Logs:Elaruth and Bijedth's Sixth Hatching
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| RL Date: 31 May, 2015 |
| Who: Hattie, Kaelige, Quinlys, Lilah, R'hin, Keysi, N'rov, C'stian, Hasendar, Dee, Farideh, Paislie |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Elaruth and Bijedth's sixth clutch hatches at Fort Weyr. |
| Where: Hatching Cavern, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 12, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: If I missed anything, feel free to add! |
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>---< Galleries, Fort Weyr(#745RIJMas$) >------------------------------------<
The entrance to the Sands and Galleries alike is little more than an
archway and a section of flat stone that curves into a broad pathway in
front of the Galleries that are carved into the right-hand side of the
Hatching Cavern. This pathway is set with three flights of stairs that
lead all the way up to the upper tiers of the Galleries; one set near the
entrance of the cavern, one set at the northernmost end, and one set
between both. Beyond the pathway, that flat stone dissolves into the Sands
proper, a golden expanse that sits before the large, odd engraving that
lines the far wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red
Star.
The Galleries themselves are rows of flat seats carved from the stone wall
and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the
golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by
a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other
Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated
spectator's box at the topmost row.
>------------------------< 11D 12M 37T I10, autumn afternoon From the sands, It's a beautiful, clear autumn morning when the humming begins to emanate from the hatching cavern, started by dam and sire and picked up by others in the dragon population as the sound weaves its way from individual to individual until the very stones of the Weyr seem to reverberate with it. On the Sands, Elaruth is settled only a short way from her clutch, as far as she's willing to go for the moment, her blue-eyed focus flitting from egg to egg as they each show signs of movement. At her shoulder, the Weyrwoman stands tucked close, the autumnal shades of her dress reflecting the clutch and deeper shades found in her lifemate's hide. Those in the galleries are only acknowledged with the barest of glances, her attention all for queen and eggs. From the sands, White robe, tuber sack, the lack of detail somehow extremely comforting to Kaelige. Though, not quite his color. He'd be happier if he was soot-covered. But, all the same, more important things are occurring. Somewhere in the middle of the line of candidates, the young man dissolves himself in the group. Unspecial, undetailed, as a candidate should be at being presented before rocking eggs and their golden mother. Without fail, he tips his head as his sandeled foot hits the Sands proper. His black-haired head, spikey and messy as always, a bed-head no matter the time of day feels naked without his hood. Although to on-lookers it must be nerves that has him constantly touching his head, scratching behind his neck and the like, it's more that he entirely misses his hood. From the sands, The Candidates are escorted onto the Sands by the Weyrlingmaster's staff, most of them looking nowhere near as scared as most groups: they have (mostly) been through this before, and have been raised around dragons (mostly). They each bow, in turn, to Bijedth and Elaruth, before making their way to their chosen spots on the Sands. They are grouped, as always, into little cliques of friends; rowdier than usual with a nudge here and a shove there and certain Candidates getting nearer to the eggs than would be advised. High Reaches' weyrlings aren't old enough to visit Fort on their own steam, but they're evidently old enough to travel with others; Quinlys leads a small group of of them, one of whom can't seem to keep from wiggling in excitement. The bluerider gives her wiggling charge a warning glance, then directs them on to find seats. Their prompt arrival suggests this was all planned; Quinlys, blue eyes focused more upon her weyrlings than the eggs on the sands, gives a short, sharp approving nod. From the sands, As the first of the clutch move closer to breaking shell, Elaruth lifts her attention from eggs and Candidates to seek out her mate, a low, pleased croon interrupting the thrum of her humming. She looks back to the eggs just in time, as larger cracks in shells threaten to reveal the colours of the dragonets contained within. The junior weyrwoman is still dressed in leathers, as if she's just come from drills, though even as she moves for one of those first rows, she is slipping from her riding jacket to reveal a rather femininely pink sleeveless tunic, soft enough to be some sort of form of 'dressed up' despite pants and boots. Eliyaveith, beginning to show a roundness to her belly, has settled on one of the lower ledges to hum a welcome to her new brothers and sisters, cuddled up next to her own mate. From the sands, From the middle of the clutch, a white-topped egg shatters and spills its bronze occupant onto the Sands. He falls nose over tail and has to scrabble to right himself, sand clinging to near every inch of him, which makes it difficult to gauge what shade he might be, but it does little to conceal that he's a lithe, lanky creature. Not so many moments after his shells cracks, another, smaller egg breaks down the middle and releases a dark, inky blue, who arches his neck back to look up at dam and sire before he heads off, still staring at them, and blunders into the legs of the one he chooses. With the 'example' set, the sandy bronze makes his way to find the boy he wants - a boy tinier than most of the girls. Another pair of riders with High Reaches colors arrives in the galleries -- or more accurately, rider-and-weyrling, R'hin casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure Keysi's not far behind, as he angles for a seat behind Quinlys. "Ahh, babysitting," he's commenting to the Reachian Weyrlingmaster with a grin as he settles in. "Remind me to bring a bottle of something over to your office later, mm?" There's a couple of seats left next to him, gaze darting to the sands, then back to Keysi. From the sands, Kaelige has no particular clique, though he isn't about to stand off and be singled out. He's close to that little boy for which the first hatched bronze Impresses, and his green-blue eyes- as shadey in character as they are light in color- study the pair carefully. His choice was poor, he's already lost the first of his selected shield-er, buddies. Quick observations, tallies, of what candidates are closer rather than farther are made. Where was Dee? Surely he could pick out that familiar face. It's a hatching; it could take a while, or hardly any time at all. Regardless, with Vhaeryth comfortable on a ledge (and eyeing the little dragons landing, lest they choose his tail for a landing place), N'rov's prepared: lounging on the edge of a raucous group of his friends, with beer on ice and a bowl of salty fried popped tasty treats that he refills now and again from a sack by his feet. He even shares, occasionally, as friend or stranger catches his eye. Only, "What, two, already?" C'stian is already seated in one of the first rows, an empty seat beside him. The bronzerider is clad in what probably passes for 'dressy' for him: a shirt of a slightly nicer material (and more presentable shade) than usual for work around the weyr, pants that look freshly pressed, and his good pair of boots. The Hematite wingsecond's attention is clearly on the sands, as he leans forward to watch the eggs with all due gravity. Still, Lilah's arrival can't go unnoticed, as he turns to offer her a nod in greeting. From the sands, From eggs at opposite ends of the clutch, two petite greens break their way free, then set off through the minefield of eggs and egg shards, to briefly meet in the middle and exchange a nose-bump of greeting before they move on. The darker, more robust of the two finds her girl near to the shards of her sister's egg, while the paler mewls upon finding none of those at the opposite end of the clutch suitable. And after all that walking, too! Needs must, and so on she goes. Quinlys, who is now delivering a warning glance to her wiggling, greenriding charge, huffs out a laugh beneath her breath in reply to R'hin. Turning to look at him, she rolls her eyes: "Babysitting. Mind you, maybe I should be the one providing the drinks, since you're helping me." It's wiggle-girl who answers N'rov, straining taller to see: "Two. And one was a bronze, and I think that's good luck, isn't it? I always rather green, but--" Lilah's dark eyes meet C'stian's, it can be said, in the galleries. And it doesn't go unnoticed by a few riders where the goldrider doesn't move to join him, a sharp turn on a heel leading her further back before she slips into an empty seat without care for who she sits next to. Keysi is not far behind R'hin, something comforting about being on this side of the railing rather than standing on the Sands themselves has her lost in thought. And thus wordless at her entrance, she comes to seat herself blank-faced, level, regarding of the goings-on and little more. It's when Quinlys speaks that she realizes who R'hin was talking to at first. "Babysitting?" She remarks, grey eyes turning to the weyrlingmaster, "Surely I'm not so much trouble as to barter with who owes who drinks." It's rather in good humor it's stated at least, though hard to tell as always with her nonfluctuating voice. From the sands, "Didn't think he'd Impress," one Fortian weyrbrat remarks of the now bronzerider that is being escorted off the Sands, something dry in his tone as he speaks to Kaelige. Hasendar is much like any other weyrbred Candidate; he doesn't seem at all bothered by the chaos around them and the hatching eggs, his attention even turning from the greens to grin at Kaelige. (Who wants to be a greenrider, anyways.) "A bottle a piece should be just about sufficient," R'hin concludes at Quinlys' reply, laughing. At Keysi's words, he gives her a not-very scolding cluck of his tongue. "Life lesson, kid," he murmurs towards her, sotto voce, "Never look a good bottle of alcohol in the mouth. Even if you don't drink. It's valuable beyond measure." C'stian watches Lilah shift direction, shaking his head with an almost palpable air of exasperation. But that's a matter for another day, apparently; leaning forward, Hematite's wingsecond turns his focus back to the eggs below them. "Let me guess, you're a greenrider?" N'rov asks, quite as though the weyrling's knot weren't visible right there, amused in an avuncular fashion; "Is this your group's first hatching as riders?" At least... weyrling riders. The byplay doesn't stop him from flicking a bit of popped rivergrain Lilah's direction, though the verbal comment from a couple seats down. From the sands, While that green is still snuffling along at the feet of a short row of Candidates, two more eggs crack and send their occupants unceremoniously to the sand. They're quick, the both of them, to pick themselves up and go and investigate the young folk waiting patiently (or not) for them. It's not so long before the sky-pale blue finds the boy he wants, closely followed by the slim brown, who chooses a girl from the kitchens as his own. And still their sister searches. From the sands, Given the spread of candidates offered up and being (mostly) from the Weyr, there are those who are full grown, and it's with these that Dee has blended. It's only when the small spread begins to shift wider to even out spaces left by those now bonded. She looks uneasy. Her hazel gaze shifts from one egg to the next, and then about the circle. Most of her attention is given over to the hatchlings as they shell: there lies the danger, only one part physical. "That might about do it," answers Quinlys, wide smile broadening for R'hin and yes, even Keysi too. "Never get between a weyrlingmaster and her booze," she adds, sunnily, to the weyrling. "Mmm," answers the greenriding weyrling, giving N'rov a quick appraising glance, the kind that means she'd really rather not look away from the sands. "We've only just started flying together, so it's the first time we're allowed. Oh-- another one!" Lilah twists in her seat to aim a look back towards the direction of thrown food. Her gaze lights first on Quinlys, then R'hin-- and never quite gets around to actually spying the true cause before the goldrider is twisting back to watch the eggs there with pretend interest. From the sands, Elaruth watches the progress of that little green and shifts her weight like she'd gather herself and move towards her, yet her rider presses a firm hand to her shoulder and tells her to, "Give her time. Just a little more." The queen dips her head to deliver a gentle nudge to Hattie's shoulder: agreement, for the moment. From the sands, "I'm not one to bet." Kaelige chuckles darkly, his hand straying to his unfortunately unhooded head again to mess awkwardly with his messy hair. "Just bound for a bunch of disappointment." His smirk is broader than usual, perhaps betraying the actual nervousness of being out here, in the line of fire of freshly hatched teeth and claws. And betraying his lack of weyrbred nature. He watches the brown before he gives Hasendar any further consideration, and even then he's not fully distracted. "Dee." Without his black-grey garb, surely he looks different- maybe even normal, but he'd spotted the once-farmcrafter in her uneasy spot in the white robed crowd. "Congratulations," N'rov says easily, and kicks back without further comment; he even spares Lilah as well, for now. There's that wandering green, of course, to eye. From the sands, "What are you hoping to Impress, then?" toss Hasendar back to Kaelige, his own gaze going to that brown thoughtfully too, before he chooses someone else. "Wouldn't mind a brown." He starts to move forward, a little, towards the eggs. As if that will give him an advantage. From the sands, As that green continues to Search, Lilah's dark gaze from the galleries draws to it. A murmured word of excuse is offered to the person next to her, before the junior weyrwoman slips out of the row of seats and towards the back of the galleries. What she is doing becomes clear as she stops at any person of appropriate age to be Searched, entreating them politely, if somewhat sharply, to make their way down near the Sands. Some ignore her, though some do start moving closer. Keysi is one crack in her stiff facade away from rolling her eyes, but fortunately she controls herself just fine. "As long as I'm not paying." Is her eventual resolution on the subject, and a shake of her head to the point. She folds her arms over her lap, leaning forwards with her characteristic intensity, though it moves from the sands to Fort's junior weyrwoman. Curious, she follows Lilah's movements more so than the still-searching green hatchling. R'hin gives a firm nod of agreement at Quinlys' statement. "Truer words," he sing-songs, briefly, before pale gaze flickers to the sands, taking note of impressions, though none of the candidates are in any way familiar to him. Because he's glancing in that direction, he notes the flash of red hair, eyes flickering towards Lilah briefly as she's turning back, expression tightening a moment. "Not for now," he assures Keysi. He, too, is watching the junior's movements with a tightening of jaw. From the sands, Dee's wasting anxiety on the younger candidate as she startles at the sound of her name the strong roundness of the starting consonant carrying, where the softer end might be lost and she jerks her gaze away from the searching green to find Kaelige. She shifts closer to the younger man; it is also, as it happens, closer to the searching green, but by no means close. "Look," is what she says to the normally hooded candidate and gestures toward the galleries (which is also not the way she should be looking just now), meaning to draw his attention to the gradual movement of young bodies to the fore of the Stands. "Don't--" Quinlys stops herself from whatever it was she was about to say; given where she's looking-- towards R'hin and Keysi-- it's probably not difficult to assume it was in their direction. She falls silent, however, turning back to catch up: the movement of all those eyes, and those being gathered up by Lilah, is difficult to miss. Even the wiggling green weyrling beside her falls quiet and still, eyes going wider still. "Isn't she going to find someone?" Her words are plaintive. From the sands, One after the other, a trio of shells shatter, wings and tails and noses breaking through to reveal two greens and a blue, who eventually wriggle their way onto the Sands and go forth to seek out their riders. One of the greens is first, her girl found clinging to another, while the blue shortly follows and decides he wants the girl having the air hugged out of her. The Candidates blink first at their new lifemates, then at each other, and, in their delight and confusion, they're oblivious to the other new green choosing the gardener boy a few feet behind them. From the sands, Elaruth's hum has transformed to a low, uneven sound of discontent, and though she observes the choices that her other offspring make, she continues to keep her little daughter in the realm of her attention. At her side, Hattie is murmuring something under her breath, the rhythm and cadence of it repetitive and cyclical enough to be a mantra of some kind. Maybe she's not even aware of what she's saying. From the sands, Kaelige rolls a shoulder in what must be intended to be a shrug. Lanky, his limbs don't quite do what he thinks they do. "Just dump me in the boat with all the stereotypes." He says oddly, a chuckle to mark his words. Though that's not really an answer, he seems to think it is. "I mean to Impress whatever Impresses me. And you, a brown all ya want?" The question is off-handedly made, as if the answer does not really intrigue him in the least. When Dee comes closer and shifts his attention to the galleries, he's quick to notice exactly what she's pointing out. "They're worried." He says unnecessarily, his voice darker, more hushed than what he had been with Has. On the ledge, even Vhaeryth doesn't entirely track the sands; his rider's eyeing the wandering green, the weyrwoman who ushers, the kids who go or do not (there is no try?), those who watch them all. Slowly N'rov caps his beer, in case, though only after another pull. From the sands, "Brown or bronze," Hasengar replies, the worry of the Weyrwoman and her queen, of others, only drawing into his notice when someone else points it out. "What are they doing, they're not Candidates," is what he chooses to address, with a nod to the ones who've been sent down without robes on. From the sands, She must have investigated all of the Candidates twice now, yet still Elaruth and Bijedth's daughter has chosen none of them. Skirting the edges of the Sands, she begins to look up, eyes whirling faster in her desperation, into the galleries, and such blatant searching has some of the holdbred, particularly the boys, in the nearer rows of seating looking everywhere but at her, just in-case. Hattie's lips curl and she forms a snarl, repulsed by their rejection, and she lifts her voice loud enough to be heard by most when she shouts, "Let her look!" Steady, for now. Newly-hatched, one of the green's brothers croons at her on his way past, and finds his chosen in plain sight of his anxious sibling, though both blue and Candidate-now-weyrling continue to watch her. High Reaches' newest goldrider has been here all along, if quietly so, looking at once weary and excited. Farideh is wedged between another weyrling and a slim brownrider, though she pays neither any mind, sitting as she is with her hands on her knees, leaning just a tad forward in anticipation. It's the green's wandering, the rejections by stand-bound Holdbred, that causes her mouth to pull into a frown and a series of lines to form between her eyebrows; next, she leans forward, to pass a questioning look to Quinlys. From the sands, "Don't you see her?" Dee's question comes out sharp to Hasengar, making a gesture toward the still searching green. There is concern in her brow that wasn't there before Elaruth's noise shifted, before the people in the Stands began to move. It's instinctive that she searches the crowd for Jemizen's face, and instinctive, too, that she, without looking, reaches for Kaelige's hand as she draws close enough to do so. It's easy to see a new kind of fear coming to her face. Whether she finds Jemizen or not, her eyes go to follow the green. From the sands, "You'd rather lose the green?" Kaelige raises a brow at Hasengar, unnervingly calm in his question yet surprising himself with that resolution. It must be the anxiety building around them, else he normally wouldn't care. As Dee reaches for his hand, his own instinct is to withdraw. But as if to make up for it in reconsideration, he steps behind her and reaches to place a hand on her shoulder. "Calm down. They're trying." Are the only words he can offer, in regards to all the riders pressing any potential candidates forward. To High Reaches dragons, Olveraeth reaches for his charges, and for those who've accompanied their riders; his stars are twinkling, a little, but there's a sense of warning there, too. « Everything is fine, » he promises. « Your riders are safe. » From the sands, Hasengar surely looks appropriately shamed by Dee's sharp question and then Kaelige's, he certainly does hang his head slightly. But he mumbles a defensive, "What, she'll Impress. They always do. I don't want to ride green." From the sands, With the concerned focus of many beginning to swing to the green who has yet to make Impression, the burly brown who wrests himself free of his egg finds his Candidate right when they're not watching. Claws rip into sandals as he settles himself on his new rider's feet, blood spilled, but he's easily and quickly forgiven. One of the Infirmary's aides offers assistance and starts to tear at her robe to bind her fellow Candidate's feet, yet she soon finds herself distracted by the well-proportioned green hatched from one of the last eggs of the clutch, when she decides that she's for her. Quinlys' front teeth rest upon her lower lip, biting down hard. That she's concerned is plain; that she attempts to smile when glancing back around at her charges is equally so... and the fact that her smile is not the true, sunny one it was before. "I don't--" she pauses. "Fuck. Just... find someone." That, clearly, is for the still-wandering green. There are only so many appropriately aged, appropriately single and able people strewn among the galleries. It is Hattie's shout that draws Lilah from her now-fruitless search of her own, instead descending back towards the lowest tiers of the galleries, ignoring the visiting dignitaries that she stands in front of to grip the railing dividing the galleries from the sands. C'stian is leaning just a little further forward as he watches the little green searching. He's doing his best to look calm, perhaps for the sake of the weyrlings, but his hands are clenched where they rest in his lap. Hattie's shout, however, breaks his composure; the bronzerider, too, moves to stand at the railing now. As if by drawing closer, he can urge the little green to find someone. Anyone. Leaning forward briefly, R'hin stretches fingers to briefly touch Quinlys' shoulder, a wordless reminder that he's there, perhaps a gesture of support. His gaze is not fixed on the wandering green, though it passes over her; instead his attention shifts from the sands, to the junior moving down to to the railing, to the nearby weyrlings. "They didn't search outside the Weyr," he says, in low voice. Behind the stars, there's the faint sense of cold winds, familiar of High Reaches, the bronze's thoughts wordless and yet present in the starscape for a moment. (To High Reaches dragons from Leiventh) The rippling of Neianth's freshwater pool is clearly not calm nor serene, though he's not upset, or at least that's not what he portrays. The choppy waves churn beneath Olveraeth's stars, not invasive but also not lacking in weighty command, « She is displeased. This was intended to be a pleasant occassion, was it not? » (To High Reaches dragons from Neianth) Paislie is just another face in the stands, watching the hatching below, and the reactions of people seated before her, with an uncomfortable uncertainty making worried lines in her brow. Her hands are together, but not clasped, fidgeting with unconscious anxiety. Roszadyth's presence comes into focus with a lack of brilliance, a subtle confusion, though her words are as sweetly and gently spoken as usual. « I cannot think of anyone they would be safer with, » the little gold replies, bending to Olveraeth's superior reasonableness. « Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding. » (To High Reaches dragons from Roszadyth) N'rov's not looking grim, yet, though there's something about the set of his jaw; as others rise, he dumps the bowl into the bag and fastens it up, movements brisk but designed not to add even an iota to the less-pleasant excitement. He sorts his jacket while he's at it, though it's hardly cold in here, and then he's as discreetly gauging the exit. From the sands, Dee's shoulders are tense and the one that Kaelige's hand lands on does not become less so with his touch. She doesn't seem bothered to not have caught his hand, though; with the way she's staring at the one green. She seems unaware of the brown and green that Impress next. If looks mattered, there are certainly enough sets of willing eyes on her to invite Impression. If. "Kael," is quiet, heavy. "But there's still all those in the galleries." Keysi responds to R'hin, even if the comment isn't to her. "They have Impressed from the galleries before. Surely there could be someone." But there's little actual pleasantry behind her words, as if she doesn't believe it herself. An old concern, this. One from their own Hatching. Grey eyes show no emotion as she looks on, from desperate hatchling to the goldrider and riders who try to find any possibility, any hope, she can have. Yet intermittently, she focuses beyond them in a rider's characteristic glaze. From the sands, A bronze from one of the larger eggs Impresses almost straight out of the shell, the green now not so far from the remnants of his egg. She crawls to a halt, too weary to continue, and now Hattie does nothing to hold Elaruth back. The pale queen moves for her daughter and lowers her nose to her to nuzzle at the creeling hatchling, her eyes a wash of nothing but the yellows and oranges of worry and agitation. She settles there, her forepaws to either side of the bereft green, whose cries begin to pitch higher and higher despite the attempted reassurance of her dam. It's no use. The voices of both Weyrwoman and senior queen ring out as the little green vanishes Between, Elaruth's heartbroken keen striking a clear, awful note that all but drowns out Hattie's, "No!" From the sands, "Always is a strong word." Kaelige returns, still unnmoved, though his smirk and all that smugness he carries has dissolved into a seriousness too old for his still-boyish face. If he hears Dee say his name, he doesn't show it. He can do little else but watch as the golden mother nuzzles the hatchling, who then departs them all without hardly a start at life. It's the awful sound of Elaruth's keening that makes him shut his eyes and dip his head. Beyond that, however, he has nothing else to share. Silence, shadows, he'd certainly prefer them to being part of this. From the sands, A moment, two passes by. There is little emotion on Lilah's face as the junior weyrwoman moves from the galleries and onto the Sands, boots providing protection against their heat. And as the Weyrleader is busy with his Weyrwoman, she addresses the Candidates left standing. "Thank you for Standing; we appreciate your willingness. You are welcome to stay and Stand for Eliyaveith's eggs as well, if you so wish," she addresses cleanly, making herself loud enough to be heard in the galleries. "For now, we have wine and food in the living cavern. Please join us if you wish." She offers no words about celebration, her hand lifted in dismissal for the remaining Candidates. "But not the one she wants..." R'hin's response to Keysi ends in a hiss, as the green stops moving, his eyes closing for a moment. His, "Fuck," is heartfelt and sharp. Above, on the ledges, Leiventh's thrum of welcome transmutes into the high pitched keen, joining the voices of Fort's denizens. Quinlys' shoulder is tense beneath R'hin's fingers, but there's a subtle shift in her, too; acknowledgement, perhaps. There would be more, but then, there-- the green is gone. Wordless for a moment, the bluerider's voice breaks when she does speak, as quiet as it is. "It could have been us. Fuck. No." As quiet as those words are, the self-castigation is audible. And then, more loudly: "We should go." A pleasant occasion? Yes. Yes it was. Now, Olveraeth lifts his physical voice to keen for the lost green, but cuts it short in order to focus upon his charges. « We'll come home. All will be well. » Calm. Calm, damn it. (To High Reaches dragons from Olveraeth) C'stian closes his eyes for a moment, perhaps giving a silent farewell to the departed little green. But then the bronzerider straightens, turning to those around him. There's nothing else to be done here, but he can at least begin to usher the visiting dignitaries from the galleries in reinforcement of Lilah's invitation, and try to make it easier for queen and Weyrwoman to be alone with their grief. Agitation, disturbance, anger. There is no reflection left in his waters, no imagry of mountains or mists. No, darkness and demands, urgency and protectiveness over this intense loss. Neianth is settled enough by Olveraeth that he focuses his feelings to no direct words, but the sense that he paces the bowl, impatient and aggressive is unmistaken. (To High Reaches dragons from Neianth) Keysi rises almost immediately after R'hin speaks, unable or unwilling to demonstrate her own reaction to the loss the young green. Quinlys instruction is not argued with, not this time, as she nods once, intended for them both. It's that sound, that rising sound. N'rov turns at the last minute as though struck, not flinching but swinging into the strike, and witnesses the green's going. That muscle tics in his jaw; Vhaeryth's keen is less audible than felt. Whatever he might like, he doesn't force his way out, though neither does he himself linger to help dignitaries or otherwise; waiting for the once-wiggling weyrling instead of pushing past, that's the closest. Farideh wears the expression of one thoroughly confused, by the green's wanderings and the murmurs of concern-- the possibility of betweening was just an unpleasant story that had been bantered around during their candidacy. And yet, in the next instant, the green does end her search and vanishes, to the keen of many dragon voices. Her fingers dig into her knees, her complexion going pale, and her eyes look impossibly round and bright in her face; where she lip would tremble, she presses knuckles firmly into her mouth. Others around her are not so quiet, not so reserved, but the goldrider's eyes have yet to leave the sands; she's as one transfixed with horror. The once-wiggling weyrling turns her face up towards N'rov, tears tracking their way down her face. "She died. What if--" What if it had been her green who did that? What if? What if? It takes moments before R'hin stirs to movement, focusing on Quinlys as he leans forward, expression tight as he murmurs to her. "Perhaps a steadying drink before you go?" The Wingleader could very well mean, for the weyrlings, although it's obvious this is not what he means. "Niahvth will look to them." From the sands, Hattie's world has narrowed to Elaruth and their respective mates, no mind paid for the audience that will undoubtedly see her pressing her forehead in against gold hide as she tries to comfort her queen and keep her attention captured away from anything else she might hear around them. She doesn't notice the remaining Candidates, nor what Lilah says in her Weyrleader's stead, though surely at some point she'll gather what appreciation she can muster for the lifting of that burden. Elaruth, N'muir and Bijedth command her attention now, and though her tears flow freely, she doesn't hide them. From the sands, In the wake of tragedy, there is horror on Dee's expression. For a moment, she's frozen, not unlike others who can't quite believe their eyes. She stares at Elaruth, at where the green no longer is, and already there are tears sliding down her cheeks. Lilah's voice seems to snap the cord that ties Dee to this horrible moment. She's in motion even as the junior speaks, whirling to try to cling to the boy who avoided her hand, to sob (quietly) on Kaelige's shoulder. From the sands, There is only so much that Lilah can take without breaking herself; her queen's keening and the crying Candidates and Hattie, there--. The goldrider doesn't linger here to breakdown in public, instead she is all sharp movements as she strides from the sands and hatching cavern with only one last glance cast up to the galleries, searching. "Yours didn't." He could let her cry, but then N'rov's mouth twists; he works one-handed to get the handkerchief out of his coat and get it to to the weyrling. He doesn't have enough handkerchiefs for everyone, not candidates nor queenrider on the sands, but letting her make his all grotty is something he can do. "Yeah, it's awful. It's worse than. This is what we lose." "No," says Quinlys, sounding sure, now, in a way she didn't before. She turns her head to look towards R'hin, and shakes his head. "I need to go home. We all do. We shouldn't complicate Fort's grief." She's already risen, moving towards Farideh: it's her turn to place a hand upon someone's shoulder, and to squeeze it, gently. From the sands, Kaelige turns his attention briefly to the junior weyrwoman as she speaks to them, hearing her fine but not caring to- or needing to- respond verbally. The sudden turn of Dee to sob into his shoulder forces him back in shock a step, and in that awkward-boy sort of moment, he has not a clue what to do with his hands. Nor what to do with someone this close in his personal bubble. Eventually, after an increasingly weird pause, he pets the back of her head something like one would a canine. It should be soothing in theory. "We'll speak of it in the barracks." He says, with a tone to his voice that's dim, almost scarily dark. "Just think of all the new pairs until then. Yes there's loss," He almost whispers, eerily, "But many new pairs, alive." He would step back then, intending to guide her if she wouldn't fall with the motion and whomever else near him off the sands as ushered. "I don't want anyone to die," sobs the little green weyrling, taking N'rov's handkerchief and attempting to blot out her cascade of tears. "No one should. There were so many people and they would have loved her; it's not fair!" "If you want to stay, I can ask another for an escort back," Keysi says to R'hin, her calmness surface-deep, and mind distracted though now almost in its entirity. For her, it's notably important to leave sooner than later. There's irritation and impatience painting her expression that's not entirely her own. Her gaze, though distanced, would fall on Farideh but she's few words. She was the one who put that idea in the new goldrider's head what seems like so long ago now. As she moves past her fellow weyrling, she'd reach to touch her arm at least. The Savannah Wingleader concedes easily enough with a nod, though there's a tightening of R'hin's expression at the use of complicate; he's rising shortly after the Weyrlingmaster. His gaze drops to Keysi, taking in her demeanor silently for a beat. "No," he replies to her, quickly enough. "The Weyrlingmaster's correct," as he moves. From the sands, Any other moment, Dee would likely be aware enough of the boy-awkward to react (somehow), only just now she's busy wetting the shoulder of his robe. The sound of his voice startles her for a second time, as if she hadn't been expecting it. She pulls her head up, away from the petting hand. There's lip-wobble and snot (it's all very attractive, especially with the sweat of time on the Sands), but she nods to his words, letting him lead her, her hand reaching to wrap around his arm, lest she lose him, or herself. Even levelheaded Roszadyth has her moments of uncertainty and upset, though it's hard to distinguish when she remains as equally gentle and sensible. She doesn't simply keen, but she passes on her sincere sadness for the green betweened, for the predictably pleasant occurrence that turned tragic; behind it all, she radiates that calm Olveraeth so strives for. (To High Reaches dragons from Roszadyth) All that sobbing has N'rov shifting uncomfortably before he stills his stance once moree. "It isn't. Sometimes eggs are dead." Does she know that? Either way, he says it, his tone particularly flat. "This is different. Our Weyr didn't Search outside, sure, but other places have before." He looks past her. "Better get back." Maybe she can forget about it there. Quinlys' hand on her shoulder brings Farideh out of her reverie, her troubled eyes lifting from the scene on the sands to the bluerider. She stands, wordlessly, and in Keysi's passing, in the offered touch, she looks relieved and thankful-- possibly for the contact; she falls in line behind everyone else, keeping her head low and her lips pressed together. There's nothing to say, nothing that she could say, anyway. The green weyrling is dubious, but nods, most of her face lost beneath that handkerchief. As directed, she falls into line; Quinlys, having withdrawn her hand from Farideh after a gentle squeeze, leads the way: back to the dragons, and back to home. Where, yes, there will definitely be drinking. |
Comments
Alida (17:28, 2 June 2015 (EDT)) said...
Ahh...so SAD! *sniffles*
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