Difference between revisions of "Logs:Isyath and Riuscyth's Clutch Hatches"

The humming that breaks through the hustle and bustle of Fort doesn't build up steadily: one minute it isn't there and the next it very much is, reverberating through the Weyr, seeming to make the very walls of caverns vibrate. This is no storm or earthquake, for all its elements of both, it taking mere seconds for the population to reach one, joyous conclusion: the Hatching is here!

It's a cool winter's afternoon outside, but on the hatching sands, the heat underfoot is fierce indeed. Ali's perched on Isyath's foreleg to keep her sandled feet from being too hot - but even then she's already sweating. There's no sign of the Reachian sire, Riuscyth - though Ali doesn't seem particularly concerned about this. Nor is Isyath: she's humming along with the rest of the Fortian dragons, eyes whirling brightly, tail flickering back and forth as she watches over her clutch of eggs.

Magdesse shuffles onto the sands near the front of the candidate processional. She pauses to bow respectfully to Isyath and Ali, and then continues forward, following the candidate ahead of her. When that candidate stops, Magdesse does as well, staking her spot in the forming semicircle of her peers.

Avaryk's expression is grim as he walks out onto the Sands, more in keeping with being forced to attend a public flogging than a Hatching. His pause for the traditional bow is short, the action stiff and shallow, before he moves to join those white-robed individuals who've preceded him in fanning out into the customary semi-circle. As he takes up position, arms crossed over his chest, he's sparing little attention for the clustered eggs, gaze instead lifted to scan the galleries and viewing ledges, searching the sea of faces.

Through Dangers Untold Egg begins with a subtle twitch. Then a wobble. Before long, the egg is rocking where it sits on its sandy mound. The world is beckoning, and this egg seems prepared to answer the call.

Esten joins the others with a pace that quickens and then halts before offering a bow to Isyath and Ali before the awareness of the sands surrounding his sandals become ever so apparent. Though the reality is that he couldn't be any more clueless than the overbearing fact - look and try to get out of the way eventually. Both, may be good rules.

Norov follows hard on Esten's heels, quickly enough that he has to stop short in a hurry when the other man bows. He follows suit with his own quick bow, and a not-so-quick look, towards tail-flicking Isyath, gray eyes seeking out her rider as well and giving her a brief nod before taking his place in the arc of candidates. Now and again he glances elsewhere, up towards the ceiling as though it might come down in the thunderous humming, once and only once out towards the galleries with a half-defiant wave, more often towards his neighbors but always back to the eggs. His hands go behind his back, his chin slightly lifted: go ahead, laugh at his robe. Even if it's like everyone else's.

T'mitl is present, Chalmecath only so mentally -- while he is likely showering Isyath with mental praise and excitement, his rider is hanging somewhere between Ali and V'rel. It's his first Hatching as an assistant weyrlingmater, and there's no saying the young bronzerider isn't nervous. Again: some of the candidates are /older/ than he is. "Good luck, girls," he calls to Ali and Isyath, in turn. Isyath's totally still a girl, right?

Secret of the Earth Egg quivers where it sits, tiny tremors racing up its sides and fading away in a breath. Again the miniature quakes come and go as if housing a very nervous hatchling. One spasmic wobble tips it slightly to one side; that is all before it stills and resumes the quiet shivering.

Magdesse ventures a glance over her shoulder. She immediately shrinks in on herself and her head whips forward to gaze at the eggs instead of into the galleries. She takes a deep breath and then raises her chin and squares her shoulders.

Through Dangers Untold Egg ceases rocking. Completely. Perhaps its occupant is content to wait a while longer before meeting the world. But no. All of a sudden, it makes one heavy swing forward, shattering its top and propelling the hatchling within into a nose dive onto the Sands, flailing limbs shattering the rest of the shell. Dazed, the little bronze takes a few moments to make the world stop spinning before slowly, but surely picking himself up.

>---< Time's Watchful Soul Bronze >------------------------------------------<

 This lithe little bronze looks as if he could have slipped away from a
 shadow, the smooth, flowing lines of his lean body lending the deep,
 tarnished bronze of his hide opportunities to glimmer and glow with the
 softness of those gentle curves. The line of his jaw comprises what little
 sharpness there is to him, long muzzle leading to blunted angles that
 invoke the head of a spear before they melt away entirely down his slim
 neck, ridges small and touched with the last brightness of the setting
 sun. Neat shoulders support slender spars, wingsails dark, a low fire's
 shimmer swept across the underside of his wings and around his wispy tail.
 His limbs are short, yet supple, a sturdiness there supported by solid
 paws and claws smudged with charcoal.

>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<

Summoned Back Egg doesn't so much shatter as it does melt away down the slivers of gemstone green that slip across its shell. Flaking away, it collapses in on itself and its tiny occupant, the small blue within sinking down to the Sands as his home falls apart around him. For a few moments, he sits there, covered in egg shards, blinking bemusedly out across the Sands, before rising to journey not straight ahead, but behind pieces of shell to one of the older candidates standing not so far away, claiming them.

Avaryk's brows twitch as the first hatchling spills out onto the Sands, a reluctant sort of half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "If anyone's superstitious, now's the time to cheer about this clutch being lucky," he remarks, to no one and anyone within hearing range.

Esten's eyes dart towards the rocking egg - at this point? Which one may be in question as the first egg to fully hatch with a shifting, shuffling step. Only.. there's someone behind him. Norov. "I thought you were over there," he remarks, with a tilt of his head. "Oh. Look at that..." Then to Avaryk, "What?"

Ali chews her lower lip as she watches the candidates file out, something rather sympathetic in her gaze as she follows their progress across the sands, encouraging smiles sent their way in return. "Issy- look!" she's straightening up to point to the first shelled dragon with a breath of relief, while Isyath bugles a happy greeting to the newest Fortian dragon. T'mitl's call earns him a delighted grin and a wave, though it doesn't take long for her attention to be drawn back to the rocking eggs.

Time's Watchful Soul Bronze shivers from nose to tail in an effort to shake off some of the sand that clings to his shadowy hide. He lifts his attention to the line of white robes, eyes whirling with eager enthusiasm. Something - /someone/ - draws his interest and he starts forward. One, two, three confident trots towards the line of white robes and the bronze hatchling suddenly pauses. His ember-swept sails are suspended with curiosity as he contemplates each Candidate in turn.

Norov whistles softly under his breath as the first dragon hatches... and that breath hasn't fully left his lips, it seems, when the second not only hatches but claims his lifemate. "Well, that was fast," he mutters half to Esten, half to his other neighbor, mostly to himself for all that it just doesn't add up. "Yeah, sorry. I decided to hold off a few steps. Here now." Not that he'd stall, or anything.

Magdesse takes another deep breath as the first, and then second, dragons crack their shells. She mashes her lips together and looks left and right at her fellow candidates, and she is close enough to Avaryk to hear his remark. "I'm not, but I'm wondering how many people made marks off of that bronze."

Secret of the Earth Egg has been trembling for some time, its ebony markings stretching wider and wider. It rocks once, twice, three times in rhythm, the brilliant amethyst underlay revealed for a single moment before the whole picture shatters. One explosive moment is all it takes, fragments large and small crumbling in the wake of a chunky brown dragonet.

>---< Weathered Galleon Figurehead Brown >-----------------------------------<

 Mahogany brown hide streaked with honeyed rays of sunlight splash over a
 brown that is more midsection and limbs than anything else, broad chest
 speaking to potential power and strength. This young dragon seems to have
 outgrown himself, as a softly rounded appearance diminishes the impact of
 his bulk from an unassuming face, chubby belly flecked with sunspots and
 long, solid legs, his small, almost dainty paws sporting thick, white
 talons. Speckles of dark moss gather in a long dorsal stripe bordered by a
 froth of lighter sand, drawing the line of his frame and creating angles
 for the eye to follow. Pale, carbuncle-like neckridges lump along with it,
 seeming to grow down his length of their own accord rather than as part of
 his body. Matching a shortish neck, his rudder of a tail is broader than
 usual even at its forked tip, held off the ground as a feline might for
 balance. Wings stretch wide but never overtake his large frame, opaque
 sails a near-black slick of mud mixed with a textured ripple of waves over
 still water.

>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<

In Blood and Fire and Anguish Egg is not to be outdone, as just as its brown sibling hatches, this egg begins an aggressive wobble-roll to the right. It shakes, it sways, it flips over! It ... doesn't hatch. It's not quite the time yet.

Avaryk glances to Esten and shakes his head with a wry shrug, freeing a hand to gesture absently. "Supposed to be good luck, having a bronze crack shell first," he replies. "Not sure exactly /why/, but...." He actually manages a chuckle for Magdesse. "Not me, that's for sure." He takes a half-step backwards, gaze roving alertly as he tracks the movement of hatchlings.

Mechanical Egg is consumed by a million lines that splinter across the intricate design of its shell -but only one small fragment falls pathetically to the hot sands. The rest hesitates in a fragile condition, waiting until the right time to release its inhabitant. One can only be hatched once and so one must do so properly if one is to have the right start to life, shouldn't one? A single whirling eye looks out the peephole of its shell along the line of Candidates, surveying its potential lifemates until a chirrup signals readiness. Suddenly, the egg is shaken off by a very decisive green hatchling who plods gracelessly in the direction of a young girl.

Weathered Galleon Figurehead Brown holds completely still, giving the appearance of a hatchling carved from wood instead of a living, breathing creature. Only his whirling eyes give him away, voracious red progressing to a cautious yellow, his first motions tentative and sidling. He gains confidence step by step, watching his siblings proceed and following their tracks towards the line of white-robed candidates.

Esten murmurs, "I think, well, shards. I'm not sure what to think other than the sands are hot.." And to Avaryk's comment? A good-natured grin crosses his features before adding, "I know it means good luck, but that's not helping my feet. And there goes another one." Norov is noted with a hand to come where there's more room. Room for all!

Time's Watchful Soul Bronze Hatchling finally pauses in his methodical study of the white-robed young people standing before him. His tail curls, his wings are extended and refolded, then he sets off to close the distance between himself and an as yet unknown destination. When he reaches the young man with the green-grey eyes, he lifts a paw and touches it to the hem of the Candidate's robe, gaze following the expanse of white up to find the face of the one he's chosen. Paw back to the Sands before he unbalances himself, he trills, slightly off-key, announcing his choice. This is the best one.

Isyath's practically quivering as she greets each of her new children with a rumbling trumpet. Ali's given up trying to silence her, hands pressed over her ears, while here eyes flicker back and forth to try and take in each of the new dragonets. There's a wide-eyed sort of amazement in her gaze, especially as she sees the few first impressions.

Magdesse's gaze flits between Isyath, the roaming hatchlings, the rocking the eggs, the newly Impressed pairs and her fellow candidates -- in no particular order. Her gaze rests momentarily on Avaryk as she says, "Neither did I, but I didn't place any bets." A wry grin accompanies that remark.

In Blood and Fire and Anguish Egg is thinking about it. A tiny crack forms, then another, then -- nothing. A minute of nothing, and then an endless chain of tiny cracks form in short bursts, until suddenly the entire egg explodes like hammer hitting metal in a scalding hot forge, revealing a small, stocky and bright-hot blue.

>---< Realm of Fire Blue >---------------------------------------------------<

 The challenging pressure to grow-grow-grow is so built up inside this
 scrawny dragonet that, even freshly-oiled, he looks to be splitting at the
 seams -- a volcanic explosion of turquoise-bright blue sprays out from his
 shoulders and the length of his spine, flowing lava-like down the
 obsidian-shadowed valleys of his hide. Ash-laden smoke in electric blue
 plumes out into short, broad, strong wings, leaving him looking just
 slightly disproportionate when contrasted with the slender, flexible
 length of his tail. Large, alert eyes are wide-set above a short, stubby
 snout, with a surprisingly handsome effect.

>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<

Puzzling Puffball Egg is demolished from within by two ambitious black feet wildly kicking at the shell that imprisons it. What's left in the shower of goop and egg shards is a woodsy, dark green hatchling sprawled on her back, those over-sized feet flailing aimlessly overhead. She pauses and turns her head to the line of Candidates. Oh! What's this? Excitement finds her huge feet beneath her, and she unsteadily staggers towards the bunch or tries anyhow. A short distance from the line, she stumbles and is sent sprawling with a piteous cry of surprise down upon the feet of her new lifemate.

Norov briefly but sharply eyes the girl the green's chosen, sizing her up as though /he/ could tell what the green saw in her, as though that could make a difference. "Hot, all right," he agrees, only with an expletive-made-adjective preceding it, one that's repeated as he spots that next hatchling moving closer and closer and... /Esten/. He laughs, a bark of a thing, eyes bright. He doesn't touch, doesn't try.

Very still, as if waiting for someone to step forward and love him, the Weathered Galleon Figurehead Brown Hatchling pauses, the tilt of his head and sudden whirling of eyes communicating everything and more that a mad dash for his chosen candidate would signify. Minds touching before he ever takes a step, a call goes up and the two meet halfway, the rough, speckled brown and an older girl, both of whom might fade into a crowd. But for this moment, they are front and center.

E'ten could try to be slack jawed eventually as the bronze hatchling comes up to the robed candidates - himself included. Closer and closer. Seemingly proving that yes, he was properly stalked and told to be on the Sands. What he didn't expect was to have a paw against the hem of his robe before peering down at the multi-facited eyes that stare directly back at him. "I.." Um. Let's try this again. "E'ten? But that's." Wait. That could only mean the smile that he gives for the hatchling is all the more good and light as he adds, "I'm glad that you think so, Adiulth!"

T'mitl appears to be making a list, or else -- he /was/ making a list, but as the bronze Impresses he stops writing things down and moves Esten-wards. Or -- "Esten! E'ten, whatever your name is now, bring your new dragon over this way, okay?" As he gets closer, he's also waving new weyrling pair in the opposite direction, back toward the barracks. "Plenty of food and people ready to get you adjusted in there. He's lovely, by the way. Nice job."

Schrodinger's Egg has barely moved the whole hatching. In fact, it's probably drawn a few concerned looks here and there - even now it is still, unmoved by the frenzy of activity all around it. There's, perhaps, the faintest sign of a crack down the side, if one's looking carefully enough, though.

Avaryk grimaces, shaking his head. "Sorry," for Esten, and misunderstanding that 'What?' "Try not to think about it," is his unhelpful advice. Though now that he's been made to think about it, he shifts his feet uncomfortably, trying to be subtle about it and pretty much failing. "Neither did I," he laughs towards Magdesse. "That probably would have helped, huh?" The grin that accompanied the joke freezes on his face, before he notes, "Well. That's make his dragonhealing go a mite easier. Well done."

Ali claps her hands together, gleefully. "E'ten," she says, eyes shining. "Adiulth? Oh, that's a nice pairing, indeed!" She's tugging hands through damp hair, watching T'mitl begin to herd the weyrlings off - but her gaze very quickly swings back towards the unmatched pairs. "Oh, is that brown near--" she straightens, trying to see clearly.

Magdesse lets out a gasp as Esten Impresses, and then her gaze once more flits across the rest of the clutch and hatchlings. Suddenly, the brown has her attention, and she emits an even louder gasp as everything else fades out. She steps forward as if compelled, hesitant at first, and then with her usual confidence. "Kaimyth?" Mags reaches out her left hand to touch the brown muzzle. "Yes ...Let's go."

Realm of Fire Blue had started moving slowly, but at this point, he is stalking around the Sands, not /looking/ at so much as /smelling/ his surroundings. And, well, most of the Candidates. He stops before a boy, takes a sniff or two of his feet, and keeps on moving, tail lashing, eyes wide and glowing. What he's meant for is out here somewhere, and he knows what he's searching for, just can't find it. Paw over paw, holding his head high, he continues on, getting a good test scent of just about everybody.

Festive Confetti egg shivers and shivers and shivers and... finally tips backwards and sends a slender brown hatchling to the sands, all a whirl of limbs, wings and tail. Once he realises that the flapping of wings is not going to right him, he rolls onto his side, only to chirp and go very still. The one he's chosen is there before his paws touch sand and they work together to put him to rights and take first steps.

E'ten might have a easier time eventually with dragonhealing but try telling him that right now as he looks down to the bronze to see if he first needs any help. Then it's a look to T'mitl with a nod before suggesting that they step to the side. And, out of the way of the other hatchlings that are making their presence known. "I know you have to be hungry," he says, already gesturing to the edges. "Come on."

Norov flattens his palms against his robe, as though that would be enough to dry them, or if nothing else to pull it down further towards his ankles. "Dragonhealing," he repeats what's half-heard, glancing from that direction towards the tall girl on his left, and back to the hatchlings and the remaining eggs. Including that two-faced one. He can't look towards where used-to-be-Esten is heading forever. At least the girl pokes him in time for him to look after Magdesse, and nod briefly to himself. /His/ feet stay still.

V'rel has been watching T'mitl between getting weyrlings off the Sands, and he takes a moment of his spare time while one bronzerider is working with the other to step quietly in Magdesse's direction. "Barracks're this way, miss," he says in a soft voice, with a smile for, "And welcome to the world, Kaimyth."

Schrodinger's Egg suddenly cracks, a dark onyx claw piercing through the shell. Rather than sending pieces everywhere, a loud crunching sound is heard and the Molten Glass Bronze Dragonet wriggles out of his prison proving that despite the paradox of his egg, he is indeed very much alive.

>---< Molten Glass Bronze >--------------------------------------------------<

 Illumination casts firey patterns of reflection that dot the sides of this
 deeply rich, reddish-bronze dragonet's bulk which promises only to get
 larger with time. His ridges are sharply defined, sharp and jagged which
 at the moment are intensely bright and fading only once they hit the
 deeper color of his reddish bronze hide. Appearing molten and bright
 bronze, with time and growth his color will darken and leave those bursts
 of bright bronze looking like he was made out of a piece of forever
 cooling glass. Once again, the flame ignites in dark ruddy hues to extend
 the length of his long tail, culminating abruptly at the fork. Capturing
 night's shroud, his wings glimmer with those same coppery highlights to
 press away the nightfall, tracing a vibrant path from leading edge to
 trailing tips.

>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<

Heirloom of Doom Egg rocks in haunting rhythm, trapped by its shallow grave of hot sand. It sways to and fro, slowly but surely working away the edge of its sandy mound until it has enough space to really get some momentum going. It swings back and forth over and over, gaining momentum with each rock until it finally rolls hard enough to escape that little mound of sand that nurtured it while it matured. Hah! Freedom! The egg rolls wildly out of control for no more than a few seconds before careening into Windswept Miasma Egg with an audible CRACK. Like true brother and sister, both hatchlings a blue from Heirloom of Doom Egg and a green from Windswept Miasma Egg - explode out of their shells and immediately start squabbling. Once they spot the Candidates, it's a race to be the first to Impress, and it takes mere seconds of frantic screeching and scurrying about for both hatchlings to choose their lifemates. Good luck with those two, Weyrlingmaster and assistants.

Ali cranes her neck to watch Magdesse's progress with the young brown. "I can't remember if he shelled from one of the eggs she touched. Remind me to ask her later, Issy?" She pats the queen's foreleg underneath her, though asking a /dragon/ for a reminder is probably a futile gesture, given both are quickly distracted by the next batch of hatching eggs.

Avaryk ducks his head, reaching up to swipe sweat from his face and then smears his palm down the side of his robe. The shake of his head seems more amused than anything as he watches Magdesse become entranced by the brown. But he doesn't watch for very long, attention drawn up and out once more.

Realm of Fire Blue Hatchling has never carried with him the true doubt of his siblings, and this whole hatching experience has been more a challenge to meet: be clutched, break shell, find lifemate. But he's always known his wyrd, and now the wait for it is over. Moving triumphantly toward a taller man with dark hair and swampy eyes, he sits right down before his Avaryk and paws, gently but firm, at the hunter-storeskeeper's foot. The search is over.

Magdesse delicately strokes Kaimyth's muzzle, the expression on her features a mixture of awe and confusion. V'rel's comments don't immediately register, and Mags shakes her head slightly. She glances up at him and nods, smiling at him in a slightly dazed sort of way. "Yes, sir. Off we go, Kaimyth," she tells the brown as she glances fondly down at him, "Let's go."

Norov dares a step forward, his mouth grimly set, just enough to slide a sideways look towards Avaryk to see how /he's/ holding up. Only then he laughs to himself, just fractionally, and steps back again. Carefully. Eyeing the sands. Eyeing... another green gone? And that blue, and that glassy-hopefully-not-gassy one.

Molten Glass Bronze is apparently in no great hurry - not right now. He's the last-to-last dragon to hatch, and one could easily get the sense that this was a deliberate move on his part, given the way he pauses to posture for just a moment with still-damp wings outstretched - to ensure he's being watched. And only then does he start moving - stalking is a better descriptor - circling around the candidates with a keen intensity to his still somewhat awkward movements.

A'ryk looks startled and a bit queasy as that blue nears, and is in the process of stepping away when suddenly nausea is replaced by shock. He sways and for a moment, looks alarmingly close to passing out. But when he falls, it's a controlled motion, down to one knee as he stares at the bright hatchling, cheeks wet now with tears as well as sweat. "Ginanguth. I... I'd given up hope." Shaking hands are lifted to cup narrow muzzle, touch required to assure himself of reality.

Norov watches. /Fine/. He's got his hands behind him again, all knotted up, knees flexed. "Not coming for you, at least," he mutters to the neighbor-girl, and maybe it's not just her nervous snicker that has that muscle in his jaw tightening again.

T'mitl is completely still on the ball -- V'rel doesn't need to mind him anymore! He's got this job down! "Archery gentleman! And blue!" Whatever your names are! Although apparently Chalmecath clues him in quickly, for he's correcting himself, "A'ryk and Ginanguth, come on over this-away and get some eats and a place to sleep, yeah?"

Molten Glass Bronze Hatchling circles his way around another batch of candidates, creeping up behind them. Something... yes. Something's finally caught his attention long enough that he's coming in for a closer look. That young lad with dark, curly hair... that's the /one/, and he sidles in close enough to scatter any other candidates nearby.

A'ryk would laugh if he were at all capable of paying attention to /anything/ at all. But somehow T'mitl's words must register, for he stumbles to his feet to follow where directed, though only as swift as Ginanguth can keep up.

Ali barely seems to know which way to look: she's torn between watching the newly-made-weyrlings leave the sands with a smile of reminiscence, and watching the few hatchlings still left on the sands. The last couple of eggs get a concerned sort of look, but she's soon distracted by the impression of the bronze.

Norov's turning, all right, he's not going to get pounced on... unawares, at least. Gray eyes flick sideways again as the girl gets out of the way. And then he swallows. He shakes, knees quaking despite themselves. He straightens. He... doesn't say Vhaeryth's name. He might not even have any words left over, but he's reaching out to touch the glassy cheek, to run his fingers along that jagged neckridge, with sudden and primal possessiveness. Perhaps it's his lifemate that nudges him more than anyone else, to go where the others have gone, to /claim/ their place instead of just to be left with the leavings, but they walk side by side.

Illusory Correlation Egg finally gets to moving and shaking, but it doesn't take very long for the shell to crack completely. A small, pale green spills out onto the hot sands, taking a few moments to shakily stand. There's no hesitation or searching about - she heads right /past/ the candidates, and towards the galleries themselves. Some hopefuls in the galleries starts to move forward, but it is a young Bollian lad dressed in finery that Impresses the green soon after, while word starts to spread that the newest Fortian greenrider is indeed Lord Boll's grandson.

With all the eggs hatched, there's a range of reactions from the young people left on the Sands without a lifemate. One of the younger girls turns to her neighbour and starts to quietly weep against her shoulder, while the older of the two stands all the straighter, mechanically lifting an arm around her companion as she stares straight ahead. Those who have stood before are already starting to drift away, until theyre rounded up with the rest by the Weyrleaders and given what is, to some, a familiar speech: they're welcome to stay at the Weyr, perhaps try again when the next clutch arrives, but there's a feast to be had for now and drink enough for those who wish to drown their sorrows.

Ali's biting her lower lip, gaze tracking N'rov's progress off the sands. "The Bollian impressed-" she murmurs, and then her gaze goes, wide-eyed, to the sight of the young green heading for the stands. She straightens, "Issy, where is she- oh!" she can't see just /who/ the last dragon's gone towards, but the noise coming from the stands certainly makes her take notice. As the Weyrleaders give their speech to the remaining candidates, she moves to join them.

T'mitl watched N'rov's impression with some passivity and okay-good-match-that-was-interesting, but when the green goes for the /stands/ his eyes widen and he launches in that direction at a run. "Right, okay, hello," visiting dignitary, now what does he do -- why hadn't he left V'rel to this one? "Congratulations on your Impression, sir, the weyrling barracks are /this/ way, allow me to help you ..."