Who

Dione, Ko'rei, N'tael, Ebben, N'vik, T'ral, Diya, Qu'inn, K'lir, Bailey, Prymelia, Hannah, Niyati, Yules, Tuli, L'denn

What

Khalyssrielth and Desmeth's Eggs hatch during a torrential rainstorm!

When

It is afternoon of the first day of the third month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Hatching Sands, SANDS

OOC Date 28 Jun 2014 07:00

 

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Hatching Sands, 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.

It is the first day of Autumn and 101 degrees. The skies have opened up and apocalypse has slowly started to overtake the Southern continent. Rain doesn't pour down as much as tear through the sky at supersonic speeds to assault anything unwise enough to not seek shelter. Lightning dances across the heavens, but the light is quickly muted and swallowed by the ebony black clouds. The ground and trees dance with every roll of thunder that puts earthquakes to shame.


The sands flood, steam hissing where heat and chilly rain meet as the grains clump and turn to a slushy mess that makes it hard to walk. Harder to see, too, in the pouring rain that splashes onto the sands. All the folk that gather in the galleries have it good, with only the mists of the heavy rain adding further dampness to an already sweltering air. Khalyssrielth paces at the edge of the faerie ring of eggs, her eyes whirling an excitement of blood and tail lashing oh-so-carefully as the first of the eggs makes a little move; just a little one! Desmeth is relegated to guard duty on the other side, for none but those in robes of white may come close to the eggs hatching. Or about to hatch. Leadership gathers to watch, as well as the Assistant Weyrlingmasters and newly minted Weyrlingmaster that await the new weyrlings. Bailey and Hannah surely huddle together, trying to stay out of the worst of the rains. Everyone awaits the arrival of the Candidates.

As all the Candidates stream onto the hatching sands, they pause one by one to bow deeply to the clutch dam and sire. Even if a few of them jump when another boom of thunder seems to shake the foundations of the hatching grounds.

Yules comes out onto the Sands, rushed and exasperated: "We're here," she huffs at Desmeth who's busy humming. More important things at hand. And who is this 'we'? Because behind her, she's tugging a girl by the hand, dumped hastily in a white Candidate's robe. "Found another one!" she announces and shoos Diya off to where other Candidates are starting to trickle in. "Go over there. Bow to Khalyssrielth. Don't run, scream, jump, or anything that might make you look like food. GO."

Tuli has hustled her way into playing temporary AWLM, her lanky form easily spotted on the sidelines. After all, who's more comfortable on churning Sands than a goldrider? She's in a poncho, hair firmly tucked under a headwrap. Someone was prepared!

Bailey is here, wrapped miserably in a poncho and standing under Khalyssrielth's wing. One of them at least. She's staring at the candidates almost morosely.

Linden sloshes through the sand and water, wiggling his toes and laughing. "Alright, this feels weird…" He looks over at Nathanael and flashes his friend a grin. "Good luck!"

Snow Day Egg is starting to shimmy. It's starting to shake. It's starting to… starting to… Shudder? OR NOT, as it quiets to contemplate.

Cold Iron Egg does not move like its brethren: it holds still, unmoving, even as cracks and fissures begin to form in the tiny, silver'd egg. As if a great pressure is slowly building within, a tremble courses through the small ovoid, until all is still. As if frozen in the moments between moments, where time stands still and stars are born and stars die, the egg hold's to an uncanny stillness. A single crack fissures through the top curve of the egg's shell. It's this last bastion of strength that finally crumbles, and the pressure is released. This fey-touched egg has given birth to the cosmic forces that have formed the diminutive shape of sun-touched green.

Keeper of the Celestial Gifts Green Dragonet
Fern's fickle feathering tickles the willow-supple strength of an ivy-twined hide, leaving fiddleheads to seed sepia spores down the soft lines of her slender neck. Wild sproutlings dance in dandelion profusion, cast careless amongst the narrow field of alfalfa cavorting betwixt gnarled wing-roots that burgeon high from svelte shoulders. Sunshine brushes gilded kisses over the gold-tipped tops of light-drenched wings and leaves a dusting of matcha freckles to drift across the translucent leaf-porcelain of diminutive wingsails… so apt for a green of such teacup proportion! Tiny she may be but shrinking she is not: a lovely confidence limns her with kinetic karma, while undeniable sweetness swells guileless countenance into cherubic curvature.

"This is the WORST weather for this. Just the worst imaginable!" Tuli calls over to Hannah and Bailey, a hand raised in a wave. She sounds… exuberant? Like she's ENJOYING this. "Half mark says someone drowns!"

And Suddenly, Blood Egg pulses; or is that just a trick of the flashing lights? Hard to tell. There's something happening there, though, all bloody-sinister in the torrential rain.

Nathanael catches sight of that candidate getting dragged onto the sands and is ABOUT to yell out when… no. Instead, he's going to shoot a grin at Linden and inch over to Diya, grab her hand, and then pulllll back. There.

Quentin shuffles behind Nate and Linden, wide eyes flickering between the eggs around them and searching the Sands. At one point, his gaze lifts higher, to the ledges above the gallery, and a hint of tension goes out of his shoulders. Whatever he sees up there has put a bit of starch in his spine, and his footsteps pick up as he settles into place near Linden - just in time to witness the first hatching. "Oh!" His exclamation is quickly cut off, but his startled reaction is echoed in his expression.

Koreiraj, having only been a candidate for a few days, stays off to the side of the group. Quiet. Terrified. Not really moving much as the sands seem to burn a hole into his feet. That's okay, no one really needs feet anyway, right?

It came from the Shaven Sasquatch egg! If the lanky beast within wasn't, you know, SOAKED TO THE BONE, he'd be an intimidating sight. Alas, he is soaked. Alas, he looks miserable, like a man in an ill-fitting gorilla suit. At least he knows exactly where he's going. It's that one nerdy kid - you know, the one who ended up in a punishment detail last sevenday? - of whom the baby bronze makes his claim. For some reason, the prissy ginger girl, boneheaded jock, criminal boy, and basketcase girl are the first to cheer. What could THOSE Candidates possibly have in common with each other? Still, a good omen, surely!

Nevik walks in line out onto the sands with the others. He expected to be beaten down by the hot autumn sun but now is quickly soaked by the storm. Yeah, nothing about this hatching has been what he would have called 'normal'. The sudden cracking of one of the eggs shakes him out of his momentary pause.

Kultir trudges through the slushy sand, thoroughly soaked before they've been here a few heartbeats with the rain slashing down on them. He stumbles slightly when his linemate does and reaches out to the sturdier Candidate to steady himself. When the first egg shatters, he jumps a little at the echoing thunder that booms through the cavern.

Diya isn't even supposed to be here, today! What with the thunderous storm up above it's hard to tell whether or not she screeches as she makes her headlong way toward the proper candidates, and cling-clutches Nate's hand with a weak smile.

Ebben arrives in a less than relaxed manner. As a previous healer, he knows just what can happen out on the sands, and he's fairly certain that if it doesn't happen too him, it certainly may happen around him. Eyes are wide, forehead sweaty, and the be-sandaled feet are doing the one-two hop so familiar to those in the galleries. At least with all the hopping once he's out there, he'll be a little more agile to avoid potential limb-loss by slow response.

Dione was not the one that jumped. It was a close thing. Still, with a bow to the clutchparents and riders on the sand out the way, she shuffles off to participate in the peculiar misery that is roasting sands and torrential downpour. Coughing, wiping at her face, she shuffles into a spot near the others, mind suddenly blank. Did she ask someone to old her hand? "…congratulations?" she mutters as, it seems, the first Impression happens, and to a bronze. Yeah, good luck, buddy, you're getting out of the rain.

Niyati gulps and settles into place near the candidates and then nearly jumps as the first egg cracks. "Oh my… That escalated quickly.." She finally edges over to stand near Prymelia, doing her best to keep her eyes on the first dragonet. Eggs cracking, thunder booming, and now a sauna! It's what all the best hatchings are doing.

Linden turns his head to flash a grin to Quentin, before he lifts his feet to keep them suction free in the wet sand. Or try to, at any rate. Going to be hard to move quickly in this.
I don't understand that.

Prymelia is just BRIMMING with nonchalance. Not! Edging left and then right, she tucks herself in beside Quentin and exhales a slow breath rueing rain and the wearing of a WHITE robe gone uncomfortably see through and clinging to her legs. Why is it they wear white again? And then its all happening. Lips are nervously wet and there's a soft clearing of throat as she side-eyes Niyati. "If they look too hungry," she whispers, "shove Quentin at them. He's got more on him to eat."

T'ral waits alongside the file of Candidates, Whoa the wind blowing over the Hatching Cavern roof howls like a mad thing. Swimmable, this Southern air. As it should be. He grins, chest fluttering with the crooning of the dragons and the import of what will soon happen. Couldn't BE better weather for this.

Keeper of the Celestial Gifts Green Dragonet encroaches finally the realm that lies beyond the cold and sharply distant safety of that-which-was, the darkness of her shell's innards. She is so tiny, so diminutive this one — a sharp crack of wind races over the sloggy Sands and fills her sails. Where others would tumble with it, this one glides, unwittingly breezing forth in a half-glide that leaves with her landing unceremoniously on her rump, staring owlish at the candidates suddenly in front of her. Oh… hi.

And Suddenly, Blood Egg ceases its shuddering all at once. Rain drips down its smooth surface, seeming - in an optical illusion, surely - to cause blood to ooze from that ominous red spot. It is from there that the crack forms, and spreads. Thunder claps. With a remarkable sense of timing, the egg chooses this exact moment to split altogether apart, depositing its pale burden onto the Sands.

May The Desert Bleach Your Bones Bronze Dragonet
He is the desert made manifest in pale-bronze flesh; the corporeal face of an ancient god brought to earth, made of bone and sinew. Sun-struck mica glitters in the pale striae of his stone-carved face and majestic curve of his neck; makes regal the unforgiving lines of weather-worn neckridges and solid-set shoulders. Inspired, awe-inspiring, the faded sandstone sweep of wingsails stretch between the bleached bones of palo verde spars. In the shadows of his wings, petrified once-trees make up his trunk and limbs, fault-less, impervious, rich and ruddy-dark; rough-hewn in their majesty but worn smooth by time. His tail and legs alike are subtly copper-veined and brightly copper-tipped, rooting him in his metallic birthright. Timeless and terrible, unforgiving and unyielding, this warrior god's spirit is bound in a creature of flesh and blood, mortality cloaked in wood and stone.

Quentin makes a strangled protest at Prymelia. "There's nothing on me to eat," he croaks, glancing down quickly at his scrawny form before shooting a nervous grin at the girl. Then his gaze goes again to the dragonets on the sands, and his throat works convulsively. "They don't eat humans, anyway. Do they?" Green is eyed thoughtfully, then comes a bronze, and that one is given a careful, wary look.
Nathanael squeezes Diya's hand tightly.

Koreiraj finally starts to shuffle just a little, it's pretty much the only real movement he makes, however. His face, ghastly pale, as he watches egg after egg hatch and dragonet after dragonet emerge. Every so often he attempts to call our any congrats to his fellow candidates, but words are lodged in his throat due to the sheer amazement and losing-bodily-fuction terror of what is going on around him.

Linden whistles, low and awed at the sight of the bronze. "Shards and shells, he'll be a handful, eh?" Then he laughs at Quentin. "No, they don't eat humans."

Despite having been on the Sands before Kultir still looks as nervous and somewhat frightened as his friends, edging a bit closer to the clutch that he knows better than others. His eyes travel over the shaking eggs, a soft gasp issuing as that green glides closer to them though with the hatching of that pale bronze, his heart races faster till all he can hear is the pounding of his heart and the rain drumming on his head.

Nathanael leans a head towards the other whisperers, "Khalyssrielth might." A nod to mama gold.

Tuli waggles a damp eyebrow at Quentin and Prymelia. Her voice, like the thunder, booms cheerfully. "I've never seen a dragonet eat someone, but there's always a first, isn't there?"

Niyati laughs at Prymelia's suggestion, the sound half fueled by nervousness. "Women and children at all costs, as they say," she agrees before another egg hatches and she gulps. "I certainly hope not, but one must take every precaution…" Ok, now she's just teasing but it's taking her mind off all this!

Ebben tugs a bit at Kultir's robe with a curt whisper. "I think that one may be eying me." The dragonet near the small knot of candidates is given a wary look as Ebben continues to hop and sway. "I mean, I'm just saying, they look hungry." Ebben appears to still be very convinced that a blood bath may ensue. Thus he is settled next to his best buddy, who also happens to be the toughest mammer jammer in this candidate class.

Keeper of the Celestial Gifts Green Dragonet rises off of her ignoble landing, putting all of the parts of herself to rights before moving down the soggy line of candidates. She doesn't seem to notice that her own hide is dripping with more wetness than just egg-goo; it is awful in here, simply awful. Just look at all of those candidates, so waterlogged! She feels for them, it's obvious in the sympathetic slant of her pretty muzzle. She nudges closer to one boy, looking up at him with whirling eyes. Surely he won't faint, right? He's a pretty big guy. But she's a pretty little green! See, they could match. No?

May The Desert Bleach Your Bones Bronze Dragonet is HERE, he is MIGHTY, he is … wet? But lo, it is not the blood of his enemies that he is drenched in, no; it is rain, and that — and that just won't do. He shakes his head, he shakes his wings, he stalks away from the shattered remains of his shell. That there is sand under his feet, this is properly so — but oh, this sand is far from desert-dry, and he mires himself for a moment in the unexpected muck before finally breaking free again to begin his search.

Prymelia gives Quentin a strange little smirk. "Aye, but men are supposed to protect the women." She makes a flickering motion with her fingers in silent 'go be manly and protect us!' Said hand with wiggly fingers drops and then tilts toward Tuli. "See?" But then, tiny, tiny little green catches her eye and there's a pause, perhaps even a headtilt. "Okay, I don't think she'd eat much more than a toe. And you have nine of those."

Diya has been here many times before, though never quite so rain-soaked; water streams from her hair down her back and makes translucent her robe and clings to Nathanael with more than a little desperation. It's all good, it's all good, really.

Nevik turns to look back and forth at the other candidates as each deals with the creeping anxiety as the dragons begin to hatch. "By the Queen, look at that one," he tells the nearest of his white-robed companions as he stares agape at the newly hatched bronze. The sight of one of the first greens to hatch getting friendly with one of the guys down the line seems to both fill him with hope and worry all at the same time.

Dashing the remnants of the storm from her short hair, Yules moves closer to where Desmeth's tail is twitching. Things are happening!

Lightning flashes, thunder rumbles, and three different eggs crack open all at once. The products are brown, blue, green in that order, a bedraggled trio of soaked hatchlings. What the Shard, this isn't cool! This isn't what they wanted their first taste of FREEDOM to be like! Where is the management, they have a COMPLAINT. The green knows exactly where she's going, at least, trotting imperially over towards a wide-eyed blonde. Her brown and blue brothers follow suit, snapping up a Miner and a Wildling in turn.

Nathanael squishes Diya's hand again, and tilts his head at all the babies upon the sands. They're cute. In a I-want-to-eat-you-way.

A snatch of floated voice drifts towards Dione. "…wait, Quentin is the sacrificial victim?" she hisses as she makes her way over to the girls to slip into line with them — look at Prymelia or Niya, folks, not her getting-sodden form. And then, green happening, and she ooohs at the tiny green, ignoring the poor bronze.

Dione claims that one.

Linden squishes his sandals into the water and sand, grinning wide. Turning, he peers long and hard up into the galleries, squinting, trying to see if certain people are there. It's impossible to tell for sure of course, but he tries.

Tire d'Erable Egg shivers in delight, anticipation, starting to rock a little. Just a moment, he just needs a little… more… effort… And then it quiets to contemplate next moves.

Snow Day Egg has been caught in an eternal loop for such a very long time: waiting, waiting, waiting. The patience of agelessness cracks anew under the full force of springing youth and sleek-grim determination, for that which has been waited for is now here. The dragonet that spills out onto the Sands is certainly that which has been heralded: not for today, no, for this is A Hero For Tomorrow.

A Hero For Tomorrow Blue Dragonet
See here this natural marvel, collected quietly beneath the drape and fold of silver-spangled sapphire sails; see here, this hero for the ages. Vast lies that cape of tattered dignity, his wings cut of a cloth that has seen action aplenty and unravels, threadbare, along ragged edges. But fear not for his provisioning, for fate has fashioned him armor by way of steely chainmaille dapples that gird sturdy hindquarters and plate fortressing neckridges; similar are his armaments, sharp talons oathsworn to grim gunmetal defense. Undeterred, skyfire contrails drift in abstract patterns of wandering clouds: a fine gossamer webbing exaggerates the tatters of his wings, while faint feline patterning camouflages belly's pale stretch. There is no hiding the quiet intelligence within the whirl of his faceted gaze, however; the lingering aura of his uncommon courage heralds him as far more than the sum of his parts.

May The Desert Bleach Your Bones Bronze Dragonet needs SACRIFICE, but there is none to be had: all the rain-drenched offerings on the Sands are insufficient, inadequate, unworthy of his attentions. He pauses briefly in front of one curly-mopped herdercraft boy, inhales deep of rain-soaked hair — but no, he is not right, he will not do. Still, May The Desert Bleach Your Bones Bronze is undeterred, and carries on: like the very rain itself he is a force of nature, unerring, unencumbe— well, the weather is still stealing some of his glory, starting to drag him down. Let's just ignore that, shall we.

Quentin shoots Tuli a desperate look, then wrinkles his nose at her. "I didn't think so," he mutters in an aside to Linden, and a bit more tension goes out of his frame. His eyes lift to the Stands once more, and he finally finds exactly what - or who - he was looking for. A nervous smile is cast upward, then he takes a deep breath and gives his attention back to the dragonets. To Prymelia, a snort and a short, pithy, "Like you need protecting." But he edges forward slightly. Yeah. He's a man. Somewhat. Raking fingers through his soaked, curly mop, he tries to keep his hair out of those eyes keeping careful tabs on wandering hatchlings.

Niyati nods in answer to Dione's question. "We've assured him it isn't personal. I don't think he believes us." And then there's the trio of hatchings and impressions and she does her best not to stare slackjawed. "Oh, another blue. Poor things are being absolutely thrown about by this wind. …That's it, Quentin. Manly virtues, you know." Yes, she'll stop now.

Keeper of the Celestial Gifts Green Dragonet does not allow the grim dullness of this first autumn storm occlude her own brightness. No — her mirror shines from within, seeking that bright soul that matches her own. There is one out here, one who wears her robe with a simple flair that defies all convention of this miserable weather. One that rises above her station, above all the things that so dare to infringe upon these moments that are supposed to be perfect… one who makes the moment perfect, just as if the sun is rising over the far horizon. She stares adoringly up to one who was once a weaver, but now is forevermore hers.

Keeper of the Celestial Gifts Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Niyati, and steps forward.

Nathanael stands on tiptoes to see over the heads of a candidate who had just ducked in front of him. What are the dragons doing now?

Kultir overhears Nevik's comment and huffs a soft chuckle. The bronze is suitably martial and seems rather upset that his magnificence is being drowned in this downpour. The ex-tracker shifts his stance as the sand seems to want to suck his motionless feed down, his eyes flicking over the still rocking eggs until the movement of the green draws his attention. "Way to go, Niyati! Congrats!"

Bailey cheers, she does, at the green's choosing: "Oh, lovely! Khalyssrielth. How did you make these lovely dragons!" She's beaming, she is. Even despite the weather.

Linden shrugs back at Quentin, shifting his weight back and forth, watching the impressions around him with wide, excited eyes.

Nathanael elbows Quentin. "I think that'un's gonna eat ye." He's just teasing. But the bronze does look hungry.

Hannah is here. Getting drenched. And somehow seems to be more concerned with the eggs themselves than with the dragonet. Maybe she's caught up in ensuring that their inner machinations work. Who knows, but Southern's Senior Weyrwoman is most certainly in attendance.

Playing Dirty Egg is a powerhouse of movement. Wiggling and waggling, shimmying and shaking. The occupant inside refusing to sit still a moment longer. The frantic actions finally start to have effect on the shell surrounding the dragon within. Cracks start to form and pieces of the prison start to fall away. Bigger parts give way, legs and wings and a tail sprouting from the shell! There's one final push and a green dragonet falls, free at last, to the sands.

Sugar, Spice and All Things Nice Green Dragonet
Vain-valiant is the herculean attempt to fill far reaches of roly-poly rounded rotundity with childish crayon scrawl - valiant indeed, but doomed from the start. It does not matter that her sails are foreshortened, her massive paws dainty and her tail impossibly truncated, see, when there is so much fullness of figure stretching every span of hide 'till she pudges and bulges and plumps! With chipmunk-cheeked charm do spiral curliques of color, managing meagre effects in light-lambent seafoam, as if the artist drifted off mid-creation, leaving her bratty in moonlit-silvered mint, an ambling paleness of pure sass.Attention to detail is only worked in loving shamrock about her eyes, rightly highlighting the innocence of this urchin child.

Koreiraj might finally be getting used to this Hatching business. As another egg hatches, the urge to throw up is no longer upon him. Shells, he's even almost smiling now. A hand wave of encouragement to the other candidates around him, though he still prefers to stay off to the side. It's safe there. One foot lifts up, than the other. Sweat starts the bead up around his brow line. This is a man who would kill for a handkerchief and some real pants on.

Diya is on the short side, too; she stands on her toes to see what's going on, using her grip on Nate's hand as an anchor to balance herself.

It's two browns and a green from the next shattering of eggs, two lumbering fellows who tower over a dainty sister. One brown wastes no time in picking himself a Weyrbred boy, but the second brown and the green hesitate for some moments before they simultaneously wobble damply up to the ginger-haired "lady" and her unexpected basketcase friend. Brown leaves with the lady, green with the basketcase.

May The Desert Bleach Your Bones Bronze Dragonet is DONE, okay, he is DONE, he is OUT OF HERE, he is — wait, wait, hold up. He may have been beginning to droop for a moment but NO MORE. He makes a beeline for a burly miner candidate, who puffs up with pride at the bronze's approach … and then scrambles quickly out of the way as he is unceremoniously shoved aside. No, no muscle-bound meathead for May The Desert Bleach Your Bones bronze but instead a small seacrafter; he comes to a skidding halt before Nathanael, covering the boy and his dark-haired companion with a spray of sand before bowing his head; the girl he ignores, for this, then, is his chosen avatar.

May The Desert Bleach Your Bones Bronze Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Nathanael, and steps forward.


Niyati blinks then goes wide eyed. "Kaiyth! Her name is Kaiyth! … and she wants to eat." She's not looking in Quentin's direction, so she doesn't mean him. "Of course, of course… food." Now she can move again, but she still looks completely blown over. Just not by all of this wind.


Quentin just stepped forward. Suddenly, there's a bronze in his face. One step back, then two - but no, the dragonet moves on, and he lets out an explosive sigh. "Oh shards," he gasps weakly - and then there's a green… but not his. "Niyati?" Wonderingly, he watches his first up-close Impression, and a broad smile breaks his face. "Oh! Cong-RAT-ulations!" So many dragons. So many distractions. He can't keep track of it all. Then - "NATE!"

Tuli has no pity for you, Quentin. BE A MAN. BE THE SACRIFICE. She's too busy hustling over to Niyati. "Oh, that's a pretty one. Funny how a nasty asshole like Khalyssrielth," who is RIGHT THERE, Tuli, "makes such cute babies. C'mon, then, you - there's food right this way - Kaiyth, you said? That's a pretty name."

Sugar, Spice and All Things Nice Green Dragonet doesn't even wait a moment for the goo upon her body to dry — as if it could even dry in all of this mired muck!! — before she's off. Zipping and zooming across the sloggy sands, barely giving consideration to any candidates that may be in her wake. Except for that redheaded lass, that Prymelia girl — she smells good enough to stop and sniff. At a distance. Warily. Are you my mother? No? Do you want to be?

Linden bounces a bit. Squelch, squelch, squelch. And then there's a BRONZE there. For a heart-stopping moment Linden thinks the dragon is for him, but no…no. He beams then, wide and bright, as he stumbles back. Another impression catches his attention, "Oh! Niyati! Congratulations!"

Koreiraj jerks as if he's been strung along by a different person, limbs and arms awkwardly shuffling on the sands. Uh, uh, uh. What to do? NOTHING TO DO BUT wretch. In the rain. This kinda sucks.

Nevik is a bit shocked by the coincidental impact of the lightning shock and the hatching of three dragons, but that was a mild mental speed bump when it comes to the green walking towards Niyati. Is that…hers? He doesn't want to cheer just yet - the last time he raised his voice on the sands it didn't turn out too well.

Out of the corner of his eye he spies the 'Snow Day' egg finally hatching and he is floored. Blue? Blue! Niyati's call draws him back with a whip-turn of his head, "Niyati!" he calls in congratulations.

And then suddenly there's a green right there, and Niyati is claimed. Dione blinks at the woman that had still been … and now Nate too! "Congratulations!" she calls out to both of them, face transforming to pure happiness regardless of the choking humidity and uncomfortable downpour.

A Hero For Tomorrow Blue Dragonet takes a moment after his shell releases him forth, to look about in dismay. What sort of world has he hatched into? A Hero for Tomorrow Blue Dragonet takes a sniff of himself and shakes his head, sending egg-goo flying. It's less than ideal for a hero's grand entrance but maybe he should have waited another day. He looks over to mother and father, but they're focused on other eggs, so he's going to have to figure this out for himself. So he steps forth, right foot forward, to find that one mind to match his; gainly beyond reason, the blue moves forth, wings fluttering in the wind and rain as he starts his search.

Prymelia offers Dione a warm smile when she joins herself and Niyati - Okay, so it wobbles around the edges a little - And then she shoots Quentin a quirked grin when he steps forward. Attaboy! To Dione of sacrificial victims: "He volunteered." Mmhm. And then not one but two impressions are made and things are suddenly starting to get real and finds the former trader stepping quickly to one side only to find herself all but pounced! With a squeak of alarm she freezes on the spot. "Uh….See now, I didn't eat this morning. Ain't got no meat on me. You may wanna try…" Desperately she starts to edge away glancing left and right for…someone…anyone?


Natahnael STARES at the dragon that just pushed his way through the miner and is now staring at him. "Tlazotezath." The name rolls off his tounge, as Nate, no N'tael reaches out to place a hand onto the bronze's head. "I. I ain't ne'er vanguished nothin' afore. 'cept fish. Ye sure 'bout that?"


Sugar, Spice and All Things Nice Green Dragonet SNORTS at Prymelia. You are no fun at ALL. At all. She doesn't matter ANYHOW, because this dargonet already has eyes for the prize; she already knows who she wants. In the mere moments it took her to break shell and get her feet under her, Sugar, Spice and All Things Nice Green Dragonet finds who she is looking for as she practically leaps onto and brings down one overly prim and proper candidate lad into the muck of the stormridden Sands. Standing with her front legs on his chest, the dragonet rams her head with much affection into the torso of none other than that one kid you know. The one who passed out a couple of days ago. That's right buddy, you are now TIED to a girl. For the rest of your LIFE.

Sugar, Spice and All Things Nice Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Koreiraj, and steps forward.

Kultir was watching that bronze rather closely though he saw the other hatchlings emerge too. His grin grows as the bronze pushes the miner aside and comes to a stop before his young friend, that grin growing as the ex Seacrafter Impresses that pale bronze. "Way to go, Nate! Congratulations!" Not a bit of jealousy in the young man, pleased his young friend has that reason to remain in the Weyr now. Attention returns to the dragonets wandering the Sands and shifts in those sucking sands.


As Koreiraj is lovingly knocked over and then head butted in the chest by an overenthusiastic green, his face has returned to a rather unhealthy ashen gray. A gulp, a gasp of air drawn in, as the young man wars between what is going on in his head and the fact his bum is slowly starting to burn. Finally the affections cease from the green dragonet enough that the candidate is able to get somewhat to his feet, one hand reaching down to lay atop the headknobs of the green. "Mei… Meichiioth?" It's not declared loudly, but said rather softly as the moment between rider and dragon occurs. A deep breath, eyes close for just a second, the realization that life won't ever be the same washes over him. Koreiraj gives a small smile, just for his little green. "Okay. Meichiioth… and… Ko'rei. …Ko'rei? Really? How about Raj'ei? Or K'raj. Or Ra'j." A sigh, a headshake. "Fine! Fine. FINE. Ko'rei is it." So starts the rest of his life. Being bossed around by a woman.


Linden whoops, with a wide grin, for his friend. "Congrats, Nathanael! He's awesome!"

"I CAN'T SEE A SHARDING THING IN ALL THIS WATER," wails a rainsoaked Igen boy, right before a plump green half tugs his robe off in her hurry to get his attention. Two of his comrades start to laugh at him, but not for long: there's a pair of blues heading their way, and, 1, 2, 3: Impression.

I Dare Ya Egg picks up the pace with its rocking and rolling, shaking free of the wet mound of sand it's been residing in. As it turns out, its peculiar shape is well-suited to speed: the commotion within sends the ovoid rolicking at breakneck pace across a patch of the Sands, raindrops splattering off its careening matte surface. It hits a rough patch that sends it spiraling, spinning in a new direction. And then, with a splintering crash, the egg ceases to be an egg at all: it busts wide open, depositing a sticky-wet occupant out on the Sands, tottering dizzily.

Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet
Sleek as a silhouette, this slender spacefarer, vainly heat-shielded and glowing exothermic: only through the smoke occluding can one spot defining features. Here, the shape of streamlined snout; there, the aerodynamic alignment of andalusite 'ridges. Catalytic heat licks at the solar-hulled lament of his narrowed chest until it glows rift-riddled in rubellite, a visual klaxon which glares in contrast through the shielding haze of mesospheric midnight. His orbit decayed, his undercarriage scorched, his is a hide clawed by an atmospheric drag augured in cinnabar; his are sly paws grimly patterned in inertia's end of fractured hessonite. Whole and hale he may be under the fire of his featured fissures, yet still does that uncontrolled velocity sweep, charging wings hypersonic and snapping smoked-topaz sails until crack-crazed cognac sunders to the shattered shrapnel of sharp-tipped spars. Skyflung shoulders bear the brunt of imagined impact in etched iron, ejecting a spallation of sepia which lies heavy across the lean muscle of haunch and deep coil of tail, rendering his mainframe strangely timeless.

Bailey smirks from the sidelines — even at Nate's impression. That's right. She's just smug. Always smug. And somewhat dry (thanks Khalyssrielth). But then… Ko'rei happens. "IS THAT THE MURDERER KID?" Okay, maybe she's a little bit of a bitch. But it's not a bad thing. Promise.

Diya reclaims her hand, clapping it over her mouth to stare as her best friend Impresses. She's cryi— no, it's just the rain, ignore the catch in her throat as she says, "Congratulations, Nathanael," all awestruck. Then scoots her soggy-sloggy way out of the way, and latches onto — Quentin, formerly menaced by Nate's lifemate, and also one of the few other candidates she recognizes on sight.

Quentin reaches out a hand towards Prymelia as the green approaches her - to shield? To shove her forward? Either is equally possible, but when the dragonet moves on to Koreiraj, he lets out yet another of those breaths of his and instead draws his hand back. Innocent. He wasn't doing anything, nope. "Grats!" Then, in a softer aside to Linden, "I had a bet he'd faint. Damn it. I needed those marks." Dragons! Impressions! So much to watch!

Tuli hustles and bustles her way across the damp Sands, happily (unlike the poor Candidates) equipped with all-terrain boots. "Tlazawhat now? Here, you two better come with me, he looks like he'll rip someone's heart out and eat it if you don't get him dinner."

A Hero For Tomorrow Blue Dragonet would love to look to his parents for a hint of direction but they're involved elsewhere, so he ignores them instead. Hah! He moves by a couple of girls on the Sands, sniffing them, but no, they are not right. They're swooners, for one (oh look, one just swooned onto wet sand, how useful), but A Hero for Tomorrow's muzzle lifts as the blue catches the scent of something. Someone. And like a rocket, he is off in one direction, a bee-line to one group of Candidates in white. Halt, citizens!

Linden laughs over at Quentin, giving him a nudge. "That was a stupid bet."

Yules stares as the pale bronze goes to pick Nathanael, a gleam in her eyes. Definitely just a gleam. Not a tear. NOPE. Desmeth will croon happily for the both of them.

Things are happening so quickly that Kultir barely has time to register anything. His grin slips as he realizes that his friends are all leaving with their new lifemates … again. He shakes his head and straightens his shoulders. If it's to happen, it'll happen and nothing can change that. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the newest guy that Bailey had accused of murder during their beach party impress a dainty green and lifts a hand in salute. "Hey, good job!" He doesn't recall the young man's name, unfortunately, but the guy probably doesn't even notice being absorbed by that little green.

Nathanael glances upwards at Tuli. "He ain't gonna be eatin' any'un's heart!" Though, N'tael does glance at the bronze dragonet. Maybe he would. No. A dragon wouldn't… would they? Right. Follow the goldrider. Off Tlazotezath and N'tael go.

Dione grimaces as she dances from foot to foot. Somehow, having it be cold and wet and hot and wet at the same time is a special level of torture, and her hair is somewhere between sulking and laying flat and standing up and frizzing like a stop sign. With her eyes big - the candidates she knows are getting picked off quickly, she scoots back towards Prymelia. "D'you think if they don't like the smell, they bite?" she half-teases. Then again, with this clutchmom one can't be sure!

A handsomely formed (albeit dripping) little brown hatches, but takes his time about finding himself a Candidate. He's too distracted by the dripping pair of greens who beeline by on their way to Impressing a pair of Weyrbred girls. Hello, ladies. A bold Candidate ventures up to distract him from his puppy love, and the pair soon depart the Sands together.

Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet shivers from nose to tail, muzzle pointing skywards, blinking at the rain that pelts down onto the Sands. Blinkety, blink-blink. Runnels of water cut through the egg-goo and leave tracks along his dark hide, branched and forked like the lightnings above. He lunges up to his feet, snapping at the rain. Bitey, bite-bite. Coming down, his forepaws land on a curve of shell which -of course- skitters right out from under him. He utters a querulous blat, faceted eyes going wide as his hind quarters deedle-eedle-eedle to keep up with his wildly careening front. Shell-bogganing. TOTALLY A THING. Broad wings flare and Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet's progress is ARRESTED. Whomp. The egg shard goes tumbling away and the brown… faceplants. No one saw that, right? No one, say, in white robes…

Tire d'Erable Egg is a soft shiver of susurration, fissures forming in the purity of snow-white perfection, the dark drizzle of honey'd maple seeming to melt in upon itself as a thousand tiny cracks are formed. From destruction comes creation: the brittle egg shells fall a million pieces surrounding the birth of twilight's dusk. Inescapably cute, the round face and even rounder haunches of a hue of blue so deep, so perfect that to touch it would break the heart. With a lash of fat little tail, twilight embodied waddles forth, breathed to life by the fires of creation.

Pele's Favoured Ka Le'ale'a Wai Blue Dragonet
Small and spindly, this dragon weaves himself in twilight, the furry velvet of dusk inking over his minute minutiae. A delicate, narrow head of dark sapphire is crested by nose and eyeridges lit silvery blue in moonlight that streaks up over gates of long headknobs and on to a short, slender neck that is blanketed by dark sky and trimmed by a waning moon. Over his back, stars dot and wink from each ridge of of his neck, skimming over wing spars that deepen into midnight's inky quiet and to a short tail spackled with stars to the split. Claws are tipped in the gold-and-violet farewell of a clear day, rays of light fading up his slender limbs, while wisps of horsetail clouds brush under overlarge wings. Over his narrow chest is the brilliant red and purple of day's end, a final star-burst that fades into a gentian blue of encroaching night.

Prymelia SAW that hand, Quentin. But she totally fell for the 'you were going to protect her' bit. Lucky you. There's a happy clap of hands and silly-sappy smile for Niyati, N'tael and Ko'rei. "That is always the best part." She states. "Almost makes all the months of drudgery worth it, aye? To see 'em pair up like that?" Dione gets a blink and then the former trader sends her a snicker. "We should've brought cookies for just in case."

If rumors are true, that one jock boy made the resident no-goodnik criminal kid cry during a shared punishment detail at the Ice Hold. Something about accusing him of lying about his awful family? They seem to be friends now, though: they're standing together, and seem to be enjoying themselves in the rainsoaked chaos. And then, as it happens, they're Impressing together, both to blues, with a third blue going to that one kid from the tiny Seahold in the middle of nowhere. Just ignore the jock's dad's shout of protest from the Galleries at his son failing to Impress bronze.

There is a posse of baby greens roaming the Sands, ladies and gentlemen. They're soaked and they're slimy, and they're so, so angry about that. So angry. They're out for blood, so hide your wives, hide your children, hide your Candidates. Or be dumb and go RIGHT UP TO ONE, like that Herder kid just did. Maybe fortunate favors the stupid, though: the green all but shrugs and decides to roll with it, and him, right on off the Sands. The other two greens take longer to find their matches, but they do, with minimal property destruction.

Niyati lets out a cheer for Nathanael once she's able to do so, though she's busy with her own insistent lifemate. Those other impressions are noted but she's having a hard time keeping up with it all.

A Hero For Tomorrow Blue Dragonet despairs for a moment, creeling his dismay, at finding his common man. So many white robes, a sign of innocence, but surely there's one that's whiter than them all! And then a sibling picks, and this Hero spots the one boy, shining brightly and maybe wetly, like a beacon of hope among the other Candidates, and moves quickly, bounding awkwardly to arrive, butting his wedge head against knobbly knees, then peering up into a pale face, crooning.

Ebben seems to be stricken dumb with all the chaos and barely seen hatchlings wandering the Sands. All he can seem to do is shuffle his feet a little and clutch at the edge of Kultir's sleeve before realizing what he's doing and releasing the fabric to stand on his own.

Quentin shakes his head, dashing water from his eyes and probably coating his nearest neighbors in the spray from that curly mop of his. "What? Last time I saw him confronted by somethin', he planted himself on the ground. It was a fair enough bet." And he doesn't seem that upset at having lost, given the nervous smile hovering at the edges of his lips. Deep breaths. "You know, now I know why T'ral was laughing at me for complainin' about being able t' swim in the air." Yes, his accent is there. He's in the middle of dragons. Don't judge him! "This is air for swimmin'!"

A Hero For Tomorrow Blue Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Nevik, and steps forward.

Linden grins wide, peering all around him as the eggs begin to hatch. Bouncing as best he can in the water and the sand, his gaze is drawn to the twilight blue and he can only stare for a moment, captivated, before he keeps his attention on everything else.

Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet lurches to his feet, shaking himself again, burnt brown-black chest puffed out. If he plays it cool, no one will remember that faceplant. Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet saunters forward, cool as you please. Cocky swagger writ in his long lines and the arrogant cant of his egg-be-gooed mug, he slinks past the rows of soggy Candidates. Nope. Nope. Nope. DEFINITELY NOT. Nope. Uh… Nope. Wow. Who let THAT yahoo in? Sheeze. Dropping his butt to the Sands, Breaking Up On Reentry parks it. Nope. New Candidates. A whole new batch, please. He rears up on his hind quarters, standing tiptoe, he's loooong and those wings are wide! Fanning sails send rain sideways. Are there better Candidates over there? He looks left. Maybe over there? He looks right. He drops to his forepaws with a grunt. All that waiting. All that waiting… for THIS? Could he get those shell bits back together? Wait for the next Hatching?

Pele's Favoured Ka Le'ale'a Wai Blue Dragonet has arrived, so let the fun begin! And even the skies have opened up to greet him! Unlike even most of the Candidates, Pele's Favoured Ka Le'ale'a Wai Blue dragonet spreads his wings to take as much cleaning power as the winds will favor him! Surf is definitely not up, but this little blue is still enjoying himself! Still, there's business to attend to, the matter of his stomach. A step forward and this fat-bottomed blue finds himself swimming in wet sand, nose first. Wheee!

T'ral's eyes are positively glowing as he directs the wobbly new pairs to where they can get their new 'mates fed.

Kultir watches that blue stalk closer and glances at his friends, a slow grin pulling his lips upward as he watches the blue turn toward Nevik. "Yes! Way to go, Nevik! Congrats, man!" Yes, he's excited for his friend, how can he be otherwise?

Dione, reaching up to wipe her face clean, grumbles. "We should have brought booze," she announces. Only not too loudly, in case any of the riders are still feeling fractious. "It's not fair they get to drink." You know, legitimately. Still, as another… "Whoa, is that Nevik? Wow, congrats!" she calls out happily. Perhaps the blue can keep him out of the numbweed now. "Kultir! Come stand over here with us!"


Nevik catches sight of Nate being found by a Bronze and then another candidate is 'found' by a dragon. Occasionally shifting his weight from foot to foot in the rain-slogged sand has somehow robbed him of one of his sandals. Not that he would notice right now as his friends, some known fairly well and others only partially, are starting to walk away with new life-mates. The sound of a dragon calling his name, his new name, almost knocks him to his knees. "Nivanth!" He all but yells as both an announcement of joy and triumph.


Bailey crinkles her brow at the ramblings of that brown, and eyes the blues. She edges closer to Yules: "They are starting to clear out." Indeed, most of the eggs are rocking at this point, and this manic-panic hatching of stormy proportion is starting to reach the frenzied peak.

One little blue has been helplessly searching for his perfect partner for some minutes, creeling miserably. He is WET. He is HUNGRY. He is DONE with this. You know what? Screw it. SCREW IT. You, big dumb Holder boy, you can either GET him dinner or BE dinner. Elsewhere, another blue manages to find his Candidate right out of the egg, and a green performs the same feat a half-minute later. Some dragons just have all the luck.

Hannah stands huddled into a nice little wet ball. Don't mind her, she's just a drowned feline over here. Somewhere, there's a Th'seus rambling about. Somewhere, there's a Weyrleader rambling about. For now? She watches the eggs hatch, and does move closer to tug on someone's sleeve. "That one?" Cue surprise at one of the impressions. Maybe it's the sickly looking one or something. "Iiiiinteresting." Because it is, interesting, indeed.

Quentin's blue eyes flash around, watching dragonets, Candidates, eggs. A smirk crosses his lips, and he chokes back inappropriate laughter into a cough at the brown. "He's a character," he murmurs to Linden, snickering. "Look a' th' attitude on him. Bet he's yours." And just what is Quinn saying about his friend? As Nevik Impresses, he lets out a whoop, pumping his fist in congratulations.

Linden laughs, pushing a hand over his short hair, shedding sweat and water with it as he shakes it onto the ground. Watching, his eyes drifting back again to that fat little blue, laughing at his fall. "Whoops." Then his attention shifts to the brown. "Yeah? You think?"

Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet grumps. Yeah, you heard him. He GRUMPS. It's pissing rain. He's sticky, and gritty, and hungry and there's no one, but no one on the Sands that's even a little interesti- Wait. Wait. Waitwaitwait. Is… who's that? Shaking himself, Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet takes a step forward to a jagged slash of lightning and thunderous rumble overhead. Then another. And another. Another-nother-nother until he's bounding. BOUNDING through the rain and shells and wobbly dragonets and Candidates purposefully, aimed directly at a damp young ex-herder with miserable sodden curls. It's him. The One. At ramming speed, Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet beelines for Quentin. Brace for impact!

Breaking Up On Reentry Brown Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Quentin, and steps forward.

Yules spots Bailey moving over and offers a so-not-teary grin, "They are making strong impressions, despite this weather." Desmeth continues humming to welcome his children in the background, but as a couple of blues impress, the wingleader coughs. "Strong impressions indeed."

Kultir hears his name called and glances around curiously. He edges toward the the one group of Candidates, seeming to think they won't get as wet if they cluster together? "Hey. Wondered where you all went to. Got kinda busy, eh?" His gaze sweeps the sands and nods toward the brown. "Wonder who he's looking for? Looks like he can't find the one he's …" He stops in shock and blinks. "Quentin! Yes, way to go, man!"

Pele's Favoured Ka Le'ale'a Wai Blue Dragonet has slowly righted himself - made a bit easier because his bum just naturally sinks to the ground. A little shake of his head to throw some sand off his nose, and the little cheerfully chubby blue is off to do his thing - that being find the right person to join in the fun! A few candidates here, but they're too serious. Another candidate is passed; so innocently, he sneezes on her. Sowwy! The search goes on, and even the shine of this game is starting to pale. It is time to find that one, shining mind!

Niyati cheers, startling the green she's been trying to teach moderation in meat to. "Nevik! I told you!" But then she's back to trying to get her own lifemate to slow down a little on the gluttony. "Quentin!" A headbutt to her midsection urges her to attention back again.

Three green hatchlings. All of different size and build, but all eyes whirling with hunger and distress. That's SIX EYES of DISTRESS. WHO decided today would be a good day to hatch? One bugles angrily, the second croons anxiously, and the third chirps happily as she pushes her head against the back of a lanky boy's knees. The second follows suit, but this time, butts her chosen, shorter boy, right in the crotch, and then she's crooning with distress and hunger. And the angry one? She takes a few minutes more to find a dark-haired girl who is looking very uncertain about the angry green coming at her, until her expression changes to a happy smile.

Linden has to step back again when the brown approaches, his grin wide but wavering /just/ a tad. So many friends have impressed and yet…and yet. He glances up into the galleries again, searching.

Prymelia utters a quiet chuckle for Dione's comment. "You're the barmaid. You should have stitched a booze pocket into your robe." By this point, with all that rain coming down, her robe has become plastered to her body and she's given up on trying to swipe water from her face, so that when Quentin is claimed she's left blinking for a bit when he's quite literally bowled over and then cringes. "Damn. That had to hurt." A quick wave of hand motions Quentin and Linden closer - group huddle!

Let It Go Egg shifts in the sands, a tremor rapturing over the frost-rimed shell; there is life within, held prisoner to the antiquated standards of yesterday. The inhabitant will not bear these shackles much longer… the soul within seeks to be free to dance upon the Sands, of Southern and of time alike; this soul was never meant to be fettered. A sharp crack fogs the crystalline clarity of the shell's repose, and in the shards that shower outward, only freedom incarnate in a stout-standing dragonet of graceful green remains.

Drinker of the Desert Winds Green Dragonet
How lovely is the celadon silk of her peerless hide, glowing with good health and effortless grace; how elegant the sweep of steadfast stature, soft and solid and strong. Broad be her base and considerately endowed her chest, the deep wellspring of her femininity echoing in the graceful curves of high-arching neckridges, the measured drape of marbled wingsails fitted with the warm adornments of aged-ivory wingspars, the courtly camber of wide-hewn paws similarly accoutred. She is not without nuance, for there is an opulent refinement to the cast of fine features; t'is simply that she is as bold as the striation of jeweled emerald among the milky jade of her hide, exposing stippled fault-lines as carelessly as the charming dapples of her fearless fortitude.


Quentin smirks at Linden and shrugs. "How should I know? Even they," and he jerks a head towards the assembled dragonriders, "don't know who's gonna Impress, much less what. But, he's…" Right. There. Trailing off, the boy makes like a fish in the watery air, jaw gaped, too shocked to dodge, and suddenly *WHAM*! Impact on body, impact on mind - even as he goes falling to the Sands with a chestful of brown, he's laughing in delight. "Ger-OFF, Khozyvraith! I can't get you food if you're crushing me!"


Diya is losing compatriots left and right at this rate; she doesn't look for anyone else to hand-clasp, but clamps both hands around the sodden weight of her curly hair and squeezes. The squeegy-ing does little, as the rain keeps coming right on down.

Pele's Favoured Ka Le'ale'a Wai Blue Dragonet rears back on his hind legs, wings beating as if to clap them together excitedly. So exciting, he starts to move again, looking, sniffing, searching through the Candidates. Oooh, what's this? Whassat? Soooo neat, but not quite what he's looking for. Hmm. And then, the scent is caught and it smells of home. Pele's Favoured Ka Le'ale'a Wai Blue dragon starts to bound and pounce along, knocking at least one incautious Candidate aside, to blunder to the feet of just the right, long-limbed candidate, a tumble of limbs and wings and tail and things, yet not toucing any other candidate. Tadah! It ends with a boy and his dragon, the latter looking up from the former's feet. O hai?

Pele's Favoured Ka Le'ale'a Wai Blue Dragonet turns his jewel faceted eyes toward Linden, and steps forward.

Ebben moves along with Kultir to that knot of the more feminine Candidates that they've come to know fairly well. His eyes sweep as much of the soggy sands as he can see, his eyes brightening at the sight of the three greens, wincing when one of the other boys get's butted where it had to have hurt.

Nevik walks big blue hero over towards where the meat has been gathered for the newly hatched dragons and help him grab a few mouthfulls. Eagerly stroking the side of the creature's neck he peers over it to Niyati and is smiling so much his face should probably hurt for a day. Soaked, he offers the woman a thumbs-up and turns to see how the others have done.

Dione is laughing helplessly as she tries to keep her eyes clean and free of blurry water. "I…whoops!" She too has to sidestep that dragonet inbound for Quentin, but grimaces as her robe's bottom edge gets hit with slurry-spray from an overzealous sandal. "There is no such thing as a booze pocket. I could sneeze through this, as nice as Niya was to show me how to sew it. "Ooh, would you look at that green?" Rapt, just for a second, an then Linden's taken from them as well. "Linden, congraaats!"

ALMOST LAST but never LEAST. A green who has been searching for a whole five minutes, FIVE minutes, mind, imperiously steps up to a gawky boy, creeling angrily. Where the Shell have you been? It's wet, it's cold and she's HUNGRY!! Feed me, S'ymour! And then there's a robust-looking blue dragonet who has draaaaagged himself out of the remains of his shell, draaaaags himself over to where a group of Candidates cluster and then… sits there. Staring at them. His head sways back and forth, eyeing their hopeful little hands clutched to their hopeful little chests. And then the blue wanders off, to go Impress to a short red-head girl. So few unhatched eggs remain. Two of 'em, specifically.

Bailey stares hard at those two eggs as if they contain all the secrets to every mystery in the world. Her eyes clear and she POINTS at Khalyssrielth: her voice is loud even over all the impressions. "I TOLD YOU IT WAS A DUD." Maybe the other one is, too. Or is that a little rock to it? Does it move just slightly?

Kultir watches the green at the edge of his vision and follows the little beast as it traipses over to Linden, a wide grin pulling his lips upward again. "Way to go, Linden! Congrats, man!"

Khalyssrielth knows not what her hellspawn of a lifemate thinks. With a swift footed gesture, there is only ONE egg on the sands. Did that ice queen just SIT on her own egg? Nothing to see here. CARRY ON.

Valkyrie's Passage Egg is a brilliant wash of colors, eternally cold in a moment's quick transience: for fleeting it is, this egg remaining whole and hale. The fragility of life itself shows in that critical moment; for every birth there must be a death, the pick of every possibility the ending of another. One possibility ends, and in the shards of ice brilliance stands only the charred remains of the choice made, the eventuality that exists in this timeline: a fire long burnt out, and he who remains.

The Blade-Burnt Bronze Dragonet
In darkness forged and in darkness kept, thus fettered is this son of Southern: judge ye his tarnished chains of antiqued brass and ageworn bronze! Held prisoner by the ravages of ancient fire, the hollow wreckage of his hide shackles him as a night without moonlight, burnt-black the blade of his tail and soot-scorched the sinew of his shoulders. Captive werelight sallows harsh-edged cheeks and licks brackish lichen against blunt headknobs, an absinthium hue which dims to cower in the shadows cast by low-slung neckridges. Massive he towers, mighty and midnight-bleak! Yet despite slag and cinder and the binding of wrought-iron wingspars, hope wells underneath a drab cloak: blessed benediction gilds the belly of broad wings with the subdued shimmer of sunlit sails.

Tuli pauses in escorting that little greenling off the Sands to… whistle. Her eyebrows lift. "Harsh, Khaly. Harsh." She barely notices the bronze hatch, in her distraction.


Linden blinks in startled surprise when the blue appears before him. Slowly, a hand reaches out as if in a dream to touch that dark muzzle, to run fingers over his soft, wet hide. He can't keep the /grin/ from his face, so wide it's almost painful but he doesn't notice. He bounces, up and down, literally hopping there on the sands and making a rather un-manly EEEEEEE sound before arms swing around the tiny dragon. And…he picks him up. Briefly, but he's so TINY. Then he puts him down and grins, beams at the galleries. "His name is Vindryth!" Then he bounds after the others, tiny Vindryth bounding after him, chittering happily.



Niyati tilts her head, looking caught between humor and … well, being completely damn disturbed, honestly. "Did she….?

Prymelia is just about to pass a comment back to Dione when yet another from their dwindling grouping is claimed. "Congrats, Linden!" Or whatever his new name now is. She'll figure that out later. Back to Dione, "You could earn a fortune if you could figure out how to make a booze pocket. With a sort of reed thing to sip from…Oh…" the whirligig of dragonets with the emergence of that stately green distracts. "She's quite the madam isn't she?"

Dione has a moment, a bare moment, when she can see golden butt wiggling, and then there's nothing where there was something and the impact gets her right in the chest. It cuts down, takes away, subtracts hopes, subtracts everything to the point where she's left blinking at the bronze that comes out. There's math happening in her head, wild and desperate hope, as slowly her head turns to look towards Prymelia and Kultir. Then, bronze, and no more eggs, and that awful math again.

Drinker of the Desert Winds Green Dragonet dares not shake the goo from her body when she takes her first, wobbling step forward, driven by instinctual purpose embodied in the stout grace of regal intent. A few wing twitches are all she allows as a sin against decorum, goo elegantly flung from the wingspars even as rain slants around her. She is the lady in the rain, talons digging into the hissing sands of Southern, the bottomless well of dry thirst unmatched by the storm that rages around. A glimmer has her head whipping to the right; an oasis sought, perhaps, in the midst of the barbaric hedonism the storm offers. The first steps forward, to the draw of a soul that yearns, are awkward as she works to move limbs of a body changed, formed, freed from it's shell. Stumbling, Drinker of the Desert Winds Green Dragonet barely catches herself before falling to the muzzle of her pretty snout in social disgrace. Luckily, the storm provides excellent cover.

Kultir sighs softly as his friends slowly lead their new lifemates off the sands to be fed, his eyes following them with a lingering smile and knows he won't make the same mistake this time. His gaze turns back to that solitary egg and gasps as a bronze bursts out just as he'd looked back at it. The ex-hunter admires the barely seen dragonet, the colors so dark against the gloom of the stormy day.

In all of this is K'ane, helping shuffle and beaming ridiculously at all of the passing impressions. He's also wearing The Sweater despite the heat. It clings to him and looks AWFUL.

Alright, even the straight-faced Yules BLANCHES. "What … Did…" Yup. The Finder of the Dead is horrified. Good job. Wide-eyed, she stares at Bailey.

Bailey stares straight ahead. "Oh look, Yules! That bronze is excellent, isn't he? And that green, lovely." SHE DIDN'T SEE ANYTHING. But she's struggling to keep a straight face.

Diya says, "Oh," delicately, and clasps a hand over her mouth and stares, just a little bit.

K'ane does not smell like wet dog, Arianne. He smells like wet runner. Very different.

Prymelia having caught movement from the corner of her eye almost chokes when Khaly sits her butt down on… "Faranth's arse!! Did you see…" Wildly she casts about, eyeballs Bailey and then Yules. "That's just…." You did it, Khaly, Prymelia is SPEECHLESS. For now.

Dare Hannah shift forward to sniff K'ane?

"I'm honestly surprised she didn't just eat it." Tuli has left off playing AWLM - what, most of them are off the Sands already, there's no need - and hotfooted over to pop up by Bailey and Hannah. She's shooting the clutchdam a look of wary fascination.

You overhear Bailey mutter, "You're … … have … clean … … … … … it." to Yules.

Khalyssrielth sits on her non-prize like the fattest faerie cat ever, hiding her prize. Seriously people. There was no extra egg. THE STORM made you see things!

K'ane didn't see anything either. Except: "Did she just sit on that egg?" Sorry guys he is SLOW okay.

The Blade-Burnt Bronze Dragonet rolls forwards with a motion that is at first rough and tentative, then progresses into… rough and not-tentative. No, there isn't anything questionable about how each paw sinks solid into the unusually bogged Sands; not anything less than completely sure in regard to the arch of his neck or the whirl of his eyes. He assesses boys on the move, dropping his head now and then to sniff closer to the line, but otherwise he prowls graceless through the last bit of wreckage of the storm, seemingly more interested in setting these weak specimens left for the sniffing on fire rather than bond to any of them. All the ones he has seen are so weak. But why are all the good ones gone?

Kultir watches the little green and the sturdy bronze as they prowl the sands looking for their bonds, his heart hammering in his chest and the blood pounding in his ears drowning out even the thunder and pouring rain. Swallowing hard, he can't keep his eyes from the bronze though his gaze does flick around once in a while to be sure he's not in the way of the other lumbering dragonets.

Drinker of the Desert Winds Green Dragonet gathers the awkward length of coltish limbs beneath her, struggling to right her body in the winds that howl and the rain that drives in sluices down the curves and contours of her body. The yearning call of the one is a inescapable tug that the green cannot avoid. A white robed thing is brushed into, talons catching on fabric before she's free, though no blood spilled. The propriety of her manners force her to snort at the one she's run into, blowing rain water at them from the gusto of her apology. It's time to turn, to trace her tracks down the line of offerings: there is only one for whom her heart yearns. The heat within gathers, melting reserve and propriety as bones and sinew struggle to express that joy with limbs too awkward to be called graceful. A fire burns within, calling to a like minded fire. Beware, she comes.

You overhear Yules mutter, "Oh no, … done … … here. … Headman … … some idea … … situation…" to Bailey.

Osweith is up amongst the watching dragons, up quite a ways in fact. Yet his yowl of CONFIRMED SUSPICION is quite audible down on the Sands. He saw that, gold. He knows that wasn't an egg! It was a plant! A plant by the bronzes! A spy! It's a BRONZE BROTHERHOOD PLOT HE KNOWS IT. (He knows it.)

You overhear Bailey mutter, "That … … you THINK. … … the … … the … … are totally YOUR …" to Yules.

Linden sits on the edge of the sands, feeding Vindryth, and cuddling him in his lap. CUDDLE.

Dione ignores the bronze that roams about. Girl-parts. It's not. Her mind is hitching, just as her breath is hitching and her facial expression is smoothing out into nothingness underneath the pouring rain. "Prymelia," she says very, very clearly, caring more for the woman than for the other candidates still loitering about as well, the other hopeful girls and boys and men and women. "Prymelia, good luck," she continues, and reaches out to squeeze the woman's hand. "I reckon whoever gets her will need a booze pocket, yeah?"

Bailey is starting to look impatient, staring after the last dragonets as if could they be any slower. She has a horrible lifemate to PR for and this does not make it easier.
Khalyssrielth grinds her butt into the sands, as if to just prove Bailey's point. Feets tuck in. That rock-thing is hers.

Prymelia reaches for Dione's hand and sidles closer to Kultir. He's a big guy, maybe he'll provide shelter from the rain? Probably not but worth a try. Uneasily she tracks the prowling of that green dragon and squeezes the other redhead's hand if she's managed to grab it. "Likewise. But I'm going to need a drink after this. A BIG one!" Because beneath that seemingly nonchalant exterior, her heart is fit to bust out of mouth. "And then a long soak in the bathing pools and THEN…another drink."

Drinker of the Desert Winds Green Dragonet has reached the end of the line, the sultry grace that hums through awkward limbs weaving her to the one who stands free. A shining fall of dark hair matted with rain and tangled in the lash of the storm. The green pauses, holding herself ever so correctly to prevent the further embarrassment of falling to the feet of the one who sang to her of dreams. Despite the rain, the wind, the lash of lightning and the howl of thunder, between her and her Chosen, there is only the sanctum sanctorum of a moment shared on a bed of diamonds. A low croon of acceptance, a higher susurration of sound that echoes as a soft sigh of finally. In the midst of the tempest of the storm, the hot-blooded Drinker of the Desert Winds Green Dragonet has found the soul she yearns for, and only in that finding does she finally tip forward on legs too weak and presses her nose into the soft belly of the dark-haired girl.

Drinker of the Desert Winds Green Dragonet turns her jewel faceted eyes toward Prymelia, and steps forward.

Dione will never again let it be said that she doesn't have an inkling of what the future holds. She's already dropping Prymelia's hand again even before the green shows up there to claim her - really, who could appreciate such a creature but Prymelia? She has to swallow down enough broken hope that she almost misses Kultir's Impression - "Congratulations!" - and she's free to begin the saddest walk off the sands.

Bailey steps forwards, clearing her throat before the last chosen have even finished recovering from the shock of a mind against their own. To the assembled crowd left, dejected: "Your lifemates just weren't out here, this time." She does NOT look at Khaly's ass during this statement. "On the upside, the first round of whiskey is on me." And then she is firmly walking out to guide Dione particularly off the sands, bending to talk quietly with the bartender as they go. Redheads, you know. They have to stick together.


Kultir is stunned to silence, which is saying something for the normally reserved young man. He reaches out to caress those stubby headknobs as a grin seems to want to break his face. "Bryntaeroth. Oh, you're beautiful. Yes … and ferocious, I'm sure. C'mon .. let's get you some food." He smiles at his friends and nods a bit sadly at those he has to leave as he leads his bronze from the sands.


Prymelia starts to take a step backward, ready to run if necessary if the green tipping toward her decides to take a bite but then she goes completely still, hazel eyes widen and the former trader sags in on herself at that gentle touch of snout to her belly. " Issaeryth…" So soft the whisper. Tremulous, unbelieving. Awestruck. Eyes well up and all masks are stripped away and with a sob she flings her arms about that sturdy neck as if welcoming home a long lost love.


As Kultir bonds with the terrifying beast stalking towards them, Ebben appears to go slightly limp, loosing his fear for a moment as he grins towards the hunter. "Good for you, mate." Is muttered quietly as he watches Kultir embark on this new phase of what is sure to be an interesting life.

From above, there is an unmistakeble trumpet of sound: that would be Dhioth and his JOY shouted to the heavens. He's not going to say 'I told you so', but. Justification man. It is awesome.

Diya has heard that particular speech, in all its iterations, many times before — so yeah, her face is a bit wet from not-rain, and she has to scrub her cheeks for a moment before she starts her trek off the sloggy Sands … but she's started grinning, just a little, by the time she reaches their edge.

And with the last impressions, Yules manages to stop whispering at Bailey and stares about. When did this happen? "Well then," she says. Desmeth is already slowly lurching to his feet, nuzzling his rider while they watch the Candidates and young Weyrlings file away.

As the last egg cracks and finds itself tied to some lucky (or not so lucky, depending on how you look at it) candidate, Ebben stops hopping and looks around at the rest of the class left standing. There's a slew of emotion on each face, and Ebben reflects his own with as much dignity as he can. There's certainly relief there, and a bit of bitterness. But the healer shrugs, and claps a fellow candidate on the back as they head of the sands and towards the feast to congratulate the Weyr's new weyrlings with as much good sportsmanship as they can muster. "Hey, if it matters," Ebben says to the miner currently walking out with him, who's shoulders are slumped in defeat, "at least we may live a little longer than our adventure-bound compatriots, eh?"

As the last of her babies hatch and find their lifemates, Khalyssrielth does not budge from her place on the sands. She will not budge until the last of the onlookers, candidates, riders, and weyrfolk are gone. Whatever happens next will be done with Bailey and Bailey alone; not even Desmeth will be allowed to see, because there's nothing to see… see? As the final shells lie crumbled in the soup of the storm-lashed sands, Bailey can be heard directing the remaining Candidates to follow her as she'll take a moment to explain what happens next. To the gathered crowd, the junior weyrwoman announces, "A party in the living caverns! Come drink and be merry out of the storm!" And then everyone files away, until there is only the echo, the memory of the hatching itself.

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