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… What's happening?!
Over twenty turns of Thread has fallen in 12th Pass over a conservative Pern peppered liberally (pun intended) with progressive Oldtimers from 10th interval, in Harper's Tale's current iteration. The conflict of ideology between the traditionalist Nowtimers and the Oldtimers - liberal survivors of apocalyptic comets from 10th Interval that both destroyed Crom Hold and changed the face of Pern as any remembered it to be - makes life, as they say, interesting.
More than Thread challenges those that walk the many roads available in HT's setting. From dirty trader politics in Igen Weyr's in-house and eccentric bazaar, icy antics of the indigenous wildlings in Southern Barrier Hold, and the struggles of both weyrs (Igen and Southern) that rise to defend all of the above, there's a little taste for any plotline that a player may be interested in delving into. Log in and check us out for more information!
… Are you a returning player?
You'll want to get caught up! Log in and see what interests you most: bringing your character forward or "reskinning" your existing character into a future character/rider at one of the new areas ({New} Southern Weyr / Igen Weyr). A lot of options are open to returning players — even if you've not connected in a long time!
Check out our areas: Igen & Southern!
Game Announcements!
Curious to see what's been going on in-game?? Check out our game announcements below!
Title | OOC Date | Summary |
Igen: The New Caretakers! | 26 Mar 2024 04:00 | Igen's Hatching! |
Previous announcements can be found here.
2024's Threadfall Dates!
Want to see our Threadfall history? Head on over to HT's Thread Schedule! Below are the Threadfall dates for the next quarter! The Thread Schedule can also be found from the top nav: Pern -> Thread Schedule!
Title | OOC Date | Summary |
2024 Q1 Threadfall (January - March) | January 2, 2024 | Threadfall Summary - January - March 2024 |
Get Involved: Here are our Latest Logs
Want to see what's going on about HT? Our scenes are the best way to see what's afoot! Want to know more? Hop online or check out our discord (invite: https://discord.gg/hZJ2PFjeuS) and ask around!
Interested in more of our amazing writers?! Most Recent Logs will take you to more fun! From there you can check out Igen specific scenes or Southern specific scenes!
Want a full list of our logs? Checkout the lastest of HT's logs, which includes non-work safe content.
There have been 95 scenes in the last 30 days.
Check out our last 10 scenes this month!
Title | Cast | Summary | ||||||||||
LC Chatter LC Chatter
"Uh. You didn't… you didn't get your green. Sorry." Living Cavern Brightly lit by a regimented march of strung glow-globes, Igen's busy living caverns are cut of the same exotic limestone design that frequents the bazaar without. Tapestries line the tops of the walls, one for each of Igen's wings, past and present; beneath them, skybroom tables litter the floors in scattered profusion. Some of the wicker chairs have seen better days, but most of the worst offenders have long-ago been replaced. The seemingly random placement of furniture, however, at closer inspection yields a sort of cross-shape of negative space. The northernmost walls and nooks of the caverns are owned by the kitchen's buffet, food-laden thrice daily in regimented shifts by busy bakers from the curtained southern entrance to the kitchens. To the east is a large arch leading outside; westerly lies the large doors leading down into the bowels of the weyr itself. The dinner rush isn't quite over in Igen Weyr tonight, but at least it's not the worst of the evening bustle in the living caverns anymore. The serving line isn't a dozen people deep by now, anyway. One of the people left in the queue, at least for another moment or two, is Nelderan. There's one storesworker fellow in between him and a buffet that hasn't been picked clean; he can wait. For now. Ryeklom was at the hatching, at least for a bit. He couldn't last the whole thing, the crowds and the excitement and everything turning out to be too much for the young teen, and he'd bailed. But, afterwards, he checked the list of new impressions and saw that Nels hadn't Impressed. Not quite sure how he felt about that, if he's honest. This evening, though, he's creeping into the Caverns with cautious steps, eyes darting upwards and then around as he seeks his… friend? That one kid he's seen a few times. He stays near the door for the moment, as he looks in. Luna wanders into the Living Caverns casually, not the type to restrict herself to the shared ovens or eateries in the Bazaar. After all, she first and foremost is a Weyr girl thanks to rider's blood. Loosening her shemagh, she keeps it largely as a light shawl about her shoulders because for a desert and coming out of the recent summer, tonight is chilly. She heads into the line with the rest of the crowd, hands resting in her pockets until they're needed again. Nelderan is just about… just about… gotcha! Storesworker fellow departs with his plate and a large mug of something Nels isn't asking after, which means triumph! … Er, dinner. To a teenager, this might be both. He'll take a minute to fill his own plate, or in this case bowl, because there's some sort of wherry and vegetble stew on offer, and where there's a dish, there's a not entirely squished breadroll balanced on the edge, and then there's a spoon and a cloth for mopping up any spillage, and let's not forget the mug of water. Whew! It's when he turns around, balancing food in one hand and drink in the other, that he spots Ryeklom. He won't wave, because very few people enjoy wearing their meals, and that probably goes double for random strangers in the line of fire, but he'll absolutely first start slightly, then tilt his head toward the nearest empty chairs he sees. Over here! Ryeklom does not want to go into the cavern, but when he spots Nels and Nels spots him, well, he's just gonna have to. So he does, darting little looks and frowns this way and that, carefully edging around Luna and maybe accidentally bumping her before he gets to Nels' table and flops down. "Sorry." "H-hey!" Luna felt that. In the immediate moment, particularly in light of his apology, she doesn't pursue Ryeklom's table-directing movement. The target has been acquired for once she gets her food though. It's been a while since she's seen that kid. Has he seen her without her mask on? Oh, this will be interesting. She quickly starts partaking in the offerings amongst the Living Cavern buffet, lining up her plate with a little bit of most of the savories, and steals a glance over towards where Ryeklom had disappeared off to, and the other kid at the table he's joining. A kid she doesn't recognize. They do all look so very tiny on the Sands… Nelderan doesn't mean to make you suffer, Ryeklom! He's just a member of the completely unaware club on the subject. He doesn't miss the bump/collision situation, given he's watching for his friend (yes, friend, ha) but then that other girl is off to the buffet line and Ryeklom is flopping into a seat. "Sorry for what?" Figures that's the first thing he'd say. "Hi!" He sounds remarkably alright, for someone who's been left in the shards so recently. Beat. "Wait, didn't you want anything to eat?" And someone draws a logical conclusion. Ryeklom waves a hand and shrugs a bit, looking around, looking at Luna (squint - do I know you?) and then back to Nelderan. "Uh. You didn't… you didn't get your green. Sorry." Isn't that a bad thing? Didn't he see another ex-candidate sobbing? He looks at the food and then back to Nels, leaning over to steal his roll. That's his answer. Luna keeps a grip on the edge of her plate as she sets down her cup to pour herself a portion of fruit juice from the carafe, her eyes repeatedly going over towards Ryeklom and… friend? She still can't place the face. Shards, she barely placed Ryeklom's. So, with this balancing act of one hand with plate, one hand with juice, the knotted Harper Apprentice decides she's going to crash that party. "Good evening," she greets with a friendly smile. "Or brown or blue or br" Nelderan is quick to reply, but though he doesn't quite cough, somehow the word 'bronze' won't come out as intended. "I didn't," he finishes. "Thank you. I can't say I'm not disappointed, but there was a hundred and more of us out there." Beat. "I am disappointed, though. Also glad that one brown who came charging at Zekaraiya and Larze and me didn't squash anybodyhey!" The exclamation is for Ryeklom snitching his roll, but there are no teeth in it whatsoever. The squawk, not the roll. That's likely to meet somebody's teeth in short order here. The arrival of the unfamiliar girl gets a polite glance, for a start. Give him a moment to breathe and he'll say hello. Ryeklom looks up at Luna with a frown - not of unkindness, but of thought. He still can't shake the feeling he knows her. "Hi," but then he's shoving the roll into his mouth and looking back to Nelderan. "Yeah," muffled, "Sorry. I watched some of it." There's a little grimace and a shrug from the boy. "Here," he says a moment later, digging into his pocket and setting something on the table beside Nels' plate. "Since. Y'know." It's a small wooden egg, carved and smooth, and painted rather sloppily. Whoever painted this didn't have a whole lot of skill, but…if you squint, you can see it's one of the eggs Nels pointed out to him that day in the Galleries. The polite glance from Nelderan and the greeting from Ryeklom is a bonafide invitation in Luna's eyes, and she claims a seat at the table with the two. They do teach etiquette to Harper Apprentices, but perhaps she hasn't aced those Lessons yet. Putting down her plate first, then her cup, she lets an ankle rest over her knee as she settles in casually. "Were you a Candidate?" she asks the unknown boy to start, letting that be her introductory query. Nelderan hasn't quite aced those lessons yet either, Luna. Granted he's got cotholder graces, not Harper etiquette training. "Hi," he says, not at all unfriendly, as the unfamiliar girl sits down. "Yes I was," is his answer to her question, "and so was my sister. I honestly thought that one brown was—whoa!" Someone's just gotten a proper look at the object Ryeklom's placed on the table. …! "Whoa!" Eloquent, isn't he? "Where did you get *this*? Hold on hold on, did you? Wow!" If he were younger, or from somewhere other than he is, he might have tears in his eyes now. As it is, he's grinning all over his face, sudden and bright and delighted, and catching that painted figure between awkwardly careful palms. "Thank you!" Ryeklom shrugs, trying to look unconcerned if Nelderan likes the egg or not, but his darted glances betray his need to…give something good. He starts to say something but then a pair of Guards step into the Caverns from the Inner Caverns, and Ryeklom's attention zeroes in on them. "Bye," is all he says, the boy making a swift exit to the bowl without another word. The Guards? Don't seem to notice him or care. LC Chatter has 0 comments. |
A few folks have some food in the LC! |
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Sweetness Changing Hands Sweetness Changing Hands
"Would you like a sample?" Whiskers & Words Cafe Not a large shop, unlike other establishments, no lighting does the trick to add space, when the truth lies in the long lines of two main rooms and one entranceway. Little nooks carved out of oblong shapes lit by large windows overlooking the Southern jungles seen off the garden terraces. This spot was chosen not for the size but for the windows. Hewn of stone and wood, it was derelict, left in disrepair from a previous owner, but work has gone into making it cozy, though a better word would be 'rustic.' Golden afternoon sunlight spills through windows, lighting up dusty books and green plants in their pots all across the little bookshelves. The cafe part of the little shop is tiny, but the klah and wine are delicious. Some rare vintage wines can be found within such a humble establishment, besides various klah options to give the Klah Bark a run for their money. Whiskers & Words Cafe is the ultimate one-stop place to buy (or read!) books, sip klah or wine, and have cozy encounters with the felines that roam the various rooms. Wandering about are two friendly, love-seeking felines: Stylus, an orange tabby, and Parchment, a black tabby. Cahia has settled into working at the bookshop with so much joy and enthusiasm. Enthusiasm she hasn't felt in turns, if she's being honest with herself. Excitement and creativity she lost when she took over ownership of Miss. June's. She has thrown herself into her work, baking up a storm with everything she can beg, borrow our purchase (she would never steal) to try out every idea, every recipe, everything. She should probably be sleeping more, but she's just too excited. It'll taper off eventually. Maybe. Probably. Today she is in the bookstore just after breakfast, having a little bit of time to work behind the counter before she needs to dart back to the baker's area to work on the lunch items. She brought some icing with her and is working on decorating some spiced cookies that some people like in the morning, but most folks will enjoy for lunch. She's experimenting with different geometric designs in different colors, just playing around while quietly humming to herself and occasionally giving Parchment a nudge when the feline gets too close to the food. Cameo here: Nineveh is absolutely ecstatic at the way her shop is shaping up and for the first/ time in a long time, with Cahia's baked goods, her shop is pulling in a little extra. Enough she might be able to get maybe an upgrade on that safe installation. For now? It is not Nineveh's story for it is Jezebel — smartly dressed in fasion appropriate for the season in spring pastels — who marches through the door. clip-clip-clip; her shoes sow judgement by the very nature of her forceful steps, but her expression does not. While cool — she is not cold, though she does look around with a hint of wide-eyed interest, whiskey-hued eyes turning to find Cahia. "Cahia? Baker?" Yet, it is not the woman who turns her attention but the work. "Good handwork," she comments, drifting closer. "Smells like… ginger? Snickerdoodle? Sugar?" Cahia looks up and smiles brightly, nodding. "Cinnamon, clove, some ginger, yes, and molasses…a few other things." Secrets, her bright eyes suggest. "Would you like a sample?" She always has samples, neatly made from cast-off bits of dough, always in odd shapes and not yet decorated, but just as delicious. She tips her head to the sample plate with another happy smile, bending to the frosting again, gently squeezing the tip of the cloth piping bag. "Yes," Jezebel takes a sample and sinks her teeth into the flesh of the cookie, dividing her attention between Cahia and the cookie, considering the flavors of perhaps the woman as much as the dessert. "I am Jezebel," she introduces when she's finished, "and the one who inquired of a bakery you'd listed in Igen." Inhalation expands her chest and she holds the breath in for a good, solid handful of seconds before letting it out in a rush. "My weyrmate and I are considering a life change." In more ways than one, but… "Checking out various places to potentially move. I am interested in more than side jobs in a place where not having a craft knot," chin lifts, "makes little difference." Cahia takes a moment for the name to sink in, and when it does it's almost a sad smile that curves her lips. Almost. "Oh! Yes, Jezebel, it's such a pleasure to meet you! Yes, thank you for writing." Despite her own knot on her shoulder, her smile is warm at the other woman's words, and she nods. "Yes, in the Bazaar it's the skill, not the knot, that makes the difference. Have you had a chance to go by and see it?" "I have not," Jezebel's sharp gaze does not miss the near-sadness of the other woman's smile. "But V'iss plans us a trip to Igen in the next day or so, depending of course on the Threadfall schedule." Her words are crisp, clear and certain. "Is there something I should know about it?" What is the history? Ghosts? Ghouls? Terrifying frights? Hmmm, hmm? "It is always the skill that makes the most differences, but many are blind to such." Perhaps an issue she's encountered in the very craft-centric Southern. Cahia smiles kindly with a little shrug. "I went the Craft route, but later in life. It's not for everyone." She resumes decorating, finding it easier to talk about the bakery while working. "It's a lovely little shop, in one of the Bazaar's… less populated streets. It's not in a bad part, necessarily, but it's off the main roads. Two stories, the bottom level is all the shop and the kitchen. Stone oven, alley out back, wood shed. Upstairs is a little apartment." No room for a dragon, alas. "I.. inherited it from the woman who started it, and its namesake. I ran it for a few turns but…" she trails off, uncertain, "running a business in the Bazaar takes someone… stronger than me," she says, looking up at the other woman. "I couldn't handle the… darker elements." "Stronger?" Jezebel narrows her eyes thoughtfully. "I am used to the strong taking from the weak," she muses, reaching for another 'sample cookie.' "You must show them that being small is not being weak. Hit back, but harder." A hint of accent touches her words, as if another, different woman lurks beneath the veneer of 'Jezebel.' "I will go and look, but I am interested, so I would like to understand the details." Can Cahia sense it? Jezebel will absolutely haggle for this shop if she deems it worth (and she will, for Miss June's is quaint and cute and has all the right elements). "A craft was never in my future, but it does not mean I have not learned my skills from the best." Cahia smiles, a little laugh escaping. "Well, I am weak, so I'm here." And much happier, true! "I'm sure you're a wonderful baker!" she is quick to reassure. "Please don't think I think less of anyone who doesn't have a knot." She nods, straightening from the cookies and wiping a hand on her apron. "I have a lot of the paperwork in my room, here, that I'm happy to send you. Sales figures, menus, names of suppliers, that sort of thing. The price…" She trails off with a little smile, and then names it. It's… remarkably cheap. Suspiciously cheap. Jezebel's attention sharpens at the figure, but if it's suspiciously cheap? She isn't going to draw too much attention to it as she's mercenary enough to take advantage of a Baker. No way on Faranth's beautiful green Pern is Jezebel gonna ever say, Honey, you're letting it go too cheaply, I'll give you thrice the price! "Delightful." Her smile is sharp and full of teeth, but she leans in and holds her hand out for Cahia to shake. "I will visit, and then I look forward to possibly doing business with you. Please box me up a little of everything," for Jezebel will absolutely sample all Cahia has to offer. But why is Cahia letting it go so cheap? She smiles, extending a hand to shake Jezebel's hand. "Wonderful! Yes, I will do that. You live here, you said? Where shall I send the paperwork? And I'll let the bakery know you're coming to visit." She beams, delighted to share her goods as she starts to box up a little of this, a little of that. "The price is very reasonable," Jezebel remarks, "But seems a little surprising. Is it in need of repair?" A question asked after the shake of hands, and all the other bits. "Vuzjavalasith's Weyr is a good place to send them." Despite the price, the whole venture sparks a brightness to Jezebel which aids in putting a pop in her very perfunctory step and a sparkle in her eye. "Change is good," circling back to why Cahia is here in Southern as she waits for her goodies, "It's change that lets us see where we need improvement." "I was given the bakery for free," Cahia says quietly, thoughtfully as she assembles the box. "It seems…wrong to make a lot of marks from it. That price is what I need to… to get started here." In her new life. "Yes, well," she says of change, with a small smile, "sometimes." Jezebel would love to get a bakery for free. Is Cahia not giving it away? Sads. "Ahhh," she makes a soft sound, eyeing the baker. In reversed roles, she knows she'd be selling it for twice what it's worth but in this way, it is her gain this Baker's generosity. "If it works out? I will take very good care of it." Her voice is strong in truth and promise. "I promise." Cahia looks up with a smile, after tying a bright purple ribbon around the box of goodies and holding it out for the other woman. "Thank you," she says quietly, emotion flickering in her eyes but she quickly tucks it away, her smile fixed in a bright, bright smile. "Please let me know what you decide. If you'll excuse me, I need to get back and get started on lunch." Jezebel takes the box up in hand and nods her head, "I will." With a smile, she waves to Cahia as Nineveh rushes in from the front door. "Cahia, we're going to have a lunch rush…" as Jezebel exits to the sounds of Nineveh frantically telling Cahia of the twenty some-odd people coming to do bookstore things. She considers the bookstore for a moment, knowing she'll need to come back to this place, but turns and heads out into the terrace, already thinking of what to tell V'iss. Already, she plans for a future different than one here. Where she's not random Jezebel, but a woman with skill and import. And so the day ends, in a flurry of activity at the store and with Jezebel caught in contemplation's webbing. Sweetness Changing Hands has 0 comments. |
Miss June's begins to change hands yet again. |
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Shared Acquaintances Shared Acquaintances
Around The Cistern The cisterns are the beating heart of the Bazaar, where life-giving water is drawn but more importantly where residents may come together to gossip. There's often a line at each and that provides ample opportunity to chat with one's neighbors. Children dash about over the cobblestones surrounding each immense well, firelizards swoop by overhead and laundry is often hung on racks on the periphery- still more excuse to linger and catch up on what's happening in Igen today. Demands for water have risen with the temperature as Igen's seasons swing into its hottest quarter. Rukbat rules with a tight fist in its blue dominion and a breeze currently struggles to move. While new to the overarching complexities of water rights, Alior as guard has designated the cistern his place to dwell at least some of the day. And as fate would have it, four jugs capable of hauling water are nearby, full and awaiting his own personal apportionment for later washing both skin and clothes. Where servants, wives, and children largely consider themselves certified for the job, Alior's learning how much effort and resources go into more of what he took for granted. Sorely took for granted. Those stages will come later within the bazaar guard's headquarters, Alior just now flicking his hands dry, sleeves of a reddish-brown caftan stacked at each elbow. Several bazaarites weave and gather, most taking their turns amenably, Alior tries and learns their faces without staring or getting in the way of their tasks. Ah, but will Alior remember this face? A sly expression, dark hair pulled back, ruby'd lips, large hoop'd earrings to frame a long, long neck? And piercingly blue eyes which hold a hope that the guard recruit's glance will linger upon her, for she — Zunea, that is — surely lingers her focus upon him. So much so that, having already filled her jug, hefted to her shoulder, her steps seem to slog out from the line of those still waiting, a fluttering of lashes that plays demure. Zasiyra, a plainer sister to her Zunea, awaits her turn in line with airy, absent patience, not having done herself up to fetch a pail carton of water for the Immoseri, too. Her drifting glance catches the slowed steps of Zunea, a frown for her since she knows her sister to be strong enough to carry the burden without such burdensome steps. Her eyes — blue, too, though not as sharply so — follow the imaginary line to the guardsman; a frown which deepens and huffs away with her glance, when Alior is recognized. Zunea, when right at the point past Alior, risks a little smile over her shoulder to see if she can get the Steen to break character — then one flirt marked off for the day, she disappears into the Bazaar while Zasiyra steps forward in line, trying not to see what effect Zunea's charm may or may not have had on the guard. Ah, and will this get in the way of Alior’s task? Stirring beside him; Ezra’s mid-day nap brought around by his cousin’s absurdly boring life ambitions. Or a somewhat heralded return to black sheep form in the ease of spring evenings. Those dark curls once again become level with the horizon as he languidly replaces slippers that had slipped off the closest of Alior’s water jugs, brandishing a lazy deftness in tipping it harmlessly about – a hidden care for not spoiling the insides with flare or feet. Water, the closest to sacred in the desert, behind or before money and ambition, depending on who you’re asking and what weapon you have at their throat. A weapon that will work fast for those who lack the intellect and trade in the hubris of dehydrated desert illusions. For today, Ezra Steen barters not in the ignorance of outsiders but that of family. Elaborating on ways for his cousin to mischief back into Alankar’s household has been a present hobby; with almost ten turns of experience, himself, Ezra’s become brutally creative as time goes on. And while it may’ve been the first thing on his tongue upon awakening, he instead services the much more pressing: “Aren’t you done yet?” Alior, in the spirit of things with his pulse on the bazaar (so he believes), is very aware of the color red and, more keenly, the face painted with such color. Ezra might still be in sleep stupor to notice the small-scale smile easily lost in the uneven stubble on his cousin’s face, but he’ll know it as genuine the instant it leaves his face purely in Zunea’s honor. At this point, his hands will air dry until the young woman passes on with her day to leave the space she occupied vacant, Alior’s head stuck to Zunea’s back though his face has turned pensive as to her origins. Ezra frees him from his own stupor, and instead of electing a response, any water left on Alior’s fingers are cast to his cousin’s face. As Zasiyra fills her sister’s absence, and those big –shoes– earrings to fill, Alior doubles back on his own glance to verify it’s her. A narrowing of his eyes, not crude, but curious, precede, “lady.” Low brows twitch higher before his head turns to Ezra to see what form of evolution he now takes. Distraction! Ezra excels. As it seems that all rises against Alior to thwart his efforts at concentrating on his post, Zasiyra's impulse is to make herself smaller— yet Ezra's quipped question — to his cousin — still has her rounding in surprise, like it was insisted of her instead of Alior, laborious the task of loading water into an oversized jug. It coincides with Alior's acknowledging lady — he may be also very aware she wears neither red nor yellow, but white this day — and her blue eyes take on a moment of narrowed confusion when focus jumps between the Steens, one a pauper prince and another a princely pauper, as if she can place both men separately but seeing them together, side-by-side, reframes the Bazaar in small ways. An impatient sound behind her clues Zasiyra in that she has looky-looed too long. “Peh,” is the soft noise of Ezra’s complaint when he’s briefly made to don his cousin’s rinsing run-off; the general ew of it more bothersome than the tiny moisture. Oddly otherwise quiet in response, the next Alior knows of him, when turning to find, is that Ezra’s come right up behind and beside his cousin, spying for whom he speaks. That it is generous Zasiyra pleases the last bored drowsiness from Ezra’s expression – for that singular moment. “It’s Zasiyra,” he exults, bouldering past her seconds-long stare of assessment at the Steen relatives; her full name rolls perfectly pronounced yet completely foreign off his tongue. An arm slips too easily onto Alior’s closest shoulder, so that Ezra, the taller, may lean into it and gaze from his cousin’s outlook – after waving a couple of dismissive fingers at the peevish (and probably just thirsty) interloper behind the girl. “Lio,” he expresses conspiratorially without a change in voice, “Tell Zasy what a sight she is today.” Alior is conscious of not looking like he lives within the gutters (it’s now rooftops, thank you very much), but has been caught midway between cleaning his hands and the back of his neck. Such an agenda has abruptly ceased and instead the cloth prepared for around his ears is applied to a spot that is some freckle of pigment that no one will be the wiser until it doesn’t come off. He certainly does not do what Ezra says as his eyes flare open at the two people from opposite spectrums of his memory share knowledge of one another. At least, according to Ezra, is how the day’s gospel should read. “You know one another?” In bright light and astonishment do his eyes show the color of henna while dots and individuals are connected by his locus. No longer does he buff at skin freckling as the cloth’s squeezed of its water by his fist. Each man does exactly as Zasiyra expects them to do — exactly as she's come to know them to do, in her scattered encounters with each Steen separately. But together, seeing them side-by-side, pings a wariness in her as if the ground had slightly tilted sideways, then rights itself, reframing a world in which opposites do not necessarily repel, at least when it comes to familial ties. "Ezra Steen," her glance drifts demurely to the man she names, "thank you for the rings, they're beautiful." Answering Alior's question without answering Alior's question; and to the taller Steen she gifts a timid smile, her fingers woefully absent of the finery he sent to her, but that would make sense, given the chore she's burdened with. Who wears jewelry to fetch water? —nevermind the bedecked Sister who just left. To Alior, less-than-a-smile doesn't shine so bright, remarking to him as if an afterthought, "I haven't seen you back at the ovens, so you must have found elsewhere to break your fasts." Albeit timid, the tall Steen brandishes her smile in return. “Grand,” murmurs Ezra in a quieter appreciation of Zasiyra’s acceptance of the jewelry than might have been in that expectation. The braggart cowed by backing proof. Thus, he further persecutes the cousin. Hand slipping down Alior’s shoulder and to the chest, thumping his palm – and rings – against the apparently hollow cavity pursued beneath. “Be nice,” while sported, said with an abundance of sincere affection; let Zasiyra coordinate that between them; more than familial, at least in regards to these broken and chipped lines she looks upon, where it cannot be assumed. For, as easily, Ezra turns judgmental as the young woman confirms Alior, in turn, that cold-eyed hypocrite: “Ohh. Are only you allowed acquaintance?” Yet remains a note of speculative interest in unimaginable seriousness for a glimpse of his cousin’s telling - his cousin’s well-being. How the tables of keeping have turned! (Mostly due to Gin and Tonic failing to find the responsible Steen during their ward’s evening crashes). Alior can smile good and grand and when he does try the trick, the effort of it rings into his eyes as well. Some may cede back for the role of middle man in this after effect of past gifts and acquaintance – yes, Ezra – but Alior finds the kernel of humor in it, especially given his kin’s charity of affections. “Gottfried’s taken pity on me,” solving that riddle of his hearth absence when there’s more rivergrains to burn, much of the smile still coasting. This after he’s weathered the strikes to his sternum with aplomb– or practice? “Introductions never came naturally,” the smile loses more of its hard edges as his head bows in precursor of one. “I am Alior, cousin to Ezra.” Her assumed pureness he won’t mar by a shake of the hand. He also won’t embarrass the girl by asking about rings, but a glide to Ezra’s face bookmarks to ask him of that story later. "Yes," to Alior's name and her assumed pureness, both of which Zasiyra was already completely aware. But she minds her manners as Alior minds his; her adoptive grandmother tried to raise her right, and that means playing the part of a mild-mannered Bazaarite girl, even if she's devoid of proper robery this day. A more casual scarf slung 'round her head, it shifts slightly while Zasiyra readjusts the bulky water jug. "I see the resemblance," is probably laughable, her eyes may even glint with a tease, with another look dashing between the two, never lingering longer on one cousin over the other. Little slices of assessment for each to be, perhaps, pondered over later. Ezra has already named her, and her family is so little and insignificant, she does not tag the Immoseri's business and name to be associated with herself. "Good day to you, sirs," sticking formality front-and-center, for many eyes could easily turn and see who has tried to corner the Steen men's time and attention at the well, "and Rukbat's warmth to you, both." And if she pauses overlong here, sneaking a look to Ezra where perhaps a thought of her sister comes to mind, she knows better of it a heartbeat later: so, therefore, a modest dip of her knee in the motions of a dignified, if brief, curtsy is offered to both men, then she is seeking that very warmth she hopes they're blessed with, the young woman trailing out beneath the sun towards the Bazaar where, in some small corner, resides the Immoseri compound. An Ezra snuck at is an Ezra which watches her back, the warmth wished already in eyes, today showing their true auburn notes more naturally. He presses not upon her. Only lifting a chin in acknowledgement of her curtsy, moreso for her good company lost. And then… she’s gone, leaving the taller Steen to stifle an incoming yawn– only barely– while the arm that’s captured his tinman bodes no release but a gradual tightening of good nature, rapidly molding into the immaturity Ezra cloaks himself with, in turn. “Will your new gray-haired holdless father be very dismayed if we nip off so shortly for a set or two at the Corner…?” This endearing grasp, which, easily and with only a small bout of imagination, could turn into Ezra engaging in climbing aboard his cousin’s back, should he lean in much further. Notably, he’s been shying away more from physical prowess; a preciousness for neck or leg, for hip, to stray from Alior’s overly keen notice – but here, now, he shall need to be endured or peeled from – or, should the fancy strike the more responsible family member: danced with. Information sifted in a short time has Alior delayed in reacting to Zasiyra’s parting company. A stiff bow bends she won’t likely even see as good manners only often prove to the individual he is not an animal for another day. “Farewell, Zasiyra!” A choice from his cousin’s whim playbook now that the secret of her name isn’t hers to keep any longer. “Don’t you mean your father?” It’s in part to Essau Alior’s received overarching clearance to join Gottfried’s small corps. There’s still water to convey back to wherever it is Alior inhabits, which Ezra’s free-styling will need to heed as Alior picks it up. “I’ll follow, go, go.” And no more Steens will clog the cistern! Shared Acquaintances has 0 comments. |
Three little Bazaarites who've all met separately now meet together in the center Cistern. (Scene got missed in posting, so old OOC date) |
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Legends Aren't Born; They're Hatched (Galleries) Legends Aren't Born; They're Hatched (Galleries)
"Good group. Good looking eggs. Good ROCKS! I LOVE these!" Galleries Though occasionally cleaned by ambitious (or neurotic) drudges or weyrbrats being disciplined, the lack of Eggs over the last several Turns has led to the Galleries falling into a state of disrepair. Sand can be found…well, everywhere. On the benches, under the benches, on the railings and walkways. There is also the random tidbit leftover from people who've wandered into the gathering place since the last cleaning. A random bit of cloth here, a bit of something that might have been a carving-in-progress once there. Rinji, casually as can be for someone in such shiny new boots, T-2000s her awkward way down the steps. Something in her McMahonian stride has the crowd parting ahead of her clomps, each accompanied by a slight flinchl. Thankfully, this means it's pretty easy for her to find a bench with space in front of it for her to put her feet up with a hissed intake of air and then a gusty sigh of relief. The last time Dulcinea was in the Hatching Grounds, she was in white, so she hesitates when she walks into the galleries. Dressed in her finest clothing, she quickly finds the first open seat to plop down in. Like some of the candidates, Nasrin's washed off mostly all smells of raw tubers from her hands. She's quite lucky to be behind Rinji, for the loose dress she wears is prone to catching, and frankly she could use the space. "All tagged." She whispers to Edric's assistant Tierla, for her bets are all placed and sealed with a bowtie. Figuratively. "Oh what am I even doing here." Nesyari murmurs to herself "As if this place isn't hot enough already and then there's this." Still, there's a glance down towards the eggs. "Not even father can say he's been to a hatching" she adds quietly and just smiles at the thought of that and finds an area near the edges that's not too full. After all, any spot is as good as the other when you don't have to find a spor for more than just yourself. From the Sands, Curse or no? How curious the timing of things, in a near pattern of three. Two less favorable events bracketed with the promise of new life and lives changed forever snuggled firmly between events. Early afternoon begins as any other: with clear autumn skies and tolerable (if still hot) weather. The Weyr bustles with activity, Igen's Wings having returned from Threadfall sometime around the midday hour. Those not otherwise caught up in that legendary aftermath, are likely to be caught in the cusp of being between 'this' and 'that'. That is when the humming begins, in tandem where some observe the far off distant smudge of a too-familiar sandstorm. These eggs wait for no one and no storm, and the humming builds and builds and builds… excitement and tension now hand in hand. It is unmistakable: Pariisamith and Nhiuzukkath's eggs are hatching at last! From the Sands, Candidates will have to scurry hurry, hurry, hurry! Those in the Barracks are the few and fortunate. Others will have to be rounded up, collected and gathered from wherever they may have been, in whatever state they may be. One the Sands, several eggs are already moving significantly, while Pariisamith hovers nearby, humming loudly and with all her heart(s) to welcome Igen's newest hatchlings. For now, her mood is a happy one, delighted in bearing witness to this event. She will even show some rare open affection for Nhiuzukkath, before turning her rapt and full attention on those eggs — and the eventual arrival of those hopeful Candidates. From the Sands, One by one, the white robed figures trickle in. An offering of themselves to the very eggy sacrificial altar. Repeated instructions of weyrlingmasters had apparently stuck because while the bow may not be seamless, they all give their deep bows to both Clutch Dam and Clutch Sire before fanning out to cautiously eye those soon to be rocking eggs. From the Sands, An egg abruptly shatters to deposit a green on the Sands, upside down and peeping in amazement. Once she rights herself though, she heads straight towards a minor cotholder daughter and promptly sits on her feet. From the Sands, Sweet as Hunny Egg vibrates in place with anticipation. It has just the perfect sales pitch and it can't wait to share it with the world! It just? it just needs a minute to catch its breath. That's all. From the Sands, The Test Of Ones True Character Egg has been moored long enough. Every moment it sits there, it loses out on the chance of its bounty. Thar be Candidates! With a shiver, it shifts into motion; not only motion, but a rhythmic rocking as it shifts from stationary to all out movement in one go. From the Sands, A brown and a blue hatch at the same time, at opposite sides of the Sands. There's a brief moment of confusion as they cross paths in the search for their partners and manage to get their legs tangled, but the snarl is quickly fixed. The brown finds his partner in a weavercraft man, and the blue chooses a herder lass. From the Sands, Reports indicate that Choose Your Own Legend Egg may have just moved! … maybe. It could be that it's being sneaky, but it's also entirely possible that you'll have to choose your own interpretation of whether or not that was a true wiggle-wobble, or if it was just a trick of the light. Rinji squinches her legs up to let folks past, though gives a SERIOUSLY gimlet eye to a lordling that tries to take her footrest until he decides against tempting fate. After all, she's pulling popcorn out of a bag. One might've even hit the crown of his prematurely tonsure'd head. Thankfully the legs get their space. "Hey, enjoy the desert. Eat lots of post-hatching grub. Brag to your dad that you came here AND it wasn't hotter than Rukbat's behind." Her points get emphasized with gestures of her bag and loud cromches of her repast. From the Sands, Larze comes a'running, hop-hopping onto the sands without as much grace as he's practiced. He's still tugging down the hem of his robe but he does it! He does his respectful and then blinks around, "I just…whoa…" From the Sands, Weslyn's heart leaps as the first hatchling emerges. He watches, almost holding his breath, as the hatchling surveys the sea of white robes, its gaze flitting from one candidate to another. For a fleeting second, Weslyn wonders if the green will choose him, but as she finds her perfect match elsewhere, the Smith finds himself in a state of increased anticipation for the "what if." From the Sands, Nelderan will not trip over, he will *not* trip over, he will not trip over his feet and fall facefirst into the sand—no, no, noooo he will not! Somebody's walking with extra care in those hastily-donned sandals. At least he doesn't turn his bows into a topple? He'll be scurry, hurry, hurrying in short order, over toward a somewhat familiar face in the crowd and wait, where's Dernianne in this chaos? Over there, somewhere. "Larze! Over, er… here? Or can I be?" From the Sands, Q'dir's out here along with R'xim, doing his duty to help lug buckets of meat and whatever else the weyrlings will need in their little area - or whatever it is. He should probably know what this spot is, but- well. He does not. From the Sands, Quyen does the classic Hatching Sands Walk. There's no rhythm, just the instinct to lift one foot then the other so they don't burn right off even as one keeps an eye on the rocking eggs. As the first dragonet emerges, she can't help but give a sharp whistle. This is real! it's actually real. The arrival of Jaehnieseyth to the gallery ledges isn't exactly something that can go unnoticed or be subtly managed, and so Casla's presence is not going to be a surprise to anyone. She has a box of pastries with her as well as a small basket full of something that seems to be heavy (on a close look, it's polished rocks). When she takes a seat near familiar faces, the box is extended open — toward Nasrin, first, but if she ends up also shoving it at Rinji, don't be surprised. From the Sands, Shuseran winces at the heat on his feet, sinking down into the soft sands, looking around. From the Sands, There's another vibration, another excitable shifting by Sweet as Hunny Egg. Ooooh, it can barely contain itself! JUST YOU WAIT, WORLD! But, for the savvy, they'll see cracks beginning to form long before the pitch can be made. From the Sands, Larze tips his head at the sound of his name and rips his attention from the brown..then the blue and blinks owlishly at Nelderan before giving a shake of his head. "Hey. Yeah." His long, lean legs carry him swiftly to the candidate. "Don't take your eyes off'a 'um. Right?" From the Sands, Nhiuzukkath fans his wings, and would be pacing like a caged feline if it were not for Pariisamith's distracting tailtip. It's a good method to keep the bronze-sire from being too chaotic. In return to her happy mood is one of his own, a sound of humming rumbling deep in his throat as his eggs prepare to hatch. Vh'iyr runs back to the sands after depositing the latest "gift" out in the weyr… bowl somewhere. "Don't worry," to Kopriva, wherever she may be, "it's someone else's problem." And not bleeding out on the sands. You're welcome Candidates! From the Sands, Dajin is along with the others, though he's nervous- anxious, really. He's wringing his hands in his robes and doing his best to look stoic, but it's harder than it seems. Maeyrra isn't much better; she's struggling a big with taking breaths and not freaking out. She's trying, but hoo boy. From the Sands, A small grouping of eggs hatch all at the same time, and the way that the dragonets spill from their eggs throws up a cloud of concealing sand. Out of that blur stagger four disorientated hatchlings, two blue and two green, all of whom take a moment to shake off the sand before choosing their lifemates. From the Sands, Shuseran watches the newly hatched cautiously, knowing he'll have to get out of their way if they barrel through. From the Sands, Not in the role of clutchsire, but in the role of Weyrleader, T'rin's stance off to the side is still kept out of the way and he loosens his shemagh in the heat of the Sands. He affectionately looks from the clutchparents to the chaos that has already begun on the Sands. From the Sands, Larze blows out a breath as several eggs break and hatchlings come crawling out at the same time. "Okay. Maybe you watch that side. I'll watch this side." From the Sands, Be Careful What You Wish For Egg remains perfectly still. Too perfect. No matter the movement surrounding it, this one doesn't seem in a hurry. Or is it waiting on something? Oh — was that movement!? There, a tiny, tiny wobble … or perhaps just the trick of light. "There's Larze and Skybroom and Nelly." Nesyari grins and then she can't help but laugh at Rinji "As if I'd be telling him anything of interest if I can help it." Oh the feast, yeah, that's gonna be something to remember for Turns to come if the smells of it have been anything to go by. She leans forward a bit and murmurs "I do think he's got all the sauce off himself." From the Sands, Zekaraiya will follow the crowd, classic hot sands walk made more ridiculous what with his height and all; great. How embarrassing in front of so many people! And dragonets, the like of which he has never seen in his life. He's gonna sidle Larze and Nelderan wards, in the hope that he can be one among many out of his comfort zone. From the Sands, Quyen is quite bewildered trying to look at ever hatchling on the move but really… there's just too many of them. "Haven't they heard of waiting one's turn?" she mutters quietly. But all of their turns are NOW. From the Sands, Nelderan is just going to meet the other Keroonian halfway, as much as anyone can when hop skip hobbling on hot hatching ground sand. "Not for aouch! Minuteoooooh, there went a green already! And was that a—uh-oh." Yeah, he's going to fail if he's trying to track everything at once. From the Sands, Q'dir and the rest of the Weyrlingmaster staff will have their work cut out for them. Weyrling-wrangling has begun and there's a surprising amount of hustling, bustling, and trying to get the attention of the newly Impressed. From the Sands, Shuseran stands where he is, watching, waiting. If there's one here for him, the hatchling will find him. From the Sands, The Test Of One's True Character Egg continues its rather predictable and strong motion upon the Sands. It has been lively, but it's not made much progress until it suddenly and rapidly crests over a lip in the sand. Rolling with the motion is all it can do until inertia sends it into a fellow egg. Whilst its companion remains unscathed, The Test Of One's True Character Egg has achieved a crack along its portside. From the Sands, Larze says, "I had big plans you know. I was going to keep my eyes out on my favoriate eggs and watch um. This is not how I expected it to be." Chin-tipping at Zekaraiya, but he's so very distracted. Echoing Quyen with more of a whine under his breath, "Why do they all hatch at once?" From the Sands, "So it won't be a later problem?" Kopriva is there and has likely been fidgeting doing enough pacing for both dragons. She has stopped since, both as the eggs get off to a rapid start. Breathe, breathe. It's strange, being front row but on the opposite side. The look she slants to Vh'iyr, dazed and more than a little distracted, might convey it plenty. She is even moving closer to the bronzerider in favor of resuming her pacing. Pariisamith is all calm, though, as she hums away. Kyriel is quick to file in to the stands. She doesn't know any of the candidates on the sands, either personally or in the sense of knowing of them, but she is Weyrsecond. That is reason enough to attend a hatching, right? Yes, surely. So she sits down in one of the first seats she finds, offering the person beside her a quick grin before turning her attention to the sands. From the Sands, With barely a lull, two more eggs hatch one right after the other. Both yield browns of similar ranges of hues, though one is quicker to his feet and charges straight into a willowy young woman, on the cusp of aging out. The other brown struggles to his feet, creeling his displeasure — but not for long. His venturing only takes him a few awkward steps before he's met his other half: a former Telgari once-named Amardu and, now, Am'rdu. From the Sands, Weslyn can't figure out where to land as an egg-by-egg hatches and dragons go waddling to find their matches. "I heard baby dragons are tried after hatching; no wonder at the speed they are moving. I would not think they would have the strength to move so fast." From the Sands, Xanathos presses his spectacles back into place as he settles into on his spot on the sands. He frowns slightly sighing. "The chaos of a hatching. I really must remember to thank that blue properly for draggin me into this." From the Sands, Choose Your Own Legend Egg definitely moves this time. There's an unmistakable sort of shimmy to its motion, as dozens of tiny little cracks form in fractal-like patterns across the shell: it's pretty, it's productive, but it's not hatching yet. From the Sands, Shuseran's eyes are drawn to his favorite eggs, though he stands his ground. The Headman is here, of course. Edric can't be in two places at once - unfortunately, that isn't a skill he's been able to master - but he does have his trusted assistants on-duty in the kitchens to make sure the night's feast is prepared. He's chosen to loiter here for a while, his eyes on the sands and his expression neutral. "Oh shit is that Lemos Redstar Agate? Lemme see that." There's a dramatic spray of popcorn and a turtleish flail of legs as Rinji rotates in place to look at SHINY THINGS. Then flailing back briefly. "Oh shit lemme move my feet. It's getting crowded…" and thus Kyri is Allowed the Honor of taking Rinji's brief footstool. "Anyway lemme see those…" Come to think of it, why can't Rinji precede all of Nasrin's arrivals from council room to kitchen? Think of the swathe. A green hatchings and isn't the blue Nasrin placed her money on, but she's just warming up. Seated at the front as is her right insistence, Nas gets a delightful surprise pastry in her lap. Almost literally. "No leeway whatsoever," she starts to excuse the bodice and her regret at refusing until… "Casla! Raja said so!" Can she wrest her into a hug? She'll give it an Igen try. From the Sands, Quyen doesn't eeep as a dragonet charges a bit too close for comfort past her and to now Am'rdu. She definitely doesn't eeep, no matter what that sounded like. She straightens up a little, cautiously eyeing the remaining eggs as if trying to count. From the Sands, Nelderan is the short one out rather than the odd one out, between Zekaraiya and Larze. Not that he's much caring about *that* just at the moment; there are more important things to think about. Like the question everyone seems to have at once, for which he has no answer whatsoever. And those browns—wait, waaaaiiiit. "Was that Amardu I heard, just then? Did I hear wrong? Scorch, I can't see!" From the Sands, Dajin shifts his weight in the traditional Candidate dance, though with all those hatchlings running amok? It's hard not to want to step back a little while he's at it. For safety, of course. Maeyrra finds herself in some distant orbit with other candidates, tucking herself away from the chaos while she tries to compose herself. From the Sands, Shuseran steps out of the way of a hatchling whose focus is well beyond him, then checks to see how the other eggs are coming along. From the Sands, One, two, one, two … There are a pair of eggs nearly synchronized in their movements, but one is just a step (or four) ahead. It shatters apart, leaving a bronze to clamber his way free of the remnants. He does not wait and has already stumbled his way to his match - an older boy from the Bazaar - when the second egg catches up. That one hatches a large blue, who is not as hurried, taking his time to inspect a group of Candidates before nudging his head to the outstretched hand of a Tannercraft lad. From the Sands, Zekaraiya is fascinated (horrified?) at the speed of hatching himself, and bites at his lower lip. "How do we even keep track of 'em?" He mutters, swaying from foot to foot like a very bendy tree indeed. Which way to dodge, should something untoward this way come? "Yup, looks like it was." Oh, look, his height IS of use in that regard! From the Sands, While R'xim busies himself with a cluster of weyrlings, Q'dir steps over to Am'rdu. "This way, we have food. C'mon- that's a good lad." From the Sands, Sweet as Hunny Egg can hold it in no longer - the world must know what it contains! It's the deal of a lifetime! Or it's a dragon. Actually, it's both (if you can believe the sales pitch) and, after a few violent moments where it vibrates in place, it finally erupts. Out tumbles its premium product: a cocoa-and-cream brown dragonet, who flops dramatically on the ground with an equally dramatic amount of side-eye. How dare. From the Sands, This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet Suddenly, there is another gold on the ledges - one who doesn't call Igen home. Stara is no familiar face around Igen - she has never visited before in her life, even - but there's nothing wrong for popping in to see a hatching, right? Establish political connections and all that. Faranth, she hopes there's no harm. But even if she is a bundle of nerves on the inside, Southern's youngest goldrider holds her head high and carries herself calmly and politely as she settles into a seat. If nothing else, surely she won't cause any problems as long as she doesn't draw attention to herself. From the Sands, Quyen looks over towards Zekaraiya and his muttering. "If they're not on your feet, I think you're keeping track of them well enough?" She is at least keeping her feet clear of wayward claw trampling for the moment. From the Sands, Shuseran looks over to see how his fellow weyrlings are faring, who has Impressed and who still Stands on the Sands. From the Sands, "It's someone's later problem?" Vh'iyr so helpfully murmurs. Kiddos, no one look outside, mmkay? Using a convenient part of Nhiuzukkath to lean against next to Kopriva, he leans in to murmur, "It's almost time for our freedom. I'll miss it, but I won't miss the blasted heat." Nhiuzy is… calmish? Kind of like a feline who's got the mouse in his mouth but wants the other mouse as a chaser. Sated, but not? Excited, but lazy? So he watches the little white-robed Candidates and — BUGLES in excitement for a hatching he suddenly catches. "Oh good lord. He's going to start — " Yes, ladies and gents in the galleries and on the sands, Nhiuzy begins his caterwauling in excitement — "… that. He's doing that. I swear." Vhy: /fml. Dulcinea does feel a bit out of place as the riders gather in groups, but she has never been one to shy from an uncomfortable sittuation. Leaning towards the nearest one, she chuckles as she says. "And I thought it was fast when I was out there. Didn't think that it would be harder to follow up here." From the Sands, Larze shakes his head and blows out a breath between his teeth. "No use for it. Will just have to keep clear of in if'n they come charging?" Did Nelderan say Amardu? "Huh. That'd be good I think. He's a good one. Good on him!" From the Sands, Be Careful What You Wish For Egg might not be moving as vigorously as others surrounding it, but something is happening from within. One crack then splinters into two, into three … fine little breaks that expand and extend as the hatchling within steadily chips away. Then? It goes still again … or appears to. Movement draws Kyriel's attention to the seat behind her. The Weyrsecond twists to smile at Rinji and — everyone else. Wow, there are a lot of people in her vicinity, and she DEFINITELY isn't failing to name them because her writer is struggling to keep track of who's where in such a big, fast-moving scene. Nope. "Enjoying the hatching?" she warmly asks. From the Sands, Nelderan is so very not disputing that, seeing as Zekaraiya just spotted what he couldn't. "It *was!* Thank you!" Then there's a further blur - bronze, blue, brown, and oof, this splitting attention thing is harder than it looks. "Oooooh! Awwww." That's for the latest, most visible brown, going off the lingering gaze and the sudden smile. "I like him!" From the Sands, Another trio of eggs hatch back to back, causing another flurry of movement and scattering of shells. From the chaos, three new greens dart across the sands — all in the same direction towards the same cluster of Candidates. There's a moment of indecision and near panic, but all manage to untangle themselves without incident and three more successfully Impress, two boys and one girl, former Smith, Herder and Baker respectively. From the Sands, Zekaraiya gives Quyen a raspy little chuckle. "Fair enough. Faranth, they're fast…." And then, there's This Is My Loudest Bork Brown. " That one looks like a toy…" A suspiciously adorable toy. "Dyou think he's gonna be a handful?" He asks no one in particular. From the Sands, Shuseran watches some of the female candidates Impress and wonders, again, why a hatchling would prefer a woman for a rider, unless it's a gold, of course. Nesyari is speechless, and looking more than a little overwhelmed as she watches all the eggs hatching, and hatchlings wandering to and fro and she loses sight of the few she sorta kinda knows. And she thought the bazaar got chaotic. Oh me, oh my. From the Sands, Quyen winces at the near disaster of the panic, tangle and untangle that thankfully seems to all end well. Stara lets out a soft, breathy laugh, turning to offer Dulcinea a slight smile. "I think it makes sense that it'd move faster up here," she says. "The sands are overwhelming and lifechanging, so time seems to slow down. Up here, you're just watching, so everything looks like it happens all at once." From the Sands, The Test Of One's True Character Egg gives a final, fateful lurch before it capsizes in the sand and collapses on the wreckage of the eggs that hatched before. It shudders and is still until, finally, something stirs from the depths and bursts forth, a patchwork treasure of a bronze that wastes no time in staggering forth into the world. From the Sands, Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet "I think yes, it - " Casla doesn't actually know the stones anywhere near as well as her lifemate does, but she barely gets to try to confer before two things happen at once: one, Jaehnieseyth confirms that Rinji is indeed correct, and two, Casla is going to allow Nasrin to give her a side hug. The list of people allowed to touch her might be short, but it does indeed contain all of Igen's goldriders at present. "We would not miss it," she confides, "certainly not Pariisamith's first. It is that agate, yes — " She looks like she's about to say something to Kyriel when the clutchsire's bugle delights her into silence. She has to just smile at Nhiuzukkath instead. From the Sands, Larze arches an eyebrow and turns to Zekaraiya, eyebrows pinching together. "A…toy? Oh…that's so disrespectful." But, he still laughs. From the Sands, Weslyn takes a step back as the egg closest to him hatches a green and rushes past him to impress to one of his… now former.. crafters. "Congrats," he calls out to him before pulling his eyes back to the possible danger in front of him. From the Sands, Kopriva doesn't mean to laugh, but nerves are a weird, weird thing — or she's at her capacity for worrying and so amusement is the next best thing. All thoughts of future not-problems are pushed aside though, as she tilts her head to hear Vh'iyr better over the din of the humming. Her gaze never quite leaves the eggs, either or the many, many hatchlings. "I know. It'll feel strange to—" Oh no. Whatever else was to be said is left unsaid. She can only stare blankly as Nhiuzukkath begins his caterwauling. There may even be a wince, but when her hand lifts it's not for a strike — she just grips Vh'iyr's hand. Tightly. Pariisamith, for her part, doesn't seem to mind the bronze's enthusiasm. She's absorbed in seeing all her offspring forging their new paths in life. From the Sands, Choose Your Own Legend Egg takes itself quite seriously at the end. It tilts, tips, and tilts again, swaying back and forth until some internal measure is finally met. With a resounding *crack* it splits fully and out tumbles an elegant, striped green that takes a moment to stretch and really show off those fine markings of hers. From the Sands, Phosphorescent Frequency-Hopper Green Dragonet From the Sands, Zekaraiya can't help the nervous laugh that escapes him. "I can't help it. Look at him!" From the Sands, Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet kicks off a remnant of shell clinging to his leg. What's the plan? Well, he doesn't know. All he knows is that he's hungry, and someone out there can assist with it. So he'll go with his gut, rather literally, and wing it, again literally. After all, it's better to act without thinking than to think without acting. With a bit of flair, or just clearing his wing of another small shard, he flares his wings out and starts his quest for the handsome gent who can lend a hand. From the Sands, This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet finally heaves himself to his feet with a dramatic whiiine and throws a look to his parents as if to blame them for all of this. Technically, he's not wrong - and that's the best kind of not-wrongness. But, without waiting for some kind of response from the adults in this situation, the brown snorts and starts off on his adventure. From the Sands, Larze play, pushes at Zekaraiya, just a polite shoulder-nudge, "Maybe I just nudge you in his direction, eh?" He's keeping an eye on a blue…the lovely lithe green and then the bronze, but baqck to the brown, because he's really having sport with this rather than freaking out. From the Sands, Quyen raises an eyebrow at Zekaraiya. "I think there's all more than a handful. Even the small ones." There's a nod and a cautious look to the latest little green to emerge. From the Sands, Nelderan can't help his own giggle at the description of the hatchling brown. "A" snirk, snicker, "an adorable toy?" Giggle, giggle. Give him a second. "He does! I'm never going to get that out of my head now. I'll always think of him as—oh, oh Faranth, that one might be trouble too." Someone's just spotted the new bronze arrival. From the Sands, Phosphorescent Frequency Hopper Green Dragonet pauses for a moment of stillness once fully free from her egg, having shaken off any errant clinging shell from her form. She's taking it all in: the candidates and weyrlingmasters, her siblings, her parents. Kopriva and Vh'iyr. She is momentarily an island of calm in a sea of chaos, assessing before she charges onward — and then, moment past, charges is exactly what she does right into the fray, nearly bowling over a blue brother with excitement as she moves to begin to consider candidates through the very important test of getting her snout very close to their shins. Anyone who backs away is automatically REJECTED, but the fact it happens doesn't seem to be getting her down! From the Sands, Ten Times Roond Egg quivers where it sits on the Sand, a faint vibration of movement that doesn't seem to achieve anything. Give it time though. "Darn tootin' I'm enjoying myself," Rinji replies, looking right in Dulcinea's eyes and giving her a broad and saucy wink of her scarred eye. "Good group. Good looking eggs. Good ROCKS! I LOVE these!" Everyone who says they are oOoOh bAd LuCk is a coward. That red eye thing it's got is cool." The brownrider enthuses openly despite the hubbub between frequent glances at the hatching and the push of the crowd. Hey, we all got priorities. From the Sands, Shuseran smiles, watching the newly hatched hemming and hawing on the Sands, trying to pick out their lifemates. From the Sands, Nhiuzukkath sings the song of his people and his people are loud. Vh'iyr squeezes his eyes shut, but when Kopriva grips his hand, he returns the hold pulling her a little this way as if to put a buffer between the two of them and his own lifemate. "Cut it out you mangey beast," he notes to the bronze who only continues to siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing the soooooooooooong. Especially his little sons and daughters crack shell. "I will not miss this," he laughs with Kopriva. Nor will he miss all the buttless sheeps. "Okay, our dragons made some damn good hatchlings." Nhiuzy's pride has certainly infiltrated Vhy. From the Sands, Be Careful What You Wish For Egg shall indeed live up to its name. There is a long moment of quiet before it lurches violently, crashing against a few of its fellow eggs and finally, finally yielding the price that it has clutched for so long. A dark, brandy-based bronze uncoils and makes itself manifest, a handsome dragonet taking a moment to look himself over before his attention turns to the white-robed figures beyond. From the Sands, Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet From the Sands, Dajin blows out a nervous breath as more and more hatch - and more and more candidates are turned into weyrlings. He throws a worried look to the galleries, then to the eggs, before he shifts his weight again. More candidate dancing. That will solve these problems. From the Sands, Zekaraiya chortles at Larze's teasing. "Oh, I see how it is. Sacrifice me to the mischief maker. Maybe that bronze will come after you. Or maybe the green?" It's as if the man is really considering it - but wouldn't, knowing how quickly one can be removed from candidacy. From the Sands, Nelderan might've been looking at that bronze for a second or two, but then someone green lands in his peripheral vision and he turns. And gasps! No one tell his family. "Oh my…! She's beautiful!" Yes, he said that out loud. He doesn't appear sorry, either. "Larze, look!" From the Sands, Quyen has found a very good spot. It seems to be about equally distant from some of the remaining eggs. A reasonable view of the chaos of the Sands. Her head pivots one way and another as if trying to keep an eye on roaming dragons. And especially on headbutting ones. From the Sands, This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet picks up speed as he moves, his eyes whirling faster and faster and faster. He's really moving now, making little huff and whuff noises under his breath as he goes. Some sand gets up his nose and he sneezes explosively, setting himself violently off-course. After some vigorous head-shaking and another sneeze, he starts up again, breaking into a full sprint toward the candidates. From the Sands, Simple Solution Egg gives a testing twitch. Left. Right. Left. Perhaps unsatisfied, it settles in again. So much for a simple solution - it will just have to experiment a little more. Kyriel chuckles. "You have a bold personality," she tells Rinji, which is… a compliment? She intends it as a compliment, at the very least. A pause, a slight smile, and then, "Do you know a lot about gems, then?" From the Sands, Shuseran sidesteps to get out of the way of another dragonet. From the Sands, Phosphorescent Frequency Hopper Green Dragonet has considered a number of shins. She has contemplated a series of faces. She is circling around a group of uncomfortable looking teenage boys … going one way, changing direction, going the other way (likely right past the dodging starcrafter) and then deciding that the fact they look a little bit terrified means that they're not up to snuff, either. Other close by candidates can make out a little sigh-like exhale from the many-patterned green, before she takes a deeper inhale and does a total about-face toward a completely different conglomeration of candidates. From the Sands, With a lurch and shudder, The Curse of Mediocrity Egg stirs reluctantly into life, only to immediately regret that decision. It grows still again, moments later. Please, don't build any expectations around it; it just can't handle it. From the Sands, Larze grins at Zekaraiya and gives him a thankful chin-tip for the light heartedness in this very crazy situation. "I'll take the green. You the brown, or …wow, three bronze hatchlings so far? Well…either way, that might be awkward?" He's tracking the green though. From the Sands, Just as there seems to be a chance for anyone to catch their breath, an egg on the fringe of the clutch hatches. From the split halves of the shell, a brown wriggles himself free and shakily to his feet. He does not go far, finding the one he seeks: a young girl from one of the cotholds, who had been hovering on the edge of a group of Candidates. Nasrin is mindful not to get any glazing on the beadwork of her bodice when Casla's belasso'd into a hug. Most likely they ruin someone's view, short-term of course, but no one would throw shade on a hatching day. "I can't talk much now as I watch my investments go," dragon stocks, it's a thing, "but there's a nook with our name on it at the feast." Even if they just sit without talking! From the Sands, Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet gives a flourishing and finishing touch to examining himself by flicking his wings. They resettle back to his sides with some fussing - this is all new, see? He'll master it yet - and then it's right to business! He turns to face the white robed Candidates, surveying all with a keen eye as he takes his first steps forwards. As he closes in on the front-most line of Candidates, a few hopeful youths rumbled at — but no, it's a polite rebuff. None are who he seeks and so the bronze moves on. From the Sands, Weslyn looks over to Zekaraiya and back at Larze. He hasn't really paid much attention to their conversation, so he looks a little confused at her teasing. "I think Larze will be good on any of the dragons." Then, once again, his eyes go to the sand as he puts his weight on the balls of his feet in case he has to dodge. From the Sands, Kopriva follows readily enough when Vh'iyr pulls her, maybe a little relieved for the buffer. Her expression has changed again, a slow smile now broadening to a slanted near-grin. All warmth, even with the lingering distractedness. There's so much going on! So much to absorb. Blink and details are missed. She keeps her hand in his, though her gaze is facing forwards. "It wasn't all bad, was it?" she muses, only to hum an acknowledging note of her own. Pariisamith is likely rubbing off on her even more than usual too! "They have, haven't they? I've… long since stopped keeping track of numbers but some of those I have caught?" She'll have to seek out the official records later. From the Sands, Shuseran asks "Three is good for a clutch this size?" He's definitely not Weyrbred. From the Sands, Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet takes no pause in his assessment of the sea of white before him. He keeps himself on the move, with a few close calls in the path of his claws or tail. It's about the only area that he holds restraint on; hes less likely to secure his winnings if he causes an unnecessary alert. From the Sands, Zekaraiya is low-key tracking the Brown, whose behavior is both amusing and bizarre: one never knows - "By all that's holy.. " He laughs, as the Brown sprints at them. "Look at him go!" From the Sands, Shuseran focuses again on the hatchlings. They can move fast. Best to keep a close eye on them and stay out of their way. From the Sands, Quyen takes a deep breath. And then another. An attempt at finding one's grounding, even if the ground is sharding hot. From the Sands, Ten Times Roond Egg has taken all the time that it needs. It shifts on the sand again, more strongly as the first cracks start to appear, the river water of the bottom marked with stretching hair thin cracks. From the Sands, Trust in This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet: he knows what he's doing. allegedly His serious case of the zoomies has him whipping from one group to another until, yes! THERE! THAT ONE! He needs that one! His course straightens out and he finally collapses in a heap in front of a former wildling from Southern, looking up and up and up at him with blue eyes and a whole lot of hope in his hearts. From the Sands, This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Zekaraiya, and steps forward. From the Sands, Nelderan is also tracking that green, but *she's* not the one suddenly sprinting toward the candidates and that could be a problem, considering… "Uh-oh, watch out!" Talk about your nick of time. Nels will be dodging out of the way if that brown gets anywhere near, thanks. From the Sands, Xanathos shifts his footing, up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, vary the pattern by an a beat, a b beat. Just enough to keep within the tolerances of the thin sandals. He will never understand why after all of these centuries no one has come up with better foot wear for this. From the Sands, From the centre of the clutch, three eggs hatch, with a blue, brown and green finding their feet in this strange and sandy world. The blue makes his match the quickest, tumbling into the midst of a mass of candidates and being helped up by a befuddled girl. The brown treks almost the whole length of the sands in order to find a man from the herdercraft who looks shellshocked to have this new path open up for him. The green wanders back and forward, taking her time with her choice, before eventually settling on a weyrbred young lad just old enough to Stand. From the Sands, Larze blushes furiously at Weslyn's compliment and his shoulders do that crunch forward before he leaps aside as the brown comes forward. He didn't even have to push…but he does look like he might try to yank the tall lad back. Probably not a great idea. Dulcinea snorts at Rinji's comment. "Yes, but then again, I have never heard a rider say, oh I don't think that those eggs are a bad group out there, but I get what you are saying." From the Sands, Shuseran does the candidate dance as well, shifting from foot to foot, watching the hatchlings. How many more eggs left to hatch? He does a quick tally. From the Sands, Phosphorescent Frequency-Hopper Green Dragonet has her head raised now, face forward, tail twitching a little bit: she is walking assuredly in a direction that she knows will take her down the right path. And she looks amazing doing it, even if she's all uncoordinated hatchling limbs: her confidence makes up for any of that! Yet she pauses before barreling on ahead, seeming to contemplate her choices once more before making up her mind and throwing herself fully into the moment … and as close as she can get to right into the arms of her former Miner girl. From the Sands, Phosphorescent Frequency-Hopper Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Quyen, and steps forward. From the Sands, Impressions! Going off like hotcakes! "I remember when we Stood, the feel of it. It never gets old, but it's nice to be on the other side." Vh'iyr would hazard more than nice really, as little anxiety lingers in him. "Look at that one," which one? "It's going straight for that… nope, see it veered." Is he talking about a Candidate or a dragonet or … It's difficult to discern in the chaos. "Did you bet? I didn't," for he had little time to consider, not with all the bronze-lifemate-wrangling he had to do. From the Sands, Dajin has, by now, memorized the candidate shuffle. After a few more shifting steps, he tries a different cadence to see if that helps, but all it does is make the time pass more awkwardly, somehow. From the Sands, Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet weaves his way through the Candidates, as mindful as he can be with his new and ungainly body; if anyone is bumped or knocked, it's purely accidental. He does not pause, rumbling changing to something bolder, a steel and French horn-laced call. One of the younger Candidates try their luck in tentatively approaching the bronze, but a sharp-note huff from the bronze is enough of a message and the boy backs off. Undeterred, the bronze soldiers on, confident in his stride despite the encroaching urgency in his search. "WHOOO! BROWN!" and Rinji's hootin' to her feet, pumping the fist that clenches her banded prize so tightly. "Oh here hold on…" There's several patches on her jacket, and one below her shoulder that's frayed with age and sappy with little hearts reads 'IT'S GRANDMA'S FAULT'. This gets tapped meaningfully at Kyriel. "I wear a warning sign." From the Sands, Another twitch. A deeper tremble. Simple Solution Egg's resolve is soon tested, as fine fissures threaten to form amongst the shell's striations. It stops again, as if it has a little more information. Soon. From the Sands, Nelderan would be dodging. Ahem. Would be turns into is, as in off to the side in a clumsy spray of sand with a yelp for good measure, because that brown is sharding *fast* and heading right for "Eeyikes!" Beat. "Did he just… I think he did! Congratulations" As if Zekaraiya can hear him now. From the Sands, Quyen isn't too concerned with the counting. She's focusing more on the here and now and what evidence of that is directly in front of her face is another face looking up to her. "Bel…. Beldeth? and Brunch?" From the Sands, Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet finally slows, his creeping crawl toward his prize resolving in a momentary need to rally himself. Is he ready? He was born ready. He suddenly picks up his pace, coming at Weslyn from a side, rather than heading for him straight on. Here's to hoping the former-Smith's peripheral vision is sharp, because he has a bullet of a bronze aiming straight for him. Fortunately, there's no collision of bodies - just of minds, hearts, and souls as Impression is made. From the Sands, Zekaraiya did indeed track the Brown, but not quite fast enough: it's bowled into him, a brown puddle of something the man has never experienced before. "Sh.. Shikuroth?" Long fingers dazedly stroke the brown's head, wonderingly. "Yes. Food." He looks up, wildly. "He's so hungry." From the Sands, Weslyn also has to move as the brown comes up to Zekaraiya. "Oh," he says after he gets his footing again. "Congratulations, there," he tells him. "He is a good look, fellow." Kyriel lets out a bark of startled laughter at Rinji's antics. She catches herself soon enough though, clearing her throat and looking away to hide her blush. "I see," she says. "That's very. Um. Considerate." From the Sands, Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Weslyn, and steps forward. From the Sands, Shuseran wonders why some dragonets find their lifemates straight away while others are still wandering the Sands, looking, long after some that hatched later have already paired. From the Sands, Two blues and two greens emerge from their shells, two from eggs closest to their dam, and two from the eggs furthest away. The greens make Impression to two crafter boys from Keroon, while the blues deplete the ranks of the Starcraft by choosing a woman and a man. From the Sands, Q'dir is there, rest assured! All those freshly Impressed sorts will be sorted one way or the other! "Over here! We have meat! I'm not sure what kind, but they'll definitely eat it. Just- uh, tell them to eat slowly. Their tongues aren't food." From the Sands, Shuseran winces. Two from Starcraft! The masters won't be best pleased. From the Sands, Another bit of trembling seizes hold of The Curse of Mediocrity Egg. It's the weight of anticipation and those dreaded responsibilities that finally have it cracking visibly in a few spots. No, no. No. It doesn't want this. This feels so very much like a curse. Hatchings, as it turns out, are a lot less interesting when you don't know anyone on the sands. And when there isn't a massive plot to steal dragonets at hand. Stara tries her level best to keep her attention on the hatching, but her attention keeps wandering over to the people in the stands around her. More than once, her attention strays to the unfamiliar goldriders, but she doesn't find the nerve to say anything. Besides, they seem fairly wrapped up in each other. It would be rude to introduce herself now, right? Right. From the Sands, Larze slumps one shoulder as the green impresses-not to him- But, his attention shoots back to Zekaraiya and he's all toothsome smiiles for his friend. "Congrats. Wow, now I feel real bad laughing at your dragon." From the Sands, Ten Times Roond Egg trembles like a leaf in a hurricane, as the dragonet inside fights against the construction of its shell. Cracks rise up from the ground and splinter down from the top, until each fissure meets and the shell parts to dump It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet out into an ungainly puddle of egg goo. Sticky and sand covered now, It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet staggers to his feet. From the Sands, It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet It's Casla's fault for bringing out the shiny rocks. Stara will need to battle Casla to the death now. Killer goldrider versus killer goldrider: who will win? Nasrin tracks when Zekaraiya, whom she met mere hours ago, meets and falls in line with a brown. It seems he won't be heading back to Southern anytime soon. The goldrider throws her hands together gamely as he, along with Quyen and many others, become new riders for Igen's rank and file. Take that, Rix. From the Sands, "It's good that most of them aren't wandering too long? Though I feel a little for those Candidates…" Kopriva muses in turn to Vh'iyr, another curving smile of agreement. There is a little wistfulness to her expression too. She remembers! And now there will be this first memory, to go along with many future experiences. She likely tries to follow which Vh'iyr is commenting on, but gives up with another fleeting laugh, mostly nerves again. Except for the huffed: "No, I did not bet on the eggs!" Not this time. Her hand squeezes Vh'iyr's again — did he want it back yet? It doesn't appear like she's letting go. "Oh shards, we have to do the speech at the end…" Is she only remembering that now!? From the Sands, Dajin's occupied himself with counting and recounting the eggs, but the number keeps changing so quickly - or not-so-quickly now. Things are slowing down? A little, at least. He's not sure how to feel about that. From the Sands, Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet has, perhaps, moved a little too far. He comes to a ponderous stop, wings shifting a beat before his body turns. Wait just a moment, here… ah! Now he comes alive again, purpose and delight fueling his forward momentum as he cuts a path across the sands. Nothing stops him, nothing distracts him — he has found who he desires and as the distance closes, he calls out again. Proud, so very pleased, as he settles himself to sit right at the feet of a ginger-haired, tall young man from a remote cothold in Keroon. From the Sands, W'lyn was so into watching his fellows impress that he totally missed the bronze's approach, but he swings his head around to look deep into the bronze… no HIS bronze's eyes. "Oh, Zowarth. I like your face, too. Yeah, let's get you some food. I am sure it is around here somewhere." From the Sands, Nelderan is well and truly scattered, not to mention scattering, between the resolving brown blur that's evidently Impressed Zekaraiya by knocking him over, and the bronze blur who—was that a Smith? And where did that green go? He turns, sand-spattered, in time to catch a glimpse of Quyen with the green. "Oooooh, she did choose! Congratulations!" Beat. "Who got that bronze, Larze? Didja see?" From the Sands, The Weyrleader is finding himself spending more time helping direct the newly-paired weyrlings with meat strips and hydration than actually watching the Candidates still performing their foot-saving dances. T'rin gives a few claps as they come forth, and directing as needed towards weyrlingstaff. From the Sands, Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Larze, and steps forward. From the Sands, Shuseran eyes the newly hatched blue wonderingly. How could his eyes not be drawn to a dragonet that looks like a weather phenomenon? From the Sands, A speedy rocket of a blue hatches and zooms over the Sands, barely pausing to note the candidates in his wake. One is not quite quick enough to get out of the way, and ends up with the blue on his chest, staring down into his eyes as an impression is made - transmuting Randeley into Ra'ye. From the Sands, "Food over here, weyrlings! Come get your food!" Q'dir calls, gesturing more of them over as he spies them being matched up. "I think it's herdbeast, but your guess is as good as mine. Whoa, whoa-" his attention is pulled to a greedy little green, "not so fast or you'll chomp your cheeks." From the Sands, Simple Solution Egg needs no struggle! There's barely a crack as evidence before the eye-catching silver merely splits down middle, peeling aside to reveal a smaller sized bronze hatchling, seemingly carrying over its egg's sheen in bright brassy coloring. He sniffs determinedly in the new air. He knew how to hatch all along! He only lacked the inspiration to do so. From the Sands, Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet Either everyone or no one, because Casla keeps giving out sweets that aren't causing unconsciousness these days. Now she's encouraging Rinji to, "Keep one, if you like," after having to cringe slightly when Jaehnieseyth lets out a crooning howl for the Impressions. They aren't done yet, are they? "The stones, I mean. Not the pastries. Please keep anything you eat." She does actually notice Stara, and gives her a curious glance, but — all it gets is a headtilt rather than actual speech. Maybe Nasrin will talk for her. From the Sands, It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet isn't quite sure what to make of everything after being dumped ungently on the Sands, but he is certain that he is going to give his all to find out what is going on. Who cares that he is sticky and sandy? There are things to do. Perhaps those white robed things have some of the answers that he is looking for. Time to find out! From the Sands, Shuseran looks around again to see if there are still any more unhatched eggs. From the Sands, Maeyrra's tactic of staying hidden seems to be keeping her… safe? Though the candidates are thinning out and she's soon left without a shield against those running dragonets! There's a loud cheer and Rinji's looking around. "Wait wait who was it? Gotta be bronze, don't gotta turn around for that. But is it the Smith kid orrr 'cause I got…" There's a small side-eye to the press of goldriders. "I got uh theories on that," she finishes lamely, batting her eyelashes. "Oh you are awesome. This is exactly going in my little extraneous jacket pouch. Dunno what's supposed to go in here," she murmurs as she stashes her goods. "If you want, I can get you SOME stuff from Southern. Ethical fair trade!" From the Sands, Another trio of eggs hatch right on the heels of the last, disgorging two greens and a blue onto the sands. One trots off immediately, corrects course and headbutts a fisher lad hard in the chest. The other two take more time to choose, but not as long as many, and find their lifemates in a candidate knot at the foot of the galleries. From the Sands, It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet finally notices that there are other hatchlings wandering around, and freezes, one foot held off the Sands. Well, this won't do. There's something here that is calling out to him, and he has to find it before some other dragon does. Right, where is the nearest group that he can check out? From the Sands, Nhiuzukkath twitches, letting up on the song of his people long enough for at least some of the lack of his caterwauling to not be so overwhelming. It looks like he's about to start in again when another barrage of eggs hatch. Vh'iyr forces his attention away from his errant lifemate and to the sands before shooting Kopriva a look. "We've spent this whole thing winging it, why start now with prepared speeches?" Besides, everyone will forget a terrible speech with enough booze and fancy food. He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, turning his attention out to the sands. "That girl looks like she's going to bolt." A girl with striking eyes and gold-touched chestnut hair does seem to be on the verge of sprinting for the finish. From the Sands, Shuseran perversely wishes he could be up in the stands watching, to get a better view of the entire tableau. It's hard to keep track of all the dragonets and his fellow candidates from this level. He wants to know how they're all doing! From the Sands, Nelderan is probably not getting an answer to his question, by the looks of that surprise addition to the conversation. At least he didn't charge? "Whoa!" That might be more squeak than yelp, but who's listening now? "Congratulations!" And that leaves Nels… sidling vaguely Dajin-wards. From the Sands, W'lyn moves towards the food buckets with his newly minted bronze in tow. "Hmm, how much should we eat?" The former Smith frowns. "Sorry, that was misspeak; how much should he eat?" Then, as the AWLM chuckles and gives advice, the newly made bronzerider nods as he absorbs the information before putting it into action. From the Sands, Larze takes a step back. Duck, Dodge…get out of the way but…"Whoa…" Dumbstruck, there's no more movement from the lad. His nostrils flare and he sniffs and then leans towards the bronze and sniffs before he reaches out an uncertain hand, "I'm…L'rze now?" He grins and runs his hand on the upturned muzzle, "Yes…My Wraizhevth. Shards and shells. We will get you food." His free hand is on his stomach, balling up the fabric. "Right now." Surely now. From the Sands, Dajin slants a look to Nelderan and nods him over, though there's no offer of a hand; his is both sweaty and kind of locked in a knot with his robe. "Not many left now, is there?" Kyriel accepts one of the sweets and, to Rinji, says, "Don't eat one of the stones, though." Then there's a pause, a wince, and, "That was a weird thing to say, wasn't it? You didn't need to be told not to do that." And now that she's made it awkward, she can't pass it off as the joke that it was meant as. "Sorry," she offers to Casla and Rinji alike. Then, to pull attention away from that, "Do you know the candidates, then?" From the Sands, It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet is ready to be done with all this moving around business, but he can't sit down and rest just yet. Not until he finds that one bright spot in the sea of unsuitable white that he is faced with. With an indignant creel, he chooses to barrel straight through the thickest clump that he can find to try and find what he is sure is out there. The shrillness of his creeling turns to a delighted warble though as he ends up skidding to a halt against the legs of the one that he's been looking for. From the Sands, Xanathos sidesteps around one of the candidates who nearly backs into him. Adjusting his spectacles for the swift shift, he turns his attention back on the recently hatched dragonets and their movements. From the Sands, Q'dir quints a little at W'lyn and Zowarth with a speculative look. "Let's start with this bucket first, eh?" It's relatively small, yes, but baby dragons are also small. "One piece at a time. Make sure he chews it thoroughly before swallowing, too." From the Sands, Once he's gained his bearings, Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet sniffs again and, with a resolute set of his head and an authoritative - if upsettingly wet - snapping of wings to his back, he ventures forth. Head held high, at a perfectly analytical angle, he explores both the Sands themselves and the white-robed figures scattered so haphazardly - and, yet, not? - upon it. Nasrin can talk for Casla in theory but either the tailor failed her on this dress or she's expanded since the last fitting. To Southern's Stara, "Igen's greetings, weyrwoman, and Benden's pastries," how international! She checks off another win when Larze Impresses his bronze, making up for the early shortfall of color distribution. From the Sands, The Curse of Mediocrity Egg is less cursed than it seems, in the end. It does hatch, but the contents are anything but mediocre, as the shards tumble away from an egg-sticky bronze that gleams all the brighter for the wetness of his hide. Red eyes blaze like wicked stars, brought to bear with the weight of judgment on the white-robed. From the Sands, Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet From the Sands, It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Shuseran, and steps forward. From the Sands, Nelderan isn't going for a hand-grab, don't worry. "I can't even *tell*," is his response to Dajin. "It seems like there are bronzes all over, though, or is that normal? And there's that one blue who looks like a summer storm. But I can't tell. How many do you think are left?" From the Sands, Four eggs split to reveal a small brown surrounded by greens. Quite petite in his size, the brown politely waits for the greens to spread out before he pulls himself to his feet and heads towards the weyrlingstaff and their buckets of meat. Almost absently he picks up his bonded along the way, a Smithcraft lady, only recently Searched. The three greens also choose their bonded - with one of them laying claim to Telgari Loya - and reunite with the brown over the meat pails. From the Sands, "Is that you volunteering to do it, then?" Kopriva is teasing… right? She goes to say something but is pulled from that line of thought. Not just by the sight of more hatchlings finding their match, but from what Vh'iyr points out yet again. There's a slight frown and maybe a little dash of concern. "They'll stop her if she does, I think? Or…" Would they let her go, if that were the Candidates final choice? Has that ever happened before!? Pariisamith continues to hum, though with the number of eggs dwindling to the last handfuls, the gold starts to carry a little of a bittersweet edge to her tone. From the Sands, Shuseran stares down at the blue, dumbstruck. Somehow he hadn't quite expected to Impress after all. "Cirrath… Cirrath!" He falls to one knee, reaching out to touch the dragonet. "Hungry… oh!! Oh! Yes, we are! I mean, you are! Ah.. this way!" From the Sands, Dajin scrunches his nose a little. "It's hard to tell. They're still- doing things." Like, oh, those four that just hatched and Impressed almost immediately. "I think it's almost over, though. There can't be that many left." From the Sands, With the number of eggs on the Sands dwindling rapidly as they hatch, all eyes are on the few that still remain. Three hatch almost at once, and as the greens leave their shells, one bumps into another egg which promptly sheds its own green out. Trilling indignantly about this whole experience, this green marches her way across the sands to her rider, and continues complaining as they're escorted from the sands. The other three are much quieter about their hatching and their impressions. From the Sands, At long last, freed of his prison, Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet turns his blazing regard to the candidates in full as he ventures forth. His stride is slow and purposeful at first, well-measured against the need for food and the need to be sure. Which among them will be willing and able to withstand his judgment? Only time will tell. From the Sands, L'rze looks more than a little stricken as he whipsers to the dragon. /His/ dragon (?). "But, you are -bronze-…" From the Sands, Shuseran stands again, reaching down a hand toward Cirrath's head, looking over toward the assistant weyrlingmasters, and guides the little blue off of the sands. From the Sands, Nelderan is going to end up dizzy, at this rate. "Green!" Slight pause. "Er, three? Was that two or three? And there went even more!" Nope, he's well out of tracking much of anything. NOt so out of it that he won't gesture offhandedly to Xanathos in a vague come-over-here-if-you-wanna sort of a way, when there's a spare moment to breathe. Wait, who are we kidding? From the Sands, Z'kara is there, fumbling to feed the blaze of energy that is his Shikurath. "What? Ah. No…. Stara smiles at Nasrin, so polite and controlled that the anxiety that had been sparkling in her eyes only a moment ago is overtaken in an instant. "Senior Weyrwoman," she greets. "Southern's congratulations on your hatching." Oh, is… is Stara allowed to offer that? Would Xiawen be okay with her speaking for the Weyr? Honestly, probably, so she's doing it. "The dragonets look lovely." And as she accepts a pastry, it is with a soft, curious murmur of, "Benden." You can take the girl out of the jungle, but she'll still have spent most of her life in the southernjungle and not be remotely familiar with northern baked good. From the Sands, More buckets of meat are brought out for the weyrlingpairs, though the number of eggs yet to hatch is shrinking rapidly. Q'dir squints at the eggs to count them, blows out a breath, and takes a moment to have a quick chat with R'xim before he starts to dole out more meat buckets and instructions. "Chew slowly. Don't choke. One piece at a time. No, sticking two together doesn't make it one piece…" From the Sands, Dajin offers a sympathetic look to Nelderan. "I've stopped trying to count or keep track. There are only a few left wandering, I think? Ah- wait, I think the last ones to hatch are going to hatch soon." It's not like the little dragons have been shy about bursting forth, after all. From the Sands, The last two eggs take their time about hatching, waiting till the last minute, but hatch they do, and twin blues make their appearance. Where one stands tall to gain the eye and call attention to himself, the other slinks low to the ground, slithering on his belly through the remains of the eggs. But both blues find their partners amongst the dwindling candidate numbers, one to one of the lower caverns staff, and another to a young man on the edge of aging out: Kazolan becomes Z'lan and his blue's name is, for now, a secret he will keep. From the Sands, "Oh no, Priv," Vh'iyr laughs, turning from the sands to the weyrwoman, "That privilege is all for youuuuu." Is it any wonder his sing-song rhetoric is too much like Nhiuzukkath's caterwauling delights? He, too, has sunk into a kind of bittersweet song, low-slung in decibel to thrum the heart-strings of a low-dose purr. "I have no idea. I've never seen a runner, but she's edging." The girl looks overwhelmed, especially as the eggs dwindle and her eyes widen like saucers. Turning from her plight, Vh'iyr focuses on the ones Impressing, on the dragonets finding new homes, and — "I remember those first moments. The hunger, the meat, the newness of it." Another side-glance to Kopriva, "Kinda like reliving it all again, eh?" From the Sands, Hunger starts to set its hooks into Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet, but still he persists. He roams among the dwindling ranks of candidates, remaining just out of reach of those that might make a desperate grab for a future that is not theirs to claim. His tail lashes at one older lad, a fellow whose desperation shines in unshed tears, but there is no malice to the blow. It's a warding gesture and, soon enough, the bronze continues on with a quickening stride. From the Sands, L'rze shakes himself and moves to join the other newly minted weyrling pairs and accepts one of the buckets handed to him. "If'n ya eat too quick-liike" He feeds a bit of meat, "you'll get fat-tail. That means it will not feel good." Someone learned something while mucking out the dragonhealer's area so very often. From the Sands, W'lyn nods again. "Thank you for the information." Then, he does just as he is told. "You will have to keep it slow. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. I know we are hungry." He says with a smile down at the bronze. From the Sands, Nelderan meets that sympathetic look with a reasonably cheerful one of his own, considering everything. "You're probably right, seeing as how quick the rest have…" Hold on just a second. "Kazolan!" Yep, Nels is squeakily yelping again. "Oh he did! He was hoping!" The scant number of unpartnered dragons is going to register in just a minute here. Not quite yet, though. "Where I am currently resident," Casla offers by way of explanation of the Benden part; she actually moves her shawl to display the fact that she's got a knot naming her both a junior of Benden and one of its dragonhealers as if this explains everything. (It does, but more context is likely required.) "While I hope to come home soon, until then I will make off with pastry. I'm Casla," she remembers to tack on, just in case that wasn't obvious: that part is still unusual, the one where people know her name without her saying it. From the Sands, Q'dir and the other AWLMs are buzzing like VTOLs now, zipping hither, thither, and yon. So, his words will occasionally cross the streams, as it were, with the usual reminders and, soon, some offers of oil for those hatched earlier. "We'll get you all to the barracks soon enough, I promise." From the Sands, Sh'er grins at L'rze. "Thick tail. But yes, not a good thing. So eat slowly, Cirrath!" he tells the blue as he takes a bucket and offers the first gobbet of meat. Nasrin dare not lift her eyes too far from the sands but isn't about to leave Stara hanging. "I'll introduce you to Diem, our senior among us," and she does point to the dark-haired rider of Zsaviranth, "if we can get to her before the speech, opening dance, and official tasting of the house wine. Enjoy our fruits!" Holders' fruits, ALL the fruits. From the Sands, Xanathos one, two bob, one two, weave. Trying to get anywhere specific on the sands at the moment is halfway between a dance and a bolt of blind luck. About the third time his attempt to grain ground towards Nelderan is cut off the smith decides it's probably for the best to stay where he is. From the Sands, Dajin flashes a grin to Nelderan briefly. "You knew him?" The name is passingly familiar, as they always are, but he's not really been the best at bonding with his fellow candidates. Probably because he's sneaking peeks at the exit, now that the sands are largely empty. From the Sands, Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet abruptly lowers his head, chin nearly grazing the Sand as he continues his investigation. He carves a wide berth around a gaggle of girls and a handful of unlikely boys, which narrows his selections considerably. Perhaps the necessary information he needs happens to reside at ankle-level? His methods are his own, regardless of how rapidly whirling his red eyes are. Trust the process! From the Sands, L'rze looks up from making sure there is more chewing and less gulping. "Thick tail. That, ye." Grinning at Sh'er, he nods to his Cirrath. "He's fancy." His own stomach growls fiercly and he lets out a breath. From the Sands, Maeyrra blows out a breath when the last dragons standing are a pair of bronzes. She shifts her feet a little and looks over to the weyrlings, with a tiny little smile offered to the ones she recognizes. But it's an uncertain smile, one gone watery around the edges, and she's quick to look away. From the Sands, Ah- and there. There. Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet finally hastens forth, his footsteps quickening until he stops abruptly in front of a lad whose future was hanging in an uncertain balance. He and only he can be judged worthy in this bronze's eyes. The young man with a knack for weaving and working leather is chosen and the searing red of the dragon's eyes crystallizes into the clearest blue as Impression is made. A cackle. "No, but I thought it," Rinji wheezes in several dimensions at once. In this one, though, she's merely cackling as she zips up her coat. "I pictured someone reachin' into the basket and mONCH." With a dip of her hand, she's pulling a demonstrative hand of popcorn out and tossing it into her mouth with somewhat dubious success. "Crap. I can never pull that off." From the Sands, Nelderan is still grinning. Say what you will about that reaction. "Not too well," he answers, "but I knew who he was, and that he'd stood for ages and ages and not found a lifemate. People kept bothering him over it, what'd he do if he was left again, and…" A flash of something coppery goes by. "is that bronze coming over here?" From the Sands, Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Dajin, and steps forward. From the Sands, Kopriva tilts her head away, but likely not before that grin is spotted. A breath later, her mood sobers a fraction, no doubt caught between witnessing so much. It's overwhelming … in a different sense and yet familiar. "I wonder, then, if they shouldn't just let her run." There's still plenty of Candidates and too few eggs. That, too, is a too familiar memory for the goldrider. "It is," she agrees, distantly but no less truthfully to Vh'iyr. She shakes her head, but it does little to help clear it. Pariisamith will hum and hum, even with the strange note seeping in more and more. She even harmonizes with Nhiuzukkath at one point, however briefly. Of course those eggs of theirs had to hatch, but the gold is now a little sad to see the end of it — and yet, so proud of the outcome. She slips a quick and quiet warble to the bronze. LOOK AT THEIR BABIES~ From the Sands, Z'kara looks to his own brown, who is impatience itself, and gently taps the top of his nose. "D'you hear that? You want a fat tail?" Shikurath whiffs, and bounces. snapping muzzle just missing the meat in his bondmate's hand. "Chew whatcha got, man!" The tall wildling laughs, holding the next mouthful just out of reach. Uh-oh, Senior mix-up! Stara catches herself just in time to avoid visibly grimacing or shrinking back in shame. A goldrider who moves past horrifyingly embarrassing mistakes with ease is better than one who dwells on them, and seeing as making Southern look good is the name of the game, she'd best tryfor better. "I'd appreciate it," she says. To Casla, "I'm Stara, a junior at Southern." And here's the part where she's going to hope that no one outside of Southern knows who "Stara" is. How far and fast do rumors spread, on an international scale? And how long do they last? Questions for her to not be thinking about right now. From the Sands, Nelderan evidently looked at exactly the right moment! With enough time to jump aside, even. "Eep!" Shuffle shuffle riiiight out of the way of that oncoming bronze, excuse him! Keroonian squirt coming through. "He was! Congratulations!" From the Sands, Xanathos finds himself focusing on the rather analytical bronze still looking about, as the statistics show dwindling chances with the others. He glances over towards Neldaran again, gauging his chances near him. From the Sands, W'lyn takes one piece of meat out of the bucket at a time and holds it out for Zowarth. "No, you can't have more than one." Once the bronze has gulped down the one offered, the former Smith hands him another one. It is a slow process, probably too slow for his lifemate, but food is food at this point, and there is never a time when there isn't food in his mouth. From the Sands, The girl — Syvhaeliya — twists fingers in locks of messy hair, gulping down her fear and potential regret for saying yes to getting scooped up from some backwater hold. Especially as the last of the last hatches, it's easy for a young girl to disappear. Vh'iyr has lost the thread of the girl with the last of the eggs hatching, the remainder finding their lifemates. Nhiuzukkath hum-hums to those edging towards the exit, knowing their day is not today, his tone one of condolences and consolations. "Our time here is almost done. What long strange journey this has been," Vhy squeezes her hand, and leans in to whisper, "After this, we'll hit the Hatching Party and have copious amounts of booze." And he'll escort Kopriva home, too. Nhiuzukkath leans over to nuzzle Pariisamith as if in purring solace of a job well done. OUR BABIES HAVE CHOSEN WELL! Kyriel grimaces. "I imagine that would be very bad for your teeth." Not that Rinji would ever give in to the intrusive thoughts and actually bite a rock. Right, Rinji? …Right? From the Sands, Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet takes time to start up again, chugging forward first like a fire beginning to spark and then with heavy pounding steps. He has eliminated the impossible within this sea of probabilities, leading him quite inevitably to the answer. No one else need know his methods, only that he winds without distraction to settle with a loud thump at the feet of Xanathos, the antique tail rapping the former Smith on the back of a hand with an abrupt impatience. If convenient, come get Impressed. From the Sands, Dajin, now D'jin, is briefly lost to the world entirely. Sorry, Nelderan, but he's got his hands on a bronze dragonet's face and his own expression is- difficult to describe, really, as emotions filter across it freely. "Attaduath." And that is all, before he darts a look to Nelderan, offers him a smile, and he steps away to feed the beast that's ambling alongside him. From the Sands, Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Xanathos, and steps forward. From the Sands, L'rze lures his hungry, slurping dragonette over Z'kara-wards with a rather bemused, goofy smiles. "Whulp, guess there's no going back now, eh?" He tiwsts around and squints. "You see Maeyrra? I thought I saw a blue and a green heading her way but…she was all the way across the san….yes, since you asked so polite." His eyebrows up, he offers out another strip of meat to his Wraizhevth, who is really taking onto this chewing stuff. (At this point Jaehnieseyth croon-howl-sings again, but it's just the once, and it's not too loudly. At least she isn't off-key.) Nasrin further welcomes Stara into Igen's heady celebration of its new pairings. "If someone named D'wane asks you to dance…" and what she cautions or advises is left for the ages because the crowd's applause is hearty and the feet flocking to the food and drink are many. From the Sands, Nelderan won't take offense. He'll be a bit starry-eyed, given that's the third? fourth? somethingth Impression he's seen in fairly close proximity, but he won't blame you one bit, D'jin. Ask him. Later. "Congratulations," he repeats, and while he's sidestepping out of the way of the newest weyrling, he's just going to keep moving, right over into—oh no he isn't, there's another bronze over that way! Erm. Backwards by a little to the port side it is, into a knot of mixed boys and girls. Including his sister, go figure. From the Sands, Q'dir, R'xim, and the rest of the team can finally slow down on slinging food buckets everywhere. "Okay, after your dragons are fed, just follow us and we'll get you all to your new home, okay?" Hopefully the dragonets aren't too tired - but, well. They're small enough that they can be carried. From the Sands, Z'kara smiles back at L'rze. "Nah," he agrees, giddy. "No goin' back." And more meat is given to the brown clamoring in hunger in his head; is it in time to the gnawing of his own belly? It will be days before Z'kara is sure of the difference. Contentment eases his bemusement. "Maeyrra?" He looks around, seeking. "Haven't seen her over here yet…" Rinji, for her part, is going to be here trying vainly to toss popcorn in her mouth despite her completely jacked depth perception. From the Sands, Kopriva might have some sympathy for Syvhaeliya — or any of the others who are already edging away. She would not find fault in them, for that. Just as swiftly as it began, the end sweeps in as the last of the Impressions are made. "Here we go," she murmurs in an aside to Vh'iyr — she heard what he had said before but that will have to wait. Gathering herself as much as her scattered mind will allow, she puts on a gentle smile. Genuine, at least, for the other emotions lurking — among them understanding. Oh, and if Vh'iyr thought he could escape entirely? Nah. She has his hand in a vice grip (maybe unintentionally) and he'll have to suffer stand by her side. "Congratulations to our newest weyrlings. And thank you, for those of you, who remain. I am sorry that not all of you could find your lifemates today. Perhaps, another time, be it here with Igen or elsewhere. Until then, you're welcomed to join the feast in the caverns…" And it progresses much of the same, until that too, ends. Then? Kopriva will politely excuse herself, likely with Vh'iyr in tow. They do have a feast to attend as well! Freendom, so close at hand~ And yes, booze. Even Kopriva won't turn down a drink (or two) this time. Pariisamith will linger awhile longer on the sands, until the last few filter out, before taking her leave — finally, finally to stretch and fly. From the Sands, L'rze wraps his arms around Wraizhevth and presses his face against the hatchling's neck. "Does your dragons…um…Shikurath… /smell/ nice?" His own hatchling yawns and leans against him. "Uh-oh. Okay, we're going to a resting place. Huh? Will it be nice? Of course it will be nice." He eyes his dragon and then Z'kara before twisting around to look again for Maeyrra but then he's drawn towards the Weyrlingmasters and the barracks. From the Sands, Post-speech, Maeyrra blows out an uncertain breath and, finally, slips out with the remaining candidates. Whether to enjoy the feast or seek solitude, that's only for her to know for now. From the Sands, Nelderan has caught up, by now. NO, there really aren't any more eggs. "Oh." He'll be scanning the sands for any stray shells, he'll find none, and that's about when the disappointment will steal over his features for real. It's to the barracks for him, eventually, to change back into his everyday clothes. Likely the feast, after that, at least at some point. Excuse him. Legends Aren't Born; They're Hatched (Galleries) has 0 comments. |
Casla, Dulcinea, Edric, Kyriel, Nasrin, Nesyari, Rinji, Stara |
Igen's hatching from the popcorn galleries. |
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Legends Aren't Born; They're Hatched Legends Aren't Born; They're Hatched
"Okay, our dragons made some damn good hatchlings." Sands The out-of-doors of Igen Weyr seems a blissful respite from the oppressive heat of this sandy colosseum. Heated from beneath by volcanic vents, the air above the hatching sands shimmers, lending a sort of unreal, dream-like quality to the area beyond even the magic that happens here at Impressions. Despite its blistering temperatures, the sands are incongruously soft, almost powdery, and flat save for the worn stone queen's bower that rises up to break the monotony and provide a place of respite for the doting mother-to-be. Curse or no? How curious the timing of things, in a near pattern of three. Two less favorable events bracketed with the promise of new life and lives changed forever snuggled firmly between events. Early afternoon begins as any other: with clear autumn skies and tolerable (if still hot) weather. The Weyr bustles with activity, Igen's Wings having returned from Threadfall sometime around the midday hour. Those not otherwise caught up in that legendary aftermath, are likely to be caught in the cusp of being between 'this' and 'that'. That is when the humming begins, in tandem where some observe the far off distant smudge of a too-familiar sandstorm. These eggs wait for no one and no storm, and the humming builds and builds and builds… excitement and tension now hand in hand. It is unmistakable: Pariisamith and Nhiuzukkath's eggs are hatching at last! Candidates will have to scurry hurry, hurry, hurry! Those in the Barracks are the few and fortunate. Others will have to be rounded up, collected and gathered from wherever they may have been, in whatever state they may be. One the Sands, several eggs are already moving significantly, while Pariisamith hovers nearby, humming loudly and with all her heart(s) to welcome Igen's newest hatchlings. For now, her mood is a happy one, delighted in bearing witness to this event. She will even show some rare open affection for Nhiuzukkath, before turning her rapt and full attention on those eggs — and the eventual arrival of those hopeful Candidates. One by one, the white robed figures trickle in. An offering of themselves to the very eggy sacrificial altar. Repeated instructions of weyrlingmasters had apparently stuck because while the bow may not be seamless, they all give their deep bows to both Clutch Dam and Clutch Sire before fanning out to cautiously eye those soon to be rocking eggs. An egg abruptly shatters to deposit a green on the Sands, upside down and peeping in amazement. Once she rights herself though, she heads straight towards a minor cotholder daughter and promptly sits on her feet. Sweet as Hunny Egg vibrates in place with anticipation. It has just the perfect sales pitch and it can't wait to share it with the world! It just? it just needs a minute to catch its breath. That's all. The Test Of Ones True Character Egg has been moored long enough. Every moment it sits there, it loses out on the chance of its bounty. Thar be Candidates! With a shiver, it shifts into motion; not only motion, but a rhythmic rocking as it shifts from stationary to all out movement in one go. A brown and a blue hatch at the same time, at opposite sides of the Sands. There's a brief moment of confusion as they cross paths in the search for their partners and manage to get their legs tangled, but the snarl is quickly fixed. The brown finds his partner in a weavercraft man, and the blue chooses a herder lass. Reports indicate that Choose Your Own Legend Egg may have just moved! … maybe. It could be that it's being sneaky, but it's also entirely possible that you'll have to choose your own interpretation of whether or not that was a true wiggle-wobble, or if it was just a trick of the light. Larze comes a'running, hop-hopping onto the sands without as much grace as he's practiced. He's still tugging down the hem of his robe but he does it! He does his respectful and then blinks around, "I just…whoa…" Weslyn's heart leaps as the first hatchling emerges. He watches, almost holding his breath, as the hatchling surveys the sea of white robes, its gaze flitting from one candidate to another. For a fleeting second, Weslyn wonders if the green will choose him, but as she finds her perfect match elsewhere, the Smith finds himself in a state of increased anticipation for the "what if." Nelderan will not trip over, he will *not* trip over, he will not trip over his feet and fall facefirst into the sand—no, no, noooo he will not! Somebody's walking with extra care in those hastily-donned sandals. At least he doesn't turn his bows into a topple? He'll be scurry, hurry, hurrying in short order, over toward a somewhat familiar face in the crowd and wait, where's Dernianne in this chaos? Over there, somewhere. "Larze! Over, er… here? Or can I be?" Q'dir's out here along with R'xim, doing his duty to help lug buckets of meat and whatever else the weyrlings will need in their little area - or whatever it is. He should probably know what this spot is, but- well. He does not. Quyen does the classic Hatching Sands Walk. There's no rhythm, just the instinct to lift one foot then the other so they don't burn right off even as one keeps an eye on the rocking eggs. As the first dragonet emerges, she can't help but give a sharp whistle. This is real! it's actually real. Shuseran winces at the heat on his feet, sinking down into the soft sands, looking around. There's another vibration, another excitable shifting by Sweet as Hunny Egg. Ooooh, it can barely contain itself! JUST YOU WAIT, WORLD! But, for the savvy, they'll see cracks beginning to form long before the pitch can be made. Larze tips his head at the sound of his name and rips his attention from the brown..then the blue and blinks owlishly at Nelderan before giving a shake of his head. "Hey. Yeah." His long, lean legs carry him swiftly to the candidate. "Don't take your eyes off'a 'um. Right?" Nhiuzukkath fans his wings, and would be pacing like a caged feline if it were not for Pariisamith's distracting tailtip. It's a good method to keep the bronze-sire from being too chaotic. In return to her happy mood is one of his own, a sound of humming rumbling deep in his throat as his eggs prepare to hatch. Vh'iyr runs back to the sands after depositing the latest "gift" out in the weyr… bowl somewhere. "Don't worry," to Kopriva, wherever she may be, "it's someone else's problem." And not bleeding out on the sands. You're welcome Candidates! Dajin is along with the others, though he's nervous- anxious, really. He's wringing his hands in his robes and doing his best to look stoic, but it's harder than it seems. Maeyrra isn't much better; she's struggling a big with taking breaths and not freaking out. She's trying, but hoo boy. A small grouping of eggs hatch all at the same time, and the way that the dragonets spill from their eggs throws up a cloud of concealing sand. Out of that blur stagger four disorientated hatchlings, two blue and two green, all of whom take a moment to shake off the sand before choosing their lifemates. Shuseran watches the newly hatched cautiously, knowing he'll have to get out of their way if they barrel through. Not in the role of clutchsire, but in the role of Weyrleader, T'rin's stance off to the side is still kept out of the way and he loosens his shemagh in the heat of the Sands. He affectionately looks from the clutchparents to the chaos that has already begun on the Sands. Larze blows out a breath as several eggs break and hatchlings come crawling out at the same time. "Okay. Maybe you watch that side. I'll watch this side." Be Careful What You Wish For Egg remains perfectly still. Too perfect. No matter the movement surrounding it, this one doesn't seem in a hurry. Or is it waiting on something? Oh — was that movement!? There, a tiny, tiny wobble … or perhaps just the trick of light. Zekaraiya will follow the crowd, classic hot sands walk made more ridiculous what with his height and all; great. How embarrassing in front of so many people! And dragonets, the like of which he has never seen in his life. He's gonna sidle Larze and Nelderan wards, in the hope that he can be one among many out of his comfort zone. Quyen is quite bewildered trying to look at ever hatchling on the move but really… there's just too many of them. "Haven't they heard of waiting one's turn?" she mutters quietly. But all of their turns are NOW. Nelderan is just going to meet the other Keroonian halfway, as much as anyone can when hop skip hobbling on hot hatching ground sand. "Not for aouch! Minuteoooooh, there went a green already! And was that a—uh-oh." Yeah, he's going to fail if he's trying to track everything at once. Q'dir and the rest of the Weyrlingmaster staff will have their work cut out for them. Weyrling-wrangling has begun and there's a surprising amount of hustling, bustling, and trying to get the attention of the newly Impressed. Shuseran stands where he is, watching, waiting. If there's one here for him, the hatchling will find him. The Test Of One's True Character Egg continues its rather predictable and strong motion upon the Sands. It has been lively, but it's not made much progress until it suddenly and rapidly crests over a lip in the sand. Rolling with the motion is all it can do until inertia sends it into a fellow egg. Whilst its companion remains unscathed, The Test Of One's True Character Egg has achieved a crack along its portside. Larze says, "I had big plans you know. I was going to keep my eyes out on my favoriate eggs and watch um. This is not how I expected it to be." Chin-tipping at Zekaraiya, but he's so very distracted. Echoing Quyen with more of a whine under his breath, "Why do they all hatch at once?" "So it won't be a later problem?" Kopriva is there and has likely been fidgeting doing enough pacing for both dragons. She has stopped since, both as the eggs get off to a rapid start. Breathe, breathe. It's strange, being front row but on the opposite side. The look she slants to Vh'iyr, dazed and more than a little distracted, might convey it plenty. She is even moving closer to the bronzerider in favor of resuming her pacing. Pariisamith is all calm, though, as she hums away. With barely a lull, two more eggs hatch one right after the other. Both yield browns of similar ranges of hues, though one is quicker to his feet and charges straight into a willowy young woman, on the cusp of aging out. The other brown struggles to his feet, creeling his displeasure — but not for long. His venturing only takes him a few awkward steps before he's met his other half: a former Telgari once-named Amardu and, now, Am'rdu. Weslyn can't figure out where to land as an egg-by-egg hatches and dragons go waddling to find their matches. "I heard baby dragons are tried after hatching; no wonder at the speed they are moving. I would not think they would have the strength to move so fast." Xanathos presses his spectacles back into place as he settles into on his spot on the sands. He frowns slightly sighing. "The chaos of a hatching. I really must remember to thank that blue properly for draggin me into this." Choose Your Own Legend Egg definitely moves this time. There's an unmistakable sort of shimmy to its motion, as dozens of tiny little cracks form in fractal-like patterns across the shell: it's pretty, it's productive, but it's not hatching yet. Shuseran's eyes are drawn to his favorite eggs, though he stands his ground. Quyen doesn't eeep as a dragonet charges a bit too close for comfort past her and to now Am'rdu. She definitely doesn't eeep, no matter what that sounded like. She straightens up a little, cautiously eyeing the remaining eggs as if trying to count. Nelderan is the short one out rather than the odd one out, between Zekaraiya and Larze. Not that he's much caring about *that* just at the moment; there are more important things to think about. Like the question everyone seems to have at once, for which he has no answer whatsoever. And those browns—wait, waaaaiiiit. "Was that Amardu I heard, just then? Did I hear wrong? Scorch, I can't see!" Dajin shifts his weight in the traditional Candidate dance, though with all those hatchlings running amok? It's hard not to want to step back a little while he's at it. For safety, of course. Maeyrra finds herself in some distant orbit with other candidates, tucking herself away from the chaos while she tries to compose herself. Shuseran steps out of the way of a hatchling whose focus is well beyond him, then checks to see how the other eggs are coming along. One, two, one, two … There are a pair of eggs nearly synchronized in their movements, but one is just a step (or four) ahead. It shatters apart, leaving a bronze to clamber his way free of the remnants. He does not wait and has already stumbled his way to his match - an older boy from the Bazaar - when the second egg catches up. That one hatches a large blue, who is not as hurried, taking his time to inspect a group of Candidates before nudging his head to the outstretched hand of a Tannercraft lad. Zekaraiya is fascinated (horrified?) at the speed of hatching himself, and bites at his lower lip. "How do we even keep track of 'em?" He mutters, swaying from foot to foot like a very bendy tree indeed. Which way to dodge, should something untoward this way come? "Yup, looks like it was." Oh, look, his height IS of use in that regard! While R'xim busies himself with a cluster of weyrlings, Q'dir steps over to Am'rdu. "This way, we have food. C'mon- that's a good lad." Sweet as Hunny Egg can hold it in no longer - the world must know what it contains! It's the deal of a lifetime! Or it's a dragon. Actually, it's both (if you can believe the sales pitch) and, after a few violent moments where it vibrates in place, it finally erupts. Out tumbles its premium product: a cocoa-and-cream brown dragonet, who flops dramatically on the ground with an equally dramatic amount of side-eye. How dare.
Quyen looks over towards Zekaraiya and his muttering. "If they're not on your feet, I think you're keeping track of them well enough?" She is at least keeping her feet clear of wayward claw trampling for the moment. Shuseran looks over to see how his fellow weyrlings are faring, who has Impressed and who still Stands on the Sands. "It's someone's later problem?" Vh'iyr so helpfully murmurs. Kiddos, no one look outside, mmkay? Using a convenient part of Nhiuzukkath to lean against next to Kopriva, he leans in to murmur, "It's almost time for our freedom. I'll miss it, but I won't miss the blasted heat." Nhiuzy is… calmish? Kind of like a feline who's got the mouse in his mouth but wants the other mouse as a chaser. Sated, but not? Excited, but lazy? So he watches the little white-robed Candidates and — BUGLES in excitement for a hatching he suddenly catches. "Oh good lord. He's going to start — " Yes, ladies and gents in the galleries and on the sands, Nhiuzy begins his caterwauling in excitement — "… that. He's doing that. I swear." Vhy: /fml. Larze shakes his head and blows out a breath between his teeth. "No use for it. Will just have to keep clear of in if'n they come charging?" Did Nelderan say Amardu? "Huh. That'd be good I think. He's a good one. Good on him!" Be Careful What You Wish For Egg might not be moving as vigorously as others surrounding it, but something is happening from within. One crack then splinters into two, into three … fine little breaks that expand and extend as the hatchling within steadily chips away. Then? It goes still again … or appears to. Nelderan is so very not disputing that, seeing as Zekaraiya just spotted what he couldn't. "It *was!* Thank you!" Then there's a further blur - bronze, blue, brown, and oof, this splitting attention thing is harder than it looks. "Oooooh! Awwww." That's for the latest, most visible brown, going off the lingering gaze and the sudden smile. "I like him!" Another trio of eggs hatch back to back, causing another flurry of movement and scattering of shells. From the chaos, three new greens dart across the sands — all in the same direction towards the same cluster of Candidates. There's a moment of indecision and near panic, but all manage to untangle themselves without incident and three more successfully Impress, two boys and one girl, former Smith, Herder and Baker respectively. Zekaraiya gives Quyen a raspy little chuckle. "Fair enough. Faranth, they're fast…." And then, there's This Is My Loudest Bork Brown. " That one looks like a toy…" A suspiciously adorable toy. "Dyou think he's gonna be a handful?" He asks no one in particular. Shuseran watches some of the female candidates Impress and wonders, again, why a hatchling would prefer a woman for a rider, unless it's a gold, of course. Quyen winces at the near disaster of the panic, tangle and untangle that thankfully seems to all end well. The Test Of One's True Character Egg gives a final, fateful lurch before it capsizes in the sand and collapses on the wreckage of the eggs that hatched before. It shudders and is still until, finally, something stirs from the depths and bursts forth, a patchwork treasure of a bronze that wastes no time in staggering forth into the world.
Larze arches an eyebrow and turns to Zekaraiya, eyebrows pinching together. "A…toy? Oh…that's so disrespectful." But, he still laughs. Weslyn takes a step back as the egg closest to him hatches a green and rushes past him to impress to one of his… now former.. crafters. "Congrats," he calls out to him before pulling his eyes back to the possible danger in front of him. Kopriva doesn't mean to laugh, but nerves are a weird, weird thing — or she's at her capacity for worrying and so amusement is the next best thing. All thoughts of future not-problems are pushed aside though, as she tilts her head to hear Vh'iyr better over the din of the humming. Her gaze never quite leaves the eggs, either or the many, many hatchlings. "I know. It'll feel strange to—" Oh no. Whatever else was to be said is left unsaid. She can only stare blankly as Nhiuzukkath begins his caterwauling. There may even be a wince, but when her hand lifts it's not for a strike — she just grips Vh'iyr's hand. Tightly. Pariisamith, for her part, doesn't seem to mind the bronze's enthusiasm. She's absorbed in seeing all her offspring forging their new paths in life. Choose Your Own Legend Egg takes itself quite seriously at the end. It tilts, tips, and tilts again, swaying back and forth until some internal measure is finally met. With a resounding *crack* it splits fully and out tumbles an elegant, striped green that takes a moment to stretch and really show off those fine markings of hers.
Zekaraiya can't help the nervous laugh that escapes him. "I can't help it. Look at him!" Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet kicks off a remnant of shell clinging to his leg. What's the plan? Well, he doesn't know. All he knows is that he's hungry, and someone out there can assist with it. So he'll go with his gut, rather literally, and wing it, again literally. After all, it's better to act without thinking than to think without acting. With a bit of flair, or just clearing his wing of another small shard, he flares his wings out and starts his quest for the handsome gent who can lend a hand. This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet finally heaves himself to his feet with a dramatic whiiine and throws a look to his parents as if to blame them for all of this. Technically, he's not wrong - and that's the best kind of not-wrongness. But, without waiting for some kind of response from the adults in this situation, the brown snorts and starts off on his adventure. Larze play, pushes at Zekaraiya, just a polite shoulder-nudge, "Maybe I just nudge you in his direction, eh?" He's keeping an eye on a blue…the lovely lithe green and then the bronze, but baqck to the brown, because he's really having sport with this rather than freaking out. Quyen raises an eyebrow at Zekaraiya. "I think there's all more than a handful. Even the small ones." There's a nod and a cautious look to the latest little green to emerge. Nelderan can't help his own giggle at the description of the hatchling brown. "A" snirk, snicker, "an adorable toy?" Giggle, giggle. Give him a second. "He does! I'm never going to get that out of my head now. I'll always think of him as—oh, oh Faranth, that one might be trouble too." Someone's just spotted the new bronze arrival. Phosphorescent Frequency Hopper Green Dragonet pauses for a moment of stillness once fully free from her egg, having shaken off any errant clinging shell from her form. She's taking it all in: the candidates and weyrlingmasters, her siblings, her parents. Kopriva and Vh'iyr. She is momentarily an island of calm in a sea of chaos, assessing before she charges onward — and then, moment past, charges is exactly what she does right into the fray, nearly bowling over a blue brother with excitement as she moves to begin to consider candidates through the very important test of getting her snout very close to their shins. Anyone who backs away is automatically REJECTED, but the fact it happens doesn't seem to be getting her down! Ten Times Roond Egg quivers where it sits on the Sand, a faint vibration of movement that doesn't seem to achieve anything. Give it time though. Shuseran smiles, watching the newly hatched hemming and hawing on the Sands, trying to pick out their lifemates. Nhiuzukkath sings the song of his people and his people are loud. Vh'iyr squeezes his eyes shut, but when Kopriva grips his hand, he returns the hold pulling her a little this way as if to put a buffer between the two of them and his own lifemate. "Cut it out you mangey beast," he notes to the bronze who only continues to siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing the soooooooooooong. Especially his little sons and daughters crack shell. "I will not miss this," he laughs with Kopriva. Nor will he miss all the buttless sheeps. "Okay, our dragons made some damn good hatchlings." Nhiuzy's pride has certainly infiltrated Vhy. Be Careful What You Wish For Egg shall indeed live up to its name. There is a long moment of quiet before it lurches violently, crashing against a few of its fellow eggs and finally, finally yielding the price that it has clutched for so long. A dark, brandy-based bronze uncoils and makes itself manifest, a handsome dragonet taking a moment to look himself over before his attention turns to the white-robed figures beyond.
Dajin blows out a nervous breath as more and more hatch - and more and more candidates are turned into weyrlings. He throws a worried look to the galleries, then to the eggs, before he shifts his weight again. More candidate dancing. That will solve these problems. Zekaraiya chortles at Larze's teasing. "Oh, I see how it is. Sacrifice me to the mischief maker. Maybe that bronze will come after you. Or maybe the green?" It's as if the man is really considering it - but wouldn't, knowing how quickly one can be removed from candidacy. Nelderan might've been looking at that bronze for a second or two, but then someone green lands in his peripheral vision and he turns. And gasps! No one tell his family. "Oh my…! She's beautiful!" Yes, he said that out loud. He doesn't appear sorry, either. "Larze, look!" Quyen has found a very good spot. It seems to be about equally distant from some of the remaining eggs. A reasonable view of the chaos of the Sands. Her head pivots one way and another as if trying to keep an eye on roaming dragons. And especially on headbutting ones. This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet picks up speed as he moves, his eyes whirling faster and faster and faster. He's really moving now, making little huff and whuff noises under his breath as he goes. Some sand gets up his nose and he sneezes explosively, setting himself violently off-course. After some vigorous head-shaking and another sneeze, he starts up again, breaking into a full sprint toward the candidates. Simple Solution Egg gives a testing twitch. Left. Right. Left. Perhaps unsatisfied, it settles in again. So much for a simple solution - it will just have to experiment a little more. Shuseran sidesteps to get out of the way of another dragonet. Phosphorescent Frequency Hopper Green Dragonet has considered a number of shins. She has contemplated a series of faces. She is circling around a group of uncomfortable looking teenage boys … going one way, changing direction, going the other way (likely right past the dodging starcrafter) and then deciding that the fact they look a little bit terrified means that they're not up to snuff, either. Other close by candidates can make out a little sigh-like exhale from the many-patterned green, before she takes a deeper inhale and does a total about-face toward a completely different conglomeration of candidates. With a lurch and shudder, The Curse of Mediocrity Egg stirs reluctantly into life, only to immediately regret that decision. It grows still again, moments later. Please, don't build any expectations around it; it just can't handle it. Larze grins at Zekaraiya and gives him a thankful chin-tip for the light heartedness in this very crazy situation. "I'll take the green. You the brown, or …wow, three bronze hatchlings so far? Well…either way, that might be awkward?" He's tracking the green though. Just as there seems to be a chance for anyone to catch their breath, an egg on the fringe of the clutch hatches. From the split halves of the shell, a brown wriggles himself free and shakily to his feet. He does not go far, finding the one he seeks: a young girl from one of the cotholds, who had been hovering on the edge of a group of Candidates. Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet gives a flourishing and finishing touch to examining himself by flicking his wings. They resettle back to his sides with some fussing - this is all new, see? He'll master it yet - and then it's right to business! He turns to face the white robed Candidates, surveying all with a keen eye as he takes his first steps forwards. As he closes in on the front-most line of Candidates, a few hopeful youths rumbled at — but no, it's a polite rebuff. None are who he seeks and so the bronze moves on. Weslyn looks over to Zekaraiya and back at Larze. He hasn't really paid much attention to their conversation, so he looks a little confused at her teasing. "I think Larze will be good on any of the dragons." Then, once again, his eyes go to the sand as he puts his weight on the balls of his feet in case he has to dodge. Kopriva follows readily enough when Vh'iyr pulls her, maybe a little relieved for the buffer. Her expression has changed again, a slow smile now broadening to a slanted near-grin. All warmth, even with the lingering distractedness. There's so much going on! So much to absorb. Blink and details are missed. She keeps her hand in his, though her gaze is facing forwards. "It wasn't all bad, was it?" she muses, only to hum an acknowledging note of her own. Pariisamith is likely rubbing off on her even more than usual too! "They have, haven't they? I've… long since stopped keeping track of numbers but some of those I have caught?" She'll have to seek out the official records later. Shuseran asks "Three is good for a clutch this size?" He's definitely not Weyrbred. Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet takes no pause in his assessment of the sea of white before him. He keeps himself on the move, with a few close calls in the path of his claws or tail. It's about the only area that he holds restraint on; hes less likely to secure his winnings if he causes an unnecessary alert. Zekaraiya is low-key tracking the Brown, whose behavior is both amusing and bizarre: one never knows - "By all that's holy.. " He laughs, as the Brown sprints at them. "Look at him go!" Shuseran focuses again on the hatchlings. They can move fast. Best to keep a close eye on them and stay out of their way. Quyen takes a deep breath. And then another. An attempt at finding one's grounding, even if the ground is sharding hot. Ten Times Roond Egg has taken all the time that it needs. It shifts on the sand again, more strongly as the first cracks start to appear, the river water of the bottom marked with stretching hair thin cracks. Trust in This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet: he knows what he's doing. allegedly His serious case of the zoomies has him whipping from one group to another until, yes! THERE! THAT ONE! He needs that one! His course straightens out and he finally collapses in a heap in front of a former wildling from Southern, looking up and up and up at him with blue eyes and a whole lot of hope in his hearts. This Is My Loudest Bork Brown Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Zekaraiya, and steps forward. Nelderan is also tracking that green, but *she's* not the one suddenly sprinting toward the candidates and that could be a problem, considering… "Uh-oh, watch out!" Talk about your nick of time. Nels will be dodging out of the way if that brown gets anywhere near, thanks. Xanathos shifts his footing, up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, vary the pattern by an a beat, a b beat. Just enough to keep within the tolerances of the thin sandals. He will never understand why after all of these centuries no one has come up with better foot wear for this. From the centre of the clutch, three eggs hatch, with a blue, brown and green finding their feet in this strange and sandy world. The blue makes his match the quickest, tumbling into the midst of a mass of candidates and being helped up by a befuddled girl. The brown treks almost the whole length of the sands in order to find a man from the herdercraft who looks shellshocked to have this new path open up for him. The green wanders back and forward, taking her time with her choice, before eventually settling on a weyrbred young lad just old enough to Stand. Larze blushes furiously at Weslyn's compliment and his shoulders do that crunch forward before he leaps aside as the brown comes forward. He didn't even have to push…but he does look like he might try to yank the tall lad back. Probably not a great idea. Shuseran does the candidate dance as well, shifting from foot to foot, watching the hatchlings. How many more eggs left to hatch? He does a quick tally. Phosphorescent Frequency-Hopper Green Dragonet has her head raised now, face forward, tail twitching a little bit: she is walking assuredly in a direction that she knows will take her down the right path. And she looks amazing doing it, even if she's all uncoordinated hatchling limbs: her confidence makes up for any of that! Yet she pauses before barreling on ahead, seeming to contemplate her choices once more before making up her mind and throwing herself fully into the moment … and as close as she can get to right into the arms of her former Miner girl. Phosphorescent Frequency-Hopper Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Quyen, and steps forward. Impressions! Going off like hotcakes! "I remember when we Stood, the feel of it. It never gets old, but it's nice to be on the other side." Vh'iyr would hazard more than nice really, as little anxiety lingers in him. "Look at that one," which one? "It's going straight for that… nope, see it veered." Is he talking about a Candidate or a dragonet or … It's difficult to discern in the chaos. "Did you bet? I didn't," for he had little time to consider, not with all the bronze-lifemate-wrangling he had to do. Dajin has, by now, memorized the candidate shuffle. After a few more shifting steps, he tries a different cadence to see if that helps, but all it does is make the time pass more awkwardly, somehow. Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet weaves his way through the Candidates, as mindful as he can be with his new and ungainly body; if anyone is bumped or knocked, it's purely accidental. He does not pause, rumbling changing to something bolder, a steel and French horn-laced call. One of the younger Candidates try their luck in tentatively approaching the bronze, but a sharp-note huff from the bronze is enough of a message and the boy backs off. Undeterred, the bronze soldiers on, confident in his stride despite the encroaching urgency in his search. Another twitch. A deeper tremble. Simple Solution Egg's resolve is soon tested, as fine fissures threaten to form amongst the shell's striations. It stops again, as if it has a little more information. Soon. Nelderan would be dodging. Ahem. Would be turns into is, as in off to the side in a clumsy spray of sand with a yelp for good measure, because that brown is sharding *fast* and heading right for "Eeyikes!" Beat. "Did he just… I think he did! Congratulations" As if Zekaraiya can hear him now. Quyen isn't too concerned with the counting. She's focusing more on the here and now and what evidence of that is directly in front of her face is another face looking up to her. "Bel…. Beldeth? and Brunch?" Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet finally slows, his creeping crawl toward his prize resolving in a momentary need to rally himself. Is he ready? He was born ready. He suddenly picks up his pace, coming at Weslyn from a side, rather than heading for him straight on. Here's to hoping the former-Smith's peripheral vision is sharp, because he has a bullet of a bronze aiming straight for him. Fortunately, there's no collision of bodies - just of minds, hearts, and souls as Impression is made. Zekaraiya did indeed track the Brown, but not quite fast enough: it's bowled into him, a brown puddle of something the man has never experienced before. "Sh.. Shikuroth?" Long fingers dazedly stroke the brown's head, wonderingly. "Yes. Food." He looks up, wildly. "He's so hungry." Weslyn also has to move as the brown comes up to Zekaraiya. "Oh," he says after he gets his footing again. "Congratulations, there," he tells him. "He is a good look, fellow." Not-So-Straight-Shooting Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Weslyn, and steps forward. Shuseran wonders why some dragonets find their lifemates straight away while others are still wandering the Sands, looking, long after some that hatched later have already paired. Two blues and two greens emerge from their shells, two from eggs closest to their dam, and two from the eggs furthest away. The greens make Impression to two crafter boys from Keroon, while the blues deplete the ranks of the Starcraft by choosing a woman and a man. Q'dir is there, rest assured! All those freshly Impressed sorts will be sorted one way or the other! "Over here! We have meat! I'm not sure what kind, but they'll definitely eat it. Just- uh, tell them to eat slowly. Their tongues aren't food." Shuseran winces. Two from Starcraft! The masters won't be best pleased. Another bit of trembling seizes hold of The Curse of Mediocrity Egg. It's the weight of anticipation and those dreaded responsibilities that finally have it cracking visibly in a few spots. No, no. No. It doesn't want this. This feels so very much like a curse. Larze slumps one shoulder as the green impresses-not to him- But, his attention shoots back to Zekaraiya and he's all toothsome smiiles for his friend. "Congrats. Wow, now I feel real bad laughing at your dragon." Ten Times Roond Egg trembles like a leaf in a hurricane, as the dragonet inside fights against the construction of its shell. Cracks rise up from the ground and splinter down from the top, until each fissure meets and the shell parts to dump It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet out into an ungainly puddle of egg goo. Sticky and sand covered now, It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet staggers to his feet.
"It's good that most of them aren't wandering too long? Though I feel a little for those Candidates…" Kopriva muses in turn to Vh'iyr, another curving smile of agreement. There is a little wistfulness to her expression too. She remembers! And now there will be this first memory, to go along with many future experiences. She likely tries to follow which Vh'iyr is commenting on, but gives up with another fleeting laugh, mostly nerves again. Except for the huffed: "No, I did not bet on the eggs!" Not this time. Her hand squeezes Vh'iyr's again — did he want it back yet? It doesn't appear like she's letting go. "Oh shards, we have to do the speech at the end…" Is she only remembering that now!? Dajin's occupied himself with counting and recounting the eggs, but the number keeps changing so quickly - or not-so-quickly now. Things are slowing down? A little, at least. He's not sure how to feel about that. Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet has, perhaps, moved a little too far. He comes to a ponderous stop, wings shifting a beat before his body turns. Wait just a moment, here… ah! Now he comes alive again, purpose and delight fueling his forward momentum as he cuts a path across the sands. Nothing stops him, nothing distracts him — he has found who he desires and as the distance closes, he calls out again. Proud, so very pleased, as he settles himself to sit right at the feet of a ginger-haired, tall young man from a remote cothold in Keroon. W'lyn was so into watching his fellows impress that he totally missed the bronze's approach, but he swings his head around to look deep into the bronze… no HIS bronze's eyes. "Oh, Zowarth. I like your face, too. Yeah, let's get you some food. I am sure it is around here somewhere." Nelderan is well and truly scattered, not to mention scattering, between the resolving brown blur that's evidently Impressed Zekaraiya by knocking him over, and the bronze blur who—was that a Smith? And where did that green go? He turns, sand-spattered, in time to catch a glimpse of Quyen with the green. "Oooooh, she did choose! Congratulations!" Beat. "Who got that bronze, Larze? Didja see?" The Weyrleader is finding himself spending more time helping direct the newly-paired weyrlings with meat strips and hydration than actually watching the Candidates still performing their foot-saving dances. T'rin gives a few claps as they come forth, and directing as needed towards weyrlingstaff. Hark! A Corinthian Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Larze, and steps forward. Shuseran eyes the newly hatched blue wonderingly. How could his eyes not be drawn to a dragonet that looks like a weather phenomenon? A speedy rocket of a blue hatches and zooms over the Sands, barely pausing to note the candidates in his wake. One is not quite quick enough to get out of the way, and ends up with the blue on his chest, staring down into his eyes as an impression is made - transmuting Randeley into Ra'ye. "Food over here, weyrlings! Come get your food!" Q'dir calls, gesturing more of them over as he spies them being matched up. "I think it's herdbeast, but your guess is as good as mine. Whoa, whoa-" his attention is pulled to a greedy little green, "not so fast or you'll chomp your cheeks." Simple Solution Egg needs no struggle! There's barely a crack as evidence before the eye-catching silver merely splits down middle, peeling aside to reveal a smaller sized bronze hatchling, seemingly carrying over its egg's sheen in bright brassy coloring. He sniffs determinedly in the new air. He knew how to hatch all along! He only lacked the inspiration to do so.
It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet isn't quite sure what to make of everything after being dumped ungently on the Sands, but he is certain that he is going to give his all to find out what is going on. Who cares that he is sticky and sandy? There are things to do. Perhaps those white robed things have some of the answers that he is looking for. Time to find out! Shuseran looks around again to see if there are still any more unhatched eggs. Maeyrra's tactic of staying hidden seems to be keeping her… safe? Though the candidates are thinning out and she's soon left without a shield against those running dragonets! Another trio of eggs hatch right on the heels of the last, disgorging two greens and a blue onto the sands. One trots off immediately, corrects course and headbutts a fisher lad hard in the chest. The other two take more time to choose, but not as long as many, and find their lifemates in a candidate knot at the foot of the galleries. It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet finally notices that there are other hatchlings wandering around, and freezes, one foot held off the Sands. Well, this won't do. There's something here that is calling out to him, and he has to find it before some other dragon does. Right, where is the nearest group that he can check out? Nhiuzukkath twitches, letting up on the song of his people long enough for at least some of the lack of his caterwauling to not be so overwhelming. It looks like he's about to start in again when another barrage of eggs hatch. Vh'iyr forces his attention away from his errant lifemate and to the sands before shooting Kopriva a look. "We've spent this whole thing winging it, why start now with prepared speeches?" Besides, everyone will forget a terrible speech with enough booze and fancy food. He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, turning his attention out to the sands. "That girl looks like she's going to bolt." A girl with striking eyes and gold-touched chestnut hair does seem to be on the verge of sprinting for the finish. Shuseran perversely wishes he could be up in the stands watching, to get a better view of the entire tableau. It's hard to keep track of all the dragonets and his fellow candidates from this level. He wants to know how they're all doing! Nelderan is probably not getting an answer to his question, by the looks of that surprise addition to the conversation. At least he didn't charge? "Whoa!" That might be more squeak than yelp, but who's listening now? "Congratulations!" And that leaves Nels… sidling vaguely Dajin-wards. W'lyn moves towards the food buckets with his newly minted bronze in tow. "Hmm, how much should we eat?" The former Smith frowns. "Sorry, that was misspeak; how much should he eat?" Then, as the AWLM chuckles and gives advice, the newly made bronzerider nods as he absorbs the information before putting it into action. Larze takes a step back. Duck, Dodge…get out of the way but…"Whoa…" Dumbstruck, there's no more movement from the lad. His nostrils flare and he sniffs and then leans towards the bronze and sniffs before he reaches out an uncertain hand, "I'm…L'rze now?" He grins and runs his hand on the upturned muzzle, "Yes…My Wraizhevth. Shards and shells. We will get you food." His free hand is on his stomach, balling up the fabric. "Right now." Surely now. Dajin slants a look to Nelderan and nods him over, though there's no offer of a hand; his is both sweaty and kind of locked in a knot with his robe. "Not many left now, is there?" It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet is ready to be done with all this moving around business, but he can't sit down and rest just yet. Not until he finds that one bright spot in the sea of unsuitable white that he is faced with. With an indignant creel, he chooses to barrel straight through the thickest clump that he can find to try and find what he is sure is out there. The shrillness of his creeling turns to a delighted warble though as he ends up skidding to a halt against the legs of the one that he's been looking for. Xanathos sidesteps around one of the candidates who nearly backs into him. Adjusting his spectacles for the swift shift, he turns his attention back on the recently hatched dragonets and their movements. Q'dir quints a little at W'lyn and Zowarth with a speculative look. "Let's start with this bucket first, eh?" It's relatively small, yes, but baby dragons are also small. "One piece at a time. Make sure he chews it thoroughly before swallowing, too." Once he's gained his bearings, Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet sniffs again and, with a resolute set of his head and an authoritative - if upsettingly wet - snapping of wings to his back, he ventures forth. Head held high, at a perfectly analytical angle, he explores both the Sands themselves and the white-robed figures scattered so haphazardly - and, yet, not? - upon it. The Curse of Mediocrity Egg is less cursed than it seems, in the end. It does hatch, but the contents are anything but mediocre, as the shards tumble away from an egg-sticky bronze that gleams all the brighter for the wetness of his hide. Red eyes blaze like wicked stars, brought to bear with the weight of judgment on the white-robed.
It Looks Like Rain Blue Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Shuseran, and steps forward. Nelderan isn't going for a hand-grab, don't worry. "I can't even *tell*," is his response to Dajin. "It seems like there are bronzes all over, though, or is that normal? And there's that one blue who looks like a summer storm. But I can't tell. How many do you think are left?" Four eggs split to reveal a small brown surrounded by greens. Quite petite in his size, the brown politely waits for the greens to spread out before he pulls himself to his feet and heads towards the weyrlingstaff and their buckets of meat. Almost absently he picks up his bonded along the way, a Smithcraft lady, only recently Searched. The three greens also choose their bonded - with one of them laying claim to Telgari Loya - and reunite with the brown over the meat pails. "Is that you volunteering to do it, then?" Kopriva is teasing… right? She goes to say something but is pulled from that line of thought. Not just by the sight of more hatchlings finding their match, but from what Vh'iyr points out yet again. There's a slight frown and maybe a little dash of concern. "They'll stop her if she does, I think? Or…" Would they let her go, if that were the Candidates final choice? Has that ever happened before!? Pariisamith continues to hum, though with the number of eggs dwindling to the last handfuls, the gold starts to carry a little of a bittersweet edge to her tone. Shuseran stares down at the blue, dumbstruck. Somehow he hadn't quite expected to Impress after all. "Cirrath… Cirrath!" He falls to one knee, reaching out to touch the dragonet. "Hungry… oh!! Oh! Yes, we are! I mean, you are! Ah.. this way!" Dajin scrunches his nose a little. "It's hard to tell. They're still- doing things." Like, oh, those four that just hatched and Impressed almost immediately. "I think it's almost over, though. There can't be that many left." With the number of eggs on the Sands dwindling rapidly as they hatch, all eyes are on the few that still remain. Three hatch almost at once, and as the greens leave their shells, one bumps into another egg which promptly sheds its own green out. Trilling indignantly about this whole experience, this green marches her way across the sands to her rider, and continues complaining as they're escorted from the sands. The other three are much quieter about their hatching and their impressions. At long last, freed of his prison, Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet turns his blazing regard to the candidates in full as he ventures forth. His stride is slow and purposeful at first, well-measured against the need for food and the need to be sure. Which among them will be willing and able to withstand his judgment? Only time will tell. L'rze looks more than a little stricken as he whipsers to the dragon. /His/ dragon (?). "But, you are -bronze-…" Shuseran stands again, reaching down a hand toward Cirrath's head, looking over toward the assistant weyrlingmasters, and guides the little blue off of the sands. Nelderan is going to end up dizzy, at this rate. "Green!" Slight pause. "Er, three? Was that two or three? And there went even more!" Nope, he's well out of tracking much of anything. NOt so out of it that he won't gesture offhandedly to Xanathos in a vague come-over-here-if-you-wanna sort of a way, when there's a spare moment to breathe. Wait, who are we kidding? Z'kara is there, fumbling to feed the blaze of energy that is his Shikurath. "What? Ah. No…. More buckets of meat are brought out for the weyrlingpairs, though the number of eggs yet to hatch is shrinking rapidly. Q'dir squints at the eggs to count them, blows out a breath, and takes a moment to have a quick chat with R'xim before he starts to dole out more meat buckets and instructions. "Chew slowly. Don't choke. One piece at a time. No, sticking two together doesn't make it one piece…" Dajin offers a sympathetic look to Nelderan. "I've stopped trying to count or keep track. There are only a few left wandering, I think? Ah- wait, I think the last ones to hatch are going to hatch soon." It's not like the little dragons have been shy about bursting forth, after all. The last two eggs take their time about hatching, waiting till the last minute, but hatch they do, and twin blues make their appearance. Where one stands tall to gain the eye and call attention to himself, the other slinks low to the ground, slithering on his belly through the remains of the eggs. But both blues find their partners amongst the dwindling candidate numbers, one to one of the lower caverns staff, and another to a young man on the edge of aging out: Kazolan becomes Z'lan and his blue's name is, for now, a secret he will keep. "Oh no, Priv," Vh'iyr laughs, turning from the sands to the weyrwoman, "That privilege is all for youuuuu." Is it any wonder his sing-song rhetoric is too much like Nhiuzukkath's caterwauling delights? He, too, has sunk into a kind of bittersweet song, low-slung in decibel to thrum the heart-strings of a low-dose purr. "I have no idea. I've never seen a runner, but she's edging." The girl looks overwhelmed, especially as the eggs dwindle and her eyes widen like saucers. Turning from her plight, Vh'iyr focuses on the ones Impressing, on the dragonets finding new homes, and — "I remember those first moments. The hunger, the meat, the newness of it." Another side-glance to Kopriva, "Kinda like reliving it all again, eh?" Hunger starts to set its hooks into Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet, but still he persists. He roams among the dwindling ranks of candidates, remaining just out of reach of those that might make a desperate grab for a future that is not theirs to claim. His tail lashes at one older lad, a fellow whose desperation shines in unshed tears, but there is no malice to the blow. It's a warding gesture and, soon enough, the bronze continues on with a quickening stride. L'rze shakes himself and moves to join the other newly minted weyrling pairs and accepts one of the buckets handed to him. "If'n ya eat too quick-liike" He feeds a bit of meat, "you'll get fat-tail. That means it will not feel good." Someone learned something while mucking out the dragonhealer's area so very often. W'lyn nods again. "Thank you for the information." Then, he does just as he is told. "You will have to keep it slow. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. I know we are hungry." He says with a smile down at the bronze. Nelderan meets that sympathetic look with a reasonably cheerful one of his own, considering everything. "You're probably right, seeing as how quick the rest have…" Hold on just a second. "Kazolan!" Yep, Nels is squeakily yelping again. "Oh he did! He was hoping!" The scant number of unpartnered dragons is going to register in just a minute here. Not quite yet, though. Q'dir and the other AWLMs are buzzing like VTOLs now, zipping hither, thither, and yon. So, his words will occasionally cross the streams, as it were, with the usual reminders and, soon, some offers of oil for those hatched earlier. "We'll get you all to the barracks soon enough, I promise." Sh'er grins at L'rze. "Thick tail. But yes, not a good thing. So eat slowly, Cirrath!" he tells the blue as he takes a bucket and offers the first gobbet of meat. Xanathos one, two bob, one two, weave. Trying to get anywhere specific on the sands at the moment is halfway between a dance and a bolt of blind luck. About the third time his attempt to grain ground towards Nelderan is cut off the smith decides it's probably for the best to stay where he is. Dajin flashes a grin to Nelderan briefly. "You knew him?" The name is passingly familiar, as they always are, but he's not really been the best at bonding with his fellow candidates. Probably because he's sneaking peeks at the exit, now that the sands are largely empty. Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet abruptly lowers his head, chin nearly grazing the Sand as he continues his investigation. He carves a wide berth around a gaggle of girls and a handful of unlikely boys, which narrows his selections considerably. Perhaps the necessary information he needs happens to reside at ankle-level? His methods are his own, regardless of how rapidly whirling his red eyes are. Trust the process! L'rze looks up from making sure there is more chewing and less gulping. "Thick tail. That, ye." Grinning at Sh'er, he nods to his Cirrath. "He's fancy." His own stomach growls fiercly and he lets out a breath. Maeyrra blows out a breath when the last dragons standing are a pair of bronzes. She shifts her feet a little and looks over to the weyrlings, with a tiny little smile offered to the ones she recognizes. But it's an uncertain smile, one gone watery around the edges, and she's quick to look away. Ah- and there. There. Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet finally hastens forth, his footsteps quickening until he stops abruptly in front of a lad whose future was hanging in an uncertain balance. He and only he can be judged worthy in this bronze's eyes. The young man with a knack for weaving and working leather is chosen and the searing red of the dragon's eyes crystallizes into the clearest blue as Impression is made. Nelderan is still grinning. Say what you will about that reaction. "Not too well," he answers, "but I knew who he was, and that he'd stood for ages and ages and not found a lifemate. People kept bothering him over it, what'd he do if he was left again, and…" A flash of something coppery goes by. "is that bronze coming over here?" Sees All That The Sun Touches Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Dajin, and steps forward. Kopriva tilts her head away, but likely not before that grin is spotted. A breath later, her mood sobers a fraction, no doubt caught between witnessing so much. It's overwhelming … in a different sense and yet familiar. "I wonder, then, if they shouldn't just let her run." There's still plenty of Candidates and too few eggs. That, too, is a too familiar memory for the goldrider. "It is," she agrees, distantly but no less truthfully to Vh'iyr. She shakes her head, but it does little to help clear it. Pariisamith will hum and hum, even with the strange note seeping in more and more. She even harmonizes with Nhiuzukkath at one point, however briefly. Of course those eggs of theirs had to hatch, but the gold is now a little sad to see the end of it — and yet, so proud of the outcome. She slips a quick and quiet warble to the bronze. LOOK AT THEIR BABIES~ Z'kara looks to his own brown, who is impatience itself, and gently taps the top of his nose. "D'you hear that? You want a fat tail?" Shikurath whiffs, and bounces. snapping muzzle just missing the meat in his bondmate's hand. "Chew whatcha got, man!" The tall wildling laughs, holding the next mouthful just out of reach. Nelderan evidently looked at exactly the right moment! With enough time to jump aside, even. "Eep!" Shuffle shuffle riiiight out of the way of that oncoming bronze, excuse him! Keroonian squirt coming through. "He was! Congratulations!" Xanathos finds himself focusing on the rather analytical bronze still looking about, as the statistics show dwindling chances with the others. He glances over towards Neldaran again, gauging his chances near him. W'lyn takes one piece of meat out of the bucket at a time and holds it out for Zowarth. "No, you can't have more than one." Once the bronze has gulped down the one offered, the former Smith hands him another one. It is a slow process, probably too slow for his lifemate, but food is food at this point, and there is never a time when there isn't food in his mouth. The girl — Syvhaeliya — twists fingers in locks of messy hair, gulping down her fear and potential regret for saying yes to getting scooped up from some backwater hold. Especially as the last of the last hatches, it's easy for a young girl to disappear. Vh'iyr has lost the thread of the girl with the last of the eggs hatching, the remainder finding their lifemates. Nhiuzukkath hum-hums to those edging towards the exit, knowing their day is not today, his tone one of condolences and consolations. "Our time here is almost done. What long strange journey this has been," Vhy squeezes her hand, and leans in to whisper, "After this, we'll hit the Hatching Party and have copious amounts of booze." And he'll escort Kopriva home, too. Nhiuzukkath leans over to nuzzle Pariisamith as if in purring solace of a job well done. OUR BABIES HAVE CHOSEN WELL! Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet takes time to start up again, chugging forward first like a fire beginning to spark and then with heavy pounding steps. He has eliminated the impossible within this sea of probabilities, leading him quite inevitably to the answer. No one else need know his methods, only that he winds without distraction to settle with a loud thump at the feet of Xanathos, the antique tail rapping the former Smith on the back of a hand with an abrupt impatience. If convenient, come get Impressed. Dajin, now D'jin, is briefly lost to the world entirely. Sorry, Nelderan, but he's got his hands on a bronze dragonet's face and his own expression is- difficult to describe, really, as emotions filter across it freely. "Attaduath." And that is all, before he darts a look to Nelderan, offers him a smile, and he steps away to feed the beast that's ambling alongside him. Just Like Clockwork Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Xanathos, and steps forward. L'rze lures his hungry, slurping dragonette over Z'kara-wards with a rather bemused, goofy smiles. "Whulp, guess there's no going back now, eh?" He tiwsts around and squints. "You see Maeyrra? I thought I saw a blue and a green heading her way but…she was all the way across the san….yes, since you asked so polite." His eyebrows up, he offers out another strip of meat to his Wraizhevth, who is really taking onto this chewing stuff. Nelderan won't take offense. He'll be a bit starry-eyed, given that's the third? fourth? somethingth Impression he's seen in fairly close proximity, but he won't blame you one bit, D'jin. Ask him. Later. "Congratulations," he repeats, and while he's sidestepping out of the way of the newest weyrling, he's just going to keep moving, right over into—oh no he isn't, there's another bronze over that way! Erm. Backwards by a little to the port side it is, into a knot of mixed boys and girls. Including his sister, go figure. Q'dir, R'xim, and the rest of the team can finally slow down on slinging food buckets everywhere. "Okay, after your dragons are fed, just follow us and we'll get you all to your new home, okay?" Hopefully the dragonets aren't too tired - but, well. They're small enough that they can be carried. Z'kara smiles back at L'rze. "Nah," he agrees, giddy. "No goin' back." And more meat is given to the brown clamoring in hunger in his head; is it in time to the gnawing of his own belly? It will be days before Z'kara is sure of the difference. Contentment eases his bemusement. "Maeyrra?" He looks around, seeking. "Haven't seen her over here yet…" Kopriva might have some sympathy for Syvhaeliya — or any of the others who are already edging away. She would not find fault in them, for that. Just as swiftly as it began, the end sweeps in as the last of the Impressions are made. "Here we go," she murmurs in an aside to Vh'iyr — she heard what he had said before but that will have to wait. Gathering herself as much as her scattered mind will allow, she puts on a gentle smile. Genuine, at least, for the other emotions lurking — among them understanding. Oh, and if Vh'iyr thought he could escape entirely? Nah. She has his hand in a vice grip (maybe unintentionally) and he'll have to suffer stand by her side. "Congratulations to our newest weyrlings. And thank you, for those of you, who remain. I am sorry that not all of you could find your lifemates today. Perhaps, another time, be it here with Igen or elsewhere. Until then, you're welcomed to join the feast in the caverns…" And it progresses much of the same, until that too, ends. Then? Kopriva will politely excuse herself, likely with Vh'iyr in tow. They do have a feast to attend as well! Freendom, so close at hand~ And yes, booze. Even Kopriva won't turn down a drink (or two) this time. Pariisamith will linger awhile longer on the sands, until the last few filter out, before taking her leave — finally, finally to stretch and fly. L'rze wraps his arms around Wraizhevth and presses his face against the hatchling's neck. "Does your dragons…um…Shikurath… /smell/ nice?" His own hatchling yawns and leans against him. "Uh-oh. Okay, we're going to a resting place. Huh? Will it be nice? Of course it will be nice." He eyes his dragon and then Z'kara before twisting around to look again for Maeyrra but then he's drawn towards the Weyrlingmasters and the barracks. Post-speech, Maeyrra blows out an uncertain breath and, finally, slips out with the remaining candidates. Whether to enjoy the feast or seek solitude, that's only for her to know for now. Nelderan has caught up, by now. NO, there really aren't any more eggs. "Oh." He'll be scanning the sands for any stray shells, he'll find none, and that's about when the disappointment will steal over his features for real. It's to the barracks for him, eventually, to change back into his everyday clothes. Likely the feast, after that, at least at some point. Excuse him. Legends Aren't Born; They're Hatched has 0 comments. |
Kopriva & Pariisamith, Larze, Nelderan, Q'dir, Quyen, Shuseran, T'rin, Vh'iyr & Nhiuzukkath, Weslyn, Xanathos, Zekaraiya, NPCs: Maeyrra, Syvhaeliya; Cameo: R'xim |
Igen's eggs hatch! |
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Wagon Women Wagon Women
"Gotta lotta history wrapped up in my life." Four Rivers Cothold Four Rivers is a small cothold, tucked along the road a short distance northeast of Ruatha. Its name exaggerates, really; there are two waterways along its side that might live up to the name but the slim slow stream bisecting the land is a stream at best, the thinner water south of the cots barely even that. It is a pleasant stop despite this fabrication, a small community of shepherds and families making their living steering barges up and down the two actual rivers nearby. The cot nestles in a wide lowland between rocky mountains, lush and green in the rolling hilly land around. An autumn sunrise begins to warm predawn watery light in golden bars across this quiet little sleepy hold in the middle of nowhere Pern. Set on a major trade route, this backwater little place is close enough to Ruatha to have decent goods and people with marks to spend, but far enough away to not tangle with larger Hold problems. Curtains suddenly poof out from an upper window, like white flags surrendering to the dawn. As they fall inward, a fat canvas bag shoots out of the window, making them dance once more in Rukbat's golden light. Next comes a foot, then another foot and finally a woman falls to the ground below, luckily landing on a well-placed cart of hay. A soft ooooomph escapes, then a messy blonde head pops up and looks around. In the clear, she hops out of the cart, snatches her bag of goods and makes her way out of the thick of the little cothold towards a rickety ol' wagon full of lost and misplaced and snakeoil things. She's at least dressed today in a ragtag dress and boots that have seen better days. Up the road, approaching that little hold comes a large, slightly dusty runner and wagon. Traveling so early might not always be the best decision, but sometimes when the toddler is screaming and unable to settle, keeping the wagon gently rocking back and forth is the best course of action. Pulling FakeGeorge to a halt beside the rickety wagon, Sriella rubs tired eyes and squints at what she thinks she's seeing. "Um." The woman pauses, giving her head a toss to get messy blonde hair out of her eyes, and looks at Sriella. "Um? Um what?" Did this stranger see? Ceony isn't sure exactly how much the stranger saw, but she tosses her canvas sack of goodies into her wagon and starts quickly hitching up Endurance to the wagon. "It's a lovely morning, ain't it? Nice day for fishin'!" Except it's autumn and the creeks and ponds are starting to get too cold for such and not yet cold enough to ice fish. "Also a good day t'travel, I think." Overexaggerated stretch has Ceony's back bending in a graceful arc, hands over her head with a low moan. "Get outta this one-runner town." Sriella studies the woman, the wagon, the hold, and she smiles crookedly. "If it were me," she says thoughtfully, "I'd have had the runner hitched up before trying to make my getaway." She looks at the hold again, tilting her head to listen for any shouts or indications that something might be amiss. Ceony considers the woman — who looks vaguely familiar but she sees a lot of faces and so can't quite put face to place. "A little oversight," she laughs, eyes sparkling with mischief, "But to be fair, I didn't expect to have to make a getaway… alas, it was too good to pass up." Endurance hitched to her wagon, and Ceony crawls up into the seat. "Where you headed off to?" That Sriella didn't make a cry for the guards has her somewhat trusting she isn't going to start now. "It's a great morning to find a different cothold, wouldn't you say?" Sriella eyes the hold and then the other wagon with a smile. "Sometimes things are," she agrees. "Too good to pass up, that is." She waves a hand along the road and shrugs. "Wherever. My daughter has finally stopped screaming so…". She yawns. "Yeah, sure, somewhere different is fine." Are they traveling together, now? Hard to tell, but Sriella definitely doesn't want to linger at a cothold that just experienced a theft. Traveling the same road in parallel can cross paths as together or apart, Ceony has little desire to linger for soon enough a really handsome man, a really rich man is going to wake up and find the waif he took in made off with the family silver after making eyes at his eldest son. A hearty dinner and a good night's sleep, she'd lightened the family's load before sailing out the window with her newfound riches. "You've a daughter? You look entirely too young, but then I should know that's dumb 'cause my mama had me when she was sweet on sixteen, and then my sister's followed later. I ain't never had a kid and I'm not starting now, not after taking care of my sister's for most of my life after my no-good Papa left us living on dead pickin's of winter's bone." She flashes Sriella a grin, bright and effulgent despite her rather torrid backstory. "Parentification. That's what one fancy harper told me I was, but couldn't see my baby sisters without food, so I got me an ice cuttin' job down in Southern Barrier, and tried to stick with it, but one near-fatal accident too many and I decided 'twas time to change direction." To a life of crime apparently. At least the cothold is in their rearview. Sriella will need to drop back anytime an oncoming wagon approaches, but this early, it probably won't be an issue. As the other woman lays out her life story, Sri listens, brows lifting at how much information spills from the girl's lips. "That's quite the rough start to life," she finally comments. "Yeah, a daughter who couldn't settle unless the wagon was moving." She yawns against the back of her hand and reaches back for a mug of tea, long gone cold, but still providing a bit of energy. "So now what do you do? Other than climb out of windows." Sriella might should be clutching her pearls, but instead she just seems more amused than anything. "Gotta lotta history wrapped up in my life," Ceony notes while Endurance plods along, "But now? I'm a trader, or kind of trying to be? I'm not super successful at it," maybe because she's a snakeoil trader, "so I have to supplement my income with a little five finger discount." Her brows waggle as life cuts into her bright smile, "And you know, if people can't watch their stuff, then well that's on them, right? My ma says I'm no good like my pa, but I'm starting to see how easy it is to fall into a life of scrapin' by. I did it for my sisters for so long, I've got no life left for me. Whatcha gonna do? Gotta eat and live somehow. Headed onto Igen. I've heard the bazaar there has lots of opportunity," for a sticky fingers like herself! Sriella shrugs a bit, glancing over her shoulder at her own nicely-equipped wagon. "It's very easy to fall into a life of…surviving," she agrees thoughtfully. "Ahh, Igen. It's a good place to scrape by, but you've gotta be careful. Lots of people there fighting for scraps, and folks know how to keep their things theirs." As the road twists away from the hold, and with no sounds of pursuit, Sriella lifts a hand to point to a flat spot just off the trail, shaded by some nice trees, with a stream. "Want to have breakfast? My runner needs a rest and my ass is killing me." "You sharin'?" Ceony grins, but gamely angles her little wagon — not much by the standards of a good trader, but big enough for herself and her needs. "I've survived all my life," she notes, shrugging. "Can't stop now, and yeah, but it's like that other places. Igen isn't the only crapshoot on Pern, it's just a sandy one. I'm careful. What works in a small hold won't work in a place like Igen." When to the flat area, she unhitches Endurance, letting the girl nibble dried autumn grasses. "I'm just waitin' for the next big thing, you know? Someday, sometime, somethin' might fall my way. Sometimes I wonder why nothin' ever seems to go my way at all." "You sound like my ex," Sriella says with a crooked grin for the other woman. Opening the door quietly, she lets Kip bound out, and then she unhitches FakeGeorge, letting the gelding meander to the stream for a drink. She pours out some oats onto the grass for the gelding, and then some near Endurance for her, too. "You like eggs? Can you get a little fire going?" She quietly climbs into the wagon, trying *not* to wake the grumpy two turn old that finally fell asleep. "Thanks," Ceony pipes up with a grin, "But only if he's hot, and isn't dead or in the brig." She waves a hand lazily, reaching into her wagon to get a bag of what looks like deep fried tortilla strips. Tortilla chips, baby, Pernese style. "Otherwise, I'll take a different comparison, please." She lives her life in the now, in the present, in being gloriously alive. "I'll eat anything not nailed down. Growin' up poor didn't give us a whole lot of chance to be picky," she quips. "Not when we were having bone broth every night for a month." A fire? Yes! Ceony is a study of industry, working her little portable iron fire pit that lets her safely have a fire anywhere in the world. Soon enough, she's got a good set of flames going and has pulled up a foldable little chair right next to it for warmth. "What's your name? I'm Ceony." Sriella laughs. "Oh, he's hot." Of the other two qualifiers she says nothing. She emerges from the wagon a few minutes later with all the supplies she needs set out on a cutting board. Pan, eggs, some salted ham, some hard cheese, soft diced potatoes, some rolls from yesterday. Crouching beside the fire, she begins to make a little breakfast for them both. "Sriella," she introduces. "Journeyman Herder. FakeGeorge," head tilt, "and Kip." (totally wrote Tweed and had to erase it SNIFF). SNIFF. "I just got Endurance over there," her draft runner is of good stock, strong and dependable and tobiano buckskin. Ceony looks on while Sriella makes eggs — completel happy to let someone else take the lead in making food. "It's a good spread. Bet your knot helps out with that. Never did get into the Crafts, but then I couldn't. Not with takin' care of my sisters. Family first, and now I'm on my own. Someday… well." She shrugs a careless shoulder, tugging fleece-lined jacket closer for warmth. "I'm hoping winter in Igen is better than getting snowed in here." Sriella studies Endurance for a moment and smiles. "Good looking runner. And yeah, my knot helps a lot with…everything." It definitely makes finding her way through life easier, princess that she is. "You think you could get into a craft now? Now that you're done taking care of your sisters?" She continues to cook, being fairly good at it now that she's had more practice and isn't resenting her knowledge gained over turns of hardships. "Igen in winter is really nice, actually. I mean other than the sandstorms, the temperature is very nice." "Too old for a craft," Ceony comments, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "I don't know if I'll be a trader forever, but it gets me moving. The world's big, big enough to find anything you want in it. I got some of my pa in me, though, lookin' for the quick fix. Looking for ways to make ends meat, the beans last longer." Tucking strands of blonde hair behind her ears, she shrugs again. "Maybe I'll stay in Igen forever and find a life in the Bazaar. I've not done much in the way of jobs. I'm not skilled. I'm," corner of her mouth lifts up in a grimace, "kind of worthless." Sriella looks up across the fire and frowns. "No one's worthless," she says firmly. "And you're not necessarily too old. Guy I know got into Herder in his 20's. Nothing says you have to be a snotty teenager to pick up a knot." Dishing out some of the egg/ham/potato mixture onto one of her carved wooden plates, she adds a few rolls and passes it over. She dishes out her own food but then gets up again, quietly slipping back into the wagon. She comes back out with her klah pot and one of her folding chairs, and two mugs. All the slow, patient rhythms that accompany life on the road. The back and forth, the precious items, the care given to each thing you make and each thing you use. "There's lots of jobs in the Bazaar. What are you thinking? Animals? Cooking? Bartending?" Ceony takes the offering, tucking in with relish. "This is good — " addressed first for it's true, "… maybe, but I ain't got one good skill unless you count cuttin' ice and I'm not going back to that. One near death experience was enough." Meanwhile, Ceony is a creature of chaos, but not forgetfulness. No, she takes the mug offered and in exchange, offers up her fried tortilla 'chips' to add an additional crunch to their breakfast. "Right now, I'm thinkin' I gotta lotta pink salt crystals to sell as lanterns for good health. Fire those puppies up and the salt melts and clears the sinuses or something. Anyway, I gotta lotta them to offload. They're pretty, s'about'all they got goin' for 'em. Snake oil if you ask me, but I'll peddle snake oil if it gets me fed." Sri takes the chips and adds a handful to the side of her plate with a nod of thanks as she tucks in. "Mmmm, pink salt? Can you eat it like salt? Why not break it up, sell it to the Bakers and uppity types as a special kind of salt? Does it taste different?" Does that matter? Then a slight wince. "What happened with the ice cutting?" Does she feel guilty for all the ice she's used in her life? Girl loves her iced drinks, ahem. "Maybe. Could be fancy salt I guess. It tastes like salt, just pink. I licked it, expecting something orgasmic, but nope. Just salt." Ceony laughs lightly, settling into something more thoughtful, a hint of her true self showing through. "Big, giant block nearly fell on me, is what. The ice creaks and groans, and has a life of it's own. It tells you when it's ready and tells you when it's not. Key is to cut ice that ain't yet ready to fall on your head, but I had another dude with me and he was a dipshit. Cut too close to the temperamental part of the big ice shelf and I was almost a pancake. Broke my arm, and that was the end. I was tired of the cold and all the cuttin'. And getting hurt. At least now, I can get different terrain and more freedom." To find the next snakeoil sales item to peddle to people. Ceony is probably more of a proper outlaw-peddler than a true trader, but who's counting?! Sriella gives her head a shake with a tilted grin. "I think selling it as fancy salt is your ticket. People will pay crazy marks for special things. Who the fuck has pink salt on their dinner table? Get some nice jars? Pay a Harper Apprentice to do up some fancy labels? Could do quite well." As for the ice story, Sriella winces appropriately. "Fuck, that sounds terrifying. I had a tree fall on me once, can't imagine if it'd been ice." "Still have nightmares," Ceony agrees with a shrug. Too much shrugging; she sets aside the plate, her food practically not touching sides on it's way down, and sips the klah. "Fancy salt, eh? I could do that. Got a good hand at lettering, I could probably do something up myself. Can't involve anyone else." She doesn't wanna share in her profits, see. "Need all the marks and trades I can get. I'll see about busting up those lanterns then." But keep a few for the more gullible of her buyers. Sriella shrugs, smiling again. "I mean, I'm just a Herder, but. I've been around some fancy-ass people and I think they'd like the eating salt more than the lamp salt." She turns, then, as the wagon door swings open on quiet hinges and a soft, "Mama?" calls out with a sniffly little voice. "Mama!" Sri is quick to set her food aside and go to scoop up her sleepy toddler, blonde hair all over the place and rubbing tired eyes, dressed in an adorable footie pajama onesie. Tucking the girl against her chest, Sriella returns to the fire and tries to offer her some food, but Evie just shakes her head and buries her face into her mother's shoulder. "So you're heading to Igen, then?" Ceony watches as the little sprite comes out of the other's wagon, wiggling her fingers in greeting. She remembers enough of her sisters at that age to kind of know what to do, though she's not that much older than her sisters. Five turns at the most. "Yeah," she nods, "Igen, I think. Seems a good place to start. Don't know if I'll stay there? Can't know until you stay a while and see if it settles in your bones. I might travel around, too. I've heard there's a few places around there along the steppes and into the river lands. So… I got choices and nothing but time and no one to answer to." Sriella nods, tending to Evie with the gentle patience of a woman who, despite her doubts, is a good mother. Gently she offers food, but the only thing the girl will take are the chips. Because chips are delicious. She peeks shyly at Ceony, the usually social girl too sleepy to muster up much energy. "Well," Sri says once Evie is settled and she can once again sip on her klah, "I'll leave you with a list of a few names that could be useful in Igen. I lived there for a while, still know some folks." Never mind that she just watched the woman tumble out a window with pilfered goods. She still wants to help people, despite, despite, despite. And she will, before they part, leave Ceony with the names of Hasaan and Tiergney as possible people to talk to about work. She'll also offer some combo of marks and food in trade - for her and her runner - for two of those salt lamps, because why the fuck not? That's badass. And, of course, give Endurance a check-up because Sriella can't not do such a thing, before they're back on the road headed for their true destination. Where FakeGeorge can get a bath and a cozy stall, and Sriella and Evie can also get their own baths, and a big, comfortable bed for a night before Sriella flies Evie to River Bend and hands her over to Daemon, along with a pink salt lamp of his very own. And this? This is how a friendship truly begins. With an exchange of services, an a promise to reconnect with Ceony offering sparkling blue eyes and big smiles to Sriella, promising to see her again. Hopefully in Igen, where hey, maybe they'll go scouting for Igen goods together. You know… "scouting". Is Sriella above a sticky finger discount?! Who knows, folks, who knows for the women now exit, stage left. To each their own way! Wagon Women has 0 comments. |
Two different wagons briefly share the same road. theft |
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No One's Fault No One's Fault
"It's not your fault." Infirmary Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master. The day after the Hatching of Suanjiath's clutch, it's early afternoon when I'rian arrives at the Infirmary to visit Albertine. It's not the first time he's tried to visit, since the accident that brought her here. Glancing round, he can see that there's not a lot going on: he's managed to avoid the times that healers do rounds of this or that, and it's just late enough for the patients to have finished lunch. So far, so good. He makes his way towards her bed, unhindered by anyone who might try to intercept him. Albertine's bed is easy to identify: there's a pile of books on the nightstand. (You know what kind of books.) Albertine herself is not there right now. Life goes on, in the end, and after lunch, different needs can arise. But she's not far: the clop-clop-clop of crutches heralds her approach. The sound pauses, and Albertine calls: "I'rian!" (Confused fellis-blurred memories: I'rian by her bed, apologizing over and over — or was it a dream?) And she clops on toward her friend at an unreasonable speed, allows the crutches to clatter on the floor at the last moment as she goes for the hug. "I'rian. It's not your fault. It's not Ariith's fault. It's just bad luck. It's not your fault." I'rian hugs back, rather cautiously because he doesn't want any more bits of Albertine to get broken! (Oh, yes, those apologies were real - and numerous!) Once he releases her, he continues to hold his arms out to offer support, while eyeing the crutches on the floor. "You're up! That's great! How are you feeling? Shall I pick those up?" He's not entirely convinced on the question of fault, however! "We shouldn't have let you slip like that!" Albertine leans into the hug, eyes closed. There's a nervous tightness to the way she holds herself, like something within is vibrating uncontrollably, trying to explode out. Finally she pulls back, just keeping a hand on I'rian's arm for balance. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," she says. And she gives him a sorry grin and an apologetic look for the obvious lie. You understand, if she looks inward at the turmoil inside, she will break in a way that may be difficult to come back from. She had a favorite egg… Instead she bends precariously, collects one crutch, uses it for balance, lets go of I'rian and retrieves the other crutch. "And it was bad luck. When I bathe my own dragon I'm sure I'll slip a fair few times too, just now I know to watch for rocks, eh." She just won't meet I'rian's eyes as she says the words, my own dragon, because of course there's this worm of doubt eating her heart: what if he was there yesterday. And she doesn't have it in her to read that same question in her friend's eyes. Instead she starts heading back to her bed, clop-clop-clop, unsteady. I'rian looks pained. "And you missed the Hatching," he says remorsefully, stepping back to give her space to wield her crutches. (As if she hadn't noticed!) "There must be other clutches soon." He looks round rather desperately, though it seems to be for furniture rather than magically-appearing eggs. "Should you be on your feet? Do you want to sit down?" It's quite likely that Albertine is not supposed to be moving around too much, but y'know, a bladder is a bladder. Still, it's with a groan of relief that she finally sits on her bed. And then lies down, and brings her splinted leg onto its resting pillow, trying to keep a wince of pain from forming on her face. She can't, however, keep a tiny few beads of sweat from appearing on her forehead. She pushed herself too hard. All the same, she grins up to I'rian. "M'fine. Yeah, there'll be other clutches, no big deal," she says, her voice almost steady, and she grins harder and once more averts her eyes from I'rian's because of the obvious, abysmal thought she can't let herself think: no number of clutches will matter if her blue hatched at the one where she wasn't. "Water?" she offers, like nothing's going on. There's a pitcher (courtesy of J'rel) on her nightstand in between the books (courtesy of N'iall), but only one cup. It's dry, but still carries whiffs of the intense smell of fellis. That, at least, will be her excuse later for being a tad loopy right now. It's a good excuse. I'rian shakes his head. "I'm fine thanks, but can I get you anything? Oh, and…" He fishes in his belt pouch and brings out a small bundle, unbleached cloth wrapped around something the size of his fist and tied with a sliver of red ribbon. "I wondered if you like these." He holds it out on the palm of his hand If Albertine opens it, she'll find sweet-glazed spiced nuts from one of the stalls on the Boardwalk. Albertine sits up, then, propped up on an elbow, because it's hard to manipulate things lying down. It's a bit of an awkward position, but she manages to loosen the ribbon enough to peek inside the bundle. And she looks up at I'rian. Her eyes are wet. She'll stubbornly weather the ache in her leg and the torment in her heart, but a friend's kindness, somehow, leaves her defenseless. "Oh man," she says, a bit hoarse. "You really didn't have to. But, thanks." She brings a nut to her mouth and holds the bundle out to I'rian in a silent offer, so this can be something a moment of sharing between them. Her expression changes as she chews. "Ooh, this is delicious. Where did you say you got these?" Apparently, after all these Turns at the Weyr, Albertine hasn't visited that one stall… Or any, perhaps. I'rian picks out a nut. Before popping it in his mouth, he answers, "Thanks. There's a little stall on the Boardwalk where they do pastries sometimes, and sweet stuff like this. It's not always there, though: I think they're maybe the people from one of the Craft Shops, looking for new customers, but I haven't been in there to look. The Boardwalk's handier. You know, when we're at the beach." He finishes with a wry little twist of his lips, given how badly their beach visit turned out. I'rian can't make this right, though he would if he could. "You know, I mean it about the clutches. The last one was Suanjiath's too: there must be at least a couple more queens due to go up in the next few months. Kuraitath will be old enough soon, too." And then he looks even more worried, in case he's just put his foot in his mouth. Albertine nods along to the directions, her grin growing only a little more forced upon hearing this is, apparently, Crafter stuff. Makes sense. Crafter stuff is superlative. It's also pricey, and she's a drudge. Still, she chews her next nut with a lot more slow deliberation. This is a bit of a luxury, and it makes the gift all the more appreciated. "Well, I'll be sure to check out the stall, thanks," she murmurs, and then listens to I'rian theorizing about possible clutch timetables. There's another brave grin plastered on her face — brave or stubborn — and she nods firmly. Out of volition, not hope, because hope implies a hypothetical, the possibility that it won't happen, that, maybe, it's already over. Hope, as such, is gone. "Yeah, any month, now, for sure. Last time, last time, Suanjiath clutched pretty much right after Skathistjarnath's clutch hatched, didn't she." Albertine says the words and looks at something far beyond the wall of the infirmary, her hand making a fist. Not hope, just stubborness; but rather a ton of it. But stubborness is exhausting, and Albertine is still in recovery. Her eyes are closing despite herself. She forces them open. "Thanks for this again," she says, tilting her head at the nuts. "And for visiting. You pet Ariith's snout for me, okay? He's a good dragon." And… it's not his fault, and it's not I'rian's fault. I'rian can read the signs. "I will. And I'll let you get some rest now, because…" Because she looks like she needs it, only he's too well brought up to say so. "Because you need to get better as soon as you can." He pauses for a moment. "Ariith says he hopes you'll be feeling better soon. And so do I." He hesitates awkwardly for a few seconds. "I'll be going, then. Take care, Albertine." He smiles, nods fractionally, then turns and heads for the door. No One's Fault has 0 comments. |
The day after the Southern Hatching, I'rian visits his friend Albertine in the Infirmary. Backdated. Allusion to injury. |
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Diversification! Diversification!
Docks In dark morn and dusky eve fog lies grim and humid against the still waters of Azov Sea. Only the noontime sun burns away the concealing clouds of man's height, revealing that which lies beneath the mist- an awe-inspiring stone pier that stretches far into the inland sea, to the east of the line of orderly boat-slips for the locals and larger, open spaces for transport ships along a broad stone quay. Fishermen are often as common as seagulls upon the pier's length in particular, ill-concealed and ill-clothed in the loose dun homespun of Southern's natives. Behind the quayside rise the stone buildings belonging to the Seacraft and Dolphincraft. Beautiful, sunny, and damned hot! Kjartan holds his hand up to his eyes, squinting out across the calm freshwater waters of the Azov Sea. "Dammit, you're late," he mutters, squinting against the glare before turning away from the docks to rest his eyes againts the glare. Teeth-biting his thumbnail, the senior apprentice Seacrafter scans the busy docks, perhaps looking for someone or someones. Or maybe people watching — either way, the spring afternoon ruffles blond hair and warms sun-tanned skin and adds a touch of color to his cheeks. It isn't likely to be R'zel that the young Seacrafter is looking for, but here he is anyway. He's even been - however briefly - on a ship! He comes down the gangway from the Sunset Splendour looking rather pleased with life. As he walks along the docks, though, he pauses to pull from a pocket the thoroughly disreputable cloth sunhat that he uses on the beach. If it ever had a proper colour, it's long gone: it's just a faded hat with a small brim. He crams it on his head, then turns to look out to sea. He looks as if he might be looking for a ship, or perhaps he's watching the firelizards far out over the water. At first, the Sunset Splendour catches his eye, but Kjartan frowns. "Sorry, sir," for the man's knot bears a rank many hands higher than his but also because he had stopped in the way of R'zel's path. Perhaps bemusement touches dark, cerulean blue gaze at the sight of such a hat, but he's wise enough to hold his tongue. A child runs up with a giant wherry leg, ducking in between the legs of those milling about on the docks, ultimately, coming real close to getting R'zel and Kjartan with those delicious juices of crispy meat. "Oof!" He falls back, hopefully not running into anyone. R'zel is fair-skinned enough to be totally not embarrassed by protecting himself against the sun; his arms even bear the faint white traces of the healers' latest attempt at a functioning sunscreen. He looks towards Kjartan when he hears words of apology, and he's shaking his head to dismiss them - he's not been impeded - when the child appears. "Hey," he smiles at the youngster, "you might want to take it slower. You wouldn't want to drop that in the water!" He shoots a grin at Kjartan, perhaps seeing him as another likely victim of wherry-juice. The kid waves his prize over his head and tears off down the docks. Likely he WILL drop that in the waters, but for now? It remains clutched in his tiny little hands. "If he's not careful, the monster'll rise up out of the depths and get that juicy wherry leg." Kjartan might be hungry and might be joking about the monster, but in the way he squints in Rukbat's light, well, it's hard to tell. "Don't suppose you happened to see a big two-sail ship in red and blue did you? I'm waiting on a shipment and it's late, which means it's my bum that's going to get roasted for it." "I'm afraid not - not that I've looked," R'zel admits. " But it's tough luck if you get held responsible for transport delays. It's not as if you can control the winds! My only interest in ships today has been to find out whether Sunset there is doing the dinner cruises again now the weather's warmer." With a slight frown, he adds, "From the way they were almost falling over themselves to tell me about it, I reckon they haven't been getting a lot of custom." Grinning again, he suggests, "Maybe they should start running monster-spotting tours instead." "Monster-spotting tours," Kjartan's brows raise as if the idea of it has merit. "Interesting. What is the Sunset? A dinner boat?" Relatively new here in Southern and an apprentice to boot, the seacrafter has had little time to see all of what the weyr has to offer, as he's spent his rest days hunting for the monster around the Caspian lake. "Fancy dinner?" As in expensive? Yet, hmm, he could totally sign on for a tour of monster-tours, yes? Intriguing to say the least. "Kjartan, by the way." Flicking his knot in a self-depreciating way, "Senior Apprentice Seacraft and It is tough luck, but it's the way of the craft." Or at least, in a good-natured sort of way as Kjartan doesn't seem all that concerned about getting actually punished. "We're supposed to be fitting the Dreadnaught with her new sails tomorrow, but it won't happen if the shipment's delayed." "No sails to fit if they don't arrive?" R'zel suggests lightly, then nods an acknowledgement of Kjartan's introducing himself. "I'm R'zel, bronze Verokanth's." He nods towards the old ship. "Sunset Splendour's a floating bar and restaurant. A lot of the time they're just tied up here, but in the good weather they do some dinner cruises - sunset cruises if the timing's right. It's not cheap, but the food is actually very good, especially since they had a bit of a shake up in the staff a while back. I rather like it, but eating there's definitely for special occasions." "Above my paygrade," Kjartan quips with a dimpled grin. "I am doing what I'm told to do and when the Master says jump, we need these sails, well I jump." He did hear something-something about special orders and the like, but he was ribbing his friend at the time and didn't really pay attention to the reasons. "Sunset cruises?" Kjartan has little reason to be going out on a boat for a romantic sunset cruise, but mild interest does exist there. "I think monster hunting tours sounds way more interesting." Says the adventurous seacrafter boy. "Maybe I'll try it… someday." When he's saved up, that is. "Shake up in staff?" "Oh, my." R'zel gives a dry chuckle. "They had some crew-members who were involved in some shady stuff, and had to be laid off." That's the simple version. "But that was - oh, several turns ago now. As for monster tours, who knows! I suspect they'd have a certain appeal. Sweepriders are still occasionally reporting sightings of the thing, and they're also reporting people on the beach looking for it, so… Personally I'd rather know whether it could damage a ship before I got too close!" "Shady stuff?" Kjartan perks at that, curious as one would be by such tantalizing information. "Well before my time," when he was a boy on the seas of his craft! "I have been one of the lookie-loos for the sea-monster," he admits with a wry smile, "But I'm comfortable with my swimming ability to risk it." And he's not about to get up on a dragon to see what the monster looks like. Not when he can sail the high seas, or something. "I don't know how many people are going to find it by the beach, however." Or at least, that seems equally risky if the thing has grappler arms to reach out and snag a person. "Do you think it's real? I've been hunting since I was told about it and not seen hide nor hair of anything in the waters." "Oh, yes, it's real," R'zel says, sounding convinced. "It attacked a couple of riders in the Caspian Lake and badly injured one of them, and other reliable people have seen it. Someone even turned in a sketch, though there haven't been many really good sightings. A lot of it's at the level of, 'We saw a big dark shape under the water.'" He pauses a moment, then qualifies, "Which you can, from the air, because the water's so clear. I don't know how far from the Lake it travels, though. Or why we haven't heard much about it until recently." "If only I could find it," Kjartan expresses a measure of frustration at the lack of his luck in finding the lake/sea monster. He will chase down this Southern version of the Loch Ness Monster if it's the last thing he does! "Hmmm, you know this is only making me want to catch it more. At least a sight of it. So it revolves around the lake most, eh?" He will absolutely concentrate his efforts towards the lake, but just then he catches sight of a ship in the distance. "Well met, R'zel, sir, but I do see my ship arriving! I'd better be getting on with it." All this delightful talk of sea monsters made him forget himself and so he snaps off the sharpest salute! "Maybe I'll come back with a better idea of what it is…!" A last thrown out before he scurries down the docks, though perhaps he'll come back to see that fancy dining room someday! "Your lucky day!" R'zel says cheerfully, raising a hand to return the salute. "Anyway," he concludes with a grin, "I think I'll leave monster-spotting tours to those who want a bit more excitement; I expect it's been down there for decades minding its own business. Good luck with the sails." A passing sailor carrying a small barrel looks at him strangely, then trots up the gangway of the Sunset Splendour to suggest a new business idea to the Captain. Diversification! has 0 comments. |
R'zel and Kjartan inadvertently give someone a business idea. It may not be a very safe one! |
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{Vig} Not Weyrmate Material {Vig} Not Weyrmate Material
Rocky Outcropping This place has been roughly cleared, a highland area stretching from the rocky cove to the south to curve seamlessly upwards into the foothills of the Barrier Range to the west. Those who explore the eastern ridge may note evidence of hidden pools and dangerous miniature cliffs, a break in the ridge that proves treacherous to traverse. North is lost to the curve of jungle dissecting this place from the outer edge of the weyrwall, a formidable denseness of foliage that deters those who would otherwise brave the tiny trail snaking northwards. It is the eighty-fifth day of Spring and 86 degrees. It is a beautiful, sunny day marred by the overwhelming humidity. It's over. It was a good run. Really, it's practically a miracle that they lasted for as long as they did, Staring out over the jungle from a familiar rocky outcropping, Ryott's dark eyes are unfocused as her thoughts churn in that part of her mind that she keeps to herself as Wrayth stretches her wings overhead, the spring sunshine shimmering over her coin bright hide, the hints of rose gold braking up the uniformity of color. She probably should have seen this coming, should have known that weyrmating was never going to work in the long run. Being on her own has always been her default, and it's never been a problem before. She loves her independance, not having to answer to anyone but herself or her queen. And then Sh'nalan came into her life. He was fun. Attraction was quick. He felt comfortable to her, and after Wrayth rose in suprise over Black Rock Hold that one time, she couldn't deny that there were feelings there. Feelings. The thought makes her wrap her arms around herself as if she's afraid those same feelings would shake her apart in that moment, shivering even though the heat and humidity of Southern is starting to get oppressive again. Feelings have never been easy to the weyrwoman. They were to be hidden behind the deadpan facade that kept most people at arms length. They were to be controlled, mitigated, denied. To allow them to rule over her logic was uncomfortable, It's always been an asset to her, From when she was training to be a spy with the Zingari to those early days after her impression of Wrayth, To be able to keep that kind of control over herself was comforting when so much of her life had been turned upside down. In her fingers, a black hematite band is toyed with, such a small trinket that meant so much. Proddiness is the only time that control would slip, and Ryott hated it. Not in the moment, of course, but after flights, when the fog lifts, the antics she'd gotten up to made her cringe so hard. Except for the rings. Even after Wrayth's last flight, she never regretted the rings she's had made for them. The idea that maybe she didn't have to be alone. That she could have someone in her life that was a constant, who she enjoyed going on adventures with, who didn't make her want to run for the hills at the idea of settling down with. She let herself feel the love that had blossomoned for the brownrider and not run and hide from it. Let herself be vulnerable and open like she's hardly ever been, with anyone. It was strange and uncomfortable, and scary in ways that rattled her down to her very soul. But again, she didn't run away, she ran towards all those things that she knew had the possibility of cutting her deeper than anything ever could. Was she maturing? Was she blinded? Was is all some twisted experiment to see if she could change her loner ways? There's no answers to those questions. Or none that she'd really like to admit to herself anyway. It was good for awhile, great even. But eventually, the truth became clear to her. She'd never change. She didn't want to. Her life being her own - and hers alone - is a fundamental part of who she is. There's no more denying that. She'd loved him, but after living together as weyrmates for some time, she craved her independance, her control over herself, utterly, and she couldn't be honest with herself and remain in a relationship that was fundamentally never going to work, no matter how much she wanted it to. Out of respect for Sh'nalan, and not wanting to lose his friendship completely, she had to let him know what she was feeling, though she wondered if he knew all along that she'd been pulling away. Because he was endlessly understanding. As far as breakups go, it was relatively painless. They came to an understanding that it had run it's course, no foul on either end, and now, he was moving his things out of her weyr and when she returned to it, she would once more be on her own. « Never alone. » The red glow seeps into her consciousness even as the wind created by Wrayth's wings makes her loose tunic rustles against her body, bringing a brief respite to the oppressive heat. I know, dear heart. I'm never alone. You're all I need. Looking down at the ring in her palm, that little trinket, the symbol of their attachment, she lets out a heavy sigh and holds her hand out, over the edge of the outcropping, and lets it slip past her fingers, to be consumed by the jungle below. Her heart feels lighter, her mind clearer than it's been in months as she turns to see her queen's eyes whirling with all the affection that she needs, Her hand reaches up to caress along her forehead before leaning in to wrap her arms around her snout in a tight hug as Wrayth croons softly, soothing her chosen in her own way. "Come on," she says out loud as she lets go of Wrayth, "Lets go find some place new to explore, hmmm?" « Yes please! » At least now, Ryott knows… She's most definitely not Weyrmate material. {Vig} Not Weyrmate Material has 3 comments. |
Ryott reflects on a relationship coming to its end. |
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{V} || Poor Wayfaring Stranger {V} || Poor Wayfaring Stranger
"Nothin' personal, sugar. But you got the look of a man who'll land on his feet, and I done used up eight of my nine lives." I'm just a poor wayfarin' stranger, squeak, squeak. A mental note squared against the backdrop of a list held captive in backwater thoughts, a note to fix the wagon's wheel at the next stop. She had the tools, but it was a bitch to attend to in the middle of nowhere, Pern. squeak, squeak. Ceony gritted her teeth, fingers curling around the reins of the very slow but very dependable draft runner slowly pulling the wagon. Once, she'd lashed two oxen to her wagon, but that had ended pretty quickly when they'd eaten her out of house and home and then laid in the dirt and wouldn't listen. Stubborn oxen! "Ncht, ncht, good girl, Endurance, good girl." Endurance. It was the label of her life. As a girl, she'd chiseled ice down in the Southern Barrier Range for marks to keep her sister's bellies full. Now, they're all grown, and she's on the road. A no-good papa and a weak-spined mama had led to a life of scraping by at any cost. Yet, Ceony'd done her best, but it was time for her to live her own life. Her younger sisters were in crafts now, making their own marks on the world. What was she left with? No education, no craft, no real skill. No, she's got a rickety old wagon and a patchwork collection of rags to call her own. But she endured. Rolling into some no-name tavern in the middle of some no-name cothold, Ceony found a spot to pitch her proverbial tent and tied up Endurance. She was confident no one would try to steal her runner, for she'd taught the mare to bite a man's fingers off if he tried. "But woul'ja girl? Eh, eh? Probably not, but you gotta mean left hoof, doncha." Ceony clapped the mare's rump, leaning into the runner's neck. Endurance had been her friend for a good five turns now, ever since she left Southern. Her only friend, really. Her no-good Papa had soured her childhood and the first part of her young adult life. "But we gotta lotta life left in us, don't we? Tell you what, if I can swindle some sugar cubes, I will. You been real good. You deserve it." Not to mention, her belly cramped from lack of food. Ceony wondered why her life was centered around scraping the bone off winter for scraps. Heading into the tavern, she tore off the hat she'd used to hold autumn's chill at bay, tumbling sun-bleached blond hair around her face. Some of it stood on end at the side of her head, but she brushed it down and looked at the sad residents piled into the small tavern. Ceony might have been an outlaw in another life, for she walked the crooked road of bad decisions, but here and now? She was careful. The last cothold had been too close to getting her skin caught by the guards, but her pretty blue eyes and sweet face had gotten her out of that scrape. "Whatever ya got that hits like a truck and not more 'spensive than what I got here," Ceony ordered, sliding her payment across the scarred and sticky counter. She caught the eye of a stranger, crooking a come-hither smile. Dark hair, dark eyes, a look in his eye that told a story as complicated as hers. Something about his sad-eye countenance pulled inside her chest, but she killed that thought pretty quickly. She had no business feelin' sorry for no body. The barkeep gave her a look, and she returned with her brightest smile, which sent blue eyes sparkling and dimples forming in her cheeks. "Why, sugar, don't look at me like I've been scraped off the bottom of your shoe. I got places to go. I'mma be somethin', you jus' wait and see." She downed the ale, licking the foam off her upper lip. I know dark clouds will gather 'round me, Later, her back hit the wall with the force of passion and desire, a creature kindled in two lost souls. Yet, Ceony would have said hers wasn't lost, but her family'd wrung her dry, leaving nothing behind but a husk. Desperate, heated kisses seared into her memory a night of passion. Messy, lustful, and passionate, the night was not bound in emotion but momentary connection. What a mess they'd made in their haste, words as rare as a river in the desert. When it was all said and done, they'd lain with hearts racing, entwined, each lost to their thoughts. Each wanted this night for different reasons—each holding to their own secrets. She was fine with that. Ceony didn't need his thoughts this shadowed night. Indeed, she was content with falling asleep in a stranger's arm for momentary, brief comfort. Ceony could let herself believe she'd cut a different life—one her sisters didn't scorn, one her mother didn't yell and throw things at her for being like her Pa and telling her her marks weren't good. None of that mattered in this stranger's arms, listening to the steady beat-beat of his heart. Dreams had chased her of warm skin, sweet kisses, and golden sunlight. Dreams weren't no reality, however, and when she woke to find herself sprawled across him with drool dribbling out of the corner of her mouth… well, no way she'd dream herself like this. As dawn lightened the skies in faint brightening-blue light, she'd crept from his bought-bed in the tavern's inn. Shit, shit, she'd muttered, unable to find her shirt. Wracking her brain, she retraced their steps: overturned lamp, a kicked-over chair… oh! Her bra. Finally, she'd found all of her clothes and shimmied into her shirt and bra, clutching her pants and boots and socks to her chest. Quietly on bare feet, she crept to where he had tossed his pants on a dresser. Fishing through his pockets, she collected the things that held value. He'd been fun, but she had to eat. Creeping closer to the man whose name she'd caught the night before but promptly forgot, Ceony touched his stubbled cheek. "Nothin' personal, sugar," she whispered. "But you got the look of a man who'll land on his feet, and I done used up eight of my nine lives." Fingers sifted through dark hair, she felt a pang—a pang for what her life had become. For not caring about a stranger who'd shared a night with her. For stripping him bare of his valuables. She hoped she didn't take something he'd miss, but she wasn't going to stick around and find out. I'm goin' home to see my father. Maybe she was more like her no-good Papa after all. The man stirred, and she held her breath, but he was still dead to the world, as she knew he would be with all the lovin' and boozin' she'd plied him with the night before. Silent as a mouse, she escaped his little rented room and skipped across the nowhere cothold in the pre-dawn light. Rukbat's eye barely even cracked, spilling thin, watery autumn light. To her wagon, she'd thrown her things and the things she'd stolen off the man and hitched up Endurance. "C'mon, we gotta git." Ceony was quick at her work, for she'd lived a life like this for so long now. But her belly cramped, and she promised herself that at the next cothold—the next cothold—she'd eat like a queenrider. I'm goin' home to see my mother. Along the way, Ceony whistled, her little life carved of good intentions in no good ways. On the road, she'd counted up her stolen earnings, and in the next cothold, she made sure to buy herself a feast and Endurance a few sugar cubes. Endurance. It was the rough-cut road of her life. She did not thrive; no, she endured. Maybe the next cothold, she'd sell them some of her pink salt rocks and tell 'em if they put 'em in lanterns, it'd improve their health. "Ncht, ncht, go on Endurance, git movin'. Next cothold, I'll get you four sugar cubes," Ceony promised. So far, her pretty face, big blue eyes, and bright smile had kept her skin intact. She'd roll with the road until it stopped… and eventually, it stopped for everyone. So, I'm just goin' over Jordan. I'm just goin' over Jordan. ~ wayfaring stranger {V} || Poor Wayfaring Stranger has 2 comments. |
Like the twisting branches of an ancient tree, Ceony's life continues to take sharp, drastic turns since she left the ice cutting of Southern's Barrier Range. theft, allusions to a one-night stand, and some darn delicious sugar cubes and a cute runner. |
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