Who

Clementine, Ione, Keelie, Myziri, R'ik, Catryn, Rielle, Z'ok, M'noq, Vi'ano, A'kehm, Iollan, Xalya, Halia, Loe, Sa'mael, Ilissea, Diya, Theomen, Io'v, J'ran, Tia, Hegi, Xia, Arianne, K'lir, Vi, Q'fex, T'zaim, Bailey, Hannah

What

80 freaking eggs hatch + two big surprises!

When

It is nighttime of the tenth day of the first month of the sixth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Hatching Sands

OOC Date 04 Oct 2015 06:00

 

clementine_default.jpg, ione_default.jpg, keelie_default.jpg, myziri_default.jpg, r-ik_default.jpg, catryn_default.jpg, rielle_default.jpg, z-ok_default.jpg, m-noq_default.jpg, vi-ano_default.jpg, [[a-kehm, [[iollan_default.jpg, xalya_default.jpg, halia_default.jpg, loe_default.jpg, sa-mael_default.jpg, ilissea_default.jpg, diya_default.jpg, theomen_default.jpg, io-v_default.jpg, j-ran_default.jpg, tia_default.jpg, hegi_default.jpg, xia_default.jpg arianne_default.jpg k-lir_default.jpg vi_default.jpg q-fex_default.jpg t-zaim_default.jpg bailey_default.jpg hannah_default.jpg

Dude, I'm not even going to TRY to Isolate ONE QUOTE.


hatching_sands.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. (eventually…)


Rough stamp of bootheels on stone: K'ane's running in pell-mell in the middle of the night, his voice a bass roar. "CANDIDATES!" at three in the morning can't be the best wake-up call, but he's as awake as anyone, though dressed only in loose linen pants that must be his night-wear. "LET'S GO!"

Clementine is dressed to impress. Lets go.

Chloe says, "No," goes back to sleep, misses the Hatching. (or falls out of bed and puts on her robe; it's not like anyone would even notice what one person does in the ensuing chaos)

Tiala cracks an eye open, and pretty much rolls right off her bunk onto the floor (thank Faranth she has a bottom bunk). She has her robe nearby right? Right? Whatever it is that she puts on is white though. Somehow managing to do this while stuggling to stand up. "nnph." What Clem 'said'. Let's go!

"What the hell…" Is Iviano's muttered wake up greeting, only to find himself staring at the knee of K'ane, having his bed right by the door is so not a perk right now. "Chores, at this…Oh." It clicks. "OH!" And his ready kept robe is grabbed off the floor. He's the boy-scout of expirates.

Ione is definitely not awake when K'ane comes running in, and definitely FALLS OUT OF HER BED in her jolted rush to get out of her feet and get to her robe. In spite of the fantastic thud and the ensuing yell as she twists herself free of her sheets, she DOES manage to get dressed and ready to go. YAY.

He'd JUST fallen into a light doze when that voice BOOMS through the air. "The FU-" THWUMP! Ulrik startles, turns too quickly and plummets off the side of his bunkbed from the top. "Sonoffa-!" Is cut off as robe is plucked up and simply thrown on over his sleeping shorts. Feet shoved into sandals, jet black hair standing up everywhere with a hunted look on his face.

Hegiana was lying there, sleeping as sweet as a sleepy thing can be but she tumbles out of her bunk, running hands through hair that doesn't want to sit properly. A hastily grabbed robe is tossed over her head and Hegi's finally ready to head out, muttering about the middle of her dream.

And just as Rielle was starting to worry about how to get some decent sleep in again, the one thing that will change that concern - and many others - is suddenly happening. A spike of adrenaline fizzes through her veins, threatening to sabotage rational thought, but it's leashed with practiced ease as she changes from sleepwear to robe, slips on her sandals, and falls in line. Yep, she's nervous. No, she's not letting it through the mask of calm. It's taking a good deal of effort, though.

Who's sleeping, really, this close to the Hatching? Not Zolok, for one. He's already moving at the sound of stamping boots. It's almost like he's rehearsed it (because he totally has), the way he's up and pulling on his robe. There's still a little sleep to be rubbed out of his eyes as he falls in line near the Weyrlingmaster.

Roused from the dead of sleep, Sammael comes out swinging practically - and maybe clipping someone on the shoulder, whups. He throws on his ghost sheet (let's be real, he's put no effort into this whole robe thing so it sucks). And is ready to go. Looking as awesome as any man would in basically a white sheet with neck and arm holes. GTG.

"'S no morning yet." Ilissea mumbles, pulling the blanket over her head. Someone falls down nearby, and she yelps. Oh shit this is HAPPENING? "Aaaaah where's my roooobe!?" She wails.

Iovrar is awake. And slipping in after K'ane. Is that FRESH HENNA?

Xalya starts awake and gathers her scattered wits to manage the girl magic of changing clothes without revealing any skin. She shuffles along with the others to line up, rubbing eyes and blinking blearily before it settles upon her what is happening… the humming of dragons an eerie descant beyond. "Oh." Deep breath. Belly flipflop.

Myziri is rudely awakened from sleep, because she had hard labor the day before and she was tired for once. She sits up in her bunk, hair all over the place and eyes half-lidded "What's going on? Another spinner attack?"

Keelie was sleeping in her robe, just in case. Off fly the covers with a flutter of leaves and feathers, and she jumps off her bunk, landing feline-like on her feet. She slips on her sandals and hurries to join the group.

Catryn juuust fell asleep. It's hotter than hell in the barracks given that there are over one hundred people up in here. It's cramped and Kehm saws some serious lumber in his sleep. It's kinda difficult to catch some zzz's so when K'ane arrives and hollers, her eyes go wide… OMG. Robe. Gotta get her robe.

Joran starts awake and flails as he misses the edge of his bunk, flopping onto the floor at that strident tone. "Faranth's shell!" he mutters as he struggles up and recognizes K'ane. White robe is yanked from beneath the mattress and pulled on over his bare skin.

"Can't you HEAR THAT?" is K'ane's shout in response to some question — "Eggs! Dragons! GET DRESSED, line up! C'mon, c'mon, hustle, hustle!" The stones of the weyr itself start to throb with the sonic glory of the assembled dragons of Southern thrumming delight for the latest and greatest souls to join the ranks of eternal defenders.

Joran was naked in a room with over a 100 people?

You better believe it.

I believe it.

Ilissea stares. "Oh no. Oh no no no." She wails again. Oh, there's her robe. Strip and dress? Oh yes.

He's totally shameless.

Myziri tilts her head. There's a noise. "Someone's snoring really loud." Wait. No, that's not snoring, it's HUMMING! She's suddenly wide awake, grabbing the robe at the end of the bed and slipping it on, almost falling on her head as she gets down from her bed to look for her sandals.

Minoq struggles to wake up, even though he knows the urgency of the moment. It seems like he only closed his eyes a minute ago. "What, now?" But he knows the answer to that. He grabs the robe stuffed under his pillow and pulls it on (hopefully not backwards), then scrambles to find his sandals. There's the left… crap, where's the right?

Mahalia is ready and rearin' to go — almost, and just because she's actually on her way back from a middle-of-the-night trip to the LATRINES. So she'll fit into the bustle no problem and exchange white night gown for white candidate robe. BAM. Let's do it.

Iviano is dressed easily enough, only the side of his robe catches on the bunk and RIPS at the side. "Mother fuck…" But there is no time to fix it as he is shuffled into line by K'ane.

Somehow Clementine gets dressed without flashing anyone, it's a miracle (or not depending on how you feel). And where everyone is converging to exit the barracks and get out onto the stands, that's where she's at. And she totally grabs at Ione's arm on the way out. Because she's not doing this alone. So she's A LITTLE nervous.

Xiamina totally doing the whole getting up and dressed and moving around thing where like, she gets dressed and works to get her mounds of dark curly hair in order. Others are all talk and stuff and CONFUSION and she's just like… not. Do this thing folks.

Ilissea shuffles into line. "Oh no."

AND THEY ENTER THE SANDS

In the darkest of night, where the night crawls towards the witching hour, the moon's light break through the clouds in an eerie display of silvered light. Swept across the sands, this ghostly pallor limns the egg that first cracks. Dhiammarath has pulled back to expose her eggs, while Khalyssrielth seems loath to give them up just yet, but even she falls to the night's ill-portent: the time has come. Beneath the velveteen ink of night, for weal or woe, the time as Candidates has come to a close.

Hannah's rushed footsteps clatter across the stones of the weyr until muffled with the soft give of sands. "Must you always hatch in the middle of the night??" But she's here… for a very important date or something. Shhh, no one notice how not put together she is.

It may be insanely late (or early, from some perspectives), and just about every Candidate may be bleary, but they are all THOROUGHLY awake now, to be sure. They're even coherent enough to remember that they're all supposed to form their considerable number into an arc around the eggs. Most eyes remember to turn to the center of the shape, looking for the Candidate there to cue them into movement. And so it comes, the bow beginning in the middle and rippling out to the edges of the curved line in communal respect to the clutchparents…and in deference to the fate that may await in the midst of the sea of eggs before them.

After the bows, Ione continues to cling to Clementine like a life preserver. Saaaave her. Not that she's, uh, nervous. She's totally prepared for this. But just in case, when she see's Ulrik, she'll quietly reach to grab him as well. You should always use extra protection.

What has two thumbs and is really pissed that the eggs chose right now to do this? T'zaim. He totally shuffles in, looking awesome. "Hi," to Hannah.

It begins. Not with a whimper, but with a bang. A brown dragonet breaks furiously from the confines of the But Better Organized Egg, sending shards out around him in a fluttery, splattery mess. His wings stretch, his young voice creels, and he stumbles hastily toward the nearest Candidate. Either he is none too picky or this Impression was pre-ordained, for the bonding happens within seconds of the hatchling breaking shell, and he turns his eyes to a plump young man from a coastal seahold.

Zolok seems a bit awed as he follows his fellows onto the sand. He doesn't even flinch when his hand is grabbed — or maybe he's doing the grabbing. The Sands seem hotter, somehow, and the ceiling that much higher…he's barely aware of the bow, unable to keep from craning his head around to take it all in. Not that there's time — the sudden appearance of a dragonet rivets his attention to the purpose at hand. Hopefully, he'll remember to breathe.

Sammael is here; don't mind him looking a little tense/sick. It's a strange moment, but he's quick to push one candidate to the front of the line and then duck to the back, himself.

Ulrik, is six foot of tension. And something else. Something predatory and calculating as he takes his place with his fellow candidates. After the requisite bow with the rest of the group, first the pair of queens, then their riders are eyed and then, the eggs that have finally, finally seen fit to…Someone's grabbed him. Sage eyes slew sideways. Ione is given a hard look but amazingly, isn't shaken off. Instead, a fisted hand opens for her to take.

Bailey's here, posted up on Khalyssrielth, looking bored. Also half-naked. It's the middle of the night and it's like 120 degrees in here. "I'M TELLING YOU," she says loudly, "THAT ONE'S NOT GOING TO HATCH." She points at Webweaver with a POINTED LOOK at T'zaim, like maybe they had a bet or something.

Tiala can pretend to be awake with the best of them. And since she's been in a similar position a few times before, just stands between several other candidates with hr shoulders straight and looking confident. Looking confident.

Rielle makes her bow along with everyone else and then can do more but watch. With nothing immediately apparent, her eyes drift down the line, an encouraging smile catching friends along the way before her gaze meets the stands. There's no way she'll be able to pick out familiar faces from here?but she can hope. There's nothing for it but to focus forward from here on in.

Clementine's carefully cultivated act of composure comes close to breaking when that first brown comes bounding out of his egg, impressing almost immediately. So she's kind of attached herself to Ione. At least she's not hiding behind her, despite the look on her face that says she might like to.

Chaotic Good Egg is both chaotic and good — for the moment. With a twist and a shift and a dance of nigh-childish glee, it twists 'round on the Sands, threatening to come apart at the seams. One way, then another — again the motion repeats, and then, with a little twist, the egg executes a slow spin, burrowing further and further into the sand, as if to bury itself from sight and time. Pearlescent flash tricks the eye, before the cackling crackle of the disintegrating shell explodes outwards, flinging farflung shards in a messy perimeter… the better to reveal the witch waiting within the wreckage.

Whither Way Walks What Wicked Green Dragonet
Solitary and scintillant, by chalcedony charm is this witch-green conjured and commanded, manifesting with a sly serendipity to her coy couth. Mystique brims bold in the magicked moonglass of her pale hide, only to be reflected in riverstone-rounded ridges. Boastful host she is to that hide of marbled milk-jade, scattered with estranged glitter and the far-reaching diaspora of diopside. Countless treasures gild the shallow draughts of her lovely throat and dainty knuckles below diamond talons, yet dull they appear against the fathomless depths of her crystalline-faceted eyes; thither is she bejeweled, though even without adornment she shines! The eye is inexorably drawn from yon sparkle to the darkness of witching-hour wings, shadecast moonglass eternally torn between the tumble of tourmaline and the silver of scrying-pool. Terrible torment bespells sails and shadows, casting all below in werelight glow, and beware: for tsavorite sparkle is as a summoning stone for the unwary, drawing all in to revel in her dark glory.

Myziri is here, she's awake, but she's not quite together. After the bow, she bends to fix her sandals, then pulls her hair back into a messy bun to get it out of her face. Because it's hot on the sands. Then she's looking at the eggs in the half light, waiting for that first dragonet to appear. She's not even aware of who is beside her, she's so focused.

Later Iviano might consider that the eggs choose to hatch at such an untimely hour so that candidates like he don't have time to think it all the way through and run. As it is he's standing on the sands, robes ripped, looking as collected as ever, as his eyes swiftly calculate the whole scene. Damn that was fast. The brown, the green.

Straightening from her bow, Hegiana eyes the eggs not with her customary coolness but with a faint astonishment. The first to hatch is missed but the second, that gorgeous green: Hegi doesn't seem to covet, but she is fascinated.

Ilissea is finally somewhat awake; but it's the heat of the sands that did it — and she's just here, staring in something akin to weary horror. Of COURSE it had to be in the middle of the NIGHT. "Crackdust," she says to Rielle. A hand is offered, but it's an absent thought. They're HATCHING ALREADY.

Minoq feels like he is sweating all over. Nervousness is amplifying the heat from the sands and the heat from the night, and he almost feels light-headed. Squinting, he gazes up into the crowds, trying to see if he recognizes anyone, but it's a blur. Suddenly there are dragonets hatching and the first Impression made already. This is actually, definitely happening.

Arianne obviously looks worried when Bailey starts pointing at an egg saying it's not going to hatch. Does that mena if it does hatch it will be malformed? OH MAN she better be nearby to check that out! Pardon her while she sidles closer to that egg. She has a nightdress on, but also pants. Cause K'lir was all 'DON'T FORGET PANTS'. So, she didn't forget pants.

Xiamina's like a bastion of silence and calm amoung all the nerves. One could almost think she was made of stone rather than human pieces and parts by the way she finds a spot, settles herself and STANDS there. No hand grabbning from the stand-offish woman. Y'all can stay over there folks. Her eyes flick across the dragons that spill out, calm and cool.

Chloe's looked better, but who cares. She shoves some of her hair into what's left of her braid, it's all effed up from being asleep, and quick-steps out of the way of that first brown with big ol' surprised eyes. So that happened quicker than she anticipated. That's probably going to be her M.O. for a while - dodge stuff, look pale, be all 'yikes'.

It's chaos! Hannah finds Bailey and CLINGS to her. Or something. "I don't even - green first!" That's right; that about sums up the Senior Weyrwoman's response right there.

Joran tugs at his robe and scrubs at his eyes as they all shuffle out of the Barracks and onto the hot-hot sands. Ugh! It's too warm, he just want's to go back to sleep, but those flutterbys in his belly are throwing themselves at the walls of his guts and trying to crawl up his throat to escape! "I think I got this thing on backwards …" He tugs at his collar again, yup, it's on backwards … no wonder it's uncomfortable.

A brown breaks out of the Shelter Against the Storm Egg, his zeal causing him to all but run over the top of the blue from the Stacked Tupperware Egg. The smaller dragonet hisses irritably, the brown rumbles back, and the two snap at each other before peeling away to find that their intended weyrlings were standing side-by-side the whole time, two boys that have been best friends since before Search.

Ione seems not to have considered the fact that Ulrik might not want her clinging to him, so that hard look is just met with wide, pale eyes. And then there's a grateful smile as he offers that hand, which she'll take willingly. And then, "They're hatching! Already!" In case Clem and Ulrik missed that.

Iovrar's here, ghosting after Sammael. Does he have a black eye? … maybe.

The Empire Strikes Back Egg wastes no further time. Like Alderaan, this egg simply shatters into so much rubble from the force of the dragonet contained therein. Clumsy in her first motions, she quickly seems to figure out how best to employ her limbs, righting herself from the rubble of her egg without much fuss or distraction. She turns her head curiously toward the assembled candidates in their white robes, following quickly on her first inkling and moving inexorably toward one who will be her destiny.

Twilight of Samhain Green Dragonet
Some enthrallment darkens verdant greenery, casts deep shadows over liquid turquoise, limns lissome form with gathering nightfall. Although not traditionally beautiful, this darkling dragon has a sinner's sumptuousness to her overall coloration that lends it an appeal all its own, the lure of shadowscape and witchlight that dance in dreamlike glimpses down her spine and o'er her haunches. Lichen-green grasps the shadows of her curves and joints, clinging to the edges of her frame in artfully irregular patches. Along her underbelly, dark aquamarine ripples over glimmers of amber and nitre, betraying portents of hidden treasures trapped beneath enchanted pools, a flash of moonstone or the promise of emerald. The night of a new moon, full of half-heard whispers and unseen shades, embraces her from nose to tail, cloaking meadow-greens in velvet-rich darkness save where a veil of palest green bridal lace traipses from her wingbones and thence across her 'sails - a pair of moonlit waterfalls spilling endlessly into nothingness, the soft green muted into an ethereal blur of cool mist across mainsail and aileron. Her grace is in the precision of her form, neither dainty nor expansive but perfectly proportioned, so that average becomes ideal, every inch of her crafted to exacting dimensions, from the flawlessness of her wedge-shaped head to the quintessential sculpting of her forked tail.

Mahalia draws upon that fount of healer's calm in times of crisis and trauma she seemed to absorb during her short time as an apprentice. Or perhaps it was years of silent drudgery in her. Either way, she's their, tense but composed, sweat-glistened palms unfortunately clamped onto whoever falls to either side of her in the arced line of candidates. She's focused, head-twitches deliberate and searching to each dragon that cracks shell.

T'zaim points out helpfully for Hannah/Bailey, "Brown first." He knows this 'cause he's helping the newly Impressed brownrider off the Sands, see. He might spend the next while running around like a chicken with its head cut off, so that's the end of his chit-chat, promise.

Whither Way Walks What Wicked Green Dragonet disdains the shards of her shell, picking her way through the egg-crumbles and goo with a certain distastefulness to the place of paw and shift of haunch. She spends a great long moment hemming and hawing at the sprawl of candidates left and right, turning her head one way then the other to better examine the opportunities both roads offer. Hither or yon, where shall she go? It seems as if this is a far greater decision than left or right, and to this one, such a decision is not undertaken lightly.

Tiala nudges Iovrar with an elbow. Cause she has no shame, even here on the sands. "Did you accuse the wrong person of molesting your pillow?" Also, hey look! Greens!

Sammael glares at Iovrar. There's man-hate going on there. As Ulrik gets a little hand in his, he just tries to stand there and look inconspicuous in the BACK.

Keelie's bright red hair is hard to miss, and she remembers to bow with the rest, brown eyes wide as she looks around, trying to take everything in, crouching a bit, as is her instinct when in the face of danger. How is this happening? She's barely blinked and two - three? of the eggs have already hatched.

Kehm is ahead of Catryn, his bunk mate, as he tries tying his hair back when the group bow has concluded and the hatchlings have started to hammer on their shells. Having slept in his robe got him partially ahead of the game, but only so far. "Can you get this?" To the ex-archivist, dangling a leather piece to wind around his dreadlocks. "I got you covered."

Ulrik's attention snaps back the way of those rocking, cracking eggs once that smaller hand is in his. Focussed concentration. His lips are moving but no words can be heard. Once he glances away, sharp gaze skip-hopping across the mayhem, finds Sammael in Iovrar's company and lunging sideways makes a grab for Sammael's Casper robe. "Git here." He growls.

Xalya's eyes are wide as the dragonets begin striding, spilling, crashing forth, picking their way, wavering towards this candidate or other. Greens first, Southern's colors. Appropriate!

It's a good thing Rielle has that calm down so well; this is chaos! Of the best kind, but she's trembling just a little beneath that level-headed veneer. Those dazzling beautiful greens catch her eye quickly though, keen gaze following closely just in case she'll need to be moving out of the way.

Zolok can barely keep up, once the action starts. The beautiful green dragonet, and then the next few…his fingers tighten on the hand in his, and his breath keeps catching even as he tries to keep his cool about it. Not successfully, but he tries.

"I never found it," Iovrar reports back to Tiala, evenly glaring at Sammael before making a face at those in front. "God those look scary as fuck." Did he just say that out loud? Whups."

Twilight of Samhain Green Dragonet moves with slow certainty, leaving behind the remnants of her eggshell - her back turned entirely to that which was her past. Her keen, wise eyes are already fixed upon the white-robed figures that are her future, drawn by the inexorable lure of destiny. She isn't in a rush by any means, conscientiously placing one foot down before the other, treading out the distance between herself and the inevitable with neither eagerness nor hesitation. This green will get there in due time, neither too early nor too late.

"Brown first, I see," Hannah might have a look for T'zaim, but she's too caught up in another dragon falling out of its shell. "There are so many, Bailey." Because there ARE.

Two greens and a blue! A Fluffy, Fluffy, Fluff'd Explosion - All Across the Sink - Dropped Something, Did Ya? All three eggs add their ungainly occupants to the flurry of activity already on the Sands. The greens both find their matches in boys, and the blue finds his match in a girl. A trio of delighted cries are lost in the sound and chaos, the names unintelligible, only the joy able to translate.

Tiny Tyrant Redux Egg doesn't just… hatch. It EXPLODES into a million little pieces as if the pressure within was SO GREAT at it's siblings PROCRASTINATING getting their act together to start this shindig. What's left behind? Why, So Say We All Green Dragonet!

So Say We All Green Dragonet
A composition of stocky lines and solid form paint an unremarkable canvas, starting with a brush of fawn to the blunt landscape of her head. Her prominent eye-ridges are the only bold characteristic, though fawn intensifies to amber down the brief stretch of her neck before teal-green appears in mottled brilliance to lend its striking appeal to haunches and limbs, spine and spar, ridges and wings. The universe's breadth is measured in sparks of white across those leathery sails, wrought for responsive performance and endurance. No mistake of nature, the russet tail's aerodynamics are sleekly proficient, while small utilitarian rust hued talons are meant to disappear against windshear's advantage.

Ilissea latches onto Rielle when another green cracks shell, looking vaguely like she might be about to get ill. "Rielle," it's barely a whisper. Almost a whimper, even. "Look at them, oh—" there's ANOTHER GREEN. "Oh Faranth. Oh Faranth."

Xiamina steps to one side when others crowd much too close to her, breaking into the solitude that is WAY HARD to find here on the sands. She glances towards the gathered groups above before returning her gaze forward - Waiting.

Iviano isn't sure what to do with all this, so far out of his realm of comprehension he's just trying to look calm at this point. "…That one seems alright." He says to no one imparticular about the terrifying looking green. Looks like someone he use to know. "Are they always all girls?" He asks to someone beside him, who may or may not have any more experience than himself.

So Say We All Green Dragonet takes one look at that bold step, the smug smile, the easy confidence - and knows without a doubt that she's met her match. Her star-studded wings flutter in the hot air as she steps forward with just as much audacity and arrogance to meet the short and slight woman halfway. It's time to launch, it's time to jump, and together she and Tia will find a home for all time.

Minoq shuffles his feet, one moment feeling like they're on fire, the next not even feeling them at all. "It will be fine, it will be fine," he mutters to himself, or maybe to to some nervous candidate near him. There are a lot of green dragonets on the sands right now. He tilts his head, wondering if any of them are looking his way.

So Say We All Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Tiala, and steps forward.

"FUCK!" That's Iovrar, jumping away from Tiala like she has cooties. Possible that he runs straight into Sammy's arms. HOLD ME MAN.

Hegiana just watches: more greens! She's so distracted that she grabs out for a hand, any hand will do as she watches the latest move to Tiala and as her hand clasps around a wet, clammy one - hard to imagine but there's a reason Hegi's shaking off the handhold with a look of distracted 'ew'.

Tiala is going to mock Iovrar mercilessly for that! But for now, she and Lyracith have FOOD to find. Excuse them, please!

The wedge that breaks through A Deeper Darkness Egg is, at first, uncertainly colored. Is it dark brown? Is it dark bronze? It's hard to tell, and - even when the hatchling emerges fully - there's some uncertainty as to his sheen. It's only once he begins to dry, moving among the Candidates, that the bronze shine starts to show. He pushes beyond an older boy and latches eyes onto his younger brother, crooning blissfully.

Nervous with all the hatchings abounding, Mahalia's one nervous betrayal causes her gaze to falter — eyes lift up, scanning the masses assembled hodge-podge and at the unthinkable hour for stray signs of familiarity in the dark. The box seats (or what she thinks of them out int he dark) command her attention temporarily, tight-throated swallow shifted back to the sands with a gulp. "It's all so sudden," she murmurs to whoever's nearby and able to pick up her low voice.

Joran tries to stay with the group, nervousness melding with a tendril of almost-fear, but soon finds himself toward one end of the long line of Candidates strung out and waiting. His eyes flit from hatchling to hatchling, admiration for the colors but a touch of amusement hinted at in his smokey eyes at the ungainliness of the newly hatched.

Whither Way Walks What Wicked Green Dragonet finally lifts her wings with purpose and takes the lefthand path, the proud jut of her chin lifted higher. It gives her better vantage to study anew the failures that she crosses: she stops almost completely to snort at Sammael, bitch please, loftily taking off again. Surely there will be one to find on the path she's taken - surely this road won't lead to self-destruction. Surely.

Sammael is tugged in all directions and even makes a grab for Iovrar - it's the roughest, meanest grab EVER - and then they're both tugged forward by Ulrik. "Watch out for the claws," he so helpfully says.

Catryn's hands are shaking when she grabs hold of the leather piece from Kehm. "Sure, of course…" Up on tiptoes she goes as she collects his lovely hair into a glorious man bun. Because Kehm needs a dreadlock man bun. <3 All the while, she's looking out for any dragonets that might venture close. And guess what? When she's done fixing Kehm's hair, she holds his hand. Because she's freakin' nervous as hell.

Myziri is wide eyed, watching the eggs explode. But Iviano's words come through despite that since he's on one side of her it seems. "No, there've been some other colors. But there are a lot of greens." Her reply is distracted, though - gotta keep an eye on those dragonets!

Twilight of Samhain Green Dragonet draws close to a knot of Candidates, contemplating them with her head tilted thoughtfully. Her eyes rake across a young man, and he holds his breath hopefully - but no. She doesn't even glance at the next boy in line… or the next… her eyes study only the young women now. Her choice has been narrowed down, at least, but there are so many to choose from, and she will not be rushed into a hasty decision. Fate - destiny - something draws her steps forward and forward, one after another over those hot, hot Sands.

Ione's big, overly-wide eyes seem unsure whether to focus on the possible threat of OMG DRAGONS versus the safety of the people on either side of her. It's so much easier to shoot nervous glances at Clementine than to focus on the fact that there are dragons faaar too close for comfort. "What do we do if they come at us?" she asks, in a belated thought that should've been voiced long before this moment. "Like, not in the good way?"

Clementine just steps to the side as a dragonet gets too damn close to her. "No." He goes on to impress someone else and the herder-candidate sighs in relief. "Come on, keep hatching. Lets go." And keeping going past her, that's the implied message here.

Don't blink or you'll miss not one, not two, but three more dragonets. Sink the Bismark! Egg, Sheet 1 Egg, and Stapled, Stacked, and Filed Egg - blue, green, green. This quick-hatching trio fans out to find their matches in a young man from a minehold, a young woman from the Northern Continent, and a young man just on the edge of aging his way out of Search, a perennial Candidate that probably thought it was never gonna happen, and now it has!

Rielle isn't paying attention to anyone else's antics unless someone jumps into her arms, really…well. Except to reassure one of the younger girls quivering on the verge of tears nearby. But even that's brief; bonds are starting to be made already! She watches Tiala move off the Sands briefly before her gaze finds that nearly brown bronze…and flicks away again. Catching Mahalia's murmur, blue-green eyes flick to the other former Healer with a nod. "Aye," she breathes…and that's about all she's got for now!

Myziri is there, if anyone had noticed the tension in Iviano they'll notice is lessens some. "There's so much." Green? Dragons? Action? It is only response to what has happened, except to shift his weight. They really should give them enough time for a potty break before ushering them on to the sands.

"Dance, fucker." Ulrik sends with a tight smirk Sammael and Iovrar's way if the latter came along too. He hasn't forgotten Ione though, even if he is sort of getting ready to backpedal the hell away from any of those little green babies. "Breathe." He reminds her. "Then duck."

Zolok knows enough to get out of the way of determined dragonets, and he sidesteps as a green passes him by without a glance. His sidestep takes him in front of Ulrik in time to hear his advice to Ione, and the teenager gulps air, keeping his eyes on the action.

Kehm feels his hair as his skin breaks out in sweat. "What is…? Fine." It's out of his face, man bun PRIDE. "Now," guiding Catryn, "go get yourself one." The wildling holds a breath until it grips his chest. Danger. No knives or items of any sort are permitted onto the sands, but he could so McGyver something out of a piece of shell, someone's hair, and a shoe.

"Like Sam knows how to dance," Iovrar shoots at Ulrik, but he's dusting himself off and stepping sideways to eye the MAYHEM out here.

Xiamina sidesteps a dragonet that is just going to walk right past her, and ends up right next to Zolok. "Chill out kid," he gets the brusk advice from the older girl, who folds her arms again to take it all in.

Ilissea isn't about to let go of Rielle just yet, but she's certainly going to not…glue herself to the older Candidate. "Sorry," she says. "So many. Oh Faranth." That might be her line, now.

Myziri is there, indeed. She even reaches out to seek Iviano's hand because…this is way more intense than she expected. She seeks reassurance. But even as she's keeping an eye on the dragonets popping out everywhere, she's also seeking a glimpse of a redhead…"Where's Keelie?" But then there's another dragonet. And another. "Jeez, they're all coming at once!"

"He's a fairy on his feet. You should give him a whirl." Ulrik shoots back to Iovrar never once taking his eyes off of the chaos of stumbling, creeling dragonets. There is one that he's keeping a close eye on and he'll totally let Zolok be the sandbag to dragonet claws.

Minoq remembers to breathe, really he does. And it helps clear his head. He looks around and smiles as he sees this and that candidate picked by quickly moving dragonets. He dodges out of the way when necesary, but generally none of them are looking his way. "Dang, I thought there were a lot of eggs before. It's way worse when they're all hatching and moving."

Mahalia cants a reassuring grin to Rielle, having momentarily captured her attention to quip, "Let's just hope the dragonets know something of the Healer's oath." Y'know, to do no harm unto others. Because she'd really like to not be mauled by anyone or thing, kthxverymuch.

The Right Priorities Egg lies still. Or is it?

Twilight of Samhain Green Dragonet grows weary. She is young, and the search seems long. Though she continues putting one foot tirelessly before the other, she begins to look like a leaf skittering among the Candidates, aimless, dragged here and there by the winds of unseen forces. Skittering across those Sands, she's finally stopped by a moss-green gaze, her night-dark form turning toward fate - toward destiny - toward Myziri. The pail, mist-hued sails of her wings flutter open when she demands the young woman's full attention, her faceted eyes glimmering with countless rainbows where they fix upon her chosen!

Twilight of Samhain Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Myziri, and steps forward.

Keelie hears her name, and hurries up beside Myziri, going to grab her empty hand… but there's a dragonet right there. She takes a step back and just watches, in awe.

"We're all so fucked." That's Iovrar, standing behind Sam. 'standing'. That's a synonym for hiding, right?

Iviano takes the hand, it's all for her sake, honest. As long as she doesn't notice the way his fingers tighten just a bit he may just be able to play that off as the honest story later. Only then there be a green, and is friend is claimed by another, his hand falling to his side. Life. Always taking what little refuge he finds. "Uh. That." Do most people say congrats? He just points at it.

Chloe would just like to point out, "You boys sure talk a lot." That's Chloe for STFU.

"Fucker, you can get right up front." Sammael isn't going to be hiding the little Iovrar skinny-buns. He nudges Ulrik, too. JUST FOR GOOD MEASURE.

Whither Way Walks What Wicked Green Dragonet hoists her wings higher still, casting back the lowlight glimmer of the stars and glows far overhead. She's pacing out the last of her line, orange duress starting to flicker through her whirling eyes. Time is running out. She's almost out of time. Time waits on no-one. Pick your poison, but however you put it, she's… picked her poison, indeed, stopping abruptly at the feet of a lovely Healer lass, twisting her chin imperiously upwards in silent demand. There she is, Mahalia, and found not a moment too soon.

Whither Way Walks What Wicked Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Mahalia, and steps forward.

Rielle STARES as that beautiful green goes for Myziri and can't help but grin! "Myziri! That's the way, girl!" As if her stubborn friend can hear her now. But it's getting said, the calm facade breaking just for that…and then there goes Mahalia, too! So fast! She can barely keep up!

Ulrik to Chloe, after stumbling sideways a step when Sammael shoves him - sorry 'bout your toes, Ione. "We could sing if you like?" That's Ulrik for don't-give-a-damn.

Ilissea is STARING at all of the impressions — especially the one of Mahalia, so CLOSE to her and Rielle. "So fast," she breathes.

"Ha!" crows someone at the front of the Sands. That's Bailey, let's be real. "I TOLD YOU." Who? Khalyssrielth, maybe.

Ione follows that first instruction immediately, taking one big, ridiculous deep breath in. And then she clings even more tightly to the two on either side of her, because she's suddenly extremely lightheaded. So maybe don't breathe quite like that. And then a face she recognizes seems to be taken by one of those dragons - and regardless of personal feelings about the girl, she does smile. "Congratulations." And then another. "Oh Faranth. Can I just like, shove you in front of me?" That's to Ulrik, follow shortly by a yelp as he steps on her toes.

Free Will Egg shivers and thumps. The egg bulges and strains for a moment, its riot of colours shifting in the light. The branches that ensnare bend and wave as the dragonet inside seeks its way out, to discover its own path. Silence, a moment to rest and collect and then with one almighty push, Free Will shatters letting its damp inhabitant out into the world! At last! Freedom is made manifest in the birth of an ancient force when Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Dragonet stalks the sands.

Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Dragonet
Long-limbed and rangy: ash-grey chases burnt-umber across the sharp collection of bones beneath the stretch of supple hide to coalesce in the shaggy visage of wildness. Black-bronze sweeps across a large head with blunted, outward-angled headknobs that attenuates into a pointed snout, fan-brushed in winter's frigid kiss. Over-elongated fangs peek out over the shadowed-copper of a muzzle forever wrapped in midnight before spilling down his throat and across his chest in snow-touched burnt-umber. The rounded swell of ribcage and the padding of winter-fat 'neath reddish-bronze hide build the shadow of size while staying true to raw-bone power. Snow peaks jagged neckridges that fall into the length of whipcord tail with a tendency to drag. From ice-encrusted peaks, the long length of wing-bones are encased in tarnished bronze, glittering like metallic stars across charcoal-dusted wingsails. Mahogany caresses the underbelly where deep russet lights the fires of burnished copper to gild the joints of lanky legs. Savagery creeps into the hulking stance of suspicion, each wide-foot paw purposefully placed, their talons tipped in crusted ice; a wolfish reminiscence is held in the challenge lying in ecru-limned jewel-faceted eyes.

Zolok stares over his shoulder for a moment at Ulrik. "Please don't sing."

Low voiced congratulations are all that Joran is capable of right now but when a green heads toward Myziri who is nearby he cheers a bit louder as he sees that Impression rather closer than he thought he would. "Oh, congratulations, Myziri!"

Chloe points at Zolok. "Yes, that."

"No, please do sing. It will keep them away possibly." Xiamina tosses that out in the direction of Zolok and Ulrik. Come on guys, they could cut the tension with a KNIFE.

Iovrar sing to pretty dwagon no no "Shit." He's edging away, Iov, squinting at Xiamina as if she's crazy. Oh, wait.

"I also vote for singing," Ione adds, when she's done nursing her toes.

A pretty green leaves the remnants of the Follow Me Where I Go Egg, moving with a delightful grace through the Candidates. She all but skips with her childlike charm, finally butting her playful little head against the knees of a big Miner lad who literally bursts into tears with the weight of his emotions.

Xiamina's just going put a middle finger up in the general direction of Iovrar. Take that bitch.

"Sing, bitches." Clementine adds her vote. As she steps away from yet another impression.

The Right Priorities Egg has waited until the time is right. For a time torturously unchanging for others, it has waited with a quiet sense of anticipation that drowns out the rest of white-noise emotions: such needless things as desire and impatience and frustration. But now, now — now the hour is nigh, and the endless moments of waiting have frozen in time for this particular minute. The internal attack comes all-at-once, the silent egg now shattered, and from the shards of a past lived tiger-souled rises up a young dragon, trembling on haunches previously untested, but with focus and intent nonetheless.

Until The Sun Falls Bronze Dragonet
Rough-hewn and rugged, this heavy-hided mammoth showcases a trompe l'oeil illusion of prickly pelt: an apocalyptic revelry of visual texture, it exists as vivid as a bruiser's bloodied smile, as real as his thick thews and solid stature. Otherwise all uniform satin-brass, ragnarok disregard for regulation manifests in the sharp stabs of his short neckridges, marching in disorderly conduct down close-coupled neck to terminate at the steppe of canvas shoulders. There, the mantle of his wings unfurl russet and right, smugly massive to match the rest of him, bending brightness to filter undying light to the heights of hulking haunches and the crest of colossal chest. Twixt and twine finds well-sprung rib, all the better to keep caged the voracious appetite of his bottomless hunger. It finds outlet in the eternal snarl of his muzzle, the broad lines of his ferrous forehead gnarled with immortal - immoral - frenzy: a frightful profile to pair with the dread shadow this beast casts, craggy and shaggy, mighty in mercenary proportion.

Ilissea finally manages, "congrats!" to the candidates impressing around them — not that they would NOTICE at this point, and just shakes her head in numbing shock.

It was bigger than he thought it would be up close, so when the bronze hatches, it is self preservation that has Iviano taking one small step back, for mankind. Did that miner just cry. What did it do to him? Girls, even in dragon form, are not to be trusted.

Catryn watches all of the Impressesions happening around her small group and sidles closer to Kehm. A bronze hatches not far away and she slips around to Kehm's other side and away from the dragonet. "They're everywhere!" Captain Obvious, right here.

Controlling a brief look of disappointment as the greens go for Myziri and Mahalia, Hegi still unstiffens long enough to call, "Congratulations," to them both before getting distracted by the chatter play between everyone: she starts to drift in that direction, keeping an eye on the eggs hatching chaotically all over. "Two bronzes in a row - that's lucky, right?" In case anyone has that answer.

Not one blue, but two! The first comes from the New School Egg, making a beeline for a boy who hardly seems to know how to react, staring dazedly before he breaks into a grin. Not far away, the Blinding, Brilliant Light Egg delivers a similarly inclined blue, another that races straight toward a boy that wraps his arms around his new dragonet, nodding against the young hide and promising to get him some food immediately!

Myziri drops Iviano's hand because…she doesn't need him anymore. "Sahizath." It's a breathless whisper, that name, and then she's smiling, a hand coming up to touch the dragonet standing in front of her with light fingertips against new-hatched hide. "Yes…yes we will." But she can't say anymore, because she's stunned by the green dragonet in front of her. Is there a healer around? Because someone's in shock.

"Oh crap." Sammael glares at Chloe and backs away. He wants to leave, okay?

Ulrik is SO not gonna sing!! Everyone is safe. Except maybe Ione whose looking a little pale. Hatchlings left and right, so that now even Ulrik is beginning to sweat it. Totally the heat of the sands. Possibly he squeezes that small hand a little too tightly now as focus grows intent. A glance to where the queens reside. Impressions happening. HIs hand fists tighter into Sammael's robe. "Nuh uh!" You're not going NOWHERE, brother!

T'zaim is not a healer. In fact, he's probably like the last person you want to have around in a crisis, but he does materialize near-ish Myziri and Sahizath and suggest, "If you'll just come along this way," before you faint, "please…"

Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Dragonet slinks from the shards of his eggshell, the bulk of his weight lurking on the pads of all four paws with his head angled low to the ground. When one of his siblings gets too close, he growls and falls back. It is not in skittishness, but in caution. Those first steps taken, the bronze shakes the egg's slippery goo from his hide: the Hunt is on, and he ain't got time for procrastinations.

There is so much chaos. Xalya touches briefly those nearby, keeping them close? Away?

Zolok looks pained at Ione's traitorous vote, but then there is a flurry of more activity, and his attention is back on that. He might forget to breathe when the bronzes hatch, but he'll remember. Hopefully before he passes out.

"Shame." Xiamina manages to work her way bakwards, edging through the crowd till she's closer to Xalya and maybe Catryn. Somewhere. "Sharding insane. Whoever thought this was a good idea needs to go jump off a cliff."

Chloe, to Sammael, "Don't make me hold your hand." She glares right back.

Keelie takes a few steps backwards from Myziri and her new lifemate, unsure of what to make of all of this. She spots Minoq's hair and darts over to him, reaching for his hand. There is far too much going on right now.

Kehm had no chance to meditate prior so he's gulping air in hopes some of it reaches the higher functions of his brain. His face burns like Crom. "That girl, that's… and there goes that green…" This is beyond his control and getting ridiculous. "Safety in numbers, remember that, especially if there are ample dumb ones." The weakest go first! To the treeeees! "Go to the women. Xalya!" No word why he calls out, but he thinks her at risk.

Hannah looks like she's about melting on the sands, but still she leans into her best friend's side. "There are so many," she has to yell now, "that I can't keep track. Have we … bronze…?" That and she's so short that seeing is hard.

Ulrik to Chloe. "Hold it." Ground out through teeth clenched.

All kindsa dainty, the green from the Ring Ring Goes the Bell Egg seems to be made of spun-sugar and brittle glass. She creels piteously, sitting amid the shattered remnants of her egg and crying her sad little hatchling heart out. No one approaches, and she finally has to pick herself up from her eggshells and go in search of someone that can soothe her little heart. She moves with fragile grace, skittering here and there until she passes right by a dainty girl that seems to be her perfect match and stops in front of a huge Smith lad with massive shoulders. His big hand seems completely incongruous touching her tiny muzzle, but the dragon's always right!

Until The Sun Falls Bronze Dragonet stands perfectly still for several moments shaking his head as his trembling limbs strengthen and hold him against that pinion-rattling vibration through his sturdy frame. Goo goes flying from the tips of headknobs and blunt neck-ridges before he finally quiets to sweep the Sands with a piercing gaze. One forepaw lifts as he takes his first step out of the base of the egg that enshelled him for so long. Oops! The soul of a tiger the bronze is still newly hatched and slips and tumbles snout first into the heated sands as his hindlegs plow forward even after his forelegs have buckled beneath him. Scrambling up he finds it easier to move through the dry sand, his head low-slung as he stalks toward the strung out clusters of white-robed figures scattered across the cavern.

Sammael gives Chloe the finger, "Dare you to try."

Time stops for an eternity. There, in front of her, a mandate placed upon her from chin-tilted dragonet moves Mahalia forward, breaking line without thought to accept her destiny. "Kabrianth, how lovely," she says, awestruck, Fortian accent wrapped around the word with newfound familiarity and burgeoning delight. "I'm sure you hunger, don't you," continues the dazed stream-of-consciousness as an AWLM pair finds them to guide them down the path of destiny.

Rielle is not singing, not administering shock treatment (for shame!), not doing much of anything except perhaps accidentally bumping lightly into a few of her fellow Candidates as she strains to watch some of the bondings further down the line one way…and then the other. This is how the Pernese get whiplash, apparently - or one way, at least.

Minoq watches at the flood of greens gives way to several bronzes. Well, none of those seem to be looking towards him either. He looks around, trying to guess which candidate they will be stumbling towards. The heat is getting to him again, sweat stinging his eyes, though he tries not to let it show.

Ione deflates slightly when Ulrik doesn't sing. For all that she wants to impress, now that these creatures are crawling free of their shells she's having her doubts. There are claws. And she likes being pretty. "Look at those bronzes." There's a nudge for Ulrik, because, y'know, those things aren't for her. She even leans out to look at Sammael, as well. "Don't be scared." There's a toothy, overly-brave grin since he can't strangle her here.

Ilissea calls congratulations a couple more times, and just shakes her head. "Rielle, they're hatching so fasssst." It's not quite a wail, but it's not…quite not a wail. It's a quiet one. Kind of.

Chloe makes a snatch for that finger and will totally hold Sam's hand - unless she gets killed or he really doesn't want it held. Anyway, she tries.

Foiled! A blue sibling tumbles in his way, causing Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Dragonet to duck and twist to get out of the way of those awkward wingspars. His own wings are tightened against his body, but attention is drawn back to the crowd of Candidates: the Hunt never ends until his prey is caught. With a low-toned sound leaving the back of his throat, Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Dragonet stalks and hunts his prey, his eyes caught by a tussling knot of Candidates who spark that predator's stalk that beats within. Soon, soon: a threat of dark promise in that single-minded gaze.

"But I'm telling you," Bailey to Hannah, "I really think that one's not going to hatch." Dhiammarath is going to eat the redheaded goldrider before the evening's out.

Two greens from Dhiammarth's eggs break shell together, one from the Crisis of Faith Egg and one from the Make it Work! Egg. The sisters could not be more different, one dainty and pretty, one ungainly and murky. They find their matches in a pair of Candidates that are just as different as the hatchlings, with the dainty green looking to a gawky adolescent boy and the ungainly green finding the delicate flower of a girl.

Joran edges closer to where the rest of the Candidates stand since those around him have been taken rather quickly by those stumbling hatchlings. He has his hands clasped at his waist, the fingers clenched together enough to whiten the flesh drawn tight over his bones. "So many …" He catches Ione's suggestion to someone not to be scared but his wide eyes can't leave the gangling, stumbling dragonets to see who she was talking to.

"It had better hatch!" Hannah squeals, and looks ten times crazed SUDDENLY. Listen, she's taken SUCH good care of all of these eggs that one not hatching is going to… BREATH JUST BREATH. Look what you did, Bailey. You gave Hannah a nervous twitch.

Was that Aseerole that just impressed to the pretty, pretty little green? A cough-snicker-snort erupts from Ulrik. "That's just…" HILARIOUS! That stalking bronze is caught from the edge of peripheral vision at Ione's remark. "It bites me, I'm biting it back." Just in case she was wondering.

Webweaver's Wilderness Egg has lain quiet and still for far too long. The dragonhealers may have worried about the patient quietude of the inhabitant of this tiny ovoid, fretted over the perfect web of white, temperatures, hardness… but here, in one pulse, one fluid movement, it proves lie any rumors of its untimely demise. It dissolves along those white lines, leaving behind it only that which has escaped the web, outfit in old-world grace and grandeur, oaken and strong: Hunter's Herald Of The Oak Brown Dragonet has made his way through the aetherworld, and manifests wholly upon this plane with a jutting excitement to his curved snout, his upturn't wings yet damp with the remains of the web that previously held him ensnared.

Hunter's Herald of the Oak Brown Dragonet
Druidic intuition blesses this hunter with force and strength in a confluence of vaunted vainglory and hallowed hemlock humility: dichotomous he may be, but there is no disharmony to be found in the lengthy might of this sun-dappled beast, only a raw-nerve electric energy, an eager enthusiasm that thrums throughout the lengths of his lean physique and prickles the short scruff of his slab-ridged neck. Brightness finds him in sunlit sienna glory, except for the dark smudges of his mobile eyeridges, of his whipcord tail - otherwise, the lines that show nature's gilt are as unassuming as birch-bark, fit for function, not form. Far-branching, the wind-rustle of his scuffed-leather sails complements the copper-wire woad bespoke in tree-branch tendrils along the rest of him, inextricably intertwined, inscribed along every sturdy, lanky, weedy range.

"Oh," Bailey says. "Well." She turns to eye Hannah. "Are you magic or something?"

Joran fills the space the Myziri left unoccupied and Iviano gives him a glance of a hello. At least so far there has been no blood. So far. Which can only mean it is coming. Right?

Sammael finds himself with a hand around his hand and rather than shake her off, he grips her hand tighter and yanks Chloe closer. Maybe to murmur something in her ear, it's probably bad. Or something. He also elbows Ulrik and Iovrar: just a little bit of entropy on the sands.

Catryn is standing near Xalya and Xiamina, watching the activity all around her with wide eyes. "This is just…" She doesn't get to finish her thought when more dragonets find their lifemates nearby. It's breathtaking and beautiful… yet, so very terrifying. At least for her it is. Glancing over her shoulder, she checks on Kehm somewhere amongst the remaining candidates.

Arianne looks relieved. Stop portending doom, Bailey! STOPPIT.

Keelie makes another grab for Minoq's hand. "Myziri impressed!" In case he didn't see.

Hegiana somehow hears Joran's comment and gives him a faint, uneasy smile: "But there are more of us, right?" Because… does that really mean anything? Not really. But that has her drifting closer to Joran and Iviano because they're there. Safety in numbers!

"GET A ROOM," Iovrar to Sam and Chloe. Maybe he shares a look with Ulrik of disgust. Or shoots him one full of it.

As if he means to wreck them all, the bronze that emerges from the Tornadic Devastation Egg pushes furiously, powerfully through the nearest Candidates, scaring more than one of them with his crazed desire to find his other half. Of all things, he winds up stopping before a rail-thin young man that hardly anyone even noticed throughout Candidacy and Impression is made.

At last! Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Dragonet must Hunt no more, for the glimmer of raven-black hair has caught his eye. Without fail and without falling, the bronze dragonet slinks forward through the crowds, to the One whom he stalks. His prey. While the sleek, dark face holds an almost menacing air in the excitement of having found the object of his Hunt, all of that darkness falls away as something more comes to play. Joy: pure and simple. As Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Dragonet falls at the feet of Ulrik, once convict, now Candidate, the playful roll in the sand gives hint to the duality of a life they'll live together. And there's totally a little nip at the man's shins. Just BECAUSE.

Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Ulrik, and steps forward.

"Mother…" comes Iovrar's complaint as he ONCE AGAIN gets too close for comfort. "This is all your fault," he declares at random to Ione, glaring at her.

Nostrils flare as Until The Sun Falls Bronze Dragonet picks up the scent of something — or someone — intriguing. As he passes by several Candidates his snarling visage is matched by the low rumble ratcheting in his throat, the growl of frustration (and hunger) growing in strength as he seeks the One. The young bronze seeks the other half of himself and is determined that he will not leave the Sands until he has found that particular One. Jagged, feral head lifts as he draws closer to that fascinating scent. There is one … the One … is here. Somewhere nearby.

"It's a thing?" Xiamina's heart really must be made of ice because she's not staring in wonder or anything at the mass of wiggling bodies in jewled tones.

Zolok is transfixed by the chaos going on around him. Are there people behind him? Other candidates? He couldn't tell you. He offers Ulrik a grin when the bronze chooses him, stepping out of the way and offering a thumbs up. "Way to go." And back to the chaos.

Ione has a new theory: if they all clump together in one big group, it's totally safe, right? Or else they all get mauled as the dragons try to get to their chosen. As Iovrar accuses her, the girl turns up her nose. "Get your ass over here," she commands, holding out her hand. Because otherwise she's stuck next to Sammael now that Ulrik is going to be moving on up. To that particular candidate, she gives a soft smile. "You did it."

Chloe probably had a totally clever answer to Iovrar, "Get a - " But "Oh shit," wasn't it. That bronze does things to Ulrik, and she holds on to Sammael's hand with both of hers, stay.

Some might be familiar with the weepy, teary girl that has just Impressed the green from the Mathematical Matrices Multiplication Egg. It should come as no surprise that she dissolves into tears of delight while touching the still egg-damp dragonet, her eyes full of reverence - and tears. Love - and tears. She hiccoughs loudly on her way off the Sands to feed her new dragonet, trying desperately to swallow her sobs and really just doing a very bad job of it.

Rielle looks over just in time to spot the egg that first caught her eye out here coming to ruin, the brown spilling out seeming at odds with what had once housed it. Is it really brown? Yes, it's brown, not a bronze teasing again. Then…there goes Ulrik, and the ex-Healer grins broadly to see the surly man claimed by a bronze.

Catryn crushed her brother's heart, but this isn't the time to be picky. Xalya edges closer to the other candidate.

"Okay," Iovrar to Ione, and if he holds her hand a little tightly, well. IT'S NOT HIS FAULT. It's loud and fast and what the fuck is really going on here? Srs.

Hunter's Herald Of The Oak Brown Dragonet tears off from the remainder of his shell with little thought or concern about such gutless and unnecessary things as sensibility, or gravity. The latter catches up with him rather abruptly, for two wobbly romps into his gleeful headlong plight finds him tumbling ass over teakettle, wings akimbo and his alarming bay of trumpet-yipping pain jolting over the Sands with alarming volume. MAN DOWN, MAN DOWN! He lands face-first in soft sand, his wet wings flailing uncontrollably in an effort to put himself to rights. For the moment, it looks rather futile… and maybe funny. Story-fodder? This brown? Never.

Minoq's hand gets caught by Keelie this time. There's just too much to look at, too many dragonets to dodge as they head for someone not him. "Yeah, I saw! Amazing!" And then he sees Ulrik picked by one of the bronzes. "Wow, look at that! Good on you, Ulrik!"

Sammael utters, "Oh fuck," because he never actually expected that to happen. And maybe, some remnants of a man who cares is stuttered to life when Chloe gets partially pushed behind him as both him AND Iovrar pull back from the sudden appearance of the dragonet.

Ulrik is taken. Iviano isn't sure how he feels about this. Could he run now? He'd be known, even as his eyes flicker to the exist he knows he's gone to far to turn back now. Just have to survive this moment. How hard could that be? If someone is near him for protection they've probably come to the wrong place. Iviano would totally feed a girl to a dragon for safety. Not that he's going to give away any plans just yet.

Almost every color of the draconic rainbow: Put Your Name on Your Egg shows bronze, Saving the Sun for Tomorrow Egg shows brown, Morning After Fraturday Egg shows blue, and But Why's the Rum Gone? Egg shows green. It's almost impossible to keep up with every last hatchling at this point, and these four move among the others - bronze finding a boy from the Weyr itself, brown a girl from Barrier Hold, and the blue and green looking to a couple of girl-cousins from who-knows-where.

Until The Sun Falls Bronze Dragonet prowls through the remnants of shells, his and his clutchmates, that are spread across the sands. His still-soft talons dig into the hot sands beneath him as he stalks his prey. The line of white clad Candidates are swept by his blazing eyes, the perpetual snarl of his muzzle showing fangs in an expression of disdain. Nostrils flare as the myriad scents are taken in and tasted carefully to find that One. There … there it is. The stocky bronze has found his target, his gaze sharpening as craggy brow dips. His shoulders round as he slinks forward in a stalk, head level with the ground and his tongue flickering to taste the air as he grows closer. Finally he stops in front of Kehm, his head lifting enough to look the young man in the eye in an obvious gesture of claim.

Ilissea inches closer and closer to Rielle, the more dragonets that Impress around them. She's not quite hiding, but well. That might be too far off before she does. Dragonets prefer Older girls, right?

Kehm forces evacuation plans in his mind to the backburner to when they'll most be needed, still no overt attacks or mass bloodshed. This, this is good. Kehm sees Catryn in capable company, gives her a madman grin and Goes In. If he had been permitted a spear it would be in his left hand, but maybe charm is good enough. "We get to eat after this right?" He's by Ione's troup, seeing the setup up there. "That son of blue-balled Fredur!" Ode to Ulrik.

Until The Sun Falls Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Kehm, and steps forward.

Ulrik takes his eyes off the melee for a second to shoot Iovrar a smirk for his comment and nudge Sammael in the ribs. "Keep it toge-. SONOFFABITCH!" Did something just BITE him!? Ulrik freezes and then all the air goes out of him. Poleaxed! "F-f-fu…" Ione's hand and Sammael's robe fall from his hands as he drops to a knee. Tentaively he reaches out a hand toward the little bronze. "Hrykeluth." Murmured in a low rasp while roughened fingers offer a belly rub. 'Scuse him while he just kneels there in shock and wonder.

Mountain Path Haiku Egg ~ CRASH BOOM POW KABANG: Mountain Path destroyed, reveals: tiny newborn green.

Glass Frog Balancing On Solitary Sunny Leaf Green Dragonet
bright freckles dapple / sun-lit warmth o'er glow-light green; / illuminate her / like early morning stained glass: / dewy, translucent.

"Yes. Amazing." Keelie's voice doesn't match her words to Minoq. "I am not sure about all of this." She spots the brown stumble and shakes her head. But Ulrik's loud swearing makes her grin.

Precipitously: hurried frog-hops deliver her unto Diya; Impression comes quick, "Kiyzenyath," announced with near reverent awe.

Glass Frog Balancing On Solitary Sunny Leaf Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Diya, and steps forward.

Stumbling chaotically from the remnants of the Drunken Revelry Egg, a green crosses paths with a brown from the All the World Goes Round Egg. He whirls in place for a second, watching her go with dizzy confusion that only ends when he turns toward a young man from the Healer Craft. She spends a little more time bobbing and weaving unsteadily through the Candidates that remain, finally winding up in front of a curvy blonde that's probably had "hope she Impresses green said about her more than once since being Searched.

That bark of pain from the brown dragonet snaps Rielle's head that direction just because it's so sharp and unexpected. But then watching him try to right himself eventually has her chuckling, and she feels a little bad for it. Should she be laughing at the babies? Well, it's easy enough to do to humans… There goes Kehm now! Another distraction, another grin…they're getting picked off left and right now.

Hunter's Herald Of The Oak Brown Dragonet has finally brought his head OUT of the Sands, and all the better to return to his QUEST, his SAGA, his… what is that smell? The brown's head pivots to stare directly and deeply at the sidelines where the weyrlingmaster staff awaits with buckets of delicious, bloody, heavenly… what is that? He NEEDS that. A snap judgment has his head snapping around to the candidates again, and this time his playful romp is wildly successful, taking him streaking full-speed past white blurs of candidates. HOLD ON, HURRY UP, he's got a LIFEMATE TO CATCH. (Seriously, how is everyone paying attention with all that bloody glorious meat over there?)

Catryn turns around when she hears those foul words from Kehm RIGHT before he Impresses to a bronze. "Kehm!" She's happy, thrilled even. Her bunkmate found a lifemate. <3 It isn't long until her attention returns to the dragonets around her.

Watching as those bronzes come toward him Joran sidesteps them both and actually turns to watch who they choose. His faint smile widens in a grin as first one then the other choose Kehm and Ulrik as their lifemates. "Congratulations!" is called though he's sure they don't hear a word.

Minoq holds tightly onto Keelie's hand (sorry it's so sweaty). "Hang in there. It's a few minutes of craziness…." Then a lifetime of craziness? He watches as another friend Impresses bronze, and he grins. "Anyway, it's amazing to see."

Big Bang Egg - blue! It's a Hoot Egg - green! Snowflake Egg - brown! Birth of Love Egg - green! Tipping the Scales Egg - green! In case it wasn't obvious before, there are a lot of dragonets moving around at any given time, and these five just add to that sense of chaos. The blue Impresses a young man from a nearby seahold, the green to a girl from the same seahold! The brown stumbles around before finding his match in a Herder from Keroon, while the two greens look to a boy and a girl from the Weyr's lower caverns.

Ilissea is going to stay right where she is. Rielle is relatively SAFE right now. There are no baby dragons pressing in on them, thankfully!

Well at least Uls got what he wanted, and Kehm. As always, his goal is survival till the next moment, until he has a chance to plan his next move. This particular situation leaves little room for planning. Just keep an eye on things. Don't get mauled, by dragon or overly 'enthused teenage girl. The latter is probably more dangerous. Iviano eyes those next to him wearily, but the dragons are moving a lot faster, and he has to spin move out of the way of a couple of baby-stumblers. They move like drunken old men really.

Mosh Pit Egg rocks and rattles as it has been doing for the past several minutes, the wild abandon of the dance within continuing as minute fractures spread like a spinner web over the surface of the rigid shell. With a heave of hind legs and wings Eternal Flame of the Sky Green Dragonet bursts onto the scene in all of her goo-sopped glory. With a disdainful snort she steps from the shards left from her birthing to saunter haughtily across the wonderfully burning sands toward The One.

Eternal Flame of the Sky Green Dragonet
Marbled jade floods the expanse of adroit hide like shadowed jewelry as creamy seafoam writhes haughtily from where pale shade graces the pads of her paws up through the dark heartbeat of dense evergreen that pinnacles on the sweep of haughty head knobs. Her tail is long and sleek and wrapped in the shadowed emerald mirrored in the delicate sails of exquisite wings. A vein of aventurine cuts through the jeweled rock of her hide, limning the edge of her wings and the rounded curve of neckridges in a lofty call for attention so that all and sundry can see perfection in mixed gemstone hues. Peridot stardust is sprinkled under the eyes across the teasing tilt of her sweet face as a playful muse, beguiling in its obscurity. Hauteur lies enshrouded in olivine ornamentation edging talons and wingspans accentuating petite, gilded perfection.

"Oh, Faranth…" Rielle looks over just in time to spot that blur of brown. What is that dragonet thinking? "Look out!" she warns the Candidates nearest her, backing up as she tries to persuade those nearby to do the same. Rampaging baby brown going //somewhere! She doesn't even see the others Hatching, not when there's a potential mauling for someone not paying attention.

Do Not Open This Egg shimmies, wiggles, and after a long pause, shatters into pieces, freeing the dragonet within. Thunder's Savage Romance Green Dragonet tumbles a few feet in a burst of energy, leaving her ready to take on life before stumbling and falling into a tumble head-over-heels. Whoops. No one saw that, right Mom?

Thunder's Savage Romance Green Dragonet
Misty light and deep forest green hide stretches tight and shiny over an elegant form, subtly highlighting muscles and delicately strong features. A narrow muzzle and prominent cheek bones widen the helm-like head; the neck twiggy in comparison. Strokes of sparkling golden flesh wrap down each headknob, embracing an empty swatch of dark leafy hue in the center. Willowy ribs bow into an armored cage with a rosy breastbone. There, darkest emerald flows over rounded shoulders along the wings, pale coral underneath upon the sails. Verdigris stretches across the muscular trunk down to a rounded point on the lower abdomen, freckled flush and ruddy. Upon her hind legs, paws dipped in pine join to narrow viridian hips. Kelly banded forelimbs are definable with sharp claws. An elegant tail curls out from her back side, composed largely of light moss and lightning green splashed, pea-tinted ridges that run from the back of the head down to the spade tip.

Clementine has fallen silent as the eggs keep hatching and impressions begin to happen rapidly all around her. There's a certain tension that almost eases out of her at this point. See, they keep passing her. So perhaps she's safe from all of this. Exhaling, she watches Kehm impress. "What's going to happen with that runner…?" This is a muttered aside to herself.

Thunder's Savage Romance Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Ilissea, and steps forward.

With a flick of her wings, and a solid shake to free herself of the goo, she takes a moment to look around. Then, target acquired! With unsteady steps and a collision with a candidate or two, she makes her way to a young redheaded teenager upon the sands. Colliding with the girl, and knocking Ilissea to the ground, the young woman's eyes widen as the dragonet presses talons into fabric of her robe. "Minucovith! Of course, I won't let you down."

Some candidate somewhere goes, like, "Wow, these eggs are spitting out dragons like whah now!"

Some candidate somewhere goes, like, "You suck."

Ione holds Iovrar's hand equally tightly, squeezing with all her might, which is slightly more impressive than it used to be. A glance goes to Clementine as the girl speaks. "Runner?"

Hunter's Herald Of The Oak Brown Dragonet has nearly finished his wild gallop along the leading edge of candidates — nearly. All legs akimbo and wings askew, he nearly doesn't make the stop in time, but when he does, the brown nearly glows with happiness. His tail flickers side to side in mad effort to keep him balanced on his back legs, half-reared up like he is, and the object of his happy mad dash-to-dance is none other than a little Healer girl. His egg-softened foreclaws come forwards to touch her with amazing restraint, and he butts his head up to curl against her in utter adoration. She's his, now, Rielle, even if she may not quite know it yet.

Hunter's Herald of the Oak Brown Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Rielle, and steps forward.

Another candidate is all, "Who is Fyren and why are you calling him a god?"

Kehm thinks himself to be hit, that's why his sight blurs and he feels the cold prickle of shock. In fact he reels, tried to dodge but dodge what? He can't see a source except a dragon. His hands are yanked into fists before the creeping cold sets his marrow and he can't speak a moment. Let it be known he was speechless. "Ahiardhath is it? This is uncanny." His stomach's dropped and knotted up into a pain pit. A dragon and the flu? As they're introduced to each other's realities, A'kehm laughs good and rich and ominous? And they merge to the side.

Gently applauding Ulrik and Kehm's impressions to bronzes, Hegiana looks over in time to see Diya impress before the sounds of a bunch of eggs blowing all at one that has Hegi wince back a little. "Ilissea?" Her normal reserve is falling away but the girl seems to be okay and in the chaos, Rielle's impression is spotted late.

Keelie doesn't mind the sweat, she's sweaty too. Wait. "Did Kehm just impress?" And Diya? Why are things happening so fast! Like that brown. She grins at his antics. And he's going right to - Rielle! Ulp. That's many friends, with dragons now.

Zolok can't speak, anymore. He's physically incapable of producing sound as the chaos continues, his eyes darting from candidates and new Impressees to dragonets, and then to eggs. In that order, in the space of microseconds. He doesn't look /nervous/, but there's a definite twitch beginning in one eye. So much going on….

"Wonder how much longer this is going to take?" If Pern had watches Xiamina'd be all sorts of glancing at it right now. "What do you think… you're Catryn, right?" Xiamina goes to try to place the woman.

At some point, when Ulrik was taken by the bronze, Sammael has stepped back, dragging Chloe with him. And Iovrar if the man has any sense. "Back of the sands, people. Back of the sands."

Eternal Flame of the Sky Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Joran, and steps forward.

Eternal Flame of the Sky Green Dragonet pauses only briefly as she saunters forth from the bits of shell that once held her captive within its confines, the wild music pounding within her quivering muscles as she cranes her head upward toward the clutchparents. With a snort and a raucous bugle she hops and dances her way through the crowd of her bumbling clutchmates. She gives a wing nudge here, a tail-bop there and a full on hip-check if she gets the chance as she makes her way toward the white-garbed awaiting her attention. Disdainful snorts are given as she considers just stomping right over those unsatisfactory Others but withholds her desire until she's found The One. Wait … maybe that One is back the other way! Turning she scans those lined up, some being chosen by her siblings, but there is a sense that This One … YES! Stopping before Joran she gazes into his eyes, her whirling blue matching his smoky cerulean to stake her claim on this One.

Iovrar leans towards Clem, too, a mirror of Ione. "Runner?" and maybe he offers a hand to the buxom candidate. C'mere Clem. IOV WILL PROTECT YOU.

"WOAH THERE." Xiamina raises her voice as Sammael's group of candidates start to back into HER SPACE. "Get your own rug jerk!"

"Has anyone seen Stumpy?" comes a forlorn voice from the back of the pack.

"STUMPY IS IN THE STEW."

"Did you check the buckets?" Helpful voice responds.

Ew.

Gasping softly as that willowy green stops before him, Joran kneels to gather the little form into his arms. "Oh, Yerenath … you're beautiful." he murmurs in a sappily gushing tone.

"Didn't we butcher him last night…?"

Another by his side is scooped up and Iviano moves to the right, out of the way. A gutteral sound of startlement. "Faranth, they need to know if they are beautiful? Why not just take a woman lover?"

Ilissea takes a few moments longer to get herself back upon her feet, and with a dazed expression, leads Minucovith off toward food. There's food somewhere. THey covered that at one point. Right? Back there, maybe.

Ulrik, now R'ik, is rather kind of lost for a bit and then slowly his eyes lift. There's a ferocious triumph writ write across his face that gleams in the grin that bares teeth in a predatory line. "Now we hunt." He murmurs pinning someone with an intent look as he rises to his feet. Lead off the sands with Hrykeluth prowling along at his feet, one hand possessively dropped to the top of his head, Sammael is sent a long look as he passes by.

Silver and Cold Egg has waited so very long for this. It has been frozen in time and space, but no further. Now, lightning wreaths the fractals that speak of an order previously held, and light plays strangely over the iridescent shell. A bump, a crack, a deliberately sighting of crazed-marble gold against the fearsome cold of the prison of ice that has held her captive; with a resounding CRACK!, the frozen glory of the egg-that-was breaks away from the churning of the internal storm, loosening Sealed in Storm Glass Gold Dragonet upon the world.

Sealed in Storm Glass Gold Dragonet
Shining beautiful and terrible, this scion of the storms is wrapped and wreathed within the fireflash afterimage of twice-struck lightning: the monochromatic patina of the thundercloud whips in platinum furor down aerodynamic lines, lighting electric and fluorescent the breakwater wash of wide wings, teasing mercury peril into all the furthest reaches of her lambent splendor. White-gold shatters aether's domain, far-reaching, seeking to jaggedly striate warmth throughout the cold precision of stormlight glow. Thus marbled, thus marked, the crazed riddle of dawnsbreak only highlights the turbulent strength to be found within her fragile composition, fey-light, fae-bright. Seemingly as breakable as glass, she's whittled to lean length, wind-kissed and spare in the face of the shrieking gale. No darkness dares dim the oilslick shimmer of ozone-sharp talons, dares deny the supremacy of wind-carving wingspars, for she is lightning incarnate, ascendant, the argent-chased soul of the storm.

Clementine leans away from Iovrar. "Not today either."

Fire and Gold Egg must surely boil to a breaking point as the heat within shatters the shell of the egg, sending golden flakes exploding outward. Sand spills out in khaki and taupe, hints of gilded edges before the creature given birth through fire slowly rises up from the black and white sands. As golden as the sun cast on desert sands, the Eye of Rukbat Gold Dragonet rises like a monolith from the ashes of the fire-brand shell.

Eye of Rukbat Gold Dragonet
Rising from the ancient sands in crumbled, wind-sheared lines, the strength of noble countenance assembles into venerable wisdom, echoed in the whirl of blue-shadowed kohl-lined eyes set 'neath fragmenting sand-washed 'ridges. Saffron limns halcyon neckridges that stand against the test of time, from which lapidary inscriptions etch into the cream-laced fawn of lissom form, losing all essence of adamantine strength of bedrock. Softened russet-shadows collect against the rounded underbelly, framing well the length of limbs that shine as if dipped in the gilt of pure, fire-lit gold. Each talon catches the light with every sacred step, resplendent in ornate glory. Only the broken elongation of her tail stands as a reminder of antediluvian origins, for it ends, abrupt, in chiseled, blunted wedge. Glory's stolen length is reclaimed by the grandeur of wings beaten from aureate amber, the windsails stretched in artistry of diaphanous cream as matriarchal strength lies tempered in youthful frivolity. Captured in eternity's embrace, from the weight of stone-like step to the end of her blunt tail, she is the matron captured in the gilded sand of ancient origin and hewn of time-forged majesty.

Diya has busy hands and a slightly perturbed expression as she watches meat gobbets disappear down her tiny lifemate; that's just unsettling, there. Also, you know: short, so it's hard to do much more than CHEER as the crowd responds to Impressions she can't. Quite. See.

"T'ZAIM," that's K'ane, "T'ZAIM, WE DID NOT PLAN FOR THIS."

Minoq gives a quick nod to Keelie. "Yes, I think so, oh, and another—" And he forgets what he was going to say. Too much happening. Gold dragonets on the sands. Subtely, he sort of stands behind Keelie, so if any of the golds start plowing their way towards her, they won't go through him. Sorry, only common sense.

Arianne pretends she's not pointing and laughing at T'zaim right now. Ahahahahaha.

Ione shoots a dark glare at Sammael over her shoulder. YOU'RE NOT STEALING HER STRONG MALE PRESENCE. She needs someone she can duck behind if dragons come at her with claws out. And she can drag Clementine with her, should it come to that. And then? "FUCKING FARANTH." Yeah, that's the prim and proper candidate swearing loudly as those two golds break shell. "Is that… does that actually happen?"

Joran is entirely too caught up in feeding tidbits to his beloved Yerenath to notice the two — TWO — golds that hatch simultaneously. If he had noticed, he's totally boggle at that since it's entirely unexpected despite it being a double clutch and how protective the clutchmothers were of those two eggs.

Catryn sidles closer to Xiamina and might look like she's about to cling to the poor girl. Maybe. Her nerves are shot right now. "Yes, that's… my name." A wavering smile is offered. "Just be careful, they're everywhere." Dragonets, shells, eggs. Oh my.

T'zaim stops whatever he's doing, which is mostly running around like a crazy person trying to help weyrlings (even the ones he hates), and blinks at K'ane. "Well, shit," he summarizes eloquently. Denivoth is 31 flavors of smug, btw. LOOK WHAT HE DID.

Backing up, backing up…Faranth, that brown is fast! But then he stops…she stops…they stop. The weft and warp of the world is her and the brown and all in between, and fingers lift to brush the talons stretched toward her. Then he's curled against her, and she's on her knees to curl about him, eyes blurred by tears born of a sense of completion she's never known before. "Obhaeroth…" She breathes, but abruptly, a puzzled look. "Sausages? I'm not sure what they've got over there, but let's…let's go have a look." And so Rielle and Obhaeroth head off to the side - the first steps on a new and unstained path.

Xalya puts a hand to her mouth, stomach bottoming out. Oh wow. WOW.

Iviano doesn't know a whole lot about dragons, but the way the weyrleader is screaming (which really just sounds like a distant ringing of the thread bells) he's pretty sure this isn't normal. Well that's a girl thing for sure, so he's just going to side step off to the side edge of their little candie arc. Don't mind him. You don't want to maul him, he doesn't want to be run over. An agreement can be reached.

Zolok looks as surprised as anyone at two gold appearing, and he carefully distances himself from any girls that might be nearby. Just in case. He'll stand with Minoq, instead. They can avoid carnage together.

"Some bitch AWLM gave me a book and I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do with it. Some bastard who wrote something." Xiamina is UNIMPRESSED by the gold asses all drug up onto the sands. She's just going to stand here with her arms crossed, and even if Catryn DOES try to cling to her, is toing to stand statue like. "Think you could get it back in place if I toss it at you?"

Myziri has been here all along, with Sahizath. She's still stunned though, and on auto pilot when feeding her new lifemate. Speechless, too. Gotta be a first, right there. If there's a hatching still going on, she's not at it anymore.

Hannah stares in shock and looks at Bailey, and then to the sands and just… "Did you just see … did that just…" Her eyes are taken by everything but she's missing things too.

Keelie blinks as Minoq is using her as a shield against the gold dragons. "You…" Insert something funny here. Because her player can't think. And then Zolok is doing it too. He is eyeballed as well.

Hegiana just stares. "Two?" she finally asks, in case she's the only one seeing double. Because so much of a good thing, right? Carefuly, though she tries to find a bunch of boy Candidates to insert herself into.

Life Will Find a Way - and so will the green that hatches from the egg bearing that name (even if no one is looking at her cuz golds or whatever, stupid golds). She moves through a cluster of Candidates, nudging two or three aside so she can lock eyes with a petite brunette. The girl smiles beatifically, announcing her lifemate's name in a sweet and confident voice.

"Yeah, a gold. Great." Clementine saw the first one hatch and not the second one. Which she only sort of notices as shock moves through the crowd like a wave. "Oh." It's possible that she'll push Ione in front of her if one of those two come over here. Then maybe… who else can be sacrificed?

Iovrar, sacrifice Iovrar.

One does not simply begin life in a rush; the Eye of Rukbat Gold Dragonet gives pause once she's free of her eggshell to take stock of the sea of white clustered around her. As the glory of her ancient majesty unfurls, sands crumble and fall when those first, regal steps are taken. For all of her auld glory when she seems to rise from the sands, a hint of childish playfulness touches her stance when she seems more inclined towards the herdbeast than finding the perfect one in a sea of white - until, yes. Something calls to her from the corner: the Eye of Rukbat Gold Dragonet turns her eyes away as the quest begins to find the keeper of her venerable temples.

Chloe agrees, do that.

Iovrar IS NOT YOUR SACRIFICE. He is not going to be the first male goldrider of Pern. No. NO.

Clementine sacrifices Iovrar.

Iviano could be a sacrifice too. HE TOUCHED THE GOLD EGG.

Minoq gives a nod to Zolok. Hey man. Want to hide behind Keelie too? "I almost wish we were in the stands to watch this. The golds, I mean. Who do you think…?" He has no idea.

Iviano is too pretty to be a goldrider?

It's Hedley Egg starts to shake. It's Hedley Egg starts to shimmy. It's Hedley Egg starts to… to… shudder! Definitely a shudder! And then with one almighty push, the shell cracks and Heir to a Young Kingdom Blue dragonet spills out, flopping onto the sand, creeling as he sprawls.

Heir to a Young Kingdom Blue Dragonet
A nose that's dusted in starlight quickly fades into ghostly, silvery blue up the nose, deepening into royal blue over cheekbones and jaw but deepening under the jowl like the folds of a cape. A long, firm neck, midnight dusting over ridges sharp and stark, bleeds into wings of that same vein, midnight over wing spars and sails of rich ultramarine speckled by silvery stars, faint in that evening sky. Royal blue again under his belly but down the legs, it becomes alive with electric blue that fades up over his tail, racing to a point where it all dips into silent black of midnight.

Naw, send Sammael in to do that … the first male goldrider of Pern. He needs a softening female presence in his mind.

True dat.

He has one female ghost too many in his head already.

I was gonna say…

Secretly we always knew Sammael had a V-jay.

Heir to a Young Kingdom Blue Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Hegiana, and steps forward.

He takes a moment to straighten himself, sniffing to make sure he's tidy and ready to put his best foot forward. And then another and finally Heir to a Young Kingdom Blue dragonet is dashing towards Hegiana, taking her out at the knees and tumbling over her.

Two Harpers - one girl, one boy - find their matches in the greens that hatch from And Exactly Nine Throw Pillows and the Ant Hill Eggs. A second later, the Wired Up Egg hatches a blue that rushes toward a Seacrafter snatched up during the last few days of Candidacy. Even before the haze of those three Impressions has had a chance to fully clear, a young man from the lower caverns of the Weyr Impresses a brown from the Legal Eagle Egg.

That blue just killed that girl candidate! Iviano's eyes would widen if he hadn't be waiting for this. No wait, it appears they are bonded. Violent friendship, so far as he can tell, besides the teeth and wings dragons are a lot like people. All the same, he's going to stand over here. OUT OF THE WAY of the golds and their gold-stuff.

Sealed In Storm Glass Gold Dragonet is not, at second glance, the aerodynamic vision she first appeared at the lightning-crack of her shell's demise. Once she has truly picked herself up from the wreckage, her edges turn out rotund, her little cheeks full and her eyes huge. There is no question of her awkward, adorable cuteness in how she pauses to put herself together; as simple as stormclouds gathering, she's knit herself together and heads towards the line of candidates with smooth, swift determination.

Keelie stands sentinel in front of Minoq and Zolok. Because boys.

Seriously. WIMPS.

Chloe gives Keelie a mental fist-bump from across the Sands.

Apparently it worked - Hegi doesn't expect to get bowled over by a little blue in the middle ofthe boys but as she straghtens herself out, Hegi croons, "Yes, sure, Khenwyth. Anything for you." It takes some time to push off the enthusiastic blue enough so she can make her way to the side where she can start putting food in Khenwyth's begging maw, looking curiously over at the remaining Sands denizens.

In the midst of all this chaos, it's understandable that no one even really noticed the brown that came from the Straight Means No Curves Egg until the dragonet is all but on top of a cluster of Candidates. Snorting, he shoves a girl out of the way and locks eyes with a freckle-faced boy that hadn't even known he existed until that moment, and his profuse apologies - "No, I see you now! I don't know what I was looking at, I can't even remember! - follow them off the Sands, along with the browns young rumblings of forgiveness.

Iovrar shoots furtive looks towards Keelie. She looks like a WAY more likely guardian than this tall awkward gangly redhead he's somehow gotten thrown in with.

"Two?" Yes, even occupied with stuffing Obhaeroth's face (shells, can this boy eat), Rielle has noticed the world-rocking occurrence that is two golds Hatching. Even Obhaeroth looks up to see what all the fuss is about - for a second. Then he's back to scarfing and dragging Rielle's attention with him. "Sorry. It'll be a good story for you later." That's two things she's learned about her new lifemate already.

Catryn's love for books still shines through her frayed nerves and tremulous voice. "Uh, yes. I could do that… if I make it out of here." Standing next to Xiamina now, the harper-candidate keeps an eye on the dragonets all around her.

Sammael is not going to be sacrificed to the gold egg. Any looks he got from Ulrik are passed off as he definitely tries to back out of this. Whups, sorry Xiamina. They totally took over your space. They, being him and Chloe… unless the girl's wandered off. It's so freakin' chaotic.

Ione isn't about to be shoved in front of anyone (even you, Clementine), which is why it's lucky that she's just going to cling to Iovrar like he's the only lifeboat in a sea of troubles. And at least she's tall, even if she's awkward and gangly. That counts for something, right? "Maybe we should've gone toward the back when we had the chance," she mutters to Clementine. And then takes a step back.

Xiamina might just take pity on Catryn and reach out to pat Catryn's shoulder. "Good. Getting accused of stealing the damn thing isn't on my agenda." As Sammael pushes into her space Xiamina waves a middle finger at him. "Seriously, shove off asshole."

Chloe's still around. She's just more invested in this than you two (Xiamina and Sammael) losers. So she shuffled forward a few steps to peer at the doings of baby dragons and the candidates who love them.

Sealed In Storm Glass Gold Dragonet has made her choice. She stops to stare upwards in utter adoration at … er … is that Iviano? Her big eyes look even larger, lambent and dewy, and she appears every inch in love. Smitten. Wholly and utterly committed to her choice. Is… it's… has… has someone been keeping secrets?! Before the moment can grow more than mildly awkward, the young queen's eyes abruptly widen, and she turns in a storm-frenzy of breakwater wingsail to stride down the line like a looming (ridiculously pudgy and adorable) thunderhead, off to find someone else to rain on. She leaves the question of the pirate boy's manhood only slightly dinged, and she lives him entirely in her dust.

T'zaim always knew there was something strange about that boy.

Recalculating… Egg has to warm up to this hatching idea. It isn't easy you know. Trembling in place the vibrations within grow larger and more violent till it seems as if the egg cannot stay in one piece through even one more shiver. Shattering it reveals the chaotic blues of Illusion of Time and Space Blue Dragonet standing bewildered upon the sands. How did it get here? So confused. Maybe… he'll just sit here a second, oh, wait, no? Another egg is going to hatch RIGHT THERE and splatter him with shell? Okay, got it, sitting isn't in the cards, time to move, and thus he's off, searching the sands in obvious bewiderment. What was he suppose to do now?

Illusion of Time and Space Dragonnet
Effortlessly electric, the crackle of cerulean brightens this lean worthy to the dismay of darkwater undercarriage: the crisp snap of long sail is more than equal to the task of balancing brilliance-and-bore, the sharpness of sapphire discordant against midnight rebellion. The high hauteur of his carriage challenges all practical expectations when coupled with his crazed aesthetic, all too-long tail and short legs held together with color so patchy, so erratic, so infinitely improbable: ever-changing as the tides, as impossible as warp speeds, his very essence defies the status quo in style, in eccentricity, in daring skewbald.

SO MUCH NOISE SERIOUSLY. The confusion seems to bowl the blue dragonnet over as he wanders from place to place. It's like someone forgot to give him the manual to this whole experience and so he's just waiting for someone to tell him what to do. He skirts carefully around a large egg that's been abandoned, not paying attention to the knot of candidates standing right there. Right into their midst he waltzes and bowls over pale dark haired Xiamina, landing right in her lap. With complete confusion he looks at her, and, oh, yeah. THAT was what he was suppose to be doing. GOT IT.

Xiamina's acted like she doesn't give a fuck this whole time, but when that blue gathers up next to her that rough and tumble facade fades and her eyes grow large. Stunned silence as her world gets all turned around and she looks back at him. "It's Xiamina." Her first words that come from her stunned mind. "… no? Well shit." She shakes off her suprise and finally jerks her head towards where the food is at. "Alright Zafroxth. But this was YOUR idea - and you can keep your towel to your self." Sorry suckers, she's going to give up that space. Sorry Cate?

Chloe, over her shoulder, "So how is that whole 'back of the Sands thing' working out?"

Here a blue, there a blue, everywhere a blue, blue. One from Perfect Fluff, one from Halls of Origination, and one from Ice Cube Perfection, all three stalking among the Candidates that remain with similar intensity. They split up, like scary little blue velociraptors creeping among the white-robed prey. Two girls and a boy are selected one right after another, unscathed except for a few tears of joy.

"Whoa, whoa," Iovrar to Ione: "Where are you going?" His face is alarmist as Iviano almost gets fingered out as a WOMAN. Wait. That sounds way wrong. Whups.

"Aw, fuck." Sammael isn't too happy to find that his BACK OF THE SANDS idea isn't exactly the safest.

As much as he has tried to remove himself from the gold-chaos, it seems chaos really does find him wherever he goes. But even females of the dragon-kin can't resist this little carmel colored boy. And who could blame them. All the same Iviano doesn't seems exactly thrilled that the shiny female hasn't moved off, and if anyone is bothering to watch him after she does they'll notice he breathes a deep sigh of relief. "Shiit."

it's okay, bb. Sealed In Storm Glass still loves you.

Zolok isn't at the back, or near the front. He's standing firm with Minoq, watching with wide eyes as more and more of his compatriots are partnered off. And he's totally not holding Minoq's wrist for support. Only he totally is.

Was she fooled by the sacrificial attempts? Or was it an accident that the boy stepped in front of her long enough for her to push him aside with the imperial nudge of her snout? The pleasantly regal demeanor crumbles like a wind-worn edifice when the Eye of Rukbat Gold Dragonet's maw opens in a silent hiss. With the nudge of her gritty body, she moves past him, stealing deeper and deeper into the crush of her choices. None are just right, but in that clump, there lies the tug that leads her forward on a treasure hunt of the heart. As the formality of her bearing begins to sheer like sand in the wind beneath the weight of her desire, Impression looms. For she has almost found the one; so close, so close she is.

Keelie watches the dragons silently, hands loose at her sides, red hair flooding around. Totally a knight, yo.

Catryn really is all by herself for the moment. Right now she's trying to navigate her way back to another group since Xiamina just found her lifemate. "Ohhh dear." Okay, so who's the nearest person she can sidle up to? Strength in numbers. Yup.

"To the back!" That's Ione, looking stubbornly at Iovrar. "Where it's safe." Because Xiamina's impression totally proves that fact. "Or at the very least, you're standing in front of us. Like a man. Or are you afraid the gold might pick you like it almost picked him?" Chin is jerked in Iviano's direction.

Still, dragons hatch and impress. And those golds seem to be far away from her. In fact, one of them wants to impress Iviano. Now, Clementine has been pretty sure this whole time Iviano was a guy. So what if Xiamina impressed near to her? Doesn't mean anything. "I can't wait to see T'zaim when this is over." And rub in his face that she defied his mathematical averages or geometry or whatever.

HEY!

They say that eternity can hang suspended in a single moment, crystalline and vivid. It seems as if Sealed In Storm Glass Gold Dragonet is approaching the event horizon of such a moment, placing each foot with the wild energy of discharged ionic furor. She steps forwards and through, weaving past senseless annoyances with lovely grace. Her eyes — she only has eyes for one, the ginger-haired girl with all the leggy coltishness. It takes her a minute to get there, impatiently shoving past Iovrar with a storm-snap of teeth in frustration. Wrong 'Io'. She doesn't want that one. She wants this one. Ione. She lifts her wings in salutation to the sky, and noses her beloved with raptorial devotion, ecstacy whirling in too-big eyes. The moment, as they say, is now.

Sealed in Storm Glass Gold Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Ione, and steps forward.

Minoq looks around at all the different candidates and dragonets, the Impressions. It's too much to take in. He probably isn't even catching everything as it's happening. He is only vaguely aware of Zolok holding onto his wrist (sorry, it's kinda sweaty). "You can do it, Keelie," he murmurs over her shoulder. Do what? Well, keep the golds off of them, anyway. But then one of them goes to Ione, and that's one less to worry about. "Oh, wow. Congrats!"

And another one's down, and another one's down, and another one bites the dust!

Inevitable: the desire of the heart drives each golden-foot step across the sands with a single purpose in mind. Which is to capture the heart of the dark-haired girl caught in the clump of white. The Eye of Rukbat Gold Dragonet pauses and stares as if she's found the sun itself; the whirl of her eyes is vibrant as the final steps are made, closing the distance to her one. A mix of ancient and youth, the Eye of Rukbat Gold Dragonet tips forward to touch her nose against the soft fabric of that white robe, as finally - finally - she's found the light of her life. Her darling, Clementine… did she really think she was going to get passed up?

Diya stands on her tippy-tip toes and has finally caught enough trickle-down reactions to surprise a squeaking croak out of Kiyzenyath (omg what was that noise seriously) with her sudden, "Wait, two?" of surprise. Then she's the one hopping, her scarf-covered hair uncovering and bouncing (not the only thing bouncing) as she tries to see, "Who?"

Eye of Rukbat Gold Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Clementine, and steps forward.

"FUCK." Iovrar's so done with this shit. He's peacing the fuck out. He turns and marches away from both of those girls to find out wherever the hell Sammael's hiding. He's not doing this right.

"I am not doing anything," Keelie says to the boys behind her, crossing her arms across her hair. Except watching. Two more friends impress dragons. She nods to Clementine and Ione, although they probably are a bit distracted at the moment.

Billiards and Trouble Egg starts out as one little tiny speck of while. The cueball, lined up and ready to go; The force of a dragonets movement inside sets it spinning out to hit every colored billiard that's splayed across the ovoid's table. You can follow its' path as striations appear, connecting each one. And then, the cue sinks into the far corner as everything scatters! With a giant *CLINK*, the board is ripped asunder and a dragon appears.

Death Before Dishonor Brown Dragonet
A purity of shade; rich, bountiful chestnut bleeds purpose through the length and breadth of muscle and wingsail alike, neither tapering nor fading through to tail's spade. The feathers of sepia that dip and flutter across webbed wing membrane may be a trick of the light, but it is the lingering etch of bole along the muscles of haunch and foreleg that speak to a strength belying otherwise sleek lines. Reminiscent of the equine, a trick of the light yields neckridges that seem to ripple in mane-like glory, defiant against any craggy sharpness. And a surety of militant purpose aligns pointed headknobs so closely together, with a bright wash of opal there serving as beacon.

Here are another three, seeming to break shell simultaneously. A green from a New Box of Crayons Egg looks to a young woman with a long brown braid - say goodbye to that braid, weyrling! At almost the same moment, a blue from Yer a Wizard Fyren Egg wraps his tail possessively around the knobby knees of a young man - who had been a wildling till standing for for a previous Hatching. And then a brown from Because You're Bored Egg stakes his claim to another young man - one that spent a good portion of his Candidacy being kicked from the bunk below and complaining loudly about it every. single. night.

Hannah is still here, with Bailey, watching the chaos. Dhiammarath does croon to her little golden daughter, but hers is a quiet reserve, and so she lingers and watches, giving welcome to all of her progeny that hatch.

Iviano would stop to offer condolances to the two ladies who get snagged by the golds, but another one is hatching. Still the number of eggs is dwindling and the ex-pirate is three or four more closer to having not been killed. Iovrar's move is given a shake of his head. Never turn your back.

All those candidates holding hands - maybe nobody will notice when Bailey reaches over to lace her fingers through Hannah's, her eyes suspiciously bright. Khalyssrielth is still reserving judgment.

T'zaim would notice them hand-holding. And think about it. A lot. Thankfully, he's too busy right now.

Because Khally is a B.

Zolok blinks as even MORE dragons appear. Seriously, how many eggs were there? He waves congratulations to his mates, and nudges Minoq encouragingly as yet more dragons break shell. "Have you been counting?" might be a question for Minoq. Or anyone, really.

ONE L PEOPLE, ONE L

"Ione." Clementine's eyebrows raise smoothly in surprise as that impression is made so close. It serves as a distraction, she doesn't notice the other gold that's coming so near to her. In fact, it's not until she swings back around to see where she's gone to that she finds the hatchling there. In front of her. Touching her. Her blue eyes widen and at first, she begins to step away. But it's inevitable as minds link and connections are made that her foot stops before it can help her body to flee. Whisphered, "Nemekhath." Okay and now what happens? Because she's seriously going to stand there forever.

An extra L for LOVE.

Bureaumancy Egg will do nothing if it's not completely by the book, including hatching. A shiver? Check. A shake? Check. A fissure and a crack? Check and check. The shell breaks away ever-so-neatly, falling aside so that its long-held occupant is finally visible. He rises from the depths of his shell like forgotten flotsam, derelict lagan floating to the surface to survey the world with large, keen eyes. He gives his wings one experimental, lightning-quick flash and takes his first step toward the candidates. Head tilts curiously, warble comes roughly from his throat, and his slime-slicked form begins to take inventory of those white-robed beings. Decisions, decisions.

Waterlogged Wraith Brown Dragonet
From sunken grave to pebble-strewn beach, where gray waters foam brackishly 'neath sunset storm, this brown dragonet is hewn from the corpse of a forgotten shipwreck. His is the scapegrace form, the narrow frame made lean by the crash of endless waves, the musculature hidden beneath prominent bone structure and sparseness, the craggy face given character but not handsomeness. Tipped in dark driftwood, his jagged headknobs lead toward the sodden, sand-flecked straits of his spine, splashes of salty surf darkening his neckridges and traipsing to a rusted filigree of pale seafoam over his hindquarters and tail. This is no idyllic stretch of beach, with its irregular shadows that hint at treacherous stones just beneath the silty sand, near-black glimmering at his joints and pooling beneath his chin. Murk swirls across his belly and surges over his narrow chest, flooding upward to the splinter-brown of his shoulders, leaking endlessly down his forelimbs, trickling over glints of distant sunset that cast his talons in rare glimpses of fading amber. His wingsails spread to reveal the tempest, a gathering storm in shades of mud-and-sludge on his wingbones, wind-sprayed streaks glistening over the dark clouds, veins like lightning forking in flashes of pale-cream and ice-white.

The best laid plans, right? Because in spite of Ione's attempts to use Iovrar as a human shield, that stormy conscious still finds her. Pale eyes go wide - too-wide, like that dragon before her - as sensation hits and she's left alone on the sands. Alone with, "Niatskivhiath?" Her mouth forms slowly around the syllables, tasting them with uncertainty. The sheen of that hide before her has yet to fully sink in, but there's one thing of which she's certain: "I'll love you. Of course I'll love you." Does she even realize that Niatskivhiath's golden sister has found a match right beside her? Probably not, so dreamy-eyed and singularly focused is she.

Death Before Dishonor Brown Dragonet shakes his muzzle with a drawn out snort, nostrils flaring as he scents his new world for the first time. Before he can take a single step forward though, the shaky new dragonet legs tumble from under him in undignified display. One dragon, splayed on the sands. But he is not deterred! He wastes nary a second in nearly leaping back up to his paws and shaking off that sand on his ide. There are things to be done, and a lifemate to find. ATTEEEEEEENTION! This soldier is on a mission.

A Delight of Bookcases in Booklandia Egg had been harboring a quick-moving, fleet-footed blue that shoves a slender girl to the ground in his haste to meet his new weyrling, a tall young man that starts to offer her a hand before Impression waylays any efforts at chivalry. She's barely getting back to her feet before a green hatchling from the Java Chip Frappuchino Blended Klah Egg is there in front of her, nudging her with curious tenderness. "No, I'm not hurt! she promises, dusting herself off while she leads away her new dragonet.

Minoq elbows Zolok. "Well, that takes care of the golds." Sorry, sorry, Keelie, but you protected the sorry boys from the rampaging(?) golds. But there are still dragonets on the sands, browns and whatever other ones. "Um… I'm not sure." There seems to be some left, but he has lost count.

"No," Ilissea can be heard insisting from over by the meat buckets. "It's perfectly fine. Eat it."

Somewhere far, far above there is a squeal. "THAT'S MY SISTER!" comes the voice, too excited. "OH MY GOD DOES THAT MEAN SHE'S GOING TO SOMEDAY BE MY BOSS?"

Chloe might be counting eggs under her breath, now that they're into the bottom third, and frowning about the number. Apparently, saying 'congratulations' isn't on her agenda tonight.

That screetching voice? Iviano recognizes it, it's that woman who got him into this mess, and she's up there shouting down about her sister. There is a faint smirk of satistfaction in this moment. Even if he isn't sure why. Good job, Clem. Good job.

Waterlogged Wraith Brown Dragonet must have some sort of mental checklist. He approaches the nearest Candidate, subjects him to a once over, snorts, and moves on. He does this to the next Candidate down the line. And then the next one. Whatever exacting standards that he has have not been met, but he seems intent on checking each. one. in. turn. Even when he moves between them, the series of gestures are almost identical from one to the next - awkward, gangly, newly hatched movements, but he still does them with necessary precision. The next one - the next one - how many Candidates are there?!

This time, it's a pair of greens. The green - from 9.99 Gallon Egg - nudges her way beyond a young man. He manages not to lose his footing, but he stumbles all but on top of the green from the Someone Needs an Intervention Egg. Thankfully, no one is hurt! Instead, he Impresses that green even while the other green looks to the boy that had been standing next to him.

Zolok laughs as that brown dragon takes a spill, biting off the sound before it can be classified loud enough to startle. It's still a 'yip' sort of noise, clamped down immediately in favor of a more solemn countenance. Because this is totally a serious occasion. Allegedly.

Zero Egg snaps to life. Like a bolt out of the clear blue sky, it zaps into activity, the crackle of the being trapped within manifested as a million fissures over its dark shell. A brown, wedge-shaped head forces through the growing cracks, a black talon pushes against the interior of the shell, and /the dragonet struggles for a time with the last moments of his imprisonment. And then he is there! He has won through this initial battle and now moves toward the next: choice. Darting full-throttle from the tatters of his egg, he zigzags dangerously, bearing down on the Candidates.

Cartographer's Ancient Sextant Brown Dragonet
Awkward in shape and unconventional in form, confused in coloration and hodgepodge in design, the hand of the architect was guided by either genius or madness when the blueprints were drawn for this dragon. Crafted in a mishmash of dark browns, he seems a chaos of ill-fitting parts that create an incohesive whole, as if he was pieced together from the leftovers of some other dragon's bill of materials. Even in color, there is no method to the madness: weathered, sepia-toned forelimbs attach to an oak-barrel chest with copper filigree twisting over his ribcage, turning to rust and splinters where it jams against the narrow, dark mahogany planks of his back. Symmetry finds no host here, with a long muzzle that lists faintly to the left, with back-swept headknobs of slightly different lengths, with the entirety of his hide made of cast-off colors and secondhand shades, right down to the imperfect arcs of his coal-black talons. Fleet and gilded glimpses glide along the ridges of his spine and over his wingbones, darting here and there like the sun behind fast-moving clouds, embellished golden rivets from which flare wingsails in no shade but truest canvas-brown, their faint patterning lending a fabric facade to the leathery expanse. His is a piecemeal farrago of damaged wood, dulled metal, and tattered cloth, held together by a wing and a prayer.

Death Before Dishonor Brown Dragonet takes his time, trotting a slow but steady course around several groups of candidates. He may pause a time or two, headknobs twitching in contemplation. And he moves on quickly, all things considered. But now is when he catches a trail. A tease of a scent that he can follow to fulfill the most important assignment he will ever have.There, yes. Somewhere over there…

Diya says, "No," and then she says, "please," and then she says, "I do not think you are allowed to climb there, even if it means you can see better than I," despite the fact that she is still hop-hopping to keep track of everything going on on the Sands.

"But where are we going to put them all," K'ane can be heard muttering to himself from the side of the Sands, pacing back and forth. Maybe he checks Ione and Clem a time or two. Maybe he anxiously eyes the growing mass of dragons on the sidelines. Maybe he seems to be doing some math… or maybe his ears just naturally steam like that. It's hard work, okay?

That waterlogged brown seems to have an agenda, and it doesn't look like any one is escaping, so Iviano just sort of waits for his time to come to pass. Even as he eyes the other browns with suspicion. He can only assume they hunt in packs and the sniffing one is some sort of distraction so the other two can sneak up on the unsuspecting. Well he ain't buying it. Eat someone else, thank you very much.

Whiskers and Mittens Egg jiggles. It jukes. It dances from side to side in place. Seriously, it's just about ready to POP from readiness. But when it does it seems to come like a complete surprise to the brown that gets tumbled out into the sands. Surrounded by the protective covering of his first existence he's suddenly not quite so ready to be here. That biggest chunk of egg becomes his refuge and he flees behind it, peering out warily at the lines of candidates staring and the chaos all around.

Puritanical Protector of Innocence Brown Dragonet
All stalwart strength in rough redwood, grim purpose manifests blatant in the broad bay breadth of this beastie. Great wings nigh strain reality when full-flung; striated and striped with hereditary henna's dark whorls, they barely balance his improbable bovid bulk. There is no great beauty to him and his high shoulders, nothing to set a fair maiden's heart atwitter: his is a homely grace of plain chestnut face and horned headknobs. Nonetheless, impressionist espresso designs are scrawled o'er squat sides; there is a strange whimsicality to the bobs and juts, a reluctantly carefree caress over otherwise drab aesthetic. Save 'svelte' and 'slim' for others, for there is only one part of him that seems not wrought from the uncertain umber darkness of Southern's jungles, only one part that fails to live up to the rest of his unwieldy weight: his tail, sad post-script to a stanza of great strength, putters out behind him in rings of drab and dust, striped and slender.

"What the hell is with you and wan… LEAVE THT TOWEL ALONE. FARANTH MAN." Xiamina's voice raises as Zafroxth finds a towel and bites into the bloodstained cloth like it's his new bestie.

Waterlogged Wraith Brown Dragonet is nearly dry now, the heat of the Sands having baked the egg goo into a sort of powdery film that dusts his already not-especially-pretty hide. Also, as he goes down his checklist of one Candidate after another, he's starting to smell a wee bit. It's not overwhelming, but there's a sort of muddy-swill scent hanging in his general vicinity with just a little extra whiff of old eggs (from that dried goop). Perhaps it's no wonder that not many of those he's subjecting to this intense scrutiny are working all that hard to attract this weird little smell-monster.

When did these three blues even hatch? Did they come from My First Finger Painting, Ball of Yarn, and Sex in the Stacks Eggs? They must have, because those three eggs are in ruins, and these three blues are moving among the Candidates! Two boys and a girl find themselves as surprised as everyone else when the blue trio make their Impressions, and they somehow manage to weave their ways off the Sands among all the busy-ness and chaos without anyone getting hurt or lost or anything.

Her body's like the summer, that's right. But Iovrar's eyes are filled of loathing as he stares steadily off towards the sidelines. Perhaps there's a pretty little assistant weyrlingmaster over there somewhere. He's distracted, k. Dragons? Dragons where?

T'zaim is pretty!

Lyracith has had her nose in a bucket of meat (you only wish she'll say that about you someday, Denivoth) for ages, filling that belly of hers while Tia waits patiently - practically jumping up and down with glee as more and more people impress. Finally, though, Lyra trumpets as LOUDLY as she can in welcome. It's a little pathetic since she's only a day old tho. Sorry.

Minoq looks up as one brown seems to be inspecting candidates, and another zooms around. There are Impressions everywhere, but none in this vicinity, yet. Look, look, but if any of them zooms close to him, aiming for someone behind him, he gets ready to dodge. Suspiciously, he checks over his shoulder, to see if any others are sneaking up on him.

Cartographer's Ancient Sextant Dragonet steps from the remains of his shell, leaving behind the known to settle out onto that which is unknown. He does not get far before a little green bursts from her multi-colored shell in front of him and he must pause, waiting for her to gather herself and be gone. Patience suits him little and his wings flip once, twice, ah, finally, she's moving on. Thus it is that he can move forward, head tilted at the gathered candidates.

"No, no, no," Q'fex is there to help Lyracith out, "Don't hurt yourself. Does she have a cold already? That sounded a little wheezy." Q'fex. He's going to make an AWESOME assistant weyrlingmaster.

Iviano is WATCHING, everyone, at least he's trying. There is a lot going on, and it is easy for a guy to get lost in all this mess. They have to be almost done. Maybe a few won't hatch. Maybe Renalde still has a place for him. All his so called friends have left him. He would even take Kehm over this standing alone business. Someone to make snide comments to.

"She better not have a cold. She just hatched! She's just… not loud yet." Boy, is Q'fex going to be sorry. Lyracith is going to practice being LOUD and even more obnoxious now.

Waterlogged Wraith Brown Hatchling lingers long over a nervous-looking young man, his craggy face fixed contorting when he snorts dismissively at the lad, breaking whatever spell held the boy in thrall. That one was not right, but now he feels a new tug, a tidal pull that lures his lean and beauty-less form across the Sands. A tuneless trumpet leaves the dragonet's throat, creaking like sodden timbers, and his wings flare open to reveal a glimpse of the tempest wrought across his 'sails at the second that his eyes lock on Iviano's - a moment of calm in the chaos, the eye of the storm passing over this new pair as Impression is made. GUESS WHO'S NOT STANDING ALONE ANY MORE, BABY!

Waterlogged Wraith Brown Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Iviano, and steps forward.

A'kehm and Ahiardhath are without mayhem and sitting orderly within the desginated area, splitting bloodied meat from the same bucket and it calms the stomachs of both of them. "Get over here already, just grab one!" He calls out to Iviano, white teeth bared red.

"Are you sure? That sounded like a cold to me," Q'fex says. At least he doesn't have a glass of wine on him. He leans forwards to check the weyrling dragon then shakes his head and proceeds down the line.

Sammael takes a step back and crunches his heel on a broken egg shell. He pauses and then looks out over the sea of faces, and then the army in the galleries. "Is this almost done for?" he mutters, staying clear of the young dragonets. LIKE A BOSS.

Death Before Dishonor Dragonet shakes himself once, as if tossing off a particularly rancid smell from his nose after sniffing around this last group of candidates. The one he wants isn't there. Perhaps it's time to try the other side of the sands. Turning primly he puts his back to the rejected candidates and trots in a completely different direction. His attention catches on a tan young man with dark hair. A single joyous note that sounds suspiciously like a middle C issues forth as the brown rushes forward to butt his head against Zolok's side.

Puritanical Protector of Innocence Brown Dragonet can't stay hidden there forever, tucked within the remains of his egg. Slowly his head lifts upwards, seeking the bright lights of the hatching cavern, and watching what he can see. Every part of him shaking he makes a tentative step forward, half exiting the scant protection. Alas, the chaos upon the sands allows little relief for him to be so tentative in his explorations. Another dragonet intent on his goal of over there strides right upon the hesitant brown, squashing him flat onto the ground. He lays her, flat, as moments pass. Finally, a flick of his wings and he pulls himself upwards again, no injuries sustained from the rough treatment.

Death Before Dishonor Brown Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Zolok, and steps forward.

Cartographer's Ancient Sextant Dragonet moves towards a tight knit of candidates, nosing his way through them, he breaks through into a seemingly empty spot - meaning there is only ONE other dragonet there that has just found the love of its life. His gaze switches away from the white robes and up into the stands. He makes a single stride towards them, as if he would mount the steps and head upwards, but no. An inner compass swings him around again, and he dives back into the sea of candidates his head swiveling as he looks for that special one.

Waiting to Swallow Us All Egg hatches a rustic, dusty-green dragonet that moves quickly toward a young man from the Miner Craft. Within a few seconds, there's another tableau of delight when a blue from the Inside the Dryer Egg finds his weyrling in a girl from the Weaver Hall. The Time Warp Egg hatches a green that passes right between these two, like a football through the uprights, and darts toward a plump girl from the Weyr's lower caverns.

Minoq tries to keep an eye on where the action is, but there seems to be action everywhere. One of the wandering browns picks out Iviano, and then right next to him, Zolok gets picked too. "Hey, congrats," he says, backing off to give the two space. Where's Keelie now? Somewhere around here, hopefully.

There is a long moment between where the brown comes up to him and when Iviano breathes again, when he does he is gasping for air. Ragged gasps of a man who has been held under against his will only to resurface after a fight for breath. Victory, at least for now. "Swyrrth." There is no mush hug, but the two do not break eyes for another long moment before heading off towards the food.

Seeking here and there, here and there, Cartographer's Ancient Sextant Dragonet has raced from one potential weyrling to another, running full tilt toward one and then skidding to a halt to contemplate a boy - a girl - a boy. None has had that SPARK that he needs, the ELECTRICITY just hasn't been there. He barrels toward a new potential node, running, running, careening recklessly toward someone. Yes! There! His exuberance untempered, he charges headlong toward dark-haired Minoq, every inch of his graceless form thrown frenetically at the tall teenager in this moment of Impression, a chaotic tangle of kinetic happiness.

Cartographer's Ancient Sextant Brown Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Minoq, and steps forward.

Nearly twins, greens from the As If! and Stop the Lights Eggs prowl among the remaining Candidates busily. They stop at two girls that have fast friends since Candidacy began, now set to go through weyrlinghood together. A similar drama is playing out with blues from the Fate and Shhhhh Eggs, though these two look to a pair of boys that have been rivals since both being Searched from the same beasthold.

Zolok looks down as he's butted, grinning as Impression takes hold and leaning down to rub a hand over the little brown's headknobs. "Hell, Varaeth," he says. "Let's get something to eat, yeah?" And just like that, Z'ok and Varaeth move to join their clutchmates on the sidelines.

Ione has somehow managed to find her way over to the side with Niatskivhiath, although not without a few stumbles as her feet don't quite seem to remember that one goes in front of the other. She does manage to lift her head just in time to see a gaggle of browns impressing to several familiar faces.

Keelie continues to stand guard, watching Iviano as he meets his new lifemate. And then Zolok! And then.. Minoq! Apparently she isn't a very good guard. And then there's that poor little brown who almost got trampled. The wildling girl frowns. Dragons really don't have any manners. Why is she even thinking about this.

Puritanical Protector of Innocence Brown Dragonet tries to hang back from all of the noise, trying to see for some refuge. A gaze is sent longingly towards the larger dragons upon the sands, as if they might provide some kind of reassurance amid all of the noise and movement. Just the sight of those large creatures puts some steel into the small one's spine, and he finally settles out, nosing towards the candidates with increasing curiosity. Excuse him, he butts his head against a seeking hand, but no, that's not it. Away he pulls, suddenly shy again of those people in white robes.

Lawful Evil Egg is stone-cold silent, the single dark point of shining, crystalline perfection the first to fracture. Darkness writhes within, pushing outward the soot-stained shell-shards that slowly peel off. A beast bursts out, kicking shards in every direction as order gives birth to entropy: Wrath's Bane of Cold Iron Bronze Dragonet leaves behind one world in search of one anew. Time hangs on the dewdrop of potential as the dragonet stands in frozen arrest before the engines of wrath drive the darkness forward. Wrath's Bane of Cold Iron Bronze Dragonet seeks the one that stirs in endless torment.

Wrath's Bane of Cold Iron Bronze Dragonet
Vital, vicious, victorious: charmed chemical charisma scores heated hierarchy along the length of this low-slung loner, stabilizing the smog and smoke drifting darkness across the billows of his scorched-earth wings and obfuscating the ruddy red-bronze of his cold-forged core. Burnt-rubber blackness vies with buffed-bright copper over all his moveable parts, divided by veins of salamander sizzle that pulse with anti-ichor radioactivity over all his powertrain. Choking fumes flow over the tight-fitting fenders of his neckridges and sputter over chameleon shoulders, dissipating only at the pure-edged curl of chrome claws and the lashing muffler of his tail. Dante's irony twists in the flat-black matte of his flanks and powdercoated undercarriage, a daemon's domain to contrast the comet-contrails of intelligence and cunning boldly-wrought in the broad articulation of his countenance, dangerous and dire.

Minoq's knees buckle as he gets zero'ed in by the handsome brown dragonet. "Ravaith. Right. We'd better get going." Emotion swells in his heart, and he feels like he can go anywhere, do anything, with Ravaith by his side.

Although nowhere near each other on the Sands, the Cheesy Bacony Goodness Extravaganza and the Composer's Parchment Eggs break shell at almost exactly the same moment. Two bronzes, alike in coloration and shape, stalk forth, both aiming toward some central point on the Sands. For a few seconds, it seems that they will both meet at the same young man, but - at the last instant - a brave young lad from Southern Barrier Hold steps forward, intercepting the bronze from Dhiammarath's egg, while the bronze for Khalyssrielth butts his head imperiously against his original target, a 20-something young man with a buzzcut.

Penguin In A Tux Egg is almost too cute to explode, implode, crack, crumble, dissolve — take your fancy, for this egg is fancy, and it refuses to die an ignominious death to poor style. Alas, the future is not for the men in black, but for the girls in green: Bad Omens For The Guardian Green Dragonet makes a statement when she thrusts her paw through the spot one would expect her face to have butted against in the shell, fighting her way free with a catty surge of weak-limbed power, a butterfly pissed at her caterpillar cage.

Mistress of the Mirror Realms Green Dragonet
Pure-energy peridot pulses as mystic mantle for this rangy green, spilling verdant vitriol over the slender width of her shoulders and chasing profane pine to the furthest monuments of her physiological map. Ley-lines connect the standing-stones of her eyeridges to the peat bog from which her wings spring — and nary a drop of kinetic energy is lost, even through the cataract falls of her cascading neckridges. Tooth to tail, her topline is lit by the unsettling eerie fire of glowstick neon, radiating sapphire-shaded light to the angular edges of soaring soulfire 'sails, silvered and storied. Energy-rivers flow aquamarine and angry along her tumultuous underpinnings, ebbing at the delicate translucence at narrow throat, waning through the neon-cast shadows of her haunches, and filling the space betwixt the two with unruly death-ray energy. Thrumming, humming, she vibrates with forsaken purpose; arrogance brings boldness to features otherwise delicate, showing strength where else would only be found sweet-featured and soft.

Sammael mutters to Chloe - and Iovrar if the lean dude managed to circle back away that round - "We should get out of here. It's almost done. And if we sneak out the back…"

"Whiskey," daydreams Iovrar dreamily.

Not pie?

Pie is for winners.

Chloe answers that mutter with a stern, "No. Stay." End of discussion!

Grey is the New Black Egg ruptures with a single fissure, two halves of shell falling away to reveal a darkling dragonet. He prowls forth from his place of birth, moving with an uncanny fleetness for one so young. Glinting and damp yet moving with uncanny sure-footedness, he steps forth from the shattered remnants without hesitation. His head cocks inquisitively for a moment, learning his surroundings before he stalks toward the white-robed prey before him, his eyes already beginning to hone in on their eventual target with single-minded focus.

Sleek as a Demon Blue Dragonet
Sheathed in dark blue and made of sleek muscles, this dragon is a blend of elegance and power, the raw strength given to all dragonkind tempered by forceful grace: not the lissome and dainty doe, but the muscular and trim jaguar that stalks her. Strong shoulders taper gradually toward narrower hips, slimming their way back to a slender tail, his build one that pushes for forward momentum rather than perfect balance. Glimpses of silver chromeplate the cruel arcs of his talons, highlight the fine shape of his eyeridges, and tip their way along the midline of his neckridges and spine, a fashionably subtle nod to sumptuous affluence, tasteful embellishments that eschew gaudiness in favor of artistic understatement. His belly is a blue so dark, so deep in color and shine as to approach blackness when shadowed, only glinting here and there with shimmers of midnight that promise blueness in the depths of that darkness. He is luxury, finesse, speed, and elegance captured in draconic form, every movement slickly precise, chic and potent.

"But Chloe," Iovrar's not above a throat-keen whine.

Puritanical Protector of Innocence Brown Dragonet gains confidence as he becomes accustomed to the chaos, and his steps show it. They're faster, if a bit uneven. He stumbles more than once as he pokes his head into knots of candidates, searching for his perfect one. A sneeze for each time a candidate gets rejected, and excuse him, he'll just barrel right through with little regard for whom he leaves on their butts afterwards. Swinging his eyes about the dragonet seems confused for a heartbeat until - there- RIGHT THERE - he catches sight of flaming red hair. 'Scuze him, he's just coming THROUGH, till his headlong rush ends right at Keelie's feet.

Puritanical Protector of Innocence Brown Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Keelie, and steps forward.

Mistress of the Mirror Realms Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Iovrar, and steps forward.

Mistress of the Mirror Realms Green Dragonet stalks restlessly amongst the crowd, her pace clearly showing how trifling this errand is she's put herself on. Her forward momentum, lackadaisical as it was, ramshackles to a stop in front of one lad, and she turns her face to and fro getting a good look. No, no, he won't do. He's not pretty at all. She has STANDARDS. With casual ease her egg-soft claws slice harmlessly through fugly's lower expanses of robe — he may need a new one now — to abruptly move around him, the better to stare rapturously up at a momentarily dismayed import from Igen. Iovrar's expression changes after a startled moment, and he lifts his honeyed voice to the heavens in a eternal moment's unstrung glory: "Her name is Ilhiannaevryth!" he calls, falling to his knees before the green of the ley lines and taut energy.

Wrath's Bane of Cold Iron Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Sammael, and steps forward.

Inevitability is the bane of time; Wrath's Bane of Cold Iron Bronze Dragonet is a force of reckoning, and the one he seeks is the one that stands on the fringes of life, even if he is not on the fringes of the crowd. Drawn forward down that long and lonely road, two forces collide in the explosive force of will as the brilliance of new-copper sheen meets the legs of a man who never thought to have a bridge to shore up the soul. "Czhaevth," Sa'mael's lips form the sound of the bronze's name, like an engine sputtering to life. Stunned, the man nearly drops to his knees before the moment slips by as nothing more than a blip on the timestream of life and the pair make their way towards the weyrlingmasters at the ready.

Three more eggs (last eggs?!) - For Winter Is Coming, No King in Israel, and The Butterfly Effect - crack in quick succession. A brown and a duo of greens move toward the remaining Candidates, making their selections of a tall guard from Southern Barrier and two sisters ranging in age from 24 down to 15, sure to bring still more drama to the weyrling barracks. The eldest can be heard calling to the youngest to move a little faster, sis!

Sleek as a Demon Blue Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Chloe, and steps forward.

The Sleek as a Demon Blue Dragonet has delayed the moment not because of hesitance or uncertainty, but because it is that much richer upon ripening. He has stalked his way through the Candidates with his sharp gaze now fixed upon a single target, and that target is Chloe. The girl smiles - not the radiant smile of bliss, but a smile tinged with dark delight even as she runs a hand along the blue's muzzle. "Indeed we do, Valmoth," she answers an unheard thought, gray eyes transfixed by the dragonet now moving closer to her, slender tail curling possessively around her feet.

Diya looks away for like two seconds because there are still so many babies hatching, which was totally her first mistake — there's a squealing cheer for all the Impressees she can actually see and recognize. It turns into a noise of dismay, though, in relatively short order, on account of how those two seconds were long enough that she's now attempting to coax Kiyzenyath down from another vantage point. "I do not think I should pull on your wings but do not think I will not get you by the tail," means she misses, like, four Impressions in a row.

All that remain now are new dragons and old eggshells, and K'ane stepping forwards with a vaguely dazed look on his face. Eighty eggs, all hatched, all Impressed — he skirts around the last trio to go to wave a bluff hand at those remaining. "Candidates," he announces, his voice rough with emotion. His face falters a moment, then: "I've been where you stand now. Yours was not here t'day, but that does not mean they will not be there time next." He glances once over his shoulder to Hannah and Bailey, and T'zaim on the sidelines, before he turns back. "Go get drunk," he simply ends. Then, to the galleries at large: "Ardstelle's feast is set!"

Keelie sees that little brown charging for her feet and crouches down to soften the impact. "It's alright," She sways in the humid air, tears jumping to her eyes. "Yes. Yes, I suppose we do."

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