Who

Diem, Nasrin, F'in, T'ral, N'tael, Rajakhelath, Tlazotezath & Igen dragons

What

Tlazotezath and Rajakhelath bear some offspring and the Night Flight burns in the bazaar.

When

It is morning of the seventh day of the first month of the eleventh turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Sands

OOC Date 25 May 2017 04:00

 

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"You're needed here." ALIVE. UN-CRISPY. BOTH OF YOU.


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Sands

The out-of-doors of Igen Weyr seems a blissful respite from the oppressive heat of this sandy colosseum. Heated from beneath by volcanic vents, the air above the hatching sands shimmers, lending a sort of unreal, dream-like quality to the area beyond even the magic that happens here at Impressions. Despite its blistering temperatures, the sands are incongruously soft, almost powdery, and flat save for the worn stone queen's bower that rises up to break the monotony and provide a place of respite for the doting mother-to-be.


It didn't seem to take long, time truly does have wings. Tempus fugit and all that. Rajakhelath, gravid and restricted to the Weyr for the past sevenday (she hated that stipulation). By the time Weyrfolk have caught on, she's already on her third egg, but more are forthcoming! Nasrin is less caught off guard, monitoring her life-mate's condition with Diem's help. She's here and addressing the growing crowd with an awkward wave. She hasn't practice the beauty queen sway.
Rajakhelath lays her fourth masterpiece: Promethean Egg!

Lumpy and unremarkable, ugly even, this gray-green-brown… mass… of egg is somehow compelling. Unseemly lumps cast shadows that suggest other forms, other possibilities. Upon closer inspection, the clammy-looking surface is studded with inclusions that flash fire and promise.

Carnivora Egg is several seconds behind its immediate sibling, but proudly debuts its very slick-like traits.

This egg appears swaddled, swirling, strangled in twists and flat straps of thick green. Specularity glimmers across the oily surface, dripping with apparent slime over hidden biting barbed spurs. There is a strong sense of … waiting … that surrounds this egg. As if the encircling bands were not choking, but rather stretched taut and close to snapping.

Diem stepped onto the sands well prepared for the long haul of a clutching. "This might take a while." Hey, it's the truth. "Or it could be over lightning fast." She's a big help, really. "Just depends on Rajakhelath." Which is probably no help to poor Nasrin AT ALL since this is the young queen's very first clutching. With Diem came some coolers full of chilled waterskins and snacks in case they really are in for a day's worth of sitting, watching, and waiting. "Raja's doing just fine." And look! Eggs already!

Surely Shadowed Fall of Empires Egg, as Rajakhelath digs a furrow in the substrate, is out of Tlazotezath's influence…

Against a backdrop of mottled taupe, bold streaks of blood red, black and cobalt blue pool together to form two large, massive and outstretched feathered wings. Caught mid-flight, the creature belonging to them is nothing known to Pernese kind. A cervine-like and antlered head, bone white and skeletal with fanged jaws opened, bears downwards in aggressive, attacking stance. Avian like hindquarters, feet raised and wicked curved talons outstretched, are poised for the kill. Oddest of all, a smear of grey shadow beneath it shows no beast at all, but the shape of man itself.

Nasrin's come prepared to sweat it out in a sheer shawl knotted elaborately around one shoulder like a self-style Roman senator. The rest of her garment, not so gauze-like, falls to her ankles. No riding leathers here! "I don't remember the eggs being so," tawdry? "…wrought with patterns." Ever tactful. Diem's presence is far more than a supporting role, the teenager is calmed by the other goldrider. "Oh, here's another dropping…" Sovereign of the Tropics Egg, here we come!

Feathers of a vivid rainbow coil sinuously about this egg warm golds, vibrant greens, resplendent violets, and bloody crimsons. As the light plays against it, the colors shift and move, glittering in the sunlight like so many jewels. Infinite layers pull back, revealing a denser darkness than initially promised an emerald depth as unending as the myriad feathers that shield it. For all its multi-faceted glory, the egg may impart a feeling of unease of a promise too sweet, calling them straight into a hungry serpents jaws.

Followed hotly by Stymphalian Bird Egg as Rajakhelath tightens the press of her wings against her sides.

Hooked swaths of metallic sheen slice and whicker around the sides of this small egg in swift buffeting profusion. The convolutions are hard to follow, unsettling and cacophonous to look upon, twisting the eye and the mind with whirling, twirling, twisting gyres. Beneath these scything swathes are a vibrant green, bearded with hoary, fibrous gray, spilling in falls to the base.

"Now that one's not like her at all," those vivid greens are Rajakhelath's antithesis. "But someone it resembles her in essence." Nasrin did manage to procure some crepe fans and offers one to the Weyrwoman. "They're cheaply made, careful." Imports!

Too Good For This World Egg's crown is visible, in an awkward sort of birth.

Behold the fat and clumsy egg faceplanted on the sands. There it lays, defenseless and trusting, unaware of the wider world around it. Chalky tones of blue, gray, and beige mottle over its bulbous shape, the color of slow waters.

And bound to be everyone's favorite…! The FLUFFY Unicorn Egg:

The first thing you notice is this ovoids golden apex. Swirled like a soft-serve icecream it stops short of a goofy set of features and cotton candy fuzz. The rest of this egg is white like innocence, pure as the driven snow - which only serves to emphasize the fluffy roundness of this squat little thing. Cartoonish splotches of flamingo pink create rotund little hooves and more floof that goes every which way. It looks like it should be fluffy, as fluffy as marshmallows or a cloud or the best feather bed ever…So fluffy! So adorable! So deadly…WAIT WHAT?!

Diem sits down upon the dais and takes a swig from a chilled waterskin before offering it to Nasrin. "Take this and drink. Don't faint of heat stroke in front of everyone in the galleries." She eyes the younger goldrider first and then peers up at those watching the newest eggs on the sands. A few faces are recognized (like Parhelion's impatient looking wingleader) before she redirects her attention to the offered fan. "Thank you." Even though it's a cheap import. HA. "Any bets on her final count?" The fan is collected and swiftly utilized.

Naturally, its shelled sibling is uniquely alike: I'm An Action Figure Egg.

A long and thin shape will give the developing dragon room to grow, but lends itself to leaning because of that elongated distribution of mass. Whole whorls of terrestrial browns converge with darker and light tropes of color— the very best scheme for being a homegrown predator. And it's shiny. Very shiny. Like the plastic that consumers love.

Diem sits and like a mimic, Nasrin immediately follows suit because standing around looking at a clutching dragon is ungainly. Sitting makes it all okay. "Has that ever happened before?" Asking Diem about the history of goldriders losing consciousness. "If it did," smirking devilishly, "I bet it was a bronzerider." The firebird queen has taken a lapse to rest, resting her left haunch on the ground only a moment before she's at it again with Gaze of Stone Egg.

This weird leathery egg is a deep black almost completely. A twist of other colors seem to surface in muted tones, but the beholder must look closely. A rubbery red, a muddy, leafy brown. Its shape suggests the ill hybrid of a fowl or serpent's egg more than that of a dragon, despite its immense size, and the sneaking suspicion that something sinister bides its time within.

<Igen Weyr> Rajakhelath senses that: Rajakhelath manifests with blue flame, a fire's heart. « The bazaar yields smoke. It flames. » The firestarter queen has a very good alibi, but there is something abnormal in the bazaar.

<Igen Weyr> Rajakhelath senses that: The desert lord has been gone but his mind appears again from the chill of between. « Oh. » Not the most godly there but, « I'll just… » He's totally going to try to be unobtrusive less someone expect him to go do something boring with the eggs. (Tlazotezath)

Ironically, Flames of Hope Egg emerges.

Time is circular and so is this egg. At one end the ash of age stains the shell with the sooty wear of experience. At the other blazes the conflagration of youth, fierce and bright with renewed hope. In between is the stuff of life, the light and the dark of it swirled together to create a unique experience of shadow and flame. From the cloud of darkness arises a star-like nimbus of seven rays that splay to reveal knowing sapphire orbs, crested with brilliant rebirth found only in legend.

<Igen Weyr> Rajakhelath senses that: Footfalls sound rapidly along twisting gravel paths, gray tendrils beginning to curl through hawthorn branches. Petals fall like ash, eddying in breezes that carry the scent of smoke. The banded bronze flickers Rajakhelath's warning through the dragonry of Igen, « 'Ware! Fire! Rally! » Quick as thought, the paths for men and dragon alike are marked by golden cord, dendritic guide. Rhakanth levers from his perch overlooking the Sands and bellows brash and unlovely warning aloud, reverberant. (Rhakanth)

<Igen Weyr> Rajakhelath senses that: Iskanzivoth lets irritated waters strike the sides of his mental hull, all frustration. « Vosji is ill, » he stresses, so he is not so able to go help, and that's also why she isn't at the clutching. That isn't stopping him from being IRATE at their inability to help. The general concept of Parhelion floats about, as if he's expecting the guarding wing to up and leave the clutching and move post-haste to the bazaar instantly.

Diem grins and shoulder bumps Nasrin shortly after she sits down. "Bronzeriders, of course." There's a slight lift to her shoulders when she looks over at Rajakhelath taking a short rest — poor mama is pacing herself. "Candidates faint on the sands all the time, usually because they're nervous and dehydrated." A terrible combo, that. The fan is waved near her neck and almost dropped when Zsaviranth relays the message to her. "Smoke?" She looks over at Nasrin as if to confirm. Please let that be ol' Hariri burning his sausage links again…

BWHAHAHA, Tlazotezath can't get too far without Nate, right? Though they are one of the few pairs where Pern can exist between them without pain, so it's possible the bronze will go as far as his wings can take him. N'tael on the other hand has no problem strolling in. Also, the bazaar, so not really his problem. A tip of a salute to the senior as he strolls up. "Somethin' goin' on?" Tlazotezath is WAY TOO BUSY getting the hell out of dodge to pass on gossip.

Nasrin, puts down the ice water in a rush, the last of it spilling down her front. "There's something wrong in the bazaar. I think we should investigate—" She stands. What clutching? Rajakhelath acts unmoved that there's a blaze underway somewhere, it's probably a cleansing fire. Besides, there's Let the Wild Rumpus Start Egg to lay.

Upon this shell a forest grew and grew and grew, with vines that hanging all around. And in that forest on this egg, looking out from the shadows are beasts with yellow eyes and wicked claws and terrible gnashing teeth. They watch closely on the other side of the shell, where ocean waves lap against forest edge and a small boat can be seen sailing home.

<Igen Weyr> Rajakhelath senses that: Golgrainth had apparently been napping, but Rhakanth's summons (was it the mental one, or the aloud one?) wakes the Action Girl green right up, and her glass shards blink and bounce light. She is here, she is paying attention, and she is ready to herd Tahi the way that rallying and investigating is being done.

Tartarian Spawn Egg is one of two eggs laid, but Rajakhelath's hind limb hides the other.

Black as night and wicked, this egg lurks upon the Sands seeming to dim the light around it. Stygian darkness wells upon sides seeming roped with sinew and flesh, stretched to deep brown and violet where ropy ridges curve. Once, twice, thrice, slashes of red raw gape upon the sides, rimmed with jagged white spurs… wounds or mouths?

And just as he's settled on his perch, all fresh-scrubbed and ready to preside over a clutching that he nor his are involved in, F'in's arse has hardly rested upon bench when he's up again. Blue eyes sharp with alarm, he gives a look to the weyrwomen who are making 'we're going to go help fight a fire' noises and motions. "You're needed here." ALIVE. UN-CRISPY. BOTH OF YOU. He doesn't linger to see if they listen (because what are the odds, really?) before turning heel and hammering footsteps out, followed by a gaggle of guards and riders.

"Well. Sucks." N'tael isn't running out there though, at least ONE of this pair should stay and keep an eye on things, especially if the queens really do let Tlazotezath make good on his get-away. "I'll be standin' 'ere. Lessin' ye tell me I gotta be goin, but~" Nate doesn't want to. >.>

Through the dragon network, Nasrin receives that little there is with clarity. Rajakhelath reports destruction exquisitely accurately. "No, something more— the Night Flight!" No, not the trendy clothing establishment! FARANTH SAVE US ALL.

<Igen Weyr> Rajakhelath senses that: Sirocco's stalwart stardust son's stars scry a crystalline scattering in the crushing cold of the Void. The stocky blue springs aloft at his rider's insistence, flying to farflung corners of the weyr to — as Siroccos do — feel the air and cry the changing havoc of wind to those below. « Buck up, Iskanzivoth. Come! Fly! » (Esanth)

Rajakhelath keeps giving birth to monsters while the outer Weyr ignites. La la la. Hello, Chupacabras Egg.

This egg fractures reality into so many illusions. From one vantage, it appears drab in fur-covered repose, with glints of red and the promise of brutal exsanguination. Or, seen under shadows that suit the egg so well, an almost serpentine nature coils about its form, sliding sensuous death of carmine exodus under a crown of sinister spines. Yet again, viewed from an off angle, the egg seems a figure crouched within leathery wings, as if already hatched into a nightmare of scales and bald violence with slit-eyed promise of violence. But then when Rukbat shines truth onto the egg, all those vestiges of otherworldliness extinguished in the light of day and a normal grey-green curved shell is revealed. Just a normal egg. Or is it?

This is a milestone for the young pair, something not quite to be duplicated as a first memory of its kind. As the guards assigned to the goldriders depart with the Weyrleader, Nasrin lunges at this freedom. "Hello, N'tael. Would you mind watching Rajakhelath? She won't be going anywhere." She greets the bronzerider almost cheerily, the excitement of what's transpiring in the bazaar gnawing at her. "I'll be back!" F'in can't stop her, mwahaha.

N'tael isn't grinning AT ALL for the fact that F'in's going to have to deal with one of his weyrwoman TOTALLY IGNORING HIM. #WelcomeToTheClubF'in #ReasonsToDrink #SucksToBeYou. "Ye be havin' fun. How 'bout ye Diem? Gonna go runnin' too?" CHEEKY N'TAEL.

Rajakhelath doesn't watch Nasrin retreat afield, she actually envies her rider. N'tael as pseudo-Nasrin seems to be agreeable, the gold doesn't bite his head off as she delivers Manxome Egg to the pale sands.

Hash-sparks of beamish ochre galumph on tum-tum beat to splatter mimsy across the slithy tones of alkaline puce and somber mold that gyre this eggs mome shell. Twists of vorpal black threaten a gymble through one two, one two to snicker-snack within. But Callooh, Callay this is not that day! Outgrabe, the frumious orb flames with chortling joy, shielding the uffish soul yet within.

Diem should've brought booze with her instead of alcohol, especially since the Bazaar is (supposedly) burning down. "Night Flight, really!?" Zsaviranth is perched somewhere upon the ledges overlooking Igen's main vein of commerce in an attempt to calm the dragon populace and keep order. "Nasrin!" Did her junior just abandon her? She totally did. Wilting a bit, the Senior rises to her feet and waves a hand at N'tael as she jogs past him. "You're on egg duty! I've got make sure Nasrin doesn't get…" She doesn't finish her thought before she's out of the hatching cavern entirely~

N'tael is now Pseudo Mommy and Tlazotezath has managed his ESCAPE. Good times man. Good. Times. "Hum… think I have…" pat, pat, pat, somewhere around ah THERE IS IS. #flasktime.

T'ral has a pipe. In cold weather like this, this is just the time for it. Recognize that pipe, N'tael?

Rajakhelath's coal-banked sides seem to slither as internally there is much rearranging. She watches the two goldriders and Tlazotezath ditch her for Fun Times and then points her snout at N'tael and stretches out a low, thin, wail. You're all I have?

This is what the queen thinks of that. Out comes Truly Monstrous Egg.

Strikingly Green, a sudden zap of color, almost overwhelming in it's neon hue and only cut all the sharper by the streaking highlights of black that cover this egg. From afar, the egg looks of a rough texture, but the brave hand that touches it will be met with a beautifully cool, smooth surface. The shell seems to radiate, not only from that ridiculous green, but a movement, perhaps a trick of the eye? This is an egg that has a hard time sitting still. Is that a vibration? Hmmm, perhaps look a little closer will show none of this, but this egg is most defiantly Alive. Zoom! Alive and Ready for taking Life by the Throat.

T'ral coughs mildly, negotiating a fleck of tobacco to the tip of his tongue and pfft, spit. Decorously, of course. What is he? Chopped liver, Rajakhelath?

Rajakhelath's burnt sienna eyes position themselves on T'ral. Actually, she could totally go for some chopped liver. Got any?

The young queen has many more eggs in her, but their numbers need to resettle within and she is in need of a break. She leans her volume against the wall of the vast cavern, lids her eyes once and breathes in deeply. Strong rumor has it Niatskivhiath will soon be sharing this space as well.

T'ral pats his pockets searching for…? Chopped liver? No… huzzah! A Flicker! (Reika Caravan, All Rights Reserved). A small device that, flicked, strike a spark and feeds fire down a woolen oil-soaked wick, pinched just so in metal jaws to keep the flame to a single candle-like lick. Too Soon? Puff. Puff. He nods to N'tael as the bronzerider finds a comfortable place to settle in for the long haul. Puff. Puff. Draw. There. Dark blue eyes meet sienna as the bluerider breathes a plume of smoke up towards the vent to yet-blue skies above. He is as much a firebreather now as the laboring queen. He inclines his head to her level and speculative regard.

"That's it. Marshal your strength." Murmured as much to himself as to N'tael or Rajakhelath.

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