed wings flare first, exploding through the shards of what remains of the shell, sending them flying in a ridiculous pink confetti. The rest of the egg's shell melts away in the final culmination of the moment, leaving behind a creature born of darkness and touched by light, emerging from sensuality's tight grip. Avenging Chariot of Darkness Bronze Dragonet stands triumphant.
 

Avenging Chariot of Darkness Bronze Dragonet

Betwixt light and dark, on the middle ground of an ancient war stands a warrior touched by both; brilliant sun-gold accented bronze is the first skirmish claimed by light, acting as the purist base of color from head knobs, to tail-tip. Shadow gains foothold in the elongation of neckridges, a battle won against light whereupon the curling touch of lavender's shadow shimmers from any angle upon the farthest side of the spikier 'ridges. Regality is light's grace upon shadow's fertile soil, giving birth to a form perfected at the pivotal center between serpentine length and massive weight. Battle hardened, beaten copper is drizzled down the slope of shoulders to trail the length of spine, tempered in smudges of dark soot. The foothold of Darkness is garrisoned in the lower reaches, giving rise to tempered, burnished bronze that runs tarnished in the shadows of underbelly, to dance upon the inky grasp of abyssal darkness that encase the feet and give rise to the wicked, curved talons, kissed by the moon itself. Up the underside of the neck, strife continues in shadow-glinted bronze, held at bay where sin meets righteous purity of the upper side of his neck; it is here that bonfire's brilliance flares bright into the glory of fire-gold kissed brass that masks regal features, accented with amber glints at the apex of sharp headknobs and eyeridges. The vast expanse of wings are yet untainted by darkness, lending purity to newly hammered apricot that ends in delicate wingspars of platinum . With each movement, the war between light and dark is fought across the very flesh of a beast cast into the realm of grey.
 
Dirna shifts from foot to foot, the heat of the sands working its way up through the soles of her ratty, tatty sandals. Shift. Shift. Shift. And she realizes she's shifting in time to the pacing of dragonets. Maybe she's subconsciously getting ready to run. None of that. Feet plant firmly on the sands once more. She's her father's daughter, dammit, and if something comes at her she will /not run./ Whatever else she ends up doing. To Rikane: "You still got booze, right? I'mn'a need some after this. Whether you wanna gimme it or not."
 
Moonshine and Muddy Waters Blue Dragonet settles into a slouch, his whirling eyes intent on one candidate in particular.  No, not that crass guy right there.  That one gets a loogie of egg goo flicked at his feet. No, man.  The little innocent one.  Sweet.  Like a shot o' southern comfort, that one.  Yeah, he can dig it.  Moonshine and Muddy Waters Blue Dragonet gathers himself up, taps the sand four times with his tail, then reaches a dark-tipped paw toward Kanika.  Let the jam session /commence/.
 
Arienne couldn't begin to pronounce half of those, but that's not directly on her mind right now.  Instead, she stares at the few remaining eggs, shifting her focus to the Innoc egg.  And then…  It cracks.  Oh man, so little time left…  So few dragons.  "Congrats, Kanika."  So nervous is she at this point, trying not to fall over a few of the shards.
 
"Okay, so is it just me," Shea says to no one - Cervilaevarth - everyone - someone, she says it out loud without intended direction, "or did everything just slow down a lot? They all got out all fast and eager, and now the remaining dragons are pacing themsel-" She cuts off some mental commentary about being sure, when the bronze hatches and Kanika Impresses at once. "NIKA! Blue! Yes!" Already, she has color solidarity: or did she already have that, because of her father, also a four-letter-named bluerider? Who knows.
 
Devil in the Details Blue Dragonet has been taking his time. But this does not mean he doesn't feel the needful beat. As if aware of the lackadaisical powers of inevitability; he absorbs the ambient rhythms of aggression, hunger, joy, need, standing for a moment, an ancient in miniature. Egg goo has mostly dripped from his abyssal darkness and he listens. Flicking tail keeping track of a tempo only he seems aware of. Lifts one paw, nearly steps - pauses again as a chameleon, rocking just slightly. Disheveled sense of balance topples forward into a stroll now, but now it is /intense/. Now it is driven as if he'd heard a sudden prompt. Or perhaps he'd heard only the sarcastic sound of amusement in the dusky tones of the One. Shift-shift-shift? The timed pacing of this girl he /sees/ now, and he falls into movements as if in dance. Run, sit, sleep, it's all the same to him. But stand your ground? All the better. He has taken Dirna in his sights. Neither explosion nor roar nor cordoning off. He just wanders up to her. And sloppily plops his ass down, long tail slapping down. And becoming still. He has chosen. Was there any doubt?
 
Syriene stares. Yes. STARES. "Little Nika?" she whispers to Rikane, leaning towards him as blue dragon comes too close for comfort. "That's just… perfect!" Of course, there's more dragons and less people to distract, and she edges, fingers still gripping hard to Rikane's hand, behind him. And then - another blue, and "DIRNA!"
 
Rikane is going to CRY, okay? He's going to CRY like a little BITCH. Kanika first, then Dirna? What the /eff/, dragonets. What the /eff/. He grabs Syriene's hand like a drowning man. "I just - I - both of them." He's crestfallen. They have been STOLEN from him. STOLEN. "What the crap does that one think he's on?" To the bronze, y'know. Maybe he's on steroids. Roid rage mauling, anyone?
 
Avenging Chariot of Darkness Bronze Dragonet steps forward out of the mess of the shards he's left behind, talons digging into the heated sands.  Even as egg goo is slung off of newly hatched wings, this dragonet peers behind him at the shattered remains of his egg with something akin to mourn.  Standing at the crossroads of a choice, he hesitates.  Love, hate, dark, light, redemption or persecution; the battle has been called and he takes the first steps away from destruction, wading into the masses for the one who can drive the chariot's twin shades of opposition.
 
Faerie's Blade and Lace Hand-Fan Green Dragonet finally finds her path unguarded, no other dragonets to disrupt her as she now moves freely without hindrance from those who dare to get in her way. Head now held high, wings arched out to take up as much space as possible, her superiority an all-encompassing thing. Candidates have thinned, yes, many of her clutchsiblings having run out like imbeciles, taking up the simple-minded. But oh, not for this green. Her sights are already set, there is no picking and choosing to do. Only the /weak/ and /insufferable/ think and re-think about their decisions. Though a momentary stumble, wing droops too low and her back-leg nicks it. The dragonet rights her position, the tendrils of her temper flaring as she snaps out, teeth sharp and biting. Calm. Relaxed. No, that what was just seen actually never happened. Forward, once more.
 
Kanika was scared, now suddenly - everything is all good. She steps out from the "protective" arm of Rikane. "Atmanth? And Nika? I'm all yours. Let's go eat." She settles a soft hand on the hide of the blue dragonet as they move in time together, toward Lendai, and food.
 
Jerushai, watching the dragons continue to hatch, falls silent and lets them, while he edges back away still. Brave, he is not.
 
All that pain from that pink egg and it's a bronze? Lucian should have figured. He stares at it, curious of it, pondering whom it moves to. Step, step forward towards it. Maybe he can coax this one. He's surprisingly calmer than he was a bit ago. But the action has calmed itself. There are not many left.
 
She hadn't know it was misaligned, but as Dirna's world suddenly falls into place, she lets out a gasp, eyes going wide, taking it all in, and especially that one word that rings like the very beat of the universe she now feels pounding through her own soul. "Tindraeth." And she's just staring. Listening.
 
"Don't try and break my arm," R'yst growls, apparently not BELIEVING Tilla. He's actually looking a little… wooden. A stiff smile offered Lendai and a really, really fake laugh: "Hah. Hah. Yeah. No. If you back out on me now after all the shit I'm in to get you," IN HIS GRASP, he does not say, "you will not like where we go from there." Aw, they're like an old married couple. Look at the super awkward pat he even gives her, "Buck up. It's only… twenty five." Longer pause. "They are -," he eyes Zeyta's brown beast, Rysta's, "- striking, aren't they."
 
Lendai leaves the safety of the sides, of her fellows and the next generation to go forth and gather some more. "Right, right, Kanika! Over here." She coo's to the bluerider. "I could just pinchyourcheekssohard!" She says as she gets close enough to the newest weyrling. "Atmanth? That's a lovely name! Go settle on in with your weyrling class, okay?" Must. Resist. The cheek pinch. "And…" Eyes scan about and drop on Dirna. "/Another/ bluerider. Loooove iiittt." Blues are her favorite. Don't tell Talicanitath. "C'mon Dirna, no sexy-pose needed for now, okay? We're work on that during weyrlinghood. Bring your Tindraeth along." There's something about baby dragons that brings out the nice in Lendai. omfg babies
 
Rikane stares mournfully at the back of Kanika's head. And then Dirna's. And then he's staring down at Syriene again, dejection, crazy hope, fear, uncertainty, dismal-please-let-me-go-get-drunk-now. It's an emotion. Look it up. "She's a beauty," Rikane is caught suddenly by Faerie's Blade, squinting as if the heat is getting to him. Maybe he's going to pass out. Dude, it's totally possible.
 
"You an' me both," Syriene mutters, tilting her head back to eye Rikane briefly before her gaze flings itself back to the Sands - to bronze, to green, wariness etched on her features as she inches back out from behind the tall Candidate, gnawing on her lip. "Mayhap that's why we was Searched - so th' dragons could find all our friends, hey?" Of course, logically… "Hold up, boyo," she grunts, as she positions herself against his hip, leaning on him to keep him upright. "I cain't hold yer weight."
 
Avenging Chariot of Darkness Bronze Dragonet makes a play for a Candidate, platinum-silver'd wingspars catching the moon's light as it spills onto the Hatching sands.  Bare moments from his shell, it's a dance of grace and beauty, but with deadly intent.  Riding free, the reigns of a chariot left unattended, light and dark battle to gain a foothold.  A sea of white are discarded in mere moments, but there in the last is a Choice.  Careful contemplation slow's down the bronze dragonet's steps, hesitation is once more at the forefront of a battle where light has gained a stronghold in the ever changing desires of a chariot of vengeance.  Deepest ruby infiltrates the whirling eyes as wings flare, eternal hatred for a Choice he must make.  A Choice that will forever change the pathways of life.  Still.  It must be made.  Darkness pushes against light as feet carry him ever forward. 
 
Arienne watches Rikane look at Faerie's Blade, and Lucian look at Avenging Chariot, and she's stopped cold for a bit.  She looks briefly up to the galleries, which look dark from her vantage point and the amount of sweat in her eyes, then back towards the green.  She inches towards it.
 
HAHAHA Got wood? Hopefully, R'yst doesn't; Tilla is already being boned from his arm already. The whole Syriene/Rikane crutch situation does catch her eye, however. "Do you think that one is going to fall over? Burns like a B when your knees touch the sands." So says she who fell over and started weeping when she impressed. "Excellent!" She crows, "Another blue. And that green. Mm. Gorgeous."
 
Lucian moves a couple more steps towards the bronze. It's quite… dark. But his focus is intent on the small metallic. There's not a lot of options left.
 
Time ticks past… and the gnawing hunger grows great enough that finally Dirna's head jerks up from Tindraeth's face and she nods. "Yeah. Le's go." Shoulders back, and she takes a deliberate stride toward the (other…??) Weyrlings and the food, her steps and those of her new lifemate falling in perfect synchrony.
 
"I'm not going to fall," Rikane replies, almost-indignant. Almost. Aaaaalmost. "Really." He stares down at Syriene's face for a long moment, here, and wry amusement chases sudden. "After this's all over, we can go get a drink." It's said softly, even, the rest of the world ignored for a moment of comraderie and fellow - loss. Anticipated loss. There is no choice left to him, obviously; no choice but to move on with this, yet another ill-luck card of life.
 
Faerie's Blade and Lace Hand-Fan Green Dragonet dawdles no longer, legs moving her across the sands with nary an issue now. Intent is clear, her objective is nigh. Candidates are about her now, though she has no real interest in any save one. This was a choice made long ago, as green dragonet stops in front of a green-eyed girl with auburn hair. The challenge is issued, the battle lines drawn. For Faerie's Blade and Lace Hand-Fan Green Dragonet's is a destiny of Leadership. Of command. Whether it be by the steeled glint of a sword or through the seduction of a fan that shows only the eyes… all that is High Reaches Weyr will one day be hers. Syriene is looked up and down, always that calculating stare from the green. So be it, candidate. For once she is Leader of the Reachian Dragons, you shall be her second-in-command.
 
//Avenging Chariot of Darkness Bronze Dragonet has finally found the call to his own dark soul in the largest male Candidate.  However, the last moment is fraught with tension as once again, Choice is presented. To be Choosen again and again, never to be free of a Choice once it's presented; the pattern of light plays across the dark reaches of the fell chariot upon which he rides, silver-echoed-night talons holding him still in the sands.  Even in the shade of his parents, hesitation is clear.  Indecision.  Torment.  Eternal torment of the Choices that must be made.  A step forward, the deepest ruby of whirling eyes fading to the serenity of blue, past the crossroads of Choice, to undeniably and irrevocably change the life of the only one he was ever meant for:  Rikane.
 
They have been taking their time, these final few. Where their brethren rush to freedom, these pace themselves. One egg, two - a brown and a blue, counting their way around a hatched bronze still dripping in the fragments of his shell. The mathematics of Impression and life count out, lifemates finding lifemate, until only the final egg is left. Quiet. Deliberate. It ends not with a monster but a little green who counts her first brave steps to their natural sum: the befreckled boy Abacus, who kneels before her, "Ab'cus? …Yes. That does make sense, Framth." And now, in the quiet of this final equation solved, there are no more.
 
R'yst stands quietly, a lingering micro monolithe in the broken boneyard of shattered shells, his feet apart, his head lowered; his elbows are folded back far enough to rest his palms against the small of his back in a manner that makes his shoulder blades stick out from beneath the back of his tunic. From below his set brows, a king fisher's attention takes in every minnow of detail between the sweltering heat ripples, searching the wreckage for small signs of lingering life between dwindled remaining Candidates. Finally, he speaks not loud, but clear, projecting from the chest in the razor voice that cuts as a knife rather than smashes as a hammer: "This Hatching is over." No fanfare. Not from him. He waves a hand to the exit, "If you have not Impressed, you are free to return to your lives." Victory or defeat? His voice carries no indication, either for himself, the Impressed or those left Standing. He turns without another word and stalks along towards the barracks with his new clutch, gesturing his assistants to round up the Weyrlings and FOLLOW. Happy happy, joy joy, that's R'yst all over.
 
Amusement chases wariness from Syriene's face as she tilts her head up to peer towards Rikane's face. "What, legally?" she asks, the epitome of innocence, but for the glint of laughter in those bright green eyes. Her attention, however, does not cling for long to her comrade in arms, as there is an insistant fog at the edge of her gaze, closing in until her head turns, reluctantly, to stare at whirling eyes. "Oh, my, sweet Faranth," she breathes, her pulse vibrating in her throat as she nearly backs a step away from the green staring at her. "I- uh, yes, Zhizusikolymuth," she stutters, obediently allowing her lifemate to lead her away from Rikane, away from the Sands, to a destiny not yet fully realized.
 
Rilhden's lips curl into a barely visible smile, as the last egg has hatched and impressed and he's left. Alone. His smile grows, creeping across his face before his crooked teeth show and the teen is all but beaming. "I didn't impress!" He whispers and promptly covers his mouth with his hands, trying to hide the words. He quickly seeks out the form of his father in the stands and after several moments he spots him, catching the less than pleased look on his face. Yet Rilh still looks happy, relieved… as he turns and makes his way off the sands. Score: Rilh 1, R'el 0.
 
Tilla straightens, wiping the sweat from her brow. Another long swiiiig from her wineskin, a sloppy bow to the clutchparents (is that even necessary?) and she bends down, to fix her sandal. Almost too much time passes that she has to RUN pellmell after R'yst and the new weyrlings, towards the barracks, their new, exciting, stinky home. Aww yeah. Get your poo shovels and meat knives ready.
 
A Choice? There was ever a choice, before this? Before "Vivsevincith." Unlike the faint whispers, the awed mutters, Rikane stands firm, perhaps hypnotized, staring into that crimson-and-cerulean gaze. The exterior cracks under the weight of the choice, but there is not dismay beneath: there is sudden, fierce joy, the singing freedom of battle unchained, a sudden linking between the two that has heavily-coupled dragonet rearing back and candid- no, /weyrling/ stepping forwards, grasping at his lifemate to steady him. "You should make up your mind, Vivsevincith, but I think K'ane works just fine." That sudden, fierce smile, once again, and the rest of the world fades back into color and meaning: Rik- K'ane, /K'ane/ looks suddenly discombobulated… and falls on his ass. It never rains. It pours.
 
Arienne feels a bit alone.  She stands on the Sands looking out at the shards.  This isn't her first time.  She takes in a breath and exhales it, sweat dripping down the back of her neck.  Slowly, she steps away, off the hot sands towards the direction of the unlucky.
 
It's done, so off Jerushai goes, looking relieved more than anything. Definitely dodged a bullet, his expression says.
 
Lucian's mouth sets into a frown, but there is little left that can be done as he turns back off the Sands. Such is life. There are always his hobbies.
 
"So… for the record. I am so not cutting up a herdbeast. That's kiiiinda nasty." Lendai comments to Tilla, sending a meaningful look at the stoic R'yst as he gets nearer. Moving out towards the sands for her final time, the goldrider goes to gather up both Syriene, "That's… erm… a special sort of green you've got, weyrling." A wink sent to the girl. And then K'ane. The lad on his ass. "You okay there? Ittle wittle boy didn't hurt himself, did he?" Eyebrows quirk with amusement. "Don't think your bronze is getting anywhere near my dragon, for the record. Now both of you, let's go." Lendai turns and heads back to the other weyrlings and weyrlingmasters.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License