Logs:Iovniath and Cadejoth's Clutch Hatches
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| RL Date: 30 May, 2009 |
| Who: Ajatha, A'son, B'tal, C'sel, Carobet, Fashythise, Z'yi, K'del, K'ndro, Leova, Meara, Tiriana, W'chek, Madilla, Ianna, Sulisah |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Iovniath and Cadejoth's first clutch hatches. |
| Where: Hatching Sands, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 11, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| It's the dark Also Good for Cornbread Egg that moves first: towards its shadow and then away, backward and then forward again. Just that, and it goes still again to all outward appearances, but a scratching sound becomes increasingly audible from within... audible, and increasingly urgent, enough to free a silvered fragment that dangles from the ripped inner membrane. And from this movement, a shiver of a breeze seems to pass through the meadow on the Cowflop Egg making the heads of purple and yellow blossoms nod to and fro. That patch of brown though, doesn't move, though some might almost imagine the stench that the ruffling wind might carry to them. Cadejoth - of course - has been here for hours, watching with enormous fascination the silent, still clutch of eggs. Of course, now that the humming has started? He's louder than anyone. Possibly even loud enough for the force of the reverberations to hasten on the hatching of the eggs. K'del takes a little more time in making his way onto the sands, though his first reaction upon arrival is to eye his lifemate dubiously, as if to say 'is all that really necessary'? Yes, yes it is. At first wobble, Cadejoth's trumpet is /loud/. In the galleries, "Go, Madilla, /go/," insists a middle-aged woman, gently pushing her teenaged apprentice away from her. "Get yourself a good seat. Enjoy it." Madilla brushes her hands down her dress, looking briefly exceptionally lost and alone before she draws her shoulders back, and seeks out an empty seat amidst the increasing chaos of the steadily filling galleries. She's already leaning forward, arching to get a better look of the sands, the eggs, and the passage from which the candidates will arrive. Her eyes widen as those first eggs begin to move, her hands clasping at each other in her lap. Boom! Goes The Egg. Goes BOOM! Literally. It doesn't shiver for long before it simple explodes outwards in a million tiny sparkling pieces. Left behind is a splay-legged brown who shakes his head a few times like he can't quite figure out what just happened. Finally he picks up his feet and goes sliding along through the sands, stopping here and there to investigate. Shells. Other hatchlings. Oh hey /people/. They all get scrutinized but only one holds his attention turning a questioning creel into a happy croon as the pair walk off together. No surprises, really: the Weyr's known it's soon, today, sometime. So Tiriana is already at the sands, already at Iovniath's side as both of them stare at the eggs like they can just will them into hatching. Or rocking, at least. and when that first one does, Iovniath's hum takes on a more maternal air, and even Cadejoth's brassy noise can't upset her today, as she hovers just to the side of the carefully arranged eggs. And then there's the first one, and she, too, is crooning at the brown that emerges, practically glowing with pride. Even Tiriana's a goofy mess, pointing at it as she hails K'del. "It /hatched/!" Leova's ventured the sands swiftly, a waterskin swinging from her hip, over the jacket that's clipped to her belt for later trekking into the cold. And that loud trumpet? It has her hands over her ears as she makes it the rest of the way to the earlier-discussed lineup, muttering about proud papas. Or something. Her hands retreat as the echoes die, and she mentions to her confederates a little more audibly, "Caught a snowflake on my ton..." and then the expletives are audible too. One down. Already. She marches on over to take the girl and her brown in hand, get them towards the barracks. /Already/. K'del looks, briefly, exceptionally dubious at Tiriana's hail, but he can't seem to help himself either, and hurries towards her. "/Saw/. Hatched and - that was so quick. Is it always that quick?" The Weyrleader folds his arms in front of him, beaming in delight, as Cadejoth lets out another enormous rumble of pride and pleasure. "Though that? Is going to get old, quick. Shh, Cadejoth, it's quite-- all right." The candidates get a glance, perhaps intended to be encouraging, and then his attention returns to those rocking eggs. Isziyo strides in, shoulder-to-shoulder with Mikandros, walking as if he's expecting a fight. Or flight. Or something. The High Reaches native's gaze flicks to and fro, focuses in on the clutchparents; he bows, precisely, to both, and then drags Mik and Ajatha after him to a place within the loose semi-circle forming. There are a few more random, peculiar shapes to be seen upon the Random Peculiar Shapes Egg, as pieces go flying off in all directions under the less-than-tender ministrations of the hatchling within. The seafoam-shaded green within hurtles free, leaping instantly into the kind of wobble-legged walk so commonly seen amongst the newly hatched. It takes her almost no time at all to make her way directly into the waiting grip of her chosen one, the smallest, daintiest girl amongst the candidates falling to her knees in exultant delight as her breath catches. It takes her a few tries to get her mind around it all, and then: "Quesath, of course I'll be your Mai." Further cracks have begun to web the Also Good for Cornbread Egg, visibly pale against its dark shell, but it's that first hole that distorts the most: from the dark tip of a muzzle every few moments, its nostrils flaring for breath, the scratching becoming a hurried scrabbling from patience as yet unlearned. A'son arrives there on the sands, brushing at his new hair cut. Brushing at the handmade sweater that he has on. He's simply just brushing his whole body with his hands, looking incredibly nervous. He's also messing with the new knot on his shoulder. Like it just doesn't fit right. Leova is eyeballed as she passes him by, bringing the already hatched pair inside. It goes so fast. C'sel stands calmly to the side, hands clasped behind his back, until there's action on the sands. The brownrider does lean over for a moment to offer a quiet word of encouragement to A'son, polite as usual, then there's a new weyrling pair to go intercept and he's gone for a few minutes dealing with that. Mikandros is so not ready for this to be happening. Rubbing his hand over his now-short hair and making it spike upwards ridiculously as he walks with Isz, his own bow towards gold and bronze happening half-a-beat behind his pal's. And then he's getting dragged, not unwillingly, and oh hi Ajatha. Meara, unfazed by the alacrity of the hatching eggs, moves to take on green Quesath and Mai but C'sel is then there first and so those capable hands fall to her side where eventually her thumbs find her pockets and her heels rock against the sands. "Loud, isn't he?" she remarks companionably across to K'del and the seemingly-very-proud pappa. "Of course it's this fast. Don't you remember yours? It was just last week, wasn't it?" Tiriana says, but even her retorts are lacking bite today, as she steps away from Iovniath and all but bounces. "A brown first, that's not bad, right? You couldn't give us a bronze to lead off with. More!" She might just be more excited than the candidates--but then again, her life's not exactly depending on the results of this shindig, either. Whitchek is invisible. Nonexistent. Or trying to be, as well as he can. He follows in somewhat behind Isziyo and Mikandros--easy not to be noticed next to them. By dragons, or anybody else. He ducks a bow as he passes along with so many others, and ends up alongside Mikandros. "This isn't happ--wait, what?" Eyes frantically trying to track hatching eggs already. "Oh, my. Ohmy." Carobet seems a bit dazed as she makes her way onto the sands, pausing to bow politely to the clutchparents. And then her eyes search among her fellow candidates for someone to stand beside. "Betegal?" Where'd her partner go? The dark muzzle disappears for longer and longer from the small hole in the Also Good for Cornbread Egg, as though the hatchling were weakening, until finally it never appears again at all. Silence. And then the shell abruptly bowls over, rolling toward the candidates, as the hatchling scuttles free from the /other/ side and the larger hole he had crafted there. The awkward little bronze spends no time on fancy poses: it may take all but tripping over his own wing, but he just /gets out of there/, out to where he can get a moment's breathing room to scan the cavern and begin hunting for boys.
In the galleries, A motley crew of Istans, looking like they've come straight from a bar, funnels into the the galleries. Among them, a hefty harper apprentice and some bluerider are grouching about the unexpected cold. "Sh-sh-shells," complains Ianna to the other, teeth chattering, "Are you sure we ever came out of /between/?" She dusts some snow off one shoulder, then drops heavily into a seat where she can get a very interested look at the action. "Wow, those eggs don't wait for anyone, do they?" Betegal walks. That's about all he's good for at the moment. He pauses to offer the requisite, respectful bow to the clutches sire and dam and then he's moving to find somewhere to stand. Carobet's voice finds him and he looks around uncertainly before finding and moving toward her. "Thank you," he says. K'del twists his attention towards Meara, apologetic. "He's... excited." Cadejoth lets out another rumble, just to prove it. "Course, can't /really/ blame him. Look at them go!" Tiriana's jibe doesn't seem to hit too deeply, not today, because the young rider only laughs. "Brown's perfectly respectable. None of that stuff matters, anyway, just so long as they're all healthy. Shells, look at that one!" That would be the new bronze, which draws K'del to beam brilliantly: "Shells, he's something. A bronze, Tiriana, that's excellent!" Fashythise stays to herself... for all of two minutes. The female candidate does the shifty eye thing, as a dragon or two already hatch. "Shards," She is so totally not ready for this. Moving in a beeline towards Mikandros and Isziyo and whoever else may be around them. Almost forgetting the bow! But she does it, really rough, but there it is. "So... uh..." Fash has nothing to say, which is a first. Feet are shuffled, lower lip is worried, and she just /stares/ at the eggs. Ajatha saunters across the sands hot on the heels of Mikandros and Isziyo, her hand shifting to tough each of the boy's arms as she worms her way to stand between them. Wow, there's a scary effect. If anything, it might make her appear smaller than she is, or more intimidating with the pair, but she seems not to mind. She executes a graceful bow between them and moves off to put herself squarely in their midst. MINE. No, not shields. Eye candy! "Hey, boys. Miss me?" All silky and casually. There's not a jitter at all. Fashythise's approach lifts a hand her way. "Fash!" Tattered Shadows Bronze tries out a few more footsteps, fits and starts of movement and stillness until he's cutting at an angle through the line of candidates, close enough that the nearby girls might touch his hide if they weren't so quick on their feet to get out of the way, if they weren't so obedient. He rounds behind them now, daring Iovniath and Cadejoth's territory, but it's to sniff out a possibility from behind. The kid's a short dark boy, a scribe's son from an outlying Hold, who whirls around with a caught breath. The two meet eyes, and it's almost as easy as that... but when the bronze steps forward he keeps going. Past the boy, after all. Heading for some others, an older trio. Keeping close. Not staying out in the open for long. In the galleries, Madilla positively /leans/ forward, her breath catching into a little 'oh' sound as the hatchlings keep coming. Her eyes seek out a particular white-robed candidate on the sands, watching him cautiously, but she can't seem to stay looking in that direction for long: more hatchlings! "I had no idea it all happened so fast," she murmurs, as much to herself as to anyone else. "Look at that." Isziyo hipchecks Mik, and nods once, a chin-jut, towards Tattered Shadows Bronze. "See that? You see that, right?" Hold me. His eyes are darting back and forth and all over, and one hand reaches out to close over Ajatha's arm, lightly steering her closer. (Hold me.) Mikandros' expression, in that sidelong look for Whitchek is surprisingly sympathetic instead of annoyed. "C'n pinch ye if ye like." As jokes go, it falls painfully flat beneath the nerves in his voice. "Sh-- shells." Again the Cowflop Egg trembles a nasty crack forming along the surface of the cow pie tucked away in the green of the meadow. It almost seems to ooze as the egg shifts back and forth. Wait, it /is/ oozing, a little trickle of goo slowly sliding down the surface of the shell as the dragonet within tries to find a way out. As if moving away from this festering sore, ashen grey shifts against pale sand as the Watch Your Step Egg takes an initial, experimental movement. Once. Twice. A third time - for luck, maybe. But then it goes still again, as though those skeletal fingers had never wavered, as though it were nothing but a rock in the middle of the sands. In the same vein, the Arson Egg just barely twitches once, and then it goes into full-scale convulsions. The wild motions make it gyrate across the sands, bumping into its clutchmates and leaving a long squiggly trail in its wake. Carobet smiles reassuringly to Betegal, likely for her own benefit as much as his. "Team Bet, right?" She says, laughing nervously, and then is distracted by the sight of the bronze making his search among the candidates. "Ooh!" In the galleries, Sulisah is late arriving, hurrying up the stairs just before a rather harried looking Fortian bluerider. "One already. Come on!" She 'pardon me' 'excuse me's her way through the crowd till she gets a seat, settling down quickly to watch. Tiriana, at K'del's shout, swivels her head around to find the bronze. And he might not be the prettiest dragon out there, but it makes her relax anyway to see it, and the other dragons still emerging around it. "This... might turn out okay," she concedes then. "Maybe. Faranth." And Iovniath, too, surveys them all with motherly pride, her head snaking down to get a closer look at the bronze who drifts close to her and her mate. Whitchek manages a high, nervous laugh. "Um. No. No, I think that's okay. Think--" Breathe, breathe. Every movement of his chest is labored, intentional, like he might possibly have forgotten after the last one. He scuffs at the sand with his shoe, keeps an eye on the bronze's movements, edges a little bit behind the larger Mikandros at his side. "Think I'm awake. When I have nightmares about this, they're... um... bigger." Ajatha ever so easily hooks her arm into the loop of Isziyo's and latches the other around Mik's, nudging her shoulder into each of the boys' shoulders. "Hey, breathe. It'll be okay." Big talk for someone whose feet are shifting between leaning on one to leaning on the other, her steely eyes on the hatchlings that run rampant over the sands. Meara has an age-defying giggle for Cadejoth and that rueful shake of her head. She might not /understand/, but she can imagine just well enough, as says the sparkle of her warm eyes. From her pockets, the two thumbs dislodge so her arms might come up to fold across her chest and from sire and sire's rider, her gaze drifts to the row of candidates and the dragons out on the sands. Fashythise almost lunges at Ajatha, in a 'oh-good-someone-mildly-sane' way. "Hi." She says, her normal mouthy ways put to the wayside. "Don't waste time, do they?" Her thumb points in the direction of the eggs and dragonets. "So I wasn't ever listening, if they come bounding towards us, we just get outta' the way right? Or push like Zizi in the way and run for it?" Cause that's totally what she's doing. Betegal won't pass out. He won't! "Team Bet. Right," he says to Carobet, offering her a brief glance and a nervous smile before his eyes shift to keep track of the hatchlings with an excited sort of wariness. It's impossible not to get a little caught up in it all, after all. Isziyo breathes, at Ajatha's request, and glares over at Fashy. "I heard that, wench," he calls, a growl to his voice-- but also a tone of amusement, of relieved laughter obscured. "Mik, hang in there, big guy." Yeah, he's projecting. And tightening an arm on Jathi's nearest arm. In the galleries, Ianna, who happens to have plopped down in a seat not far from Madilla, extends a half smile toward the healer. "Me either. No wonder there's all those problems with injuries." The woman makes a motion that must be a superstitious sign to ward away bad luck. "Not that those candidates don't look sprightly enough to avoid anything that comes their way." As Sulisah excuses her way on by, she adds a slightly testy, "Indeed, pardon you." Not that she didn't sit down after the first few eggs hatched, or anything. The punch of talons from within punctuates the shell of the Cowflop Egg, sharp little tips sweeping downward to slice the egg open. Shaking off debris and more ooze, the Sensual Serenity Green takes a single tentative yet poised step forward, regally regarding those who await her on the sands with bright inquisitiveness held in the yellow-tinged facets of her eyes.
Cadejoth is terribly interested in that bronze who gets so close: so small! It's not hard to see his train of thought in all of this. K'del grins at Meara, albeit a little awkwardly, given the difference in their ages, and then, to Tiriana: "Think it will. They all look great. /Interesting/, even when not outright beautiful. We did good!" Undulating in place the Peril From The Skies Egg looks like it's either going to fall over or throw up. Ultimately though what happens is that the top blows right off the thing and /then/ a pair of legs come out. Backwards. Butt first. And brilliantly green. The hatchling shakes the rest of the egg off and pulls her goo-drippy nose out of the shell, turns to look this way and bounds forward without hesitation to pick /her/ weyrling out of the lineup. With a sneeze that decorates a white robe liberally with yolky splatters. Chemical Burn Egg has been quiet for a while, as if its been biding its time to make a movement. But it suddenly wobbles with intensity, moving back and forth like something inside has suddenly made a decision. Then it stops altogether, a pensive stillness hanging over it. Mikandros will belatedly get around to answering Isziyo, really. "'M not -blind.-" shifting slightly then to glance at Whit-edging-behind. "No." One arm reaches back, aims to drag the shorter man back around if he can grab hold. "If one goes fer ye, it sure as shardin' ain't gonna be goin' through me!" Front and centre! "Hang in yerself, baldy," he frets back to Isz, eyes roving across the sands to try and look everywhere at once. Tattered Shadows Bronze pauses yet again, at some sound, or maybe it's motion, unless it's just his sire's interest: tall Ebeny, shivering from excitement and the sudden shift between snowfall to hot, hot sands. His low warble might as well be a mutter because he's moving on, on, he's spotting what he wants: not that one, not /that/ one, definitely not the girl but there, there, those muted red-whirling eyes don't bother with the short-spiked hair because it's just another disguise like an accent that he can see right through. /There/. Now, all he has to do is get to him, to fix that roving gaze on him alone. Ajatha glances sharply at Fashythise and purses her mouth at the woman. "You will not! I'll drag you all along! And just be vigilant." The corners of her mouth twitch upwards with a thread of laughter in her voice, in spite of her words, thankfully too. "Hush, you. It won't go straight through you, if you watch where they are. And move when they look like they might mow you down. Careful." Now her tone's growing serious, a hand reaching back to drag Fashy up to their group too before latching back onto Mik. In the galleries, Madilla's head lifts, almost outright reluctant, as she's addressed, though her smile remains utterly beaming. "I hope there aren't any. This time. I'm not sure how often it happens, but how /awful/ that would be." The healer nods quickly her agreement as to the candidates being sprightly, and adds, "I can barely keep track of anything. Where's Whitchek-- oh /there/. Shells, that's not so far from the bronze... No, good." Tiriana agrees, "We did good," and actually beams at K'del, even. Something is in the air, must be. Of course, then there's one green backing out of her shell and sneezing everywhere, and she amends, "Well. Except maybe on that one." Whitchek is hauled forward, cringing, cringing, because there's a dragon in the vicinity and he's not going to have anything to do with it. "You're bigger than I am. You can handle it," he insists to Mikandros, attempting to pull away if not doing especially well at it. "Besides, none of them are going to go for me because I don't want one, so I'm just trying to stay out of the way." This makes sense, right? Even if it doesn't ring totally true. Fashythise twiddles her thumbs, eyes unable to stay still as she watches everything going on. "I don't like this at -all-!" She states, suddenly, arms crossing defensively. "It's... they're /everywhere/!" And that just makes her uncomfortable. Edging even closer to Ajatha, before she's dragged over anyway. "Vigilant nothing, I have no issues throwing someone under the wagon to save my skin." Though Fash seems to relax a tad, closer to the group. Isziyo bounces on his toes, a jittery motion that belies the calm look of serentity. "I think they would be hard-pressed to mow through Mik or I," he states to Jathi. "Whit, quit being a /wuss/." No question who that one is. He sidles closer to Fashy. To keep an eye on her, ya know. One big deep breath, visibly taken seems to be all that the Sensual Serenity Green needs to prepare for what comes next, though she also performs a quick check: feet? Yes, free of encumbrances, all there, and she flexes her talons a little as if testing out this new thing called 'walking'. wings are rustled then fan open and her head turns to regard their neat folds, blinking at their contours, then folds them carefully shut once more. One big deep breath, visibly taken seems to be all that the Sensual Serenity Green needs to prepare for what comes next, though she also performs a quick check: feet? Yes, free of encumbrances, all there, and she flexes her talons a little as if testing out this new thing called 'walking'. wings are rustled then fan open and her head turns to regard their neat folds, blinking at their contours, then folds them carefully shut once more. Leova returns not long thereafter, arms crossed. She glances at Iovniath, watching the way she is. At Meara, with her boss's knot. And the hatchlings, and whom they've already chosen, are choosing. She shivers too, pausing by the candidates just long enough to mutter a, "Take it easy," of her own to a particularly young and nervous-looking boy. Younger than K'del, even. K'del, looking more triumphant again, given Tiriana's approval, just laughs. "Sure she'll grow out of it. They're babies: they'll grow out of /heaps/ of stuff, I swear." His head twists and turns, attempting to follow the movements of hatchlings, Cadejoth's own extending neck glances, everything. "Feels like it's going to be over in no time. Almost disappointing." Pause. "Almost. Except that it's hot out here, no matter how cold out /there/." Carobet eyes her fellow candidates sidelong as they chatter between themselves, her lips pursing slightly in place of any words she has to join in the conversation. Just nervousness, light tugs at her white robe, wide eyes for the hatchlings searching the sands. Mikandros almost laughs at Whitchek. Almost. Instead what comes out is a rather sick-sounding wheeze. "Yeah, right. Tell -them- that." Them being the hatchlings, chin jerked forward. "Through, maybe not. Over, probably, and I ain't so keen on scars." Over? Yes. It's not that he never wavered, but in the end, the Tattered Shadows Bronze claims a tall but otherwise unremarkable-looking man as though he'd never let him go. Nudging isn't enough: in the search to truly make the man his own, he'd climb up and onto the former trader if he could, the better to envelop him in shadow and fully meet those dark brown eyes. His own no longer seem red nor muted, but instead resemble ephemeral rainbows, made all the more brilliant against his equally dark and drying hide. In a relatively impressive burst of yellow shards, the Prankster's Stash Egg collapses in on itself, leaving behind a honeyed-brown hatchling wobbling on one foot. Righting himself, he dashes forward, one wing tangling with the other until he ends, ultimately, tumbling to the sands at the foot of a girl from Benden Hold. She breathes his name so softly that even the girl next to her has to strain to hear. Teary eyed, the girl keeps one hand on her brown all the way off the sands. Betegal shifts his weight from one foot to the other just because if he stands still for too long, something will happen. Something not good. His gaze roams over the other candidates, wide-eyed. He watches the bronze but it's hard to tell exactly what's happening anywhere so he doesn't really focus on anything in particular. A'son is back, having escorted a weyrling into the back at some point over the past few minutes. When he sees Leova, he gives her a little nod of his head. Then he just gets out of the way and waits for the next pair to come his way. Isziyo is bug-eyed. Excuse him. "Mik... Mik?!" The candidate suddenly looks very, very lost, pulling Jathi away from the bronze-and-candidate. Excuse him. Time to go freak out now. In the galleries, A strangled noise breaks in the galleries - a noise somewhere between a cheer and a howl of disbelief. While others may have excused their way into the galleries, Mikaela uses her cane to knock a path out, the elder rider not caring whose legs she hits on the way out. Out. She needs to get out. She doesn't even wait to hear the name of her son's new lifemate. Sensual Serenity Green walks around the curve of a shaking egg, regarding its movements with open curiosity. She remains for a moment, head tilted to the side, waiting until the egg breaks open and her new clutchmate emerges. There's a quiet croon of welcome, then she resumes her search, looking to and fro with interest, steps dainty as she moves serenely from candidate to candidate. Then must go around another egg to reach another cluster of young people in white to consider. K'ndro has no choice, a protective shove aimed at those he stands beside even as there's a dragonet trying to climb his frame. But rather than trying to escape or redirect, he's falling into a crouch so Xadovith doesn't have to reach so high, arms looping about that shadowed delight. Claimed, claimed, claimed. Again. Again. Again. Was that the Watch Your Step Egg again? Yes: there it goes. Is that the Chemical Burn Egg making those sudden movements again? Again! Both eggs begin to move, the former sharper, more defined in its determined rocking, the latter a little more wild, though the end result is still the same for both: hairline fractures streaking across the shells through ash and crimson and garish green until a hint of a talon or a grizzled brown muzzle pokes its way out. Ajatha scoffs in Fash's general direction and jerks her eyes up at Isziyo with a grin. "Good. I don't want you two getting plowed over. Although a few scars could be hot, y'know." She turns that on both of them, and even manages a little leer at Mik, although the next second, there's a too-close bronze near them, and she pulls back, grasping Iszy's hands now and dragging Fash back with them. "If they're not dignified from the start--" Tiriana begins, with a glance at Iovniath; but she's smirking at the haughty, proper gold's ticks. "Disappointing? Whatever--ready for this to be over. All of it." And she kicks a boot in the sand, gives it a brief glare; not long, though, because that first bronze is choosing and she's eyeing the boy he picks. "That one? The one that makes me wish we had uniforms?" She snorts, shakes her head. The dragons might be beautiful, but apparently their choices still don't necessarily live up to expectation. Whitchek is at least able to get away, duck in the direction of not-anywhere-near-that-hatchling--but then the worst possible thing in all of Pern happens and how is he supposed to hide, now? "Oh, no. No. Nonono." Probably not the most congratulatory thing he's ever said. Tries again: "Oh, no." Yeah, it's just not happening. Fashythise shuffles in place, not so much cause of the heat, but of sheer nervousness. And the moment Mikandros impresses, she's just staring. Completely dumbfounded. "He... huh... it..." Yes. Words. She suddenly gets jerked back, thanks to the lovely Ajatha. "It... it... /look/!" She points, waggling her fingers around. "MacDaddy!" There is a total whine in all of that. K'del can only laugh, and laugh again, at Tiriana. Or maybe /with/ Tiriana. "Cheer up. Sure they'll be fine. They /look/ great." After a moment, he admits, "Guess I wouldn't have wanted to spend all that time out here, either, so I take your point. We'll have a great party, afterwards, though. It's going to be fantastic, the whole thing. The hatching, the--" he's beginning to babble, and stops, finally, looking rueful. Isziyo attempts not to hyperventilate, and stands there, contemplating the world. Or just one of his best friends, now a bronzerider. This could be good. Or it could be bad. Carry on. He eyes Sensual Serenity. "She's sure taking a while, compared to some others." Things are happening all over. How the heck can one keep up? A slashing motion from within dissolves the Watch Your Step Egg into nothing but a pile of shards, sharp talons gleaming with egg-goo as the Loyalty and Logic Bronze draws himself out into the world. He gives his wings an experimental shake, stretching himself out before, with head raised high and eyes intelligent despite their rapid, red whirl, he takes a single dignified step out into the world.
Leova's got a swift nod for A'son on his way back, a whispered, "Sonny," just loud enough for him to hear before she's making her way to Mikandros-now-K'ndro and, "C'mon, you two. M'kan, is it? No claws allowed," this for his young bronze, her voice easy and steady and so very reliable. "Let's get out of the way, get him all to yourself." Which to which? Doesn't matter. She's got brief steady glances for the remaining candidates as well, but looks away as a reminder that they have other things to think about, even as she eases the pair along. In the galleries, Ianna isn't one to miss Madilla's reluctance, but she is one to ignore it. And so, acknowledging that she's being pushy with a self-deprecating smirk, the Istan continues, "Whitchek? So you have a favorite white-sack too, do you? I'm rooting for one of the tan ones--see? That's Ajatha over there." She points, probably none too helpfully, in the general region of a clump of candidates. C'sel has returned and his eyes scan the sands in similar fashion to the others waiting to 'catch' new weyrlings as they pair up with dragonets. His hands clasp behind his back again as he waits, seemingly mostly unmoved by the spectacle before him. In the galleries, Madilla twists her lips ruefully, though her gaze dutifully follows where Ianna points to pick out the Istan. "Ajatha! I know her. She seems... nice." It's not exactly a ringing endorsement, though at least she looks apologetic for that. "Whitchek is my... That is to say... He doesn't want to Impress, so I think I'm mostly just hoping he gets off safely. He doesn't look terribly happy." She's indicating him; he's not far from Ajatha. Tiriana eyes K'del. "Yeah, he--" and she helpfully points at Cadejoth, like that wasn't already clear "--got off easy." And she glares at both, just for a moment and without much real anger behind it. "Parties are always fantastic. I got a new dress," she answers, smugly. K'ndro takes a while to realize Leova is speaking to -him- and then, "K'ndro." Correction, dazed, his eyes not even leaving the small bronze. Just shifting around, finding his feet, and somehow managing to not run into a wall on the way out. Manipulations of Frost Brown forces his damp, dark head out of the hole he's been gradually working apart all this while. The fissures on the shell finally break apart, shattering and allowing him to tumble out onto the sands. There he lays for a moment, watching the world around him with wide red-laced eyes. He'll right himself after a time, give his expansive wings a shake and then take slow, cautious steps away from his egg.
Betegal wraps his arms around him, glances toward the galleries, which just looks like a mess of color with no distinguishing forms, then to what's playing out before him. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he says, but then he's watching Leova and Mikandros leave the sands, just for a moment. Whitchek crosses his arms, tries to duck back, behind--well, no, that's Isziyo. That's a bad idea. Steps a little away again, left there. Breathe. The deep breaths are not, however, calming. At all. And he's stuck standing next to that gigantic guy who doesn't like him. Glares shot after the Weyr's newest bronzerider aren't going to help, but Whit does it anyway, easier than paying the least bit of attention to the hatching eggs. Hiding didn't work. Let's try denial. K'del makes a face. No more laughter. Though his response is gentle enough: "He /would've/, if she'd let him. He was excited about it. Enthralled. Probably seen the way he looked at those eggs." And the way he's looking at those hatchlings, too particularly that no bronze, the one that is so much more showy and snazzy than he is. But he has nothing but a huff of warm air, and another enthused rumble, and then he's looking off in the direction of that brown, anyway. "New dress? Excellent. Not much point in me getting anything new, but I'll spruce myself up for it." Dainty steps come to a halt as the Sensual Serenity Green senses something, maybe the someone she's been looking for. Her head turns this way and that and she takes a visible breath, re-arranging her wings and tilting her chin just /so/ before she glides on up to a young man with scruffy brown hair and a withdrawn air. A little bump in the sand causes a misstep, though, and instead of the elegant arrival she likely planned, the pale-hued green goes careening forward and bumps right into her chosen weyrling with a light smack of her muzzle to his chin. Isziyo, sardonic. "Whitcheck, so yours." He jerks a chin over to the rather dignified bronze now settling on the Sands, eyes roving towards Manipulations of Frost in a quick dart. "Another one." He may be sick. With Betegal. Because he can. Eyes linger on Mikand-- no, K'ndro's back as he leaves. Carobet eyes dart everywhere, from this hatching to that, from one to another pair being led off the sands, trying to take in the cacophony of sights and sounds and everything happening around her. "Deep breaths," she recommends to Betegal, and then attempts to take her own advice. Breathe! Darkness shifts on the surface of the You May Be Eaten By A Grue Egg, in places seeming to go blacker than black, in others reflecting light that can dazzle. Snap! Was that the opening and shutting of massive jaws? No, just the shell breaking in two to release a blue the color of midnight onto the sands, rolling and rolling and coming to a dizzy sprawled stop in the middle of a bunch of candidates. He looks up and croons sweetly though, impression made the moment he finds the right pair of eyes in the group. Ajatha better be lovely, shardit, since she's wrangling one Fash with her and tightening her hold on Isziyo. "Mik! Congrats!" But he's gone in a thrice, so she clears her throat once, and then again, standing close to those with her. Upon glancing over and seeing Whit standing all on his own, she rolls her eyes and waves a hand. "Whit! Come stand with us!" Tiriana sniffs at K'del. "Yeah, well. She didn't need him," she answers. "And anyway, they're all hers, and she wouldn't have let anybody near him." It's almost mollifying, like Cadejoth wasn't so singled out as a terrible father. As for their attire-- "I'm not being seen wi--oh, shit. Fine." She shoits a look at Iovniath, like the gold's reminding her she has to be seen with her Weyrleader, for political purposes. To K'del: "Just... make yourself look like a Weyrleader, okay? --As much as you can, anyway." And she eyes the teenage bronzerider up and down. Loyalty and Logic Bronze's first step is, ultimately, pretty successful: he draws back his wings carefully, he straightens his tail, and manages a very careful, very precise forward motion. His head tilts, as he glances around, taking in the world with obvious fascination, though his second step is faster (if no less careful), and carries him fairly directly towards a group of candidates. But. No. Though he gives them some consideration, it's clear that none of them are really what he wants. Needs. Searches with increasing impatience for. Still. All this? Is /fascinating/. Bounce Off Ceiling, Hit Floor, Jam Door, Ding! Dead Egg has been doing rather less bouncing as mere shaking, back and forth, back and forth, until the blue inside finally breaks free, and tumbles to the sand. He trips quite a few times before, finally, he lifts his head to see former Sailor Markenos, and then tumbles towards him. "Behranth," yells M'kenos, triumphant. "Behranth!" Fashythise watches as her MacDaddy goes, lower lip being worried like all heck. "Where... where do you think they go?" 'cause in all the lessons they've had about the hatching, Fash maybe listened to only about half. "How many eggs are left? Anyone can tell?" Still a lot, from what she can see. "Oh, oh! Where did that green go, and where the /shards/ did that bronze and brown come from? Plus, all those others... I need a drink." Fash just closes her eyes for a few minutes, trying to get herself calm. Isziyo, bracked by Whit on one side and Jathi on the other, stands his ground, looking a bit green about the gills. Gaze catches something of a sight beyo-- "I /knew/ it," as Betegal is spotted with a green. A green! He squeezes Jathi's hands once fingers find their way to twine with hers. And tries not to throw up in the middle of this all. In the galleries, "Doesn't want to Impress?" Ianna chews over that one carefully for a while, squinting toward either Whitchek or the candidate standing next to him; it's hard to tell. "I'll admit I'm a little new to the Weyr, but I'm fairly certain there's a simple way out of that one. Unless they're forcing folks onto the Sands these days, and I missed the Teaching Song that explains the sudden change?" As she queries Madilla, she lets her gaze drift from the girl back to the eggs and the young dragons, and gives an appropriate intake of breath as another is Impressed. Manipulations of Frost Brown Manipulations of Frost Brown hatchling is still on the outskirts, playing the same game he was playing just minutes before. But now as other eggs hatch and other dragonets find their candidates, hes starting to look a little worried. Hes still out here and hasnt found /his/ yet. His head swivels this way and that as he continues to search. His slow, purposeful steps begin to quicken. Though hes still staying close to the outside, he begins to investigate those candidates just a little bit more. Whitchek scowls at Isziyo. "Don't be cruel," he says, sullen, finally laying eyes on the hatchling in question. "You can be a matched pair. Two giants with obnoxious bronzes," muttered, still unfortunately audible. Shifting over nearer Ajatha at least means he can pass behind the larger candidate, and if he does so slower than necessary--well. It's a safety concern. Running on the sands could be dangerous. K'del shrugs, eyes on the hatchlings rather than Tiriana. "Would've been a nice gesture. He would've liked to feel included. Like he could help." His eyes outright roll for the rest of what she has to say, and he promises, "Of course I will. Not a complete idiot. Got a nice shirt and whatever, all laid out. It'll be /fine/." He straightens, beneath her scrutiny: at least he's tall. The Housewife's Revenge Egg and the Straight From The Snowasis Egg smack right into each other as their individual wobblings bring them closer and closer together. The resulting flurry of shards makes it hard to know which hatchling comes from which, as each barrels off in a different direction. The blue finds his chosen rider quite quickly, though his green sister is more picky in finding hers. The violent rattling of the Arson Egg makes little cracks start to snake across it, but the thick shell is stubborn still. Even bumping up against other unhatched eggs makes more cracks on them than it, and finally the dragon within stills, perhaps gathering up his strength and willpower for one last-ditch push. B'tal is so entrenched by the voice in his head that, well, it's no wonder that he can't get out of the way when the green smacks into him. He falls backwards, tears in his eyes either from the pain or the whole wonderfulness of the green. "It's okay," he tries not to let his pitch get too high with these words. "It's okay, Jeibeth. I'll help you." He gets himself to his own feet first, though, reaching out to her. Sure he's tall but Tiriana does not look too impressed, her mouth pulling into a grimace. "Well," she says with a sigh at last, a resigned shrug. "I guess you're stuck with what you're stuck with." Him and his clothes, her and her Weyrleader. "At least you're tall. Right." C'sel heads over to nab that new-made bluepair and ferries them off the sands with quiet words of congratulations. Again a few minutes then he's back in place, scanning the eggs and from the movement of his fingers doing a quick 'headcount' of the eggs. Loyalty and Logic Bronze pushes on, giving some brief thought to a female candidate with short-cropped curls, except that that is definitely not on the menu. He lets out, as if despite himself, a little bleat, as each candidate in turn proves to be less than perfect, and hurries on. Despite his speed, he maintains carefully check upon his movements, balancing each step with a counter-balance of his wings, his tail, the rest of his not insignificant bulk. In the galleries, Madilla's head shakes, rapidly. "Oh, no. It's /duty/. He was asked to stand, so of course he will." She sounds terribly earnest as she says this, not to mention at least a little bit proud. "I do hope he gets out all right. He doesn't look like he's really enjoying it... I thought the view, at least, would be worthwhile, from down there." /She/ can't seem to get enough of it, eyes roaming so rapidly. Isziyo keeps a wary eye on the Logic bronze, and tightens his grip on Jathi's hand, silently. "It'll be over soon." Is it a mantra? He could possibly be repeating that under his breath, over and over. K'del tilts his head down, actually looking at Tiriana this time. "About right," he agrees, however, striving to keep his tone even. "We're fine, Tiriana, honestly. We're doing /fine/, and I'll look /fine/, and you'll look - well, quite a bit more than fine. But you know what I'm saying." Now, the Arson Egg seems less to rock than just to swell, its surface bulging in odd ways as its occupant strains against its confines. And then, with a whoosh, it explodes, ashlike flakes of red and orange shell raining down on the roaring blue who bursts it open so dramatically.
Delegating, rather than working, Meara mostly seems to be observing from her patch of wall as she reclines against it, arms folded over her chest to watch. A sidelong glance is spared for C'sel and then A'son in turn and those dark eyes drift past the pair to the tunnel the dragonets disappear down. It's hard to tell whether she's heard the comment somewhere in the din, but her particular brand of humor quirks up as she hums some dooms-day song just audible to those nearby. Ajatha eyes the pair of males she's with and actually growls a little over her shoulder. "Don't snip at each other. Not this minute. Snip later. You're going to see each other soon enough and do that to your hearts' content." Wait, who? "Betegal Impressed? What, green? Whoa! You and me both, Fash. I need a drink." Her eyes track the ones on the sand, but her hands tighten on Isziyo's. "Soon, soon." Reassuring. Not jittery. Okay, is jittery. Dude! Carobet forgets her own advice, as her breath catches when the candidate beside her Impresses the little green. "Bety!" Her wide eyed expression are the rest of her words of congratulations, before they're turned back out across the sand towards other just-hatched dragons. Fashythise sends a scathing look to Whit, as he gets near, just, y'know, cause she can. Zizi gets one too, just for kicks. Anything to make her feel more like herself and less freaky-outy. "Soon isn't enough. I want it done now." The exit of the sands never looked quite so close and yet quite so far away. "Arrrgle." Words! "Betegal got that green? Shards, totally missed it." Tiriana makes a face at K'del, but, well. It's a compliment, and grudgingly, she smirks at him. "Of course I will," she answers. "I always do. Just--don't stare at my chest while we're making nice with the Lords, and I won't have to embarrass you, either." A pointed look's leveled at him then, brows lifting. Y'got that? C'sel sidesteps a bit of broken shell and approaches B'tal and his green. "Good day and congratulations," the brownrider offers as he nears, careful of other hatchlings on the way. "Please, just this way," he tells B'tal. "We'll see to everything that you need." Loyalty and Logic Bronze angles his path past a group of female candidates his interest in them excited, but purely academic: there's nothing for him there. Past a group of eager boys, his path angles once more, and then an outright turn, and then there's a new certainty in his already confident step. Five steps, six, and then he is there, arching his svelte neck forward so as to meet dark brown eyes with whirling blue. Jeibeth nudges at B'tal as if to make sure he /really/ is all right then steps back a little, regarding C'sel curiously then arranges her wings again and starts to walk in the right direction once she's sure her weyrling is in step. K'del smirks back, amused, at least, by this much. "Not /that/ stupid. Do that later." He's joking, presumably. "United front, remember? I won't look at your boobs, and you won'--" He breaks off, staring at the sands with measured disbelief. "Shells." There goes that bronze. In the galleries, Ianna settles back more comfortably into her seat, the strain of leaning so far forward already telling on her thick shoulders. "Well, then, I wish him well. Not sure whether to wish him a dragon or no--either way seems a little cruel--but at least we can agree to wish him no injuries." Her eyes, roving with Madilla's across the Sands, land upon a misshapen blue. "Oh, by the Egg! What happened to that poor creature's foot?" She glances left, then right, uncertainly. "Does that often happen? What will they do about him?" Manipulations of Frost Brown Manipulations of Frost Brown hatchling edges away from the outskirts finally moving quickly now to check out a group of boys. Something repels him however and with a suspicious gaze in his eyes, he begins to back away. He's back to the sidelines again, picking up the slow moving pace of earlier. Though it's not long before his eagerness to find his /one/ brings him back again to see more of the candidates. B'tal glances up at the brownrider that approaches them from the green of which he's having a very hard time looking away from. "Of course," and he follow her more than anything. Isziyo snorts at Fashy, and bumps Jathi's shoulder with his own. "Soon, soon," he repeats, in a near-chant. A deep breath is taken, and he eyes over at Fash. Eyeball. "I want it done myself, truly." Really. Really really and totally truly. It takes him a moment to catch on, but there's no longer a shell holding Gumshoe Thaumaturgy Blue back now. And so all that roaring, the tail lashing, the flexing of rusted wings--it all dies at once, as the hatchling's temper dies abruptly. And now he swings his long muzzle around to blink at the candidates, a sheepish look to his face. Oh. Hi. Whitchek ends up by Fashythise and Ajatha, ignoring scathing looks and obviously unable to hide behind them but--standing a little further back than he needs to, maybe. "Betegal?" Finally noticing. "Oh. Green. That's--" Not exactly a surprise, maybe. Only then he's... not Whitchek anymore. Or he is, but he isn't. There's this dragon there, just looking at him, just--"Oh, no. No. No--" Pause. Maybe someone close could see tears coming to his eyes. Maybe. "Zhikath?" Still Whit. But W'chek. Peeling apart like the apple it looks so like, the Deathly Fruit Egg has time for one final shake only before the green within succeeds in her quest for freedom. She takes her time, shaking egg goo from her wings and coordinating her limbs, before she begins her progress across the sands, instantly narrowing in upon the girl of her choice. With arms flung about her neck, she bellows her triumph, and then the newest pair are marshalled from the sands in tandem. In the galleries, Madilla's mouth opens to say something about the blue, for, indeed, her expression has gone utterly sympathetic in response. But. But, but, but: there's Whitchek, and there's that bronze, and-- "Whitchek?" Her voice is strained, like she's about to cry, but whether it's from excitement or horror, it's impossible to know. "Oh, /Whitchek/." A'son is ready to grab his next candidate-gone-weyrling. And apparently that's going to involve grabbing the recently impressed W'check. He makes his way over to him, gesturing. "C'mon kid. We're going to take you and big boy here to get something to eat. Get you off these sands." He carefully looks the pair over, lips quirking into a little grin before he takes them to the barracks. Gumshoe Thaumaturgy Blue is too big to be real good at this, but he tries anyway, ducking down behind one of the few unhatched eggs left by this point. From there, he can take a few minutes to compose himself, get his bearings and an idea which suspect he's going to aim at first. But then he knows, and he prowls out from behind that egg to face down the candidates. He might limp slightly on his injured paw, but he pays it little heed: there's a case out there for him, and he's determined now. Carobet moves closer to the remaining candidates, her partner having been led off the sands. "Oh, Whit! He just impressed?" Lips purse as she shifts her feet slightly, reacting to the heat of the sand beneath them. Jupiter's Revenge Egg splits apart, as if by one of the bolts of lightning visible upon the shell. Left behind is a sandy brown hatchling who seems, at first, completely unable to bring himself to actually get up and move. Finally, though, he wobbles towards his feet, and teeters off towards the nearest group of candidates, where, coming to an awkward stop, he finds a young man who fits just right. Isziyo isn't going to call Whit out for crying. He wants to cry, himself. "I was just /joking/," he threatens the heavens. "Why?!" A snowflake snakes through the heat and melts on the tip of his nose. Ha. About right. Jathi's squeezed closer. "That's so not fair. He didn't even /want/ it." Grumble grumble. Hey, Isz is good at bitching. He's good at a lot of things. But especially bitching. Tiriana finishes, "I won't do you like I've been doing candidates." It's as close to a truce as they're likely to get, though the hatching re-steals her attention. "Bronze to--oh, hell," she groans, eyes Whi--W'chek. "I was hoping we could pack him off somewhere." Manipulations of Frost Brown is creeping around the sands, staying as much on the outskirts as he can. A group of girls squeal when he passes, causing an alarmed crimson whirling of his deep-set eyes. His pace quickens then and he hastens past another grouping, nearly skittering on past one lithe blonde standing there before he manages to stop. Drawing himself up with great dignity, he approaches the young woman with more poise than previously exhibited. Zhikath leans forward, resting his head carefully against W'chek's middle, suddenly content. /His/ W'chek. C'sel accompanis B'tal and Jeibeth off the sands, then pauses for a moment to mop his brow with a neatly folded handkerchief before returning to patrol the busy sands, eyes keen on the breaking eggs for clues to where he'll need to head to next. Meara's eyebrows raise as the comment from Tiriana drifts her way; perhaps mangled in its actual meaning. Coughing discretely, but ultimately unable to hide her laughter, the silver-streaked dark hair bows as the older woman's shoulder's shake. Wrong, wrong. None of these people in white fit the profile and Gumshoe Thaumaturgy Blue isn't going to waste his time weighing the whys and why nots. The one he's looking for is out there--closer now, he can just feel it. And then he stop so short that a spray of sand flies up at a big, bald-headed candidate. He stops altogether and stands solid and silent to size up the quary he's finally cornered. W'chek is packed off somewhere indeed, still uncomprehending, rendered mute after the utterance of the name, nodding vaguely to A'son and bundled off with his dragon. His dragon. His--oh, my. Fashythise almost wants to scream. Almost. As people all around her seem to be getting picked off. "Faranth." She squeaks as she suddenly loses her entire group, taking many steps back, away from them -all-. K'del, though laughingly, "Charming, Tiriana, /charming/." Whitchek's Impression certainly has caught quite a few eyes, though K'del's gaze lingers there only a moment, then wanders off towards the blue with the strange-looking paw, and the brown. A piece of shell blows right off of the Ancient Patterned Metal Egg, and then it seems to implode within itself, leaving the startled green within tangled in her own limbs, and blinking owlishly around her. Goodness! She manages to compose herself enough to get on her feet within a few moments, and then she darts off across the sands in quite the tizzy, until tall Ebeny, nearly twenty-five turns old, attracts her attention: Impression is a certainty. "Laurienth!" she cries out, ecstatic. Z'yi stares at the blue in front of him for a long, long moment. "Stars and stones, Isforaith, calm down. We don't need to blow this place up or anything." Or burn it down. That would be bad. Like. Really bad. He takes a step forward-- and then his knees collapse out from under him and he spends a stunned moment trying to catch himself. Er. Whups. In the galleries, Ianna adopts a half sympathetic, half bemused expression for Madilla's sake. "Well, now the questions been settled for the both of you," the harper observes, oh-so-astutely. Then her eyes drift toward the Reachian Weyrwoman, and she must observe at least a portion of that reaction, for she adds, "Not too popular with the people who matter, is that friend of yours? Whitchek, you said? Funny name. Shorter now, I guess." Ajatha, in her little candidate huddle, clings closely to her friends and doesn't seem to be letting go of the big mountain any time soon. "It'll be over soon." Rumbled, sweetly, which doesn't really have a place there, but to her, it seems to fit. Wait. -WHIT- got a bronze? Her eyes widen, but she's still shifting close to Isziyo. But then, all of a sudden, her grip loosens, her eyes widening. Stepping away from the group, she drops to her knees in the burning sand. Instead of hissing and moving away from the burn, her arms go around the neck of the brown before her. "Rasiyoth. Mine." In the galleries, Madilla's expression remains impossible to read. She just... breathes. Again and again. "He's... no, I suppose he isn't. They just don't /understand/ him." Breathless, she shakes her head. "W'chek? I don't know. I'd never even thought. I just... Oh, Whitchek." Somehow, she still manages to be watching, because she adds, after a moment, "Isn't that your friend, there? With the brown?" It's over. Just like that, it's over, and suddenly Tiriana looks uncomfortable, eyes on those left standing. "I have to take care of her," she says, and turns away, to the gold who's looking saddened now, staring first after the backs of the last hatchlings leaving the sands, then at the wreckage of her eggs. She slides one dainty paw out to draw a couple of large pieces of shell closer to her. "You go--you just do it." And Tiriana waves a hand back at those left behind. C'sel spots another pairing made and tucks his handkerchief away to thread a path over to Ajatha and her brown. "Come now," he says gently, "let's not let your knees get burnt," the weyrlingmaster's assistant encourages. "Rasiyoth, that's a very strong name," he compliments the pair. "Let's get you both off to somewhere more comfortable." Rasiyoth Rasiyoth presses himself as closely to Ajatha as he can, before he's untangled. Following after her when she goes with C'sel to the barracks. K'del's blinks, aimed at Tiriana's departing back, fade pretty quickly towards outright frustration. His half-turn, back to face the remaining candidates, is an awkward, uncomfortable one. "Um," he begins, and then breaks off. Finally, taking a deep breath, "We just want to say thank you, all of you, for being willing to stand. Your dragon wasn't on the sands today, but that doesn't mean there won't be one for you. Those of you who want to go home, we'll arrange rides for you, those who want to stay, that's also fine. And, in the meantime, there's a feast in the caverns, and everyone is welcome. Thank you." Pause. "And I'm sorry." Ajatha shakes her head as if half waking from a dream, but she glances up at C'sel and nods absently, rising from her knees to follow after him, with a hand pointedly on Rasiyoth's hide as if not wanting to lose contact. Fashythise just stares, her face held in a tight, grim expression. Arms are crossed, teeth grit, and eyes glare at the Weyrleader. "Whatever." She states, head held up high. One way or another, she's off to get some booze! Z'yi looks, ah, uncomfortable. And then he's looking for guidance, a confused glance here or there. Crap. Where does he go? Other than stand here and stare at his Isforaith, of course. In the galleries, "Hey!" Ianna sits suddenly straighter as her wandering gaze, prompted by Madilla, snaps onto Ajatha. "A brown! Well, she's gone and done us proud, hasn't she?" The woman adopts a beaming grin. "Score one for the team." After a time, though, the healer's breathlessness impinges on her consciousness. "You're going to be alright there, right? I mean, not that I'd be the one to go to if you weren't, but--?" Carobet still looks a bit dazed as it all ends, searching for familiar faces among the rest left standing. Looking as it she's still not sure what to make of the whole experience, she heads off, towards a better outfit, and celebration. Meara being the last man standing, pushes forward and reaches out a lanky brown arm to the new-made bluerider. "Hey there." There's a capricious smile that floats about her mouth, hooking it up only along one corner. "Got a handful? Want a handful?" From her pocket she brings out a scattering of peanut shells that well, are empty, and with a merry laugh cocks her head towards the tunnel. "Ready to take the plunge down there?" In the galleries, Madilla manages to look pleased for her companion's excitement, nodding, smiling, even. But the question? It makes her expression droop just a little. "It's just... a surprise. A little surprising. I'll be quite all right. It will just change a few things, I suppose. He'll have to stay, now. Not just for me." She's sounding thoughtful, as she trails off to those. Then, "Congratulations, to your friend. I should-- go." Iovniath still looks rather sad about the fact she's nothing to mother, now that the weyrlingmasters have stolen her children. Tiriana spends a few minutes by her, petting her--conveniently until K'del's done dealing with the facet of hatchings she doesn't want to. And then, she steps away, toward the exit, with a look back at the gold as though she's waiting on the gold. But Iovniath lingers, alone now with the shards of eggs, and after a moment Tiriana nods once, glances back at K'del. "I'll meet you on the ledge when I'm changed," she tells him. Z'yi takes a deep breath, and tosses a cocky-enough grin towards Meara. "Yes, ma'am." A hand falls to land, surreally naturally, on the blue's neck. "We're ready to go." K'del, in between making his speech and Tiriana's return, looks a little adrift amidst a sea of people with places to go - but not him. The Weyrwoman's comment, however, draws him back into action; with a tip of the head, he tells her, "Right. Sure thing. See you there, then." And then, he and Cadejoth take their leave, with only a single lingering glance returned towards the piles of eggshells, the last of the departing weyrlings. "It's Meara," says the weyrlingmaster, drawing up together her own lanky limbs and taking that first step towards the dark, glowlit tunnel. They could just stand there at the tunnel's edge and peer waaaaaaaaaay in. Maybe yell a few times to see if it'll echo, but with an easy hand that reaches to place congenially on Z'yi's shoulder, should he not dodge, move, or twitch, the greenrider takes in a deep breath and mutters under her breath, "Well, here we go." Maybe she's just as nervous. In the galleries, "And give your Whitcheck, or whatever Wh'check, or whatever he is now, Ianna's congratulations and condolences," the harper replies to Madilla, "Though of course he won't care one whit about them." A weak smile acknowledges her own pun. "Good luck to you two, then." She leverages herself to a standing position, then, and turns to find that bluerider she came in with. In the galleries, "I--" Madilla hesitates. "Will. I will. I'm sure he'll be fine. Thank you... Ianna. I'm Madilla." But she doesn't linger on those introductions, hurrying away with an outright nervousness to her step. |
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