Logs:Iesaryth and Vhaeryth's Clutch Hatches
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| RL Date: 1 November, 2013 |
| Who: Aishani, Alida, Anvori, Aughan, Bristia, D'kan, E'dre, Edeline, Gallagher, Ghena, H'kon, Ienavi, Israfi, Jo, K'zin, L'sen, Lansha, Leova, Leysen, N'rov, Oriane, Potipher, Quinlys, R'hin, R'sig, Rhey, Rone, Via, Y'ral, Y'rel |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: The eggs hatch! Nabolese claimants don't get to sit with the Lords and Ladies. Nobody dies. |
| Where: Candidate Quarters and Hatching Grounds, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 2, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions, Issedi/Mentions, K'del/Mentions |
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| In deep winter at the top of the world, there's lots of reasons to sleep; the snow, the cold, the constant suffocating warmth of the sands. But for once, Iesaryth doesn't take all of those excuses for slumber - the queen is awake in this winter night and watching her eggs. And even if they don't talk, aren't moving just yet, she knows now that they will. And begins to hum as sunny warm waves wash across the Weyr and out beyond. It's time. (To all dragons from Iesaryth) To all dragons, Arekoth takes up the hum with the faintest shimmer of yellow, way back, in the night, where Iesaryth's sunshine doesn't hit. Already flying from his ledge to the Bowl, Ilicaeth hums his lungs out in baritone welcome to those eggs. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) Vhaeryth's is a smug hum, of course, but even beyond that, it's just plain thrilled. Their eggs! Cracking. At last. They'll get to see! (To all dragons from Vhaeryth) Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in five neat rows of five beds each allowing up to fifty people to sleep in one cavern, although one of those caverns is presently largely closed off. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second. Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway.
Lansha gasps and slaps a hand over his mouth, then leaps up from his bunk. "They're humming!" He begins shucking clothes and tears open his press to find his robe and sandals. He pulls the robe over his head and kicks off his boots, trading the thin-soled footwear for the much thicker-soled traditional shoes. He has a bit of trouble dressing with hands shaking from the adrenaline rush. By comparison to the shrieking excitement and panic of some of the younger candidates, Gallagher's reaction to the hum is downright boring. He arrives behind a pair of girls, the trio all with wet hair and fresh clothes. The man moves to his bunk near the door and reaches into his press for the traditional robe and boots, making the trade of one set of clean garments for the other with efficiency. "Move it move it..." Alida notes firmly, but not crossly, the blonde physically urging where needed, and herding the candidates into a line before the exit to the Sands. Sluggards and slackers are not tolerated by the hard-assed bluie, who quickly straightens out hair or robes of the youngest kids, where needed. "Be polite to the dragons. No need ta bow, but acknowledge 'em. Form a loose semi-circle around the eggs. Not too close." It's almost barked out so all can hear her in the din of voices. "Be sure ta get the shell outta the way if they charge. They're daft just outta the egg." Once everyone's done... "Okay, follow me out. And don't blab too loudly." And off she leads them onto those torried Sands! Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black. The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat. From the sands, Sugar And Spice And All Things Nice Egg holds very, very still against its neighbor. Just for a moment, but then it just can't wait! It has to move. The Monaco continent enters with a fair bit of noise -- Oriane sweeping in at the head of the group. She'll seek out other Weyrleaders with her gaze, nodding greetings to them, before selecting a spot near the front. Some of the other riders split up, a group setting up near the back, R'hin amongst them. If there's any awkwardness about the Monacoans being here, they don't seem to acknowledge it: after all, the dragons being hatched are of Monacoan lineage. From the sands, Bright-eyed and observant, finally, finally excited to be there, to be watching the eggs, Iesaryth is crouched low to watch on egg-eye level, staring as if she'll miss something. She could, it's possible - though her quick, bright thoughts are sure to reach out sooner than later, what with her annoyance at their lack of talking back. Aishani is already there as visitors begin to arrive, solving the challenge of dressing for the sands with a light summery shift she's sure to change or cover on the way to the feast. For once, she's grinning, though mostly N'rov's way. There are few Fortian riders that have made their way to Reaches to witness the hatching, but two have made their entrance after the Monacoan group. Fort's Weyrsecond E'dre is in company of his wingmate, Y'ral. They find a seat in the Galleries that'll offer a good view of eggs on the sands. "I'm telling you, first egg to hatch will be a bronze," Y'ral tells E'dre as he elbows the shorter man's side. "And you'll owe me ten marks." E'dre rolls his eyes and smirks, "We'll see about that." From the sands, Mechanical Egg has twitched once, so it might as well try that again... though mere twitches don't seem to get the desired result. Another, stronger twitch before it sets to rocking in earnest. The eggs must have interrupted some sort of wing function. Alpine enters more or less at once, H'kon among them, with all the usual stern aspect about him. A young bronzerider at his side slings a leg over a bench and glares at someone next to whom he's sat too close. A bluerider takes up the bench in behind. H'kon grabs a spot nearer the entrance, the last point of a triangle into which most his wingmates are fitting themselves. "Everyone always says bronze first because it's good luck." That's R'hin, shamelessly eavesdropping on the nearby Fortians. "It's bound to be a green," the bronzerider says, with a grin, trying hard to ignore the elbow from the pretty blonde at his side, though it's probably harder to ignore her mutter, "You always think greens are the best. Not that I don't either," the woman adds, undoubtedly marking herself as a greenrider. The Glacier riders are their usual ragtag group of rowdiness, coming in with boisterous laughter and loud wagers. Jo slips in among her wingmates, keeping up a broody silence as they all settle somewhere towards the back. From the sands, She's a weird presence to see out on the Sands, but when sudden duty calls, nobody can say Alida's not up to the execution of such. She waits for the (mostly) orderly Candidates to follow her strong presence, then directly them with eyes and hand motions to fan out properly...after she and they acknowledge the clutchparents. There's been a quiet murmur of interest ever since Rone - claiming to be here as Lord Holder of Nabol - swept into the galleries, surrounded by an entourage that includes his wife and children, and a number of presumed guards. It was difficult to miss that while he attempted to make for that part of the galleries set aside for dignitaries, he was forcibly stopped from doing so and he has been clearly unhappy ever since. Of course, the former Lady Nabol herself has also been prevented from joining those numbers, and has now been seated some rows away from her former stepson. Perhaps notably absent at the High Reaches Hold dignitaries. Surely they should've arrived already? It's with a rippling murmur of whispers that when the familiar knots of the Hold are seen, the Hold's Lady and Lord are not. Whispers of 'sick' and 'the Lady is ill', then more quietly, 'exile' are heard. High Reaches Hold's representative -- and older, dour looking man -- pauses briefly to greet the various Lords and Ladies, before settling down a few rows back. "If you consider the odds, it normally is a green that hatches first," E'dre answers R'hin with a grin, "Y'ral just likes to pretend that he cares. About luck that is. Or the prestige it'd bring N'rov, huh Y'ral?" E'dre asks the bluerider with a wink. From the sands, It's even as the candidates begin to arrive on the sands that the quartet of black eggs lead the charge, shells breaking away to reveal one bronze, one brown, one blue and one green, all sharp-edged and superior. It's the blue that leads the way after that, rather more nimble than his siblings - but all of them find partners in short order amid the milling white-robed candidates. From the sands, Lansha enters the sands in line with the other candidates, quietly at first. He pauses at the entrance to the sands and gives a respectful nod to Vhaeryth and Iesaryth, then moves to join the semi-circle of candidates. As he passes Gallagher, he gives him a playful chuck on the shoulder and a grin, whispering, "Ready for this, old man?" From the sands, Vhaeryth eyes the entering candidates while he's at it, his jaw moving pointedly, at least until those first eggs hatch; then they have his attention. He aims to nudge Iesaryth with his shoulder, as though she might have missed it: look, look what they did. And so fast! Definitely related. From the sands, Gallagher doesn't look serious for once! Is he smiling? No, that would be asking too much. Rather, he looks annoyed. Explanation is found on his arm where a teen bearing the same nose and brown hair, albeit much longer than Gallagher's, is hanging, wide-eyed. They haven't seemed overly friendly through the candidacy period, but apparently hatching nerves is bringing out the bonds of blood and old habits. "Grr, I'm scared," Ghena confesses softly. Gallagher's eyes roll, searchingly from where they'd scanned the eggs already, and to the stands where he's probably looking for parents, or maybe a savior. It's the 'Reachian bronzerider Y'rel who gets most of the murmuring going among Alpine, anyway, when Rone enters. The wingleader isn't the only one of his number to sit up straighter, and look suspicious. H'kon, he turns his head, but just goes on with that furrow-browed face. "And I always play to the odds," R'hin admits ruefully, spreading his hands in a 'I'm totally guilty' expression. "I've never much held with the luck of the random draw. It's not done me too many favors in the past." A beat, "R'hin. And this lovely lady with me is Bristia." The greenrider rolls her eyes at the introduction, but murmurs a hello. "And are you--" the bronzerider breaks off abruptly as the first egg cracks, snapping his fingers. "Well, what do you know -- it was a bronze. Congratulations, Y'ral, was it?" While most of those in the galleries watch the hatching, a more political game is afoot among some of the dignitaries. A runner from Lady Ienavi's entourage heads past guards and watchers, seeking a quiet word with Lady Edeline of Tillek. Positive or negative, it's difficult to say; he returns neutral-faced. Israfi's dressed particularly dapper tonight -- even for him -- in shades of dark harper blue, and though he acknowledges his fellow Harpers with subtle glances, it seems like he's 'working' tonight -- moving amongst the galleries until he locates a seat a row behind Rone and his family. And while the rocking of the eggs is great entertainment, the harper's brown eyes are more occupied by the various Nabolian factions. From the sands, Mechanical Egg wobbles... then goes still. Wobbles... then goes still. It just can't seem to get into gear. From the sands, "Shiiiit..." Alida notes low to the rapidity with which those first four hatchlings pop their shells and find their lifemates, the blonde whistling softly to herself, and eyeballing those pairs already being led off the Sands. She's got no time to let her eyes crowd-surf, right now...the remainder of the white-robes and those other eggs being watched with razor precision. Lord Aughan rises, abruptly, abandoning those with him to remove himself from the finer surrounds of his seat, and seek out Ienavi. Those nearby may overhear snatches of their conversation: "Shameful." "Still Blood!" "I would be delighted, Aughan." On his way back, he tips his head rather coolly in Rone's direction, though even here he pauses for a brief snatch of unheard conversation. His point, perhaps, is made: he still considers both claimants worth his attention. "Y'ral indeed," the bluerider replies with a large smile and a rather too-loud laugh that draws a few glances from those around them, "And a better gambler than E'dre here," he continues as he slaps the brownrider's shoulder. "Well met," E'dre replies with a nod to both riders in front of him. "Seems like there's more to watch than eggs and candidates," he continues, glancing towards Lord Aughan. From the sands, Iesaryth will let Vhaeryth keep an eye on the candidates for now - perhaps he's sufficiently intimidating to trust him to the job. And she certainly hasn't missed the first eggs just then, but isn't bothered by her mate's nudge, instead leaning into his shoulder with her own, giving the blue a pleased rumble. Fast. Smart. Must be related. Her rider's trying not to be distracted by anything happening up in the galleries... but Shani's finding it difficult, dark gaze shifting there now and again. From the sands, There's a yell of great pleasure from a local girl as she's claimed by the green that hatches from the Quiet Egg; meanwhile, the blue from within the Rusty Spoon Egg takes his time, sweeping back and forth across the sands before finally choosing his girl. That the tall, lanky, curly-haired girl is one of the Acting Weyrleader's nieces does not go unnoticed, but she seems delighted enough with her Sveianth. From the sands, Lansha cheers for the new weyrlings. "Shards, that was fast! We barely got onto the sands!" He starts to feel the heat of the sands through his sandals, shifting uncomfortably. The beatific grin never leaves his face though, he's loving this. He cheers again as two more are Impressed. From the sands, Gallagher probably could have avoided Lansha's shoulder-chuck if he didn't have Ghena hanging on his arm. Only, as he turns his eyes to look toward the younger man, the weight evaporates and Ghena's light feet are taking her to meet one of dragonets spilling from the first bunch. Gal can't help himself: his jaw drops. "Just like that.." From the sands, Sugar And Spice And All Things Nice Egg has to get into gear, too; it's stuck between, grains of sand flying up like it's skidding in place. From the sands, The Mechanical egg shudders, rocking backwards upon the bed of sand it has been so resting upon. The heart at the very tip of the Sugar and Spice egg seems to throb, beating in time with the attempts of the life within to emerge. A few heaves, and a couple of listing wobbles soon have it resting on a side. From the sands, N'rov leans to whisper to Aishani, even as gray eyes flick past to the guarded tunnels' mouths: no one had better sneak onto the sands this time. From the sands, After many failed efforts to hatch that leave Black Blade Egg looking like a loss, a sudden talon-slice of hard shell from within sends shards of egg and one frail, powdery blue scattering onto heated Sands. Silently staggering to his feet, it takes the weakling many fruitless tries until he finally collapses before the right one: a dark-skinned young man from Nabol's refugees who scoops the dragonet up and carries him off the sands. From the sands, The streak of silver on the Mechanical Egg has looked as if it's been been ready to rupture for most of the time the egg's been on the sands, and since it started rocking and shaking, even more so. It shouldn't be a surprise when that silver seam gives way, but it might even so-- if only due to the sheer swift violence with which the shell shifts and cracks, a wet pine-dark wing breaking through to herald its shattering.
Nothing But The Rain GreenEven her muzzle is long and lean, clad in the dark, unreflective green of a winter's forest; she's a lithe dragonet with a single lustrous racing stripe down each side, a paler, glossy hue that underscores her sudden, strong movements and the racer's slant of her thin-boned physique. Further ripples, as glossy but less pale, flow down her wingsails, closer and closer together as they reach their trailing edges. Sharply defined neckridges are wholly dark again, the same onyx as her perennially-chipped claws, spaced in a way that seems less irregular than a pattern as yet undiscerned. Within all that darkness, her eyes glow that much more, holding nothing of artifice and everything of fearless, no-holds-barred conviction.
From the sands, Apparently Alida is more there as muscle than guide, for Quinlys and the other weyrlingmaster staff are busy leading new Impresees off the Sands and into their Barracks home. The pale-headed bluerider simply stands, and watches...not only the candidates and eggs, now, but also all entrances and exits to and from the hatching sands. When Aughan approaches Rone, Israfi puts on an appearance of enraptured attention to the eggs -- and dragons -- on the sands, though he's undoubtedly trying to listen closely to catch whatever snatches might head his way. From the sands, The frenzied rocking of The Egg sends it careening into the as-yet-still-unmoving Cut Through The Wind Egg. That is enough to finally set that second egg into motion; it rolls over itself, shuddering, and then promptly shatters - revealing the deep cobalt blue within. Moments later, it's joined on the sands by a green from The Egg, the two hunting together until they finally find partners in a pair of Nabolese siblings. From the sands, Gallagher's eyes are moving away from Ghena as she's collected by one of the weyrlingmaster staff and back to the eggs. Now there's no sister to distract, and even Lansha and the other candidates seem to be forgotten in the new focus that he finds, brows drawing together, expression going from its surprised stated to something more severe and serious. From the sands, Aishani's listening to N'rov, though she doesn't follow his glance just at the moment - she's still trying not to eye the Blood maneuvering above, what with all the hatchings below. Her attention is too quick to shift from dragon to dragon, eyes widening. Alpine's got to be looking like a pack of wild dogs stuck on the other side of the gate from a rare steak, so many of them watching the interchange between Holders and would-be-Holders and other Important people from that non-Weyr world, at full attention. Now and again, Y'rel will say something to one of those in his vicinity. Sometimes he even gets a nod. Those poor dragonets are going largely unnoticed by this wing. Well, except for Arekoth and some of his winged counterparts. From the sands, Flakes of shell begin to peel away from the Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice Egg, as shudderings from within set it to rocking, back and forth. All at once, it seems to backfire, collapsing within itself with an audible bang that sends shards flying, raining down upon the blocky green hatchling so recently within.
Gregarious Git-R-Done GreenMuted teal smooths this unlikely green dragonet's hide and thick, strong claws, gracing her squarish build with a habit of innocent, simple ease-- if one that's then been scoured. Rusty streaks smear the base of her neck and her broad chest, her blocky limbs and the last half of a long, sinewy tail, as though she had busied herself in rain and sun for Turns unattended; here and there even they flake away, revealing flecks of chartreuse atop her skewed headknobs and along her undercarriage. That brighter green thins and shines between otherwise stocky, rusty wingspars, veins visible within those translucent sails like cracked glass that somehow remains intact. But upward, along those irregular neckridges, that teal green returns: rambling into a wide, yet finely chiseled head that may have another rusty streak down her decidedly convex nose, that may come equipped with a pair of prominent incisors-- but also a pair of bright, inculpable eyes.
When someone from Rone's camp rises from his seat, it's not to Ienavi or to Aughan that he heads, nor even to Edeline (who attends this hatching without accompaniment of anyone of a suitable age for Impression) - but instead, Edeline's husband and consort. Both seem to find their quiet conversation satisfactory, though Tillek's Lady seems less amused, her dark gaze turning from the hatching to seek out Rone across the rows of seating. From the sands, Lansha gasps as he sees the pink egg start to move, and he drops to a crouch, robe billowing out around him. "That's my egg! Come on, you can do it!" His jaw drops in surprise, mirroring Gallagher's, as a beautiful green emerges from the mechanical egg. He stands back up, slowly, his voice all but inaudible. "Ohhh my..." Then the other green hatches, and he looks from one to the other like someone suddenly showered in riches. From the sands, Nothing But The Rain Green is out. And now that she is, she must survey the terrain before her, no sense in charging off into things without at least some idea of what the hell is going on. Up, there are larger...versions of her? A wing stretches out. In front of her, siblings, potentially - who are ahead of her. Well, that won't do. Onward! From the sands, Flaking pieces fall away from the Everyday Poison, innocuous in their way, at least until they're followed by a single brown-hued talon - and then, finally, a whole hatchling. The young brown shakes away the remains of his egg and then lunges into action. He takes his time, but finally, finally he finds himself young Leysen, who beams at the brown, and then up at his father in the Galleries: big L'sen grins at no longer so little L'sen, thumbs up sent and returned. Moments later, there's another brown upon the sand, hatched out of the Opportunity Rocks Egg. From the sands, And off Quinlys and Co. go again, helping surprised and sometimes befuddled new pairs off the Sands. From the sands, Gallagher, despite his turns as a weyrbrat, apparently never learned the lesson about hatchings being a form of entertainment. He is boring to watch; just standing there, hands at his side, eyes sliding over the hatchlings moving on the sands, a subtle tension in his form showing him ready to move at a moment's notice. Each hatchling gets some of his glance and catching Lansha's words of 'my egg' have him quirking a single brow at the teen. "Oh. I like this one. Can we keep him?" Bristia's giving Y'ral a wide, brilliant smile, and now it's R'hin's turn to remind, "Dragons? Remember?" Bristia's getting in another wink to Y'ral before she turns in time to spot another green hatching. "She's got Saindyth's coloring." Rubbing at his chin, R'hin responds, "Well, technically these are Saindyth's grand-nieces and nephews. Let's just hope they're not as annoying as Saindyth." More elbowing, this time hard enough that the bronzerider actually does shut up. For a short time anyway. Back in one of the rearward tiers, Leova laughs all at once, and what would normally be a quiet comment has to be louder to talk to Anvori and Via and the Glacier rider on her other side. "Look at L'sen. Wonder what his boy's called now? He Searched me, you know. Neiveth." And then there's more to look at. More. Wait. Something just happened. "What the actual...? Was that L'sen's kid?" R'hin's asking, surprised. "When did he get old?" Old enough to Impress, anyway. "Remind me to buy that man a case of whisky later. He's going to need it." "He makes promises he doesn't keep," E'dre stage-whispers Bristia's way before the greenrider turns to admire the hatching greens. "There seems to be more than just eggs hatching," he asides to Y'ral in a lower voice before he turns his gaze from the galleries to the hatching below. His thumb trails down the line of his jaw and then rubs briefly at his chin in thought before he drops his hand and folds his arms in front of him. Y'ral's attention is not on eggs any longer. From the sands, Gregarious Git-R-Done Green is wet and sticky. And now that she is, she still has to get into gear. She lurches forward, though, more immediately than her nearest sister had, tries for traction as she starts to climb up and then down the nearest hill. Who made these sands anything other than flat, anyway? Hey, speaking of whiskey, guess what one bronzerider R'sig, of Alpine, has? Oh yes. The flask is making the rounds, and the tension abates. Sort of. At least, long enough for those interested, Y'rel included, to take a swig and pass it on, and then get back to the staring. H'kon, needless to say, does not partake. And Arekoth shifts his wings. Helloooo, tiny green down there. Adorable. From the sands, Nothing But The Rain Green tries to move as quickly as possible across the sands, though she has to stop to shake shake shake an eggshard off her back paw, huffing a cloud of sand up with irritation. After, she's marching to move past any slower hatchlings to find the row of candidates. The best way to do this is systematically, one by one. Rejected. Rejected. And so on. Rone, his attention upon the games afoot amidst the dignitaries of the High Reaches area, is clearly too distracted to notice that one of his guards has begun sidling away from his position. The young man, dark-haired and slight, seems to go largely unnoticed by most of those around him - the hatching of that most recent brown presumably helps with that. He's halfway to the stairs when he stops, abruptly, turning upon his heel to stare down at the sands. The wagers continue amongst another small group of Glacier riders near the back, their presence still felt somewhat since the first egg cracked. Jo seems focused on the flurry of activity on the sands, but one might detect that she is also watching most of the activity going on around her. Holders and the names being tossed about, she's certainly hearing it all in her silence. From the sands, She takes only a few moments to peer quickly up around the folk in the Galleries, Alida's keen green eyes catching not only knots of intent Holders, but of that knot of Glacier folks around Jo...and others who are on 'egg-guarding' duty still circulating loosely. By the time she jerks her gaze back down to the Sands-proper, there's more baby dragons tooling around, free from their shells. "So damn quick..." the blonde notes only to herself. "Going to need more than a case," Bristia's muttering to R'hin. Then, over her shoulder: "That's okay. I have a very long memory, being a former Harper. I won't let him forget it if he lets me down," the Monacoan greenrider's responding to E'dre, with a twitch of lips that might well be part tease, but undoubtedly part-truth. From the sands, Aishani has to grin at something from Iesaryth, likely, by the way she looks back at the queen; by the way the queen rumbles encouragement to her get. Go on. Figure it out. See, that one's quick enough! From the sands, Vhaeryth might have had something to do with the sands being less than flat. It's possible, what with all that digging and moving and shuffling and reshuffling. But hills are, arguably (and never let it be said that Vhaeryth can't argue), good for them. He snorts at all the remaining little ones: get a move on. And then rumbles back at Iesaryth, agreeing, because is that other egg taking a nap? From the sands, Gallagher's form tightens as though he's going to do something. But, false alarm. There's no hatchling lunging, so there's no reason to move. So he just stays, watching the progress of greens. Up hill, down hill. And the other, candidate rejecting. At least she's leaving them standing for those that come after her. « They are not all very fast. They will get faster. » They'd better. (To Vhaeryth from Iesaryth) « They'd better, » the bronze agrees, darkly. (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) From the sands, Lansha giggles as he watches the little green race along the sands, rejecting one candidate after another. He keeps one eye on that other rambunctious green as well, as if expecting her to charge any minute now. He seems totally absorbed and oblivious to anything going on in the stands. "I do rather enjoy Harper's," Y'ral comments, elbowing E'dre's side. "Shh, I'm focusing," the brownrider answers his friend with a playful shove. "Remembering Wroth's hatching, when my miserable little brown found me, and on and on and on..," he trails off and grows silent, maybe only half-joking about his thoughts. From the sands, Gregarious Git-R-Done Green isn't so much with the looking-and-rejecting, not now at least; her eyes' yellowish, diffuse light might as well be fog lamps, lighting her way through the tumult, worried rather than irritated. Her talons scrape for purchase. She comes closer to a girl but moves away without really looking, getting past the hazards. No giggling for her. Her steps turn more tentative, then, her throwback-blunt head swinging towards lack of movement. Maybe she gets that head, that build, from the Monacoans, because she looks little enough like dam or sire... at least, until one gets to details. She breathes, hard and deep. It's close. From the sands, Nothing But The Rain Green Hatchling has been going about things with a near-military precision and finally, finally it pays off. Her search is over, her goal is met. From amongst the white-robed candidates, she picks out a dark-haired blue-eyed young man with delicate features, and stares determinedly, even defiantly at him. She is now his, and more as, he hers. D'kan arrives late to the festivities and ends up on the end of one of the benches near the stairs. He's bundled up for the weather outside, but that will change quickly now he's found a seat, and the heat from the sands starts to sink in. "What'd I miss?" he asks quietly of anyone standing nearby, then goes quiet as one of the older laundresses starts to fill him in. Even though he's quiet, even though she's not standing, five-Turn-old Via most overhear D'kan because she appears to want to fill him in too. It's mostly babble, but she's very serious about it, eggs and cracking and babies and Vrianth was never ever ever ever that little, ever. It's only because her father tightens his hold that she doesn't fall off his lap and head right for her mother's wingmate. From the sands, Almost at the same time, the Secret Silver and Pensive Serpent eggs implode, depositing a sharp-boned green and an equally sharp-eyed bronze onto the sands. The two depart in opposite directions, the bronze first inspecting his sire and only then hunting himself down a candidate. It doesn't take too long before both are happily paired: triumph! Bristia's chuckling quietly, giving another little look over her shoulder towards the Fortian, but R'hin's finally focused on the sands and not letting her forget it, either. "That one's definitely got a bit of Leiventh's look." From the sands, Gallagher's eyes are drawn briefly to Vhaeryth and then to Iesaryth. Perhaps it was the bronze's rumbling, but then, with so much noise in the cavern, maybe it was no prompting. His blue eyes shift back in time to watch the latest Impression. His lips pull into a thin line despite the shouts of congratulations from the remaining white robes, then his eyes search the sands. Anyone who's talked dragons with him knows he's looking for the next bronze. From the sands, L'sha mouth falls open again as the quick green finally makes her choice. His legs tremble and give way as he falls to his knees, though he doesn't seem to feel the hot sands searing them. Tears spill out of his eyes and down his cheeks as he reaches out to gently cradle the beautiful green's head. He finally remembers to breathe as he takes a great, shuddering inhalation of breath. "Yes, I know, we're together now," he whispers. In a louder voice, he says, "Her name is Rillaeth!" From the sands, Too bad. So sad. Not bronze. From the sands, A few more tentative steps carry the Gregarious Git-R-Done Green further towards a group of candidates, where she hesitates, regarding each in turn. They're scary, or perhaps simply not right, though, and on she goes, listing from side to side with each wobbling step. Her head lifts, abruptly, that long tail going still, and then she lunges forward with great certainty, letting her eyes meet Gallagher's just before she buries her head into his middle. From the sands, Watch the Werylingmasters run. Run, WLMs, run. It's happening to quickly this time that Quinlys, I'zech and the others are almost a frenzied whirl of near-constant action on and off the Sands. By this time, Alida's finally starting to lift her booted feet a little, their soles thick, but still not quite thick enough to fully protect her from the blistering heat beneath them. Noting the remaining candidates and hatchlings, eggs, she can't help but frown a little at oblivious Lansha who is oblivious. Good way to get mauled, kid. Apparently he's lucky, however, as that choosey green decides to stare him down instead of knocking him down. Horrors, though! All the weyrlingmasters are currently off the Sands. Once more, Alida is pressed into duty, her lips twisting some as she sighs darkly, then marches out and over to the newly-minted greenrider, noting firmly to him and the dragonet, "Y'both look okay. Well then...Congratulations. Now, follow me." And off she's leading the pair towards the weyrling barracks, stepping smartly. A few nervous inhalations (and wary glances towards the Lady Edeline) follow the sudden turn of that hatchling, that little brown towards the galleries. But it's not one of the bloods that the hatchling is after: no, he stops quite short, head lifted. The one he's after already knows, and though the dark-haired boy backs up a step, he's not running away. Still, it takes young Rhey a few more breaths before he can find it in himself to step forward and finally clamber down to the dragon waiting for him, cheeks burning. From the sands, Rillaeth gives L'sha a gentle headbutt at his tears with a huff. No crying. What's with the crying? Liquor seems to have done fairly well for some of the more intent in Alpine. That flask keeps making the rounds, and when it runs out, there's another to circulate in its place. The commentary is not all friendly, and still tends to dwell on Rone, but at least one or two of the riders mention the sands. And H'kon, he at least looks that way, in time to catch the brown's impression. A glance toward the ledges, and he stretches his legs forward, as if making ready to... well, to do something. From the sands, G'laer had started to step back when suddenly the green was coming near, but he's startled into slowness, "What the-?" He manages as wet, sticky muzzle lands against his middle, knocking the wind from him with an "Oof." His face contorts. Still, no smile, but perhaps that's because Gallagher-the-guard doesn't really know how to make 'happy' show on his face. He stares down at Teisyth. Just stares. Ah, well. That's awkward. Israfi's gaze follows Rhey's climb down onto the sands with a slight furrow of brow, but it doesn't linger for long on him: he's too well trained. Instead, he's watching Rone. All that commotion - another stands Impression! - has caught Rone's attention, despite whatever else he's concentrating on. He's staring at the boy, now, and at his brown... and his face is turning scarlet with rage. It's difficult to tell precisely what his problem is (the loss of his guard?), but it's likely few will miss the way several riders need to step in before Rone's remaining guards try and follow the boy and his new lifemate. Through the crowd, there's a murmur: thief, they say. Criminal. Turn him over. From the sands, L'sha picks up the green in his arms and laughs at something. "It's happy crying, sweetheart." He walks over to follow Alida to the barracks and waves at an older pair of riders ecstatically, one a pretty woman with a bright red shock of hair, another a balding but handsome man. They both cheer and wave him on as he follows Alida. From the sands, Another stands Impression has certainly caught Aishani's attention, tensed her expression and posture both - and though, in the end, it doesn't seem so bad, there's something going on that doesn't look good. She starts in that direction with a dark look about her, paying no mind to the riders stepping in, or Iesaryth's stare at her back. From the sands, One of the other assistant weyrlingmasters returns just in time to escort the last pairs back, the remaining candidates clumping together now that all have Impressed and gone. Israfi, for his part, doesn't get involved physically when some move forward to step in with Rone's guards -- he stays in his seat, quick eyes taking it all in, undoubtedly making notes for a long letter for the Masterharper. From the sands, Teisyth stares back. She blinks once, twice, three times, and then croons imploringly at her lifemate. It's a little ragged sound. K'zin has been minding his manners. K'del would be so proud. Seated among a handful of other Taiga riders, the only sign of any ill-will toward the Fortian-spawned hatchlings is a slight crease in his brow and anyone who knows him can probably guess that's not really from K'zin. However, when Rhey starts climbing down, his eyes are drawn, and despite the look of surprise, he rises to step toward the guards, backing up those who've gotten there before him. From the sands, ...That does stop Aishani on her march over to the galleries, the gathering of the remaining candidates. With a purse of lips, she glances over her shoulder, then goes off to do her duty and give the speech to those left standing. Fun times. From the sands, Now she looks like a headless chicken, Alida hurrying back out after escorting L'sha and his green to find that Gallagher's been mugged with love by... "A green." This fact gets the usually dour-faced woman grinning broadly...and even wider when another of the real weyrlingmaster staff re-emerges to help the very last of the pairs. She, however, takes G'laer under her not-so-kind wing, striding firmly over to him and Teisyth, and noting almost lightly, "Well... congratulations." The movement of Rhey and his new brown are caught from the corner of her eyes, but even the unexpected Galleries impression can't budge her smirk as she looks back to the new pair before her. "Wanna follow me?" Oh, you know who's had a few swallows of hard liquor and would love a chance to get his hands on Rone? Up Y'rel goes, a few of his wingmates standing in support as their leader shoulders his way into try and get a hand on the Nabolese pretender. H'kon's legs come down to the ground, and he's up to, with a grumbled, "Hm," and his eyes are more on his wingleader than his target. From the sands, N'rov, backing his girl up, doesn't even mime saying completely different things from behind her back, though he does eye a couple of the candidates who seem moved to protest about how it's not fair. He also doesn't look towards the galleries: all that's above his pay grade. Meanwhile, Vhaeryth investigates the sands, nosing around the remaining shards as though yet another egg might, somehow, have been hidden deep inside. Rone, certainly, doesn't wait: no sooner have the remaining candidates been dismissed than he is rising, ignoring his entourage-- and ostensibly that escapee with his brown, those riders' intervention having done that much, though he looks at them along the way like he'll remember their faces-- in favor of seeking out High Reaches' Weyrleaders... and it's not well-wishes that seem to be on his mind. Others trickle out more quietly, their machinations put aside now that there are no longer dragons to distract other onlookers. From the sands, G'laer finally blinks. Slowly, the edge of his lips pull into a smirk. Then twitching at the edge of his lips. It's the smile fighting to be free! "Stop that." He complains, forcing a scowl instead. "Those are my emotions you're hijacking." Still. There's a dragon right there, and in his head. His hand reaches, tentatively, landing on the green's sticky nose. "You're a mess." He assesses, just in time for Alida to be congratulating him. "Thanks. Yeah. C'mon you." The hand that settles on her headknobs though, well, that might be stroking lightly. From the sands, Iesaryth waits for both her rider and for Vhaeryth. Just in case they missed one. You never know. Quick to move to his feet once Rone's departed, Israfi's excusing himself and moving to try and get ahead of others. After all, he has that other job, namely assisting with the post-feast entertainment. Bristia's quick to try and pin down that Fortian before he disappears with his offer of drinks, leaving R'hin to approach some of the Glacier riders -- the older ones greet him familiarly -- giving Jo a once-over too as a mostly unfamiliar member. "R'hin," he says, offering a hand to her with a smile. From the sands, After considerable efforts, all Vhaeryth returns with to show Iesaryth is... a shard stuck to the end of his nose. At least it's a big one? And then he snorts, and it blows off, much like a flower petal. A... sticky, crackly, but kind of pretty flower petal. All done. With the hatching looking to be over, the few Glacier riders on Jo's end are cheering and already making plans for the drinks table at the feast. Jo, in her black leather, is getting up with them - her gaze mostly on the altercation near them - when R'hin comes by to speak with those wingriders of hers familiar to him. She gives him the same study he gives her, watching like she's been watching everything else going on about her until he steps by and offers his hand and name. Taking the hand firmly, "Jo," she gives back, her voice of a deep quality. "Well met, R'hin." From the sands, After her own snort, Iesaryth rustles, then spreads her wings before leaping up and into the skies. Despite the cold and snow, she angles to perch on the southern rim of the bowl and watch all the visiting dragons below. Vhaeryth, of course, is invited. Once done with former candidates, and trying not to look too disgusted by any weeping, Aishani turns to N'rov, then looks over his shoulder to the galleries. "I suppose if I don't go to the party, I'm not going to hear anything about what happened until tomorrow at least." Imagine, a whole twelve hours. The pressure of R'hin's handshake is about equal, and it makes him smile more before he releases her hand. "Jo, yes. I've heard about you." Whether that's true, and what he's heard isn't exactly elucidated. "My fellow Monacoans seem to have abandoned me. Tell me you're going for drinks?" A hand is pressed to his chest like it's the most important question in the world. Alpine has got loud, Y'rel as well. There are words and phrases like "disband" and "don't make us use force" and "pretender" all being tossed about. H'kon is grabbing for Y'rel. Y'rel's still trying to butt ahead and grab Rone. From Jo, a brow lifts upon hearing that he's heard of her, and so from one so brazen, "Ya mean my rep has managed to reached Monaco, too? Should I be suspicious?" Slightly deadpan, and slightly curious since she regarding him a new in her humor before there's quirk of lips. Then there's drinks. The smile grows an inch more from her broody exterior before she says, "Of course. If I'm not as rowdy as the rest of my wing by the end of this party, then somethin's wrong. Lead the way, Monaco." Slight incline of head, her gaze never leaving his face. From the sands, After a reply from the Fortian bronzerider, Aishani smirks, and the pair head off to the living cavern - after she's found a cloak to cover her dress, that is. "Suspicious and curious enough to drink with me," R'hin replies adroitly, followed by a dark chuckle at her response. There's a twist of lips at her address -- Monaco -- though he's quick to do so, after a glance over his shoulder to make sure the Glacier rider isn't far behind. |
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