====October 13, 2013
====Hannah, Dhiammarath
====The Hatching looms, but for Hannah and Dhiammarath, it is bittersweet.

Who Hannah, Dhiammarath
What The Hatching looms, but for Hannah and Dhiammarath, it is bittersweet.
When There are 0 turns, 11 months and 27 days until the 12th pass.
Where Hatching Sands, Southern Weyr

hannah_moon.png dhiammarath_mind1.jpg


Hatching Sands
The Sands are surprisingly soft to the feet and to the eyes: rich grains of gold commingle with the ground basalt-black that mark the shores of Azov's Sea. The whorls of lighter color pattern into the sands, larger-grained and often settling at the top, as golden driftwood against dark shores. … but the moaning from above sounds like the chorus of the damned, lessening the natural beauty here below.
Type 'help here' for info on how to set/use the sands.
Gold Dhiammarath and bronze Vossuth are here.
Obvious exits:

-- On Pern --
It is afternoon
It is 4:49 PM where you are.
There are 0 turns, 11 months and 27 days until the 12th pass.
It is Summer and 100 degrees. It is cloudy.

Afternoon's light reaches into the depths of the Hatching Sands, shining on the black-and-white sands in brilliant shafts of butter-yellow light. Summer's joy and promise is held in even the cloistering heat of the jungles, the humidity that clings to the skin in sheens of sweat. Hannah's trek along the hot sands is mincing, the thin-strapped pale cream top clings to the skin, a thin strip of mid-drift showing where shorts dip low on her hips. Scandalous is the amount of skin shown, though it's for practicality's sake, the fair expanse of collar bones and slopes of shoulders beaded in sweat. Strands of moonlight pale hair cling and stick to her neck, despite where it's piled on the crown of her head. She pauses by an egg, delicately running a hand along its shell. "Almost time now." She pauses, and casts a look back towards her lifemate.

Dhiammarath senses that Hannah's thoughts are diaphanous, fleeting as mists over the moors. « This one isn't as hard as the others. » It is a favored egg, the one she touches. A favored one to fret over. « They dream, Dhiammarath, but they're nearly ready to awaken, aren't they? » Fragility of body belies the steel of her inner self, though a touch of sadness darkens her own mental fortitude. « I am almost sad. Isn't that funny? »

Dhiammarath has arrayed her eggs in fastidious fashion: they are set as jewels upon the sands, with an eye for the aesthetic of it all. Some are built up against dark sands, others on the light, but always with care to contrast. She maneuvers her bulk down the broad aisle she's created, whuffling carefully at one reddish egg in particular as a mother chiding a child back to sleep. And perhaps… perhaps she is. The gold comes to a rest with her chin sliding in over Hannah's shoulder, warm breath damp over her lifemate and the egg beyond.

You sense that Dhiammarath is serenity incarnate, lantern-light and rocks among raked sand. « Every egg takes time, my love. Perhaps you should spend less time fretting over those who yet grow. » It is gentle, and hardly even reproof. « I am more concerned, » A dark touch to her thoughts, then, her light dimming just a tad, « With those with whom they would Choose. » There is only a shared emotion for that of sadness: it is always bittersweet, for children to grow up.

Hannah pauses and shares a soft look with her lifemate, pulling the hand away from the egg itself to touch the pale golden jaw from where Dhiammarath lurks over her shoulder. A bittersweet look before she turns to survey the clutch in it's entirety, the eggs themselves over half again as tall as her own scant height, forming true rows for her. The beauty of how they've been laid out does not escape her, a smile playing to the corners of her lips. In a bare whisper, she agrees, "I, too, worry about that." Teeth come to nibble at the corner of her lips as the dreamers are considered, more thoughtfully this time. She moves a pace towards another egg, checking it over, but it's an act more to keep her occupied than any real checking. Her lifemate, after all, does not need quality assurance. She bows her head, however, when she places gentle hands upon this egg's hardened shell. Almost to protect it.

Dhiammarath senses that Hannah's breath is held, even internally thoughts are arrested. « What if we didn't give them the right Candidates to Choose? » A worry surfaces, buried in the firmament as moonlight plays against the heat of what lies beneath the cool mists. « What if they are right? What if something about this place has… tainted them? » Not fear, exactly, but she would call it concern.

Dhiammarath bides where she is, pausing to break the formation of lovely lines by rolling a particular egg — so small, and orange to boot — out of the careful wallow it currently inhabits. She rolls it with her snout to a new location, slowly, methodically, and then curls herself up with that tiny egg between her paws, protective, possessive. Her eyes, however, track her lifemate, though another set of her lids slowly descend.

You sense Dhiammarath is the still water, stretching vast: the light reflecting, imbued with assurance and strength. « I trust that our dragons would not pick laggards. If they do not like the ones we array, there will be more in the Stands. » Ghostly apparitions fill the galleries above in a clever moment of projection: a brown hatchling moving up to claim a girl at the front. At the end, firmly, and perhaps touched with an underlying tone of hostility for the very THOUGHT of the idea: « There is nothing in this world or the world ::between:: that could corrupt our eggs. »

Startled, Hannah turns to consider the galleries. "Dhiammarath!" she exclaims softly, not breaking the library hush of this chamber that has seen its share of screams of agony, pain, anger, and hate. "What a wonderful idea." Excitement now clings to the softness of husky voice, as hands clasp together in front of her body. Pivoting, she turns a pretty smile towards her lifemate. Brow arching when the gold's singled out her favored egg. Light steps carry her forward, to that single egg and the pale, golden paws that situate around it. "I like this one too." Canting her head to the side, she touches her fingertips to the egg's shell. "Perfectly, hardened." It will be legendary, this one.

Dhiammarath senses that Hannah's thoughts firm, the heated earth beneath hardening in the mists and moonlight, her mental touch once more as delicately honed as before. The ivory tower that serves as the secret self sparkles in the distance. « We shall array all of the eligible attendants in the first rows of the stands. Break with tradition. I bet Q'fex could be convinced to let his riders serve as ushers. » Warming to the idea, precious moonlight slides from quarter to full-moon'd. « Of course not. » Dhiammarath has always been a bastion against doubts, a weakness of Hannah's in letting so many other's thoughts undermine.

Dhiammarath has only warm breath for the one prized between her paws, and a huff that seems nothing more than a sound of amusement for Hannah's antics. For the egg she has claimed, she carefully noses — ineffectually at this fine dexterity, alas — to build some sand around the ovoid shape. It is a clumsy, slow process to build up the necessary heat around the shell protecting the life within.

You sense Dhiammarath considers this thoughtfully, rolling the idea over in her mind. « It seems very sensible, » or so come the thoughts, well-pleased at the notion once it has been given sufficient thought. Her light brightens, warming the scope of her rock-garden — though those aren't rocks at all, are they, but perfect replications of her eggs. « Far more sensible than a picky dragonet having to claw her way up the steps. »

Hannah bends, helping her lifemate scoop the sand around the orange-colored ovoid. She has the dexterity to do this task with much more ease, her hands reddening from the heat of the sands. "This one is pretty set against the black and white sands," she whispers the comment, a soft smile curving her lips. "They are all so pretty, Dhia. We did — you did real well." Vossuth? "You both did." Although, the smugness within her tone, of course, is for the gold that did do the lion's share of the work here.

Dhiammarath senses that Hannah twines laughter with the delicacy of her touch, a mental feel of sparkling light and airy eerie's. « Let us not have drama on the day they Hatch! We could even reserve a row or two as buffer. » These thoughts are mulled over, though only idly. She gives pause for the next thought. « Will you remember them, Dhiammarath? After they are grown and paired away. »

Dhiammarath is at ease with her lifemate finishing off the job she set forth to do: there is a whuffle for the moonlight hair. Pride is in that snort, the gold lifting her head to gaze out over all of her unhatched children. Perhaps there is thought for those forty-one not immediately protected by her paws. Perhaps there is hope, there, too. Or maybe Dhiammarath is just making internal bets on which color will hatch from which egg.

You sense Dhiammarath has to agree with that, sand and light and water. « A buffer would be nice. Keep the Lordlings back with the masses. » That appeals to her sense of justice and fairness, apparently. As to her memory, there is a thread of wistfulness: « I would like to remember them. I hope that I do. » The ruby thread of thought, bejeweled and turning sorrow-sapphire as the moment turns, seems to indicate that she doesn't carry much hope for that, alas.

"I will remember them for you, darling," Hannah promises, on a voice as tenuous as a thread of starlight, caught on a pause where reddened hands hover over the build up of sands. Slowly, she finishes the task and stands up, turning to brush her hands across her backside. Briefly, her own expression catches a hint of wistfulness.

Dhiammarath senses that Hannah is far away, thoughts drifting through the sunlit aeries of her thoughts, « We will have a buffer… » The thought is more rote than with any passion contained within. She touches upon the thread of ruby that fades into the sorrow-sapphire and covers it in the buttermilk paleness of starlight that pulses with love but more than that: understanding. « I'll remember them. » For her. The wistfulness is stronger here, a touch of what the future might bring.

Dhiammarath falls silent, both physically and emotionally: a behemoth sentinel, Sphinxlike upon the swirled sands of Southern. Her gaze lids again, only the outermost lens open. A picture of repose: and none know what lies behind that white-gold facade but her beloved.

You sense Dhiammarath latches upon this idly, showing the buffer in gleaming foam-soft material — the like of which doesn't exist — a full two rows deep around these fantasy youths, excited about being all-but-candidates, without any of the necessary chores. « I love you, » is all Dhiammarath has in reply, simple but so deep, rife with certainty as deep of the bones of the mountain.

And when that egg is situated, Hannah climbs like a sure-footed, graceful goat upon the pale expanse of her lifemate's paws and legs, curling up in the crook of the gold's elbow. Dhiammarath is surely cooler than the sands are, at any rate. Small as she is, large as her dragon is, it's easy to find a soft, sheltered spot in which to slip off the heavy shoes that adorn her feet and tuck her hands beneath her chin. A sweet smile eradicates the errant wistfulness, the mysterious thought drifting away like cherry blossoms on the wind. Closing her eyes, Hannah finds solace.

Dhiammarath senses that Hannah feels a bone deep satisfaction, the play of starlight — blindingly bright starlight — filtered through the lattice-work of a trellic cloaked in ivy. « I love you, too. » Love is the rose-colored infusion to moonlight; neither fragile or delicate for it comes from deep within, where the inner core of strength lies. Spiralling outward, Hannah's mind dims as sleep comes to take her to a place of dreams, all wistful thoughts and sorrow-tinged feelings dispersed as contentment is found.

Dhiammarath is indeed cooler than the Sands, and softer to boot — not to mention the simple affection that is so easily felt when physical contact comes into play. There is nothing quite like touching someone and being touched alike. As Hannah falls asleep, Dhiammarath lies awake, a sentinel now for the forty-one eggs before her, the one between her paws, and a single precious cargo curled up in the crook of her arm, forever close to her heart.
Add a New Comment