Who

Ardstelle (NPC), Dh'mick, D'wane, Evka, Ev'rett, F'kan, Ginger, Ianthe, M'kel (NPC), Talya, Treista (NPC), Ulrika, Va'os, Z'bor

What

Yorprith's NPC clutch hatches - and the results aren't entirely expected.
Collaborative vignette (Thanks everyone!)

Language

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of the fourth month of the seventeenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, Sands and Hatching Galleries

OOC Date 22 Jun 2019 04:00

 

dh-mick_default.jpg d-wane_default.jpg evka_default.jpg ev-rett_default.jpg f-kan_default.jpg ginger_default.jpg ianthe_default.jpg m-kel_default.jpg talya_default.jpg treista_default.jpg ulrika_default.jpg va-os_default.jpg z-bor_default.jpg

"Look the other way."


hatching_sands.jpg

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.


In the days after the clutching, Search began. The Telgari obeyed, as the Telgari were expected to; only boys were brought to Ardstelle for their knots. Only boys were allowed to ask. Even some of the Southern riders followed the edict, unsure of just what M’kel would do to those that defied him.


It's no secret that Va'os' has largely been "absent" from Southern Weyr but not in the manner that would see him immediately under fire for shirking duty, though! Oh no, he's been good with keeping up with Jaguar's drills, his scheduled sweeps and of course, Threadfall. It's when the day is done and there's time to "spare" that the former Weyrleader, well, vanishes. Few can hazard a guess where or what, exactly, he's been up too but the majority of the rumors and gossip have been harmless. This is Va'os, afterall! What could he possibly do?

… actually, he can do quite a lot and hasn't been entirely idle. He's very good at pretending he's a good for nothing slacker but really, there's sometimes a spark of intelligence and cunning in that thick head of his. D'wane could be blamed for planting the seed that starts it, but honestly, Va'os will vouch for his own work when he's caught (sorry, bro). The plan he decides upon won't be like they'd briefly discussed in secret on that far flung beach in the middle of nowhere. He supported stacking the lower tier of the Stands and fully! Only he was dead set on getting a selected few out where it counted… right on the Sands and in the thick of things!

How? Oh, Hatchings are a chaotic mess. It will hang precariously on setting everything in motion at the right time. It'll potentially fail, but Va'os doesn't have much to lose — it's not like he can be thrown back in the mines in High Reaches again! So he takes the high stakes risk and throws the dice… which end up being a mere three female Candidates. Plain enough in features that they won't immediately stand out, young enough that perhaps they'll be overlooked as their arrival will come after the first few eggs have already hatched. That's the plan, anyhow but so many variables mean so much can go wrong.

Oh, but it's worth it all, in the end! Even in failure.


But not all of Southern’s riders were so obedient. Not all of Southern’s women were so cowed.


Z’bor hasn’t done anything to openly defy the new weyrleadership. He’s not the type to stir the pot, as some would say. He’s kept his head low, he’s followed orders. Until today. He’s been ignoring Oz’s suggestions of girls, been toeing the line and he’s just trying to do his job.

Ozriath is having none of this.

«You know better.»

Doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.

«You can.» Normally rainbow hued bubbles glint red with the patchwork green’s irritation. «And you will. The noble heart inside you will not stand for these injustices to Southern.»

Z’bor growls. Do you want to be busted back down to weyrling? Or transferred? Or worse?

«What can be worse than denying the babies their choice of bond?» Anxiety riddles Ozriath’s scape, winds tossing her bubbles as the yellow road crumbles around the edges. Her bright, emerald city is disguised in thunderous clouds and lightning.

Ouch. That stings. Z’bor feels her anxiety, doubly so because his mirrors it. We do not get to make those decisions Oz.

«We must

I can’t.

«You must» Thunder and lightning increases and the sound of Ozriath’s voice becomes just as thunderous, just as loud. «I fear what happens if we do not.»

We’ll get caught. We’ll lose leadership of Serval.

« We’ll do what we must. Losing rank is not so bad in comparison.»

Oz….

« Z’bor »

Z’bor growls again and throws up his mental shields, blocking Oz out so he can think, though he can still feel her pressure. He needs to do something…. Or he won’t hear the end of this. Until she forgets. But she’s right. So what does one known for obedience and loyalty do in a conundrum like this? One takes the indirect path, that’s what. So he spends his time bribing guards, or helping those that need it, though nothing that might ever directly lead to himself. He’s careful as he is hunting.

Ozriath still isn’t happy, but she bothers him less. He can’t give her more, he’s afraid. He follows orders, saving when it truly counts. And he can’t do anything to help Southern if he’s busted down to weyrling, or transferred. And what of H’ris then? Or Rielle? Or the two children that rely on him? He can only do so much….


The illusion of obedience was perhaps a heavier burden to bear than the actual act of it. The risk of being caught was great; the stakes, too high.


« FUCK YOU. I told you, that one girl would have been perfect and you had to shit all over it! You and that- » Ranjaiveth's mind knotted itself up, foul smoke and burnt potatoes and rancid meat flooding their shared minds. There were more words, louder words, curses summoned from unspeakable depths.

Dh'mick had told him that, no, he couldn't have that girl and while, yes, the Weyrleader was on the wrong side of history, he didn't want to rock the boat. He was still struggling to settle in and find his ethical footing; he didn't dare to dream of doing anything to earn punishment - even for engaging in a righteous crusade.

In short, Dh'mick exposed his cowardice.

Again.

The bronze raged.

He wanted one thing. One girl. He liked her.

She would have been perfect.

His mental assault continued until he could no longer sustain it, exhaustion coming on with a swiftness that left both man and bronze trembling. They sagged against one another for a long time until Ranjaiveth peeled himself away and shook his wings out.

"I'm sorry," Dh'mick said, over and over and over again, his face wet from sweat or tears, he wasn't entirely sure which. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-"

« Oh, go fuck yourself, » Ranjaiveth replied, too tired to edge the words in acid. He sulked in his corner of the weyr and hissed a warning when Dh'mick got too close. And he loved his rider with every ounce of ichor in his veins; with every beat of his hearts. It was the only reason he kept trying to get through to him.

"Next time," Dh'mick promised.

« Two. »

"Two?!"

« You heard me. Two. I still want her out there - and I will find another. Trust me. »

"I-"

« Two. And you're going to give me an oiling now, because you got my hide all covered in your tears of cowardice. »

"… it's sweat."

« Suuure it is. »

And his girl? His girl? He'd find a way to get her in the Stands at least, one way or another; even if it meant nudging some other dragon to get her up there. Impression or not, she needed to be there.


And, for others, the price of obedience was a terrible one, compounded by the added cost of cowardice and fear. Those that obeyed out of duty would not know it. Those that obeyed out of fear would ever bear the taste of regret on their tongues.


For a man whose previous betting experience only extended to more physical challenges than fate, D'wane has certainly taken an interest on the odds of the current clutch. More evenings than not lately, the injured bronzerider has taken a slow post-dinner stroll, cane and all, towards the galleries. Once seated, an hour or two passes while he feels a notebook that would make any bookie proud. Will it be enough? Only time will tell since he knows full well not to count the dragons before they hatch.

"Another one?" Ardstelle tilts her head as D'wane brings in yet another young woman to the kitchens.
The bronzerider shrugs. "I have a lot of cousins."

The petite blonde behind him just gives a wordless nod in spite of the headwoman's questioning glance, while D'wane gives a shrug. "So, got a position for her or not?"


Ardstelle was frustrated. Agitated. She could not give the girls their knots by both M’kel’s decree and Treista’s agreement to it. But she could give them work. She could give them a place. And she could reach out to the guards for their aid.


Ulrika spent the sevens leading up to the hatching in the only way she knew how:

She kept busy.

She doubled down on her efforts to work with the guards. They were hers now, for all that they had an excellent captain.

Her directive was simple:

"Look the other way."

Not all would listen. She expected some would be afraid of retribution. Some might even whisper of her betrayal to M'kel.

She might have, once. Certainly at Ista Weyr. For all of its liberal leanings, she wouldn't have dared to defy the leadership for fear of losing her rank. Before Theidith, she might well have been among those forced to turn away Candidates just because of their gender.

But that was before the golden queen had chosen her and elevated her.

For all that the trappings of her rank and what it meant might have soured on her tongue, this ability, this duty was sweet. Her hand would be unseen, but suspicious to those that knew her.

It was good work.

It was righteous.

"Look the other way."


Not all of the guards were willing to take the risk of looking away. Many were. Others were easily swayed by the promise of marks or other favors. In this, a mercenary attitude was welcomed. They would do their part.


Ishevhaeth's worldstone expands and contracts with the quiet, muted thunder of a single human heartbeat.

It might not even be Ev'rett's — a third party could verify this, if they had all the datapoints. It would be an easy observation, given the bronzerider in question is dealing with a racing heart, and Ishevhaeth's th-thud is more… regulated, even. Like a drowsy cat slowly blinking eyes, so does Ishevhaeth's mindscape seem contented at the very last, in full harmony of the world around him.

Through Ev'rett's eyes, the scene can only be described as madness.

It is always… insane, the rush and press of a Hatching, the sound of dragons humming and shells breaking. It does not help that the erstwhile Harper has aided and abetted in something very like a crime, using the color of his dragon's hide and arrogance of stride and chin held high to circumvent what little real guarding exists for the heat of the Sands.

Ev'rett deposits a youth in a baggy robe and nods without eye-contact to a guard paid to look the other way. With a single glance back to fluffy hair floating in the heated air like nothing else a halo, the man leaves Piyala to her future, forbidden as though many tried to make it.

The outcome seems almost unsurprising. Before the bronzerider is even off the Sands, the first-hatched brown has claimed her as his own.

Ev'r's smile is a small, crooked thing.

And Ishevhaeth pulses in contentment, for all is right in the world.


The hatching began as all hatchings did: with a hum that rose to become earth-shaking thunder. The Weyr was strong. Three hundred and some dragons - and soon to add yet more. The first to hatch was the first to Impress, a young woman named Piyala having just been ushered onto the Sands. Rebruanth would be the first to choose from the forbidden, uncaring of the rules set in place before he was hatched, but he would not be the last.


When Turahaimajusuth joins the humming of his fellow dragons, welcoming the rocking eggs on the sands, it is with gusto and perhaps with a smug glint in his whirling eyes as he comes flying out of his weyr with a burden of several people. This brown dragon will be late in joining his fellow dragons on the ledges! He is backwinging right at the entrance to the hatching grounds, buffetting the merchants' wares just outside and causing them all to yell and curse. Not to mention he nearly lands on top of the scurrying candidates still trying to catch up to their weyrlingmasters. It's just overall bad timing! …Or is it?

He may have cut off the trail end of the candidate line, but he doesn't break his humming or smug look even as they have to scamper around him to try to catch up. Talya's dismounting to the side facing the entrance of the cavern, shouting back at the traders and crafters and telling them to GET OVER IT, THEY'LL JUST BE A MOMENT WHILE SHE AND HER GUESTS DISMOUNT.

Hopefully in all the confusion, the near-trample of candidates, the shouting, and still Tura's large opal wings open and causing a flurry, no one will notice that three girlish looking 'boys' dismounted to the other side of Tura. They use his bulk and chaos to throw off coats and cloaks, slipping them into the saddle bags left empty on purpose… underneath it all, they are just dressed in simple white sheaths. The robes are done poorly and fit improperly because they did not have the time to tailor it how they want as they would have if they were there from the start. It happens with late candidate arrivals, have to deal with what's left and used from past hatchings. They all have more delicate looking features but through the adrenaline and the dragon roadblock, they seem to mix in well with the younger looking candidate boys that are hurrying to catch up to the front of the line.

Talya is up dealing with the guards and the merchants, sending her dragon off only when she feels her additions are not in danger of discovery and have passed through into the cavern. The guard closest to her is given a few eyerolls and shared glances. "As if anyone is going to have the time to buy anything right now, right?" is her opinion about her dragon's disruption. The smirk she gives the guard is one she'd give to an old friend that are both in on the joke. He didn't even blink when those three trailing candidates picked up their pace to catch up— three 'boys' that are no longer Talya's guests.

All three of them are thankfully slight in frame, young, and their hair shorn short already (if they Impress, at least they have that done beforehand). They seem to be a little more nervous, a little less aware of their surroundings. This is probably their very first time on the sands, unlike others around them that have had multiple touchings. Their nerves at least blend in eventually, when the eggs start shaking vigorously and several finally crack.

Talya hears some of the crowd inside the hatching grounds let out a collective cheer, a usual first sign of the first dragonet.

Show time.

Talya bids the guard farewell, apologizes to the merchant reluctantly, and heads inside to see how the three guests she and Turahaimajusuth have found fare in the hatching.

Turahaimajusuth settles in on a ledge above the galleries, nestled between a few dragons. «My candidates always Impress,» he states proudly to those nearby even as he hums as loud as he can. He cannot help himself to share. «Those. There. They're extra special.» And he settles in to prove the other dragons right: his candidates always Impress… okay, almost always. He has a good feeling on these.

The dragonets are doing their thing, Impressions are made, and Talya is keeping eager eyes darting between her additions and the Weyrleader throughout the hatching. She's quiet during the initial Impressions, dragonets going to very obvious looking boys in the group, ranging from all shapes and sizes. It's only when a dragonet stumbles straight into the legs of the quieter of her 'boys' and an obvious connection is made that Talya lets out a whoop in celebration. This candidate is, among the three late-comers, quite a bit more curvier than the other candidates around them and not so much hiding in the background any longer. They were given the baggiest of the leftover robes to hide their figure, but it can only hide true gender so long. Especially when she cries out in a very high feminine voice upon finding her new lifemate.


M’kel’s anger was kept in check, even while more girls filtered through the ranks of the guards or pressed their way to the forefront of the Stands. If it was only one that Impressed, that would be tolerable. The girls didn’t have the luxury of touching the eggs before, of acquainting themselves with the dragons within.

Four greens, a blue, and a brown seemed to reassure him when they all went to boys. But one blue was shameless about breaking ranks and zeroed in on one of Turahaimajusuth’s girls.

M’kel swore under his breath.

The hatching continued, unabated.


Ginger is a few rows back in the Galleries. She's had to make some hard decisions, now that she's no longer reeling from her unceremonious demotion. Her heart's cheering for those girls who are sneaking onto the Sands, and for the riders and others who have helped them to get there, but she also wants to be teaching those girls if - and may it happen! - some of them Impress. It's not likely that the presence of girls in the class would change M'kel's mind about her position, but he hasn't ruled it out. So she's planned carefully, and compromised, and confined her efforts to her own family.

Two of her sisters and a brother ought to have been on the Sands when these eggs Hatched, but only Ranev, new to candidacy at fourteen turns, will be out there. Sevi's two turns older; she's been over at Igen, staying with relatives and establishing residence so she can ask to Stand for the clutch there. But today she's back, returned by a rider cousin the moment Ginger passed the word that the Hatching was imminent, and now she's in the front row of the galleries, slipping into a seat reserved for her by Ravira. Ravi's the next in age to Ginger, but as an apprentice she couldn't join her younger sister at the other Weyr. Her resolve about Impressing has wavered over the last couple of Turns, but it only took one edict from M’kel to make her determined to Stand. She refused to risk getting Ginger into trouble by slipping onto the Sands - after all, who'd believe that her rider sister wasn't involved - so she's in the front row, too, hoping that a dragonet will look her way.


Another green and two blues hatched and Impressed in short order - all to boys. A freckled green looked up to the Stands, keening sharply - but a few more girls were slipped into the Candidate ranks, and she ran for them. One of Va’os’s late arrivals was a lucky one - and so, too, was the green that was so desperately searching.


Ur'ki was not idle - nor was Ingvarth, for all that he might have seemed to be. The brown had found a fitting pair of pairs - two girls, two boys - and insisted on their presence. « It must be so, » he intoned. « It must be balanced. »

The girls were denied, of course; the boys allowed without question.

But there were ways around it - moreso when one's sister was tied so tightly to the guards herself.

They would find their way to the Sands, minus some hair, but with added hope.

The two boys would Impress.

The girls would not.

But Ingvarth remained undaunted.

« Next time. »


Ingvarth’s fortune saw his two boys Impress - one to a green, the other to a bronze. Two more greens would find theirs among the young men, before a blue turned his attention to the Stands. A petite blonde - one of those that D’wane had brought in for work - did not hesitate: she didn’t bother with the stairs and just dropped over the edge of the Stands to land on the Sands below, caught at the last minute by a quick-thinking guard.

The male guard got a bit of clawing for his troubles but, in the end, it was worth it - the blue found his girl and the guard would need to get new pants.

M’kel’s gaze lifted to the Stands in judgment, jaw tight, mouth flat, and eyes cold.

How many others would think to do such a thing?


… sands heat…

The breath catches in a tight, constricted throat. It's a moment of illusion, the shimmer-swell of heat waving up from the sands themselves. A moment in which life hangs in suspension bringing for the regurgitated memories of a thousand years ago. Aeons ago. Mere decades.

Hands clench, nails dig and pierce the skin. She watches the one she Searched — or did she? It was a long time ago in what feels like an eternity when she found the child. A girl? A boy? She didn't look too closely at the close-cropped hair and androgynous features. She brought this body to the point here on the sands, to have a stake in this moment.

… cacophonous cries…

A remembered feeling of pressure, of awe encompassing swells of darkness, of wraiths and brilliant things. But that was so long ago that it has become immeasurable. No, she reminds herself. The here and now are what matters. Her nails draw blood to keep her focused on the slender legs and knobby elbows of a child barely turned 15, still in the bumbling growth of a body's transition to adulthood. A shining creature stumbles towards her pick. Her Search. The rules be damned — but are they? She hates the decrees, the changes.

… memory is a hazy river… dragonshells crack…

A dark meeting. A flicker of candlelight. A whispered embrace of another, a man. A man with a different plan. A dangerous plan. Was it a man? She can't remember, but what memory therein lived is gone now for the jostle of another hits her where it counts. Eyes narrow. Red hair clings to sweaty skin. She grits her teeth, grinding them until the bones ache.

… a darkness swells up from the sands… a claimant found.

The child is caught. Claimed. A red-line of brilliant blood runs down the child's thigh, staining that brilliant robe. A girl? A boy? She can't remember. Didn't look close enough. She'd grabbed the first scrawny looking child she'd seen in the mass. The one that came as tribute — or did it? Shaking her head, she steps forward until her hands reach out to grip the harsh wood of a seatback or maybe the grainy, sharp edges of the rock. She peeks at this cacophony on the sands.

Her child.

Had Impressed.

Elation swelled in her breast. For in this, this small thing, she defied that which had become law. Or did she?

Turning to go, Ianthe slips into the shadows. Only the child, see, knew who brought them to the mass of Candidates. Only the child stood on the sands, clinging to the hope of what had been whispered into the child's ear before the moment the child was pushed into the barracks.

It is to a brown that the child turns, eyes lifted joyous: "Sunekainth."


Green. Blue. Green. Three more found a male companion for life. And then there was Sunekainth, staking his claim and taking his due in blood. The young woman - barely more than a girl - was jubilant, with tear-bright eyes gone wide. Later, she would look for Ianthe, to thank her. For the moment, her brown needed her - and he was hungry.


Evka’s bit her tongue this whole time, lowered her head, did the work, listened to M’kel’s misogyny, and yet, had she, really? She’s spoken her mind to the man that once, and she’s been working behind his back the whole time.

The. Whole. Time.

No girls on the sands?

Fuck that.

Demoting women from rightfully earned ranks?

Fuck that too.

There’s not much she can do about the demotions, yet, but she has been doing something about that pesky no girls rule. Things like turning a blind eye to the activities she KNOWS are against M’kel’s edicts, things like having Saetyroith point out female potentials and keeping a list.

Things like having over half of those potentials now hiding behind Saetyroith’s humming bulk. She uses the distraction of Turahaimajusuth, and the ensuing hatching chaos to slip no less than five disguised girls onto the sands, there may have even been a sixth, but there’s REALLY no telling if that one is male or female, the looks are just too androgynous and Evka’s not breathing a word.

Thanks to others paying guards and ordering them to look elsewhere, this is more easily achieved than had she searched her potentials and put them through the regular search protocols. But with a dictator for a Weyrleader, and an old fashioned one at that, it needed to be done this way. And right now, Evka could give a shit less what this will do to her. She wants her knot, wants to keep it, but at what expense? She can’t just sit idly by and watch while M’kel take Southern back into last century…..

The Zingari had just overcome this sort of misogynistic rule at home and Evka will be damned if she left one horror show to be thrown right into another one.


M’kel’s anger lingered, but as the Hatching wore on, more boys Impressed. No more girls dared to make a leap of faith out of the Stands; no dragons paused to look up to the spectators. Their selections had widened, with so many having been added at the absolute last moment. Yet, there were no further incidents.

Two greens and a blue, followed by another green. A bronze and brown were quick to choose; another bronze took his time, waiting until a brown and green had also chosen. A blue found his as well - but all had found theirs among the lads.

It was the last egg to hatch - small and perhaps a good bet as a dud - that would ruin the streak; the green stalked without hesitation to one that Evka had escorted onto the Sands.

Sixteen green. Eight blue. Five brown. Three bronze. A perfect balance.

Only six had found their chosen among the girls - two each of green, blue, and brown - but it was no small feat.

M’kel’s speech to those left Standing was curt and forgettable, with a prompt dismissal. He would retreat to his quarters; investigations and punishments would surely follow in the coming days.

Treista likewise retreated to her weyr, with Yorprith taking the opportunity to hunt - without Kurroth.


Well that was unexpected. F’kan has to keep reminding himself not to smile as she’s ushering the last of the newest batch of weyrlings off the Sands, including those six girls. Even as he tries to keep his features as neutral as possible, he wonders if this means that he can get Ginger back as his assistant for this clutch, but also worrying over what M’kel might do in retaliation to this obvious insubordination. At least he knows the girls in question fall under his jurisdiction now, and as long as he keeps his own head down, he will do his best to make sure they are treated just like the rest.

Maybe he’ll wait a couple days before approaching the Weyrleader regarding Ginger.


Ardstelle’s staff had been busy putting a fine feast together - a feast made all the better by the taste of defiance. It would go on for some time, longer than most perhaps; stretching long into the night, it was a celebration with no regrets to be found in the morning.

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