Dinah, Ephrem, F'in, G'deon, Kebra, Lyllian, Zisiene


A collection of candidates gets to experience the pain and pleasure of touching a dragon's unborn spawn's housing.


It is evening of the nineteenth day of the fifth month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.


Sands, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 15 Mar 2016 06:00


dinah_default.jpg ephrem_default.jpg f-in_default.jpg Gid14.png kebra_default.jpg lyllian_default.jpg zisiene_default.jpg

Emits to Kebra and Lyllian written by F'in.
Emits to Dinah, Ephrem, and Zisiene written by G'deon.



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.

Timor: moon4.jpg Belior: moon3.jpg

Dinner has started to wind down in the rest of the Weyr, which is a good time to rustle up some mind fodder for these young, impressional egg things. And so it is that G'deon, along with a skeleton crew of very non-knife-weilding, non-toga-wearing weyrfolk and riders, escort a knot of candidates onto the edge of the sands. "Now, you've already been briefed on the rules, so be good sports and show your respect to the clutchparents, then make your approach," the old rider instructs, shepherding them forward.

Kebra is one such rounded up Candidate. His steps onto the Sands are hesitant but, as always, respectful. He dutifully bows before the clutchparents before side-stepping them and moving toward the corner of the clutch. There's an egg or two in particular which gain a wary eye, as if Kebra were fearful they might spring legs and chase after him. When all is said and done, and his steps come to a stop, they're before the If I Fits I Sits Egg. Innocuous for the win!

One of those candidates is Zisiene. She bows to the clutch parents before she moves towards the eggs, this one Melancholy Moon Egg looks interesting a hand is gently placed on the side of the ovoid in question. What's supposed to happen?

Aaaand she's back, with her ladylike bows and her suspicious eyes; this time, it's G'deon that's decided to tor - er, introduce her to those fabulous eggs. And so, with resignation, Dinah will bow to the clutchparents and sidle up to the Chocolate Rain egg, bracing herself for such a lovely trip.

Ephrem had had this conversation with Nasrin. Who in the world would want to touch eggs? The words 'they come from dragon butts!' had actually been spoken with anything but the greatest sense of revere. Yet, here he is now, at the edge of the sands, looking mighty uncomfortable. Its not the heat, though that is remarkably stifling, just one step below changing these butt-bombs into hard-boiled. He looks to G'deon and, somewhat less enthusiastically then some of his fellow candidates, bows and toes his way onto the sands. He chooses a doozy of an egg for his first encounter, a little frown given. Why was he doing this again? Why do his fingers trace along the top of Sealed Evil in a Jar Egg?

Lyllian gives a smile towards G'deon and carefully steps onto the sands, mindful to keep her distance from any eggs until she approaches the clutch parents. She respectfully bows towards each dragon in turn, ensuring not to rush the action so as to not offend. And then, she takes in a deep breath. The dragons weren't intimidating, but the eggs are. They are the new experience. She makes her way over towards the EHRMAHGERD Egg and gently rests her hand upon it.

F'in tucks in his hammock and rolls out of it landing on all fours, a move smooth and dangerous spoiled only slightly (ha) by the crown of wilted flowers on his brow. He straightens and walks forward to meet the candidates. "Where are your flowers." Rhakanth rumbles menacingly, he is woven in and among the eggs, the candidates may find that they have to step over him in some parts. The bronzerider does not look pleased.

To Kebra: Innocuous, yes. Yes. Come. Come, Candidate. The surface is gloss smooth and crisp, a lacquer almost soft under the fingertips, pleasing and strangely cool. Beckoning. Closer. How close. There's something that you can know if you just get closer… closer. Squeezing siezes your chest. Heavy. Tight. Constricting. Bound. Hard to move. Breathe. Stars sparkle on the edge of vision. Closing in, tighter. Tighter and then… Nothing.

To Zisiene: At first, the shell of the egg feels cool to the touch. Perhaps too cool, really. Aren't they supposed to stay warm on the sands? After a brief pause, however, it becomes clear that what you feel and what you think you feel are very different indeed. When the coolness doesn't work, it's replaced by a magnetic push, the mind inside sliding from side to side, either trying to keep to itself, or just trying to find the right side that sticks.

To Dinah: A bubbling, sticky, sickly sweet essence seeps into the base of your mind, taking up its brief and temporary residence while your fingers remain in contact with the shell. Something seems to want to force you to keep your hand right where it is, gluing it into place with a subtle pressure in just the right spot. There is nothing particularly good or bad about this presence. It's just not done with you yet. Just a little longer…. Then, when it's gotten what it wanted, the presence recedes with dizzying speed, leaving you to stand there with your hand on an egg.


To Ephrem: At first, nothing happens. Absolutely nothing at all. Except… is that a prickling along your scalp? Has your hair begun to rise? Is that a monster under the bed? A ghost behind the closet door? A vampire at the nape of your neck??! Oh… no, it's just a tiny developing mind trying to see what's inside yours, Ain't no big deal. Just picking, picking, peeking, pulling… Just wanna look in there.

Are Dinah's finger's stuck in the mire? Yes, they are. Slowly, she reclaims her fingers and sidles quite far away from that icky, icky presence. Perhaps she can wash away that muddy essence with An Internet of Cats egg. Furry creatures, and all.

Zisiene pulls her hand away with a slightly puzzled look. That was an odd sensation and Zisiene moves away with a thoughtful look as she scans the eggs to see which one draws her attention next? Philosoraptor Egg catches her eye, again she looks the egg over as she places a hand gently against the side of the egg with a nervous look around at the other candidates and G'deon. She's not even sure this is a good idea, but here goes anyway.

Shards and shells… if Kebra were the kind to swear, it'd be those very words he utters. As it is, there's a tight gasp and a panicked widening of his eyes. He snatches his hand away from the egg and backs slowly away - ever mindful of a tail that might be somewhere behind him or near him to where he next flees. Somewhere… somewhere, there /has/ to be a safe choice, no? I Has A Corm Egg it is. Kebra most tentatively dances fingers across the surface, his expression a wary one.

OH MER FERENTH! Lyllian's hand remains for longer than it perhaps should have, and it immediately moves to her chest, holding her heart for a moment. Panic? Excitement? Perhaps both? Of course, she was too busy with all these sensations to hear or acknowledge F'in's question regarding flowers. She backs away from that egg carefully, but mindful of her surroundings and moves to the next closest egg. A gentle touch is applied to the Unhappy Feline egg.

It is perhaps the clutchdam's vengeance, all these strange sensations, for the lack of appropriate offering to step upon Her Sands.

Ephrem is all of a sudden looking over his shoulder, and as quickly looking back down to the egg, and /staring/. Whether its fabricated or reality, it feels like all the hair on his arms an the back of his neck is standing at attention. A few more seconds pass and the boy quickly pulls hs fingers away from the egg. He'd heard rumours, but he hadn't been expecting /that/! After all, how can one 'expect' something digging around in your skull where it has no good right to be?? He shudders, stepping back from the egg and ..bumping into a tail? Well, that teaches the big bronze's body parts for being convieniently in the way! Ephrem miracuously doesn't trip and fall, but he does erp, arms pinwheeling for a second before his balance is caught. Pale. He's quite pale under his tan. Oh, he's getting away from this egg, and that dragon, as fast as possible. (Which means, as clipped a walk as the rules permit.). Looking around uneasily, he pauses for a second, leaning a hand on the Fight for your right to Library egg. Really, he's just resting, recovering, don't mind him.

To Dinah: Unlike the first egg's gooey grabbiness, this one is so warm and inviting that it seems so cosy. So enticing. So safe. And yet, there's something… sharp about this presence. Oh yes, come closer. Yesssss, your hand right THAR, oh that's so nice. So very… very… OKAY DONE NOW! And with something so like a supercharged static shock that it seems there should be white marks on your hands, there's a hissing sound in your head and a raking of something across… well, everything. That's enough touching.

To Lyllian: This egg is not here for your amusement. Or for snuggly cuddlings. Did its appearance not warn you away? Pity. Scorn sears your bones. Could you possibly have deemed yourself worthy of this egg? There's a dizzying twist of derision that swirls through the mind, sends thoughts and memories scattering. Every happy moment, scratched and shredded, shattered until all that's left is shards and anger and… a deep, hot sense of righteousness satisfaction.

To Zisiene: For as long as your skin makes contact with this shell's hardening surface, there are pops and fizzes along the outside of your mind, tickling and teasing as it tests the waters to see what you're made of. Then colours begin to fade in and out, more the haze of an idea of colour than anything distinct. But does that make it any less substantial? What is substance, really? Is it an objective thing, or does it depend on the mind? Who decides?

To Kebra: It's a little thing this egg, sitting sweet there in the Sand. And something happy and pure bubbling up through your fingertips as you touch it. What is the smallest good thing that happened to you? Did someone not take the slice of bread you wanted from the basket at meal? Or did you see a cloud that looked like a shipfish? Did a stranger on the street smile? It is impossible to be sad with so many blessings. Impossible. Happiness is everywhere if only you can reach out and touch it. It's right there. Touch it! It's right there…! Why can't you breathe?

To Ephrem: A wash of relaxation cracks over the top of your head like a bubble of spring rain. It quickly coats you from head to toe, washing away the heat of the sands and the remnants of whatever that previous being left in its tracks. Here, serenity. The state of being calm, peaceful, and untroubled. Example: an oasis of serenity amidst the bustling city. Synonyms: Tranquility, peace, quiet, rest. Just please don't leave your things here when you leave.

Dinah will just be taking her hand back, now, and checking it for holes. But there are none, and all her fingers are right where they should be. "What's with all these vicious little buggers." Muttering to herself, she toe-drags herself away from that clawy little egg, and fetches up against the Philosoraptor Egg, squinting down at it for long, long moments before hesitantly reaching out to touch it. It's perhaps a bad idea, but never let it be said that the girl doesn't have guts.

Again with the breathing! Kebra draws his hand back again. It's so very suspect! All of it! He steps slowly away from the egg, no longer besotted by the innocent egg. In fact, there's a whole 'nother feeling going through him. And if he's not quick, it's going to be something he'll never live down! There's a quick apology murmured to F'in (something about having to 'go') as he rushes past and out. He's not so crass as to forget to bow to the clutch parents, but the stilted hobble-hop-dash suggests he's headed latrine wards!

Lyllian pulls her hand away from the egg she had touched as though it burned her. Her face is flushed, the color of her hair, as watery eyes seem to throw daggers back at the shelled menace. Clearly the feeling is mutual with that egg. Composing herself and wiping away the moisture from her eyes, she refocuses on the other eggs in the pile. Well, this one looks… appetizing. She gives a gentle touch upon the Porkchop Sandwiches egg.

Zisiene is left again to draw her hand away from the egg she was just touching. She moves slowly through the eggs towards the Love/Hate Egg. The girl gives a quick look around growing more convinced that she may have been too hasty to pick the eggs she's touched, "Well?" is asked of the egg softly. Isie is doubtful that she'll be any more enlightened with this egg as she had been with the others.

"Huh." Ephrem exhales a breath as his leaning post (even if he's not really /leaning/, so much as standing there with a fake sort of casualness. Fake turns into real, because there's just something calming about being in that moment, somehow separate from the hustle and bustle of everything else going on. His mind even drifts along other things. The lake..that's where he normally felt like this. Nice. Calm. Peaceful. Kind of like an oasis in the middle of the desert. How odd. He stands straighter, hand coming off the egg, and all of that tranquility just fades away. Ephrem blinks twice, shaking his head. One hand comes up to his skull, rubbing it as he mutters 'What in the world…'. Well, that wasn't so bad. So maybe..yes..he'll let his hand rest upon the What I Do Egg.

F'in watches with grim satisfaction radiating to him through Rhakanth as the Candidates reel and twitch and drift between the eggs, unsettled. "That's right, bring flowers next time, ya hooligans."

To Lyllian: Bones seared to ash by scorn are buoyed up on billowing drafts of hope. Hope that turns swiftly to panic. No! No! It was going to be so good! This egg wanted a touch so badly. It knew it could handle it! But the hope rose too swiftly and turns from a gentle warmth in hte belly to a burning bonfire, blasting ash to acrid smoke, cloying, choking. Hot. Hungry. An ache in the belly. Perhaps it should have listened to its clutchparents and not been so alluring. It wasn't ready. It so wasn't ready. It should have listened. Why didn't it listen? And you… why? WHY DID YOU TEMPT IT SO! Delicous candidate! This is your fault. The heat blazes up. Licking flames that rise from burning sands. Biting ankles. Calves. Licking higher. BURNING. It's ruined! And it's your fault. Your fault!

To Dinah: Humming drifts through your consciousness with the drone of a million tiny monks all meditating at the same time. Or perhaps it's more like being covered in bees. Or surrounded by trees. But can trees hum? Is there a storm? If there's a storm in a forest but the trees have no ears to hear, and no nerves to feel, what is the point of the st— … wait, what's this rain thing in your mind? Wet? That's not a thing. Goo is a thing. It's like this. Which is when all thought starts to slow down and grind to a halt with the threatening pinch of frozen sinuses.

To Zisiene: A rush of warmth floods your mind and body, adding to the heat of the sands, sure to sear your skin to a nice, bright red. But it's all in your head, you know. These feelings. Figments. Elements of something imagined. Or real? Could be real. As if to test its own validity, the presence in your mind begins to push from all sides, compressing your very essence into one silvery nugget of light that burns brighter and brighter, threatening to blind you… right up until it suddenly dims, replaced by a coal-black marble of nothing. No heat. No light. No push. No pull. Just a glowering pinprick of cool fury.

Lyllian internally wants to yell in defiance at the egg as she releases her touch, but the moment she does, she starts to ground again, returning to the relatively solid foundation of the sandy floor. Another deep breath and she starts towards the clutch parents again. It's probably better to call this time done for her. She's had enough… for now. The young Harper girl gives a bow towards both of the great metallic dragons and then a nod towards G'deon. It's time to get to back to her scrolls and the safety of words and sentences.

Ooooiiiii, it just gets worse with every touch. Dinah's no longer certain of what these eggs portend, but it can't be good: not for her, not for the other Candidates, not for the Weyr. Suruptitiously, the girl's palm is rubbed over her clothed thigh, grimacing comically in her disgust at the image in her mind. The goop is on her, the sensations are all up in her skin and they're not going away. She squints over at G'deon, wondering if he'd notice her absence.

To Ephrem: This is an oddball, that's for certain. It's not correct to say that nothing happens, but as your skin makes contact with the shell, it's also not easy to say does happen. For several stretching seconds, it feels as if you're the one inside the egg, and the other presence is the one outside looking in. And in. And in. There's a tickle on the left side of your head, just above the ear. Then a pinprick above your right temple. An odd caress along your forehead, then a gentle scrape down the back, exactly like getting licked by a bovine. Could be worse.

Zisiene pulls her hand away with a slight shake of her head before she starts towards the entrance of the hatching caverns. She's had enough thanks. A bow, curt though it is, is given to the clutch parents before Isie leaves with a salute to F'in and G'deon as she passes them. Done is done, that's what she is alright.

Ephrem does -not- like accepting the specimen role, being poked and ..licked, all in the name of science no doubt. Its just not right. He shudders once again, that sensation going down his back liable to give him the willies for the rest of the night. He snatches his hand back and shakes his head. "Nuh uh. Nope. Not happening.". He's turning then, and heading rapidly towards the exit. He remembers, if barely so, to turn around and abruptly give his respects (questionable though they are) to the big, fanged creatures, before he beats a hasty retreat.

G'deon watches with amusement as candidates begin to bail one by one. He heads toward F'in as the numbers dwindle, tapping off a salute toward Rhakanth and Zsaviranth as he goes. "That went better than expected," he murmurs, eyes twinkling as he catches Dinah's look. In answer, he hooks a thumb toward the exit, where the other candidates have been retreating.

"Flowers next time," F'in growls. The salute is neither acknowledged or returned. Pale eyes are a bit vacant, aglow, he's riding a high of clutchfather authority and never-you-mind that G'deon outranks him. He watches until the last of the Candidates are shepherded out, eyes hard. Jaw clenched. And only when they're all gone, does he return to the shaded nook and his repose.

Dinah is outta there like the wind.

G'deon nods his acknowledgement to the bit about the flowers, but whatever his actual thoughts, they're kept to himself as he turns toward the much cooler air of the bowl.

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