Eulweth x Malphath Hatching

Ista Weyr - Hatching Sands
The gently convex floor is hardly visible thanks to its filling of deep black sand, nonetheless forming a bowl in which a clutch of eggs can harden in safety and warmth. Heated by the thermal energy of the dormant volcano, the sands are always opressively hot - even through boots, the sand seers and bakes, small rushes of air from above and through from the bowl making little difference. A large outcropping of stone becomes an island within this sea of sand, the resting place of a queen who guards her clutch; a smaller platform of wood is set aside for the queen's rider.
Centuries of eggshells scatter the dark sands, broken down to but pieces of colour amid the darkness. A staircase rises towards the far end of the sands, almost out of view, whilst a small passage leads in the general direction of the weyrling barracks.

Public Announcement from Angharad: The dragons are beginning to hum at Ista Weyr, signaling that the eggs from Eulweth and Malphath's clutch are beginning to move. Please join us for the Hatching! +go isw, hg, g - We'll be beginning in about 10 minutes!

It is a rather unremarkable afternoon at Ista - Unremarkable aside from the fact that the dragons have begun to hum at Ista, and there is a rush of activity, dragons blinking in and out of between as invited dignitaries, families, and friends are hurriedly collected, the Hatching Cavern quickly filling with both humans and dragons. The humming seems to be gaining in strength which each moment, while Eulweth sits upon the Sands, having carefully removed herself to one side at Angharad's urging, the gold watching her clutch with a careful eye, while her life mate is settled on her shoulder, keeping her calm, as the eggs begin to move.

D'len and his teams of assistants leads the candidates in pairs out to the sands. He quietly reminds them of their duty before stepping aside and allowing them to do what it is that they are there to do.

Broken But Still Good Egg begins to rock back and forth, gently, like that of a newborn's cradle. It's subtle at first, and then much more noticeable as the speed picks up until the poor egg is in a flat out spin. It's not going anywhere though, because the action of rotation does a fine job of burrowing it into a crater of sorts. As if realizing it's dilemma, the motion ceases and the egg is still again.

Plucked from the Fire Egg wobbles just a little, shifting amidst its sandy wallow, the fiery red streaks upon it beginning to blur as it moves.
Martram shuffles out onto the sands, bowing to the clutch parents, and then taking a spot among the other candidates. He peers up and down the group, nodding to Kiralyn, Ryeokie, and a couple others, then turning eyes on the eggs.

Kiralyn steps out onto the sands, looking far more nervous than one might expect for the normally easy-going glasscrafter. Instinctively, her eyes look towards the stands, but there's no way of telling one distant face from another. When her turn comes, her attention snaps back down to the sands, bowing formally towards the sire and dam. Then, she's quick to shuffle off to form the nearest part of the circle surrounding the clutch of eggs, sparing a quick look some of the other candidates in the process.

Siaryn walks onto the Sands with a fair amount of trepidation visible in wide eyes, one step faltering as she takes in a by now relatively familiar place much changed by all unfolding. She receives a nudge from the younger girl pacing along just behind her and soon recovers her wits, at least for long enough to continue on ahead and dip a bow to Eulweth and Malphath without stumbling again, before she takes steps back to find a spot in the loose circle and knots her fingers together.

Ryeokie files onto the Sands with the rests of the candidates, following suit with a bow, the formality making his movements look a bit foreign. But soon, that familiar grin is dropping into place and he scoots over to stick himself next to Kiralyn. He tugs uncomfortably at the white sleeves of his robe before his attention moves towards the eggs. "Well….here we go, I guess."

A soft crackling noise from the direction of Broken But Still Good Egg might draw attention back it's general direction. Bits of the shell flake away exposing the moist membrane beneath, but not a single hint of what might be struggling to escape its ovid prison. A wiggle and a jerk, and the egg cracks right down the middle, which seems to be all the creature within is capable presently, for there is nothing more.

Aliona and Malorim emerge together, the ex-trader's hand for some reason clutching at the neckline of her robe and her expression a little awkward. As the bow takes place, her hand drops, but it's only a moment before it's there again tugging at the place where her necklace usually lies.

Malorim is straight-backed, steps stiffly measured as he follows suit with the other candidates, bowing formally to Eulweth and Malphath before edging into a spot on the periphery of the candidate circle. Gaze locked firmly ahead, he nevertheless spares Aliona a quick side-glance, determinedly not looking toward the galleries.

There's no subtlety to the Tools of the Trade Egg. One moment still, the next it's shuddering and shaking, tiny avalanches of sand spilling down from the small ridge that cradles its base.

Malphath remains at Eulweth's side, as close as the junior Queen will allow. He narrows crimson colored eyes at the white clad candidates and rumbles low in the back of his chest. Protectively he appears to want nothing more than to smite these tresspassers, but P'rel hiss in the bronze's direction where he stands nearby with his arms crossed over his chest. That seems to put an end to that.

Spiderweb fractures appear upon the shell of the Plucked from the Fire Egg, radiating outwards, separating the sharp spines upon the ovoid, obscuring the pattern like mist.

Martram shuffles his feet, and grimaces. Is the heat getting to him? He raises one foot, and scratches awkwardly at the sandal leather, hopping on one leg for a moment. When the foot goes back down, he seems much less fidgety.

The time has come for Broken But Still Good Egg, having silently and sneakily worked itself up to a decent wobble back and forth. Despite the crack from earlier, there's some struggle to break free, with more flaking than cracking. Then the fissures appear one after another until finally the shell gives way, and releases its precious cargo.

An Experiment in Cute and Fluffy Blue Hatchling
From the top to bottom, this dragon is in every sense of the word, adorable. What may very well be responsible for this, is his overly large eyes. They give him a sweet and innocent appearance, especially when he tips his head to the side and blinks a few times. In body, he is elegantly shaped, with hide colored nearly entirely a brilliant shade of cerulean. Two darker patches in prussian draw the eye, to the ridges along his spine. One splot dabbed at the back of his head, and the second a touch more pronounced further down - starting just below where his neck connects, down to the beginning of his long serpentine tail. The edges having a fairly organic yet steady wave of dips and crests. A chilly introduction of powder blue encircles his ocular orbits to his eyeridges, as well as dominates his underbelly starting just beneath the lower half of his jaw, flowing along the underside of his neck if only to taper off between his hind legs. A dusting of prussian is also present at the tip of his snout, and the tops of his headknobs - which are found to be slightly curved back like the antlers of a young buck, though unlikely to sprout any boney protuberances. A tapered jaw neck sweep down towards his slender shoulders and chest, flawlessly extending downwards into strong yet decidedly lithe limbs, and then upwards into a pair of breathtaking spurs. His most striking feature by far is the silver shimmer of the veins that course through his cornflower-blue wingsails, possessed of an impressive opalescent sheen. Every single line of this dragon is sleek and streamlined, built for speed and precision rather than brute strength. Yet there is something about the way muscle moves beneath his hide that may betray that his compact design could just be a ruse. At the tip of each toe is a shiny black talon, thick and long - an excellent reminder that despite his cuteness, he's still a predator through and through.

Kiralyn manages a meek sort of smile as Ryeokie steps in line next to her on the sands, nodding slightly as she shifts her feet. "Yeah. Here we go." A hesitant smile is cast down towards the starcrafter, and then further down the line towards Martram as she gives him a sort of encouraging motion of her hand. Then, the sound of cracking and then the inevitable appearance of the first hatchling. "Oh sweet Faranth." She whispers, her fingertips shaking slightly from nerves. Quick a quick motion, she wipes them off against her robe.

With only a few pauses, the Tools of the Trade Egg has been rocking, rocking, rocking. The wallow of sand that held it in place has been almost entirely eroded away, and with an extra-vigorous wobble, the egg tips over onto its side, a wide horizontal crack appearing across what was formerly the base.

Faen shuffles out onto the sand with the other candidates, not much a fan of this robe already. The heat of the sands is strong upon his legs, warming his toes a bit uncomfortably in his thickly soled sandals. He looks around at the others and then into the shadowy crowd. At least he looks to the eggs. As the other candidates bow to the clutch parents, he does too, but already there is a multitude of movement before them as the little shells are ready to burst.

Aliona takes a few more minutes, and the shattering of one egg, before she lets go of her robe - though her hand stays clenched at her side as if fighting against the urge to check again that her necklace is definitely not there. "Y'alright?" is muttered in a half-whisper to Malorim, "Ain't gonna run'r nothin'?"

Now that the whole escaping thing is a complete success, An Experiment in Cute and Fluffy Blue Hatchling lowers himself to the ground into an almost pounce-like stance. His large eyes narrow and whirl with dark hues - a kind of low growling sound emits from him, baring rows of sharp little teeth. Oh, he doesn't like this, not one bit. He doesn't move from his spot there amongst bits of the shell that once imprisoned him, nope. He'll just wait there for now.

Martram gasps as the eggs start to hatch, eyeing the first hatchling with some caution, though at least he's not attempting to hide behind other candidates. He glances up and down the line, nodding to familiar faces, and nervously responding to Kiralyn's wave, but eyes return to the blue on the sands.

Suddenly, the shell of the Plucked from the Fire Egg disappears, tiny shards dropping to the Sands, leaving behind an olive-green hatchling, her length coiled upon itself.

Coiled Serpent of Steam Green Hatchling
Long, narrow, and short of leg, this green seems rather out of sorts, her body practically coiled upon itself, apple green hide gleaming and smooth. Speckled with hunter-green leopard spots, the true dimensions of her body difficult to distinguish at first, though slowly it separates into narrow hindquarters, a whip-like tail, and a serpentine neck with a long, triangular head which sweeps upwards to a pair of headknobs that could easily be mistaken as horns. Rust hues tinge her muzzle, coloring her ridges, and giving her a rather dirty appearance on the edges, smoke and steam gathering around her.

Ryeokie's eyes move from one egg to the next as they begin to wobble, eyes sparkling with a hint of excitement. One hand raises, absently wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead. "Ah, that one looks like it'll be hatching soon!" A smile accompanies his words, but gaze soon flicks to another area of the sands, further movement demanding his attention. "That was quick." He comments, shifting attention between the new hatchling and the still rocking eggs.

Coming Back From The Other Direction A Hero Egg hasn't moved. Really. That tremble of anticipation must just be your imagination.

Siaryn tries to twist her hands into a shape that might hide her white knuckles, but even that can't do much to hide how pale she's become. One deep breath, then another, then she manages to stop staring so at first blue, then green, her gaze sweeping out to survey the scene beyond. Not that she's able to keep her focus there for long.

"He's here, " Malorim replies to Aliona, equally quietly, shoulders tense. At his side, one hand involuntarily clenches into a fist as the first dragon hatches, then the second. "I don't plan to run away." Flicking another glance at her, his eyes narrow at her own nervous movements. "Are you okay, though?"

For a moment, Coiled Serpent of Steam Green Hatchling remains settled upon where she was on the Sands, limbs seemingly wrapped upon herself. And then, suddenly she is sorted out, and she's off like a shot, closing the distance between herself and the ring of white candidates in a blink of the eye. As one young man steps out, she goes right through him before she's bowling over another, brown-haired young man named Granby peering down at him expectantly. Finally, still rather shocked, he's managing to get to his feet. "Right… Skierath.. Right. Food. Lots of it." And he slowly turns, moving towards the waiting meat and the Assistant Weyrlingmaster who is moving to escort them off, Skierath shooting ahead to her first meal.

With a triumphant cry the Coiled Serpent of Steam Green Hatchling has found its lifemate at last. After a few moments the Weyrlingmaster leads the new pair off the sands.

Coming Back From The Other Direction A Hero Egg just sort of suddenly tumbles over onto its side, without much ceremony. Ker-thud-crack. A piece of its shell drops away. Dum dee dum, it's just sitting here. Maybe it's waiting for something.

Kiralyn swollows, trying to still the sudden thump-thump of her heart as the hatchlings start to appear one by one on the sands. Her eyes find the blue first, and with a nervous sort of smile, she glances towards one of the other candidates beside ehr, a girl from Nerat, and murmurs, "He doesn't sound too happy." Biting at her lower lip, her own stormy eyes try to keep both the blue and the newly hatched green in her vision, ready to move just incase something goes wrong. And it seems that that is the moment the green goes into motion. The girl flinches back a half-step from the charging green.

Martram scowls down at his feet, bending over to scratch at the sandal leather again, muttering under his breath. Something about sand? The heat doesn't seem to bother the man anywhere near as much as sand in his sandals. He's usually barefoot when he's out at the beach. "Green…" he notes quietly. Blue, then green. Hm. He stares at the first weyrling pair. "She only just hatched!"

Glimpses of talons and toes, the tip of a nose, have been making infrequent appearances from within the Tools of the Trade Egg. Slowly but surely that crack has grown longer, curling around the sides. It's taken some work, but finally it's become wide enough. As if the cover to an underground passage has been thrown aside with incredible strength, the top half of the egg flies off as the hatchling within bursts free with dramatic flare, only to immediately trip and go tumbling tail over snout with a startled squawk.

Those peachy things with the whiteness - they might be interesting - and so after a few seconds more of indecision An Experiment in Cute and Fluffy Blue Hatchling finally lifts himself up only as much as needed to enable him to take careful steps towards them. Paws to the sands, one right after the other. There is something suspicious and wary about the way he cranes his long neck outwards and sniffs at a few of the boys - decidedly growling low and dismissing them quickly afterwards. Obviously they wouldn't do, not at all. With a disgusted recoil, he moves on, seeking out the one for him. Still appearing entirely unhappy about this ordeal.

Of Course Monsters Are Real Green Hatchling
A dark, murky phthalo green cloaks this ungainly dragon in perpetual shadow, the gray-tinged shade uniform over the majority of her body. Unlovely in many respects, she appears as if her skeleton were somehow twisted, with bones either too short or too long thrown together to create the finished product. Her head is long, narrow through the muzzle and broad across the brow, eyes seeming too large and sunken beneath jutting ridges. Malformed spots of hunter green create a scabrous effect across her cheeks and brow, clinging also to stunted headknobs and the sharp spikes of her spinal ridges. Her neck is short in comparison to the rest of her body, seeming almost too skinny when matched to the breadth of her strong shoulders. Thick forelegs bow outward at the elbows, lowering her chest toward the ground and making her appear as if she's always mere moments away from charging forward. Her hindquarters are heavy with powerful muscle, rising higher than her shoulders, legs long and clearly built for launching into spectacular leaps. All four feet are caked with an uneven spread of earthy brown, long toes appearing even longer due to her narrow, sharp obsidian talons. Her tail is thick but long until the forked tip, the prongs stubby and one visibly shorter than the other. Often held tightly against her back and sides, unfurled her wings are large, stained with brown along their undersides, closest to her body.

Just a Normal and Ordinary Egg seems to ripple, a slow, undulating motion that rolls from bottom to top and back again.

Ryeokie lets out a quiet whoop and gives a smattering of applause as the first of the hatchlings begin to pair off. He isn't bothered by the green's charge, though. "Grats!" The single words is offered, and then quickly followed up by a chuckle. "Maybe I should've bet, would've gotten a few marks on that one."

Faen didn't remember feeling this hot when he was touching. Heat rises in his face as he watches the hatchlings. When Impression is made he claps like the others, watching curiously as they take their leave of the sands. As if planning, he leans forward and looks around the others to see exactly where they are going. But quickly his attention is brought back to the sands.

Martram jumps as the dark Tools of the Trade Egg hatches - he may have been staring at it since it's last wobble - and eyes the hatchling a long moment, attempting to reconcile the sight with the feel of the touches. "Th-that's some hatchling…" he comments, frowning slightly at the green, eyes flicking back to the blue, must pay attention!

Aliona's head snaps round to look at the galleries, as if that could make her pick out a man she's never seen. "Y'sure? I don' see him." It's because of this that she misses the green Impression and only sees the rear of the pair leaving. A faintly muttered curse follows, her attention back on the proceedings, "'m okay. Just ain't use t'not havin' my necklace. Din't have t'take it off last time."

Lost Daughters of the Pack Egg gives a little shift, tilting and leaning to one side, as it slouching in the heat of the sands. And then, there's another jolt, and just as suddenly it is sitting up straight yet again.

Coming Back From The Other Direction A Hero Egg has been here all this time, waiting. And now, without any pomp or ceremony, it just gets up and walks away. That is to say, it hatches. Which is a lot more messy in practice than principal, but those legs shoving out totally get it wandering across the hatching sands for a good few lengths before it stumbles over in a crash and spills its contents all shiny and gooey and new.

Just a Normal and Ordinary Egg bulges outward at separate points, becoming misshapen and the pattern distorting as flakes of shell begin to fall away, dark cracks appearing.

Far Side Of Darkness Bronze Hatchling
Even the greatest of masterwork smiths could not have wrought such a creature of purest bronze as this, bright molten hide without blemish or blush. Deep and vibrant as the heart of a flame, light seems to flicker over this dragon's form with every slightest shift, as if Rukbat's fire itself were captured and contained, encased in a perfectly forged shape of heated metal and taught skin. Power lies in obvious lines of muscle, from toned limbs to sleek flanks, and across the majestic arch of long neck and tail. There is no excess, no inch of him that, it might seem, is not made to serve a purpose. While clearly built for strength, there is a certain nobility to the slant of eyeridges and the set of his headknobs, reflected fully in the glimmering, alien facets of wideset eyes. But make no mistake, this is a predator, long narrow jaws and gleaming teeth accompanying a set of equally shiny black claws, scythelike and sharp. And also unmistakable is the fact that this beast was meant to fly. Enormous wings stretch from his back, thin membranes carrying a subtle brassy sheen when unfurled, the individual spars tipped in a contrasting darker hue which fades back into his general coloring as it nears the first joints, smoothly blending in such a way that, from the right angle, it might appear more shadow than patterning. That same striking coppery note is present to a greater degree along back ridges, with the barest trace of it adding a vaguely distinguished look as it shades the contours of face and muzzle.

Picking herself up with care, Of Course Monsters Are Real Green Hatchling spends a few moments checking herself over, flat out refusing to look around or acknowledge that anyone saw her inelegant entry into the world. Once satisfied that all is in working order, she gives a flip of her wings that flings away gobbets of egg goo, and begins to stalk towards one end of the semi-circle of Candidates.

Kiralyn seems to regain her courage after the green has found her new lifemate, shaking her hands out slightly and trying to ease the tense feeling in her limbs. A single bead of sweat drips down into her eyes, causing her to have to rub at one, casting another look about just intime to notice that the number of hatchlings seems to have increased. "Shards, they really do come fast." She breathes the words as an undertone. She doesn't seem to have time to offer congratulations, she's too focused on what's going on in front of her.

Martram giggles slightly as the Just a Normal and Ordinary Egg hatches, recalling the touch of that particular shell, with its infectious laughter. He watches the hatchling, curious to see how that mind translates to dragon. Though, not for terribly long, there's too much happening to focus on just one thing. Still, "Bronze? About time…" But don't come down here, his tone seems to say.

Sin of the Sundered Sky Egg remains dormant except for the slightest hint of movement which sends a few grains of sand tumbling from their resting place at the side of the egg. Surely what's more noticeable is one of the older male candidates trying to lift the short-ish robe of a female candidate standing in front of him to get a peek.

Ryeokie shifts from one foot to the other, frowning down at them for a brief second. "Tch, my fragile self is going to faint in this heat!" The words are said with humor and quick wink to the candidate beside him. And then, attention is drawn away once more and the starcrafter lets out a low whistle. "Look at that one…."

After several more attempts at sniffling at peachy things, An Experiment in Cute and Fluffy Blue Hatchling doesn't appear to be anymore happy about how things have progressed thus far. Having checked off more than two thirds of the candidates, he skulks off towards those that remain. A girl from Fort Weyr, no. A boy from High Reaches Hold, no. No one seems to be the right combination, that is until he spots a glasscrafter girl from Telgar Hold. He scuttles right up to her and plants his backside in the sands, straightening himself. Immediately his entire demeanor changes, as his head cants off to the side and his large eyes round out. That blonde hair, yes. Those gray eyes, yes. Yes! Shes perfect. He looks deep into those pools of gray and loses himself completely to her.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the An Experiment in Cute and Fluffy Blue Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Lost Daughters of the Pack Egg has started to buckle under the pressure from within, the outer strength beginning to fade, the walls beginning to crumble, small cracks appearing at one end, creeping slowly outwards.

Malorim takes a step closer to Aliona out of reflex as baby dragons beeline through the sand toward their targets. "He's up there, make no mistake, " he warns the trader girl. "Blonde, intense. He'll be seated with Lord Ista." And indeed, the boy's father is up there, looking none too pleased. The newly hatched bronze elicits a hard swallow, then a cautious look. "He'd make my dad proud, wouldn't he?"

It's become something of a game for Of Course Monsters Are Real Green Hatchling to taunt Candidates unnerved by her approach. Passing a small cluster of girls who huddle closer together while she's near, she waits until they've breathed a collective sigh of relief before suddenly turning back and lunging, stopping just short as they shriek and scatter apart. With a smug lift to her head, her steps turn jaunty as she continues along the line, searching.

Siaryn shuffles a little on the spot, attracting the attention of the girl beside her, who leans forward slightly to check on her and receives a wobbly smile and a flutter of quickly untwisted fingers meant to wave off and reassure her. Squaring her shoulders, Siaryn returns her attention to the hatchlings, trying to somehow observe the progress of all of them at once.

Faen grins at the most recent impression, again wiping his head on his shoulder a moment after. sweat it starting to cause the shift to stick to him a little, but the fabric is thick enough to act a bit like a towel. He shifts from one foot to the other, becoming antsy and anxious as the eggs lessen and hatchling too.

Just a Normal and Ordinary Egg breaks apart, but not completely. A gooey head and leg are thrust out of one hole, while a wrinkly wing juts halfway out of another. A vigorous shake, a couple determined kicks and part of it disintegrates further while the rest sloughs off to fall upon the Sands, leaving the hatchling slumped and glistening with goo.

Beholden To The Moon Brown Hatchling
Leanly built and predatory, this solid dragon's hide is stained a rich, vibrant walnut brown. Faint striations of darker hue start at the tip of a lupine muzzle, flowing back over a high, broad brow, continuing down the length of his neck and along his body all the way to the tip of his tail. Uneven and yet strangely uniform, the subtle patterning flows along each natural curve and line of his form, making it appear from a distance almost as if it's not hide at all, but short, stiff fur that covers his body. Headknobs are tall and spaced wide apart, earlike. His legs are long and thin, muscles dense and ropy, as if he were meant for running instead of flying. Long but narrow, his wings seem more like an afterthought, properly placed but ill-fitting, the 'sails mottled with a haphazard mix of russet, tan and ochre — a blanket of fallen leaves.

Aliona is too fixed on the path of the blue to look at the galleries again, offering only "Ignore'm." before grinning as the blue Impresses safely. "Congrats!" is hissed along the lin, and only then does she turn back to glance at Malorim, "Tole y'before, he ain't gonna be happy'f y'impress the whole clutch."

Martram watches the hatchlings carefully, paying far more attention to colour than looks - even the ugliest green is a far more compelling option than the handsomest bronze. Although, he may have to make an exception for that green, lunging at those girls. He eyes the monstrous hatchling, and shudders.

Kiralyn's attention might have been distracted with all the motion of so many hatchlings, but the moment that the sweep of blue comes in towards her, the girl's eyes seem to lose focus. Her breath catches in her throat as she looks almost as if into something that isn't there. When her vision clears, though, it's into the whirling eyes of the blue dragonet in front of her. "Oh." Even in the heat, goosebumps rise on her arms. "Kolath." She whispers the name at first, and then her expression brightens. "Of course, Kolath, you'll always be my family, too." The girl, reaches a hand out to scratch at a blue eyeridge, then looks around with an expression of absolute wonder.

D'len strides forward and collects Kiralyn and her newly found lifemate off the sands, "This way dear, I'm sure that Kolath would like something to eat." And off they go, where food and things of that nature await.

Far Side Of Darkness Bronze Hatchling has made it safely to solid ground! Albeit in a slightly spilled mess of limbs and egg goop. Give him a minute to get his bearings. He's all brand new and.. gooey. Black sand sticking in patches to fine bronze hide, he cautiously reclaims his feet, which had been sent every which way in his abrupt attempt at freedom. Bits of eggshell scattered around him, he manages to stand, blinking slowly and perhaps a little sheepishly at the world, or maybe just the galleries, with wide faceted eyes.

Ryeokie flicks his eyes from one egg to the next, and then to hatchlings, and then to candidates. But even with everything going on, it doesn't seem like it's enough to shut him up. "Hmmm, totally thought that one was going to come out a green! Guess I'm not as good at guessing as I thought." With a chuckle, he raises an arm to wipe away a forehead now dripping with sweat. It's only then that he spots Kiralyn's impression next to him, and the starcrafter offers a wide grin, "Hey, congrats!"

Beholden To The Moon Brown Hatchling gives himself a vigorous shake, then lifts his head high to sniff the air. He turns in a slow circle, and then back again, one third of the arc completed before he stops. Following his nose he prowls across the Sands, pausing to sniff at white-robed figures and then moving on again. Halting in front a slim, dark-skinned Candidate with shoulder-length curls, they stand frozen for a moment before she suddenly throws her arms about his neck, laughing. "Why yes Dynblaith, I do think Michel suits me better!" the young woman formerly known as Mirachelle exclaims. Together, the newly bonded pair are led from the sands by an assistant weyrlingmaster.

With a triumphant cry the Beholden To The Moon Brown Hatchling has found its lifemate at last. After a few moments the Weyrlingmaster leads the new pair off the sands.

Silent yet shivering, Perfect Predatory Poise Egg does little but quiver like a frightened child where it rests in its place on the sands. While other eggs may be rocking or shaking, this pale pastel ovid doesn't appear to do much at all. Then its doing nothing at all.

Far Side Of Darkness Bronze Hatchling manages a very dignified lift of his head, the facets of those eyes whirling just a touch faster as all the noise and confusion seem to urge him into movement. Daring one step and then another, he moves in a way that suggests he is attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk.

Martram peers at his fellow candidates, attempting to spot Kiralyn and Ryeokie. Are they still there? Did they impress? "I'd heard hatchings were chaotic, but, sheesh!" he mutters, eyes snapping back to the eggs and hatchlings. The chaos.

Lost Daughters of the Pack Egg can take no more - the pressure is simply too much. The cracks spread quickly, the shell collapsing to the ground, what it was no more - Now instead only the possibilities of what she may become.

"Better bronze than green, " Malorim hisses back, tipping a two-fingered salute Kiralyn's way with some surprise. "Hey, the glasscrafter girl. Kiralyn. She helped with my survey." There's another long look for the bronze, gray eyes warily following his movements. "Of course, the best scenario would be walking away from here. Are you sure your family wouldn't mind me hitchhiking?"

Last Breath of Summer Gold Hatchling
Sweeping expanses of rich amber gather upon the lengthy frame of this golden dragon, warm orange undertones peeking through upon every inch of her body, the first hints of autumn taking hold. Upon her long, almost dainty nose dance freckles of carrot orange, the markings continuing upwards from each nostril, sweeping over eyeridges and dissipating as they spread over each of her headknobs. Despite her delicate features, a certain curviness adorns her, what little excess weight she carries gathered in her hindquarters, giving her a rather off-balanced appearance. Limbs are practically too long for her form, as if she's outgrown the rest of her body, yet even in their awkwardness they are tipped with tangerine toes, the same bright color coloring the tips of wingspars as they stretch between wide sails. Saffron creeps across the translucent spreads, darkening to coral upon the edges, the hues of a setting summer sun trapped upon her very wings, mirrored upon the ridges that run to the tip of her lengthy tail.

Someone has at least managed to slap the hand of that naughty candidate who's been trying to lift the robe of someone else. Meanwhile the Sin of the Sundered Sky Egg suddenly lurches forward, tumbling a bit out of its holder of sand and onto a different side. The impact is enough to cause a nice big crack to sweep up the middle of the egg, splitting the sky in half like a lightning bolt.

The hunt has finally come to an end, her prey is in sight. Ignoring any further opportunities to freak out the more anxious among their numbers, Of Course Monsters Are Real Green Hatchling stalks steadily past white-robed figures. Nothing can come between her and her target. Pacing right up close to a young man with a shock of unruly black hair, she stares steadily into his blue eyes, unfurling one sticky wing to wrap around him.
With a triumphant cry it seems that the Of Course Monsters Are Real Green Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Last Breath of Summer Gold Hatchling is suddenly in a whole new world, the familiar confines of her shell gone forever from her reach, and she freezes in place, looking almost lost in her first moments to begin her new life. Fear, however, cannot be shown, and first impressions are crucial, and so after a moment she's picking herself up, lifting her head and tilting her chin upwards, posing as she regards the candidates from a distance.

Martram stares at the monstrous green hatchling in front of him. "M-me? But you're…" he shakes his head quickly, biting off whatever he was about to say. "No, no, of /course/ it doesn't matter!" A pause. "What did you call me?" his brow furrows slightly. "Okay, Sasoveth, okay. I'm Ma'am." he agrees, leading his new lifemate off the sands.

Faen watches a few more leave the sands, looking curiously at the colorations of the dragons. That was always a cool part. Seeing those colors. After rubbing his forehead on the short sleeve of his candidate robe, he looks out into the mess of eggs, hatchlings and shells to see what is left roaming and wiggling in the heat. Sweat drips down his leg, hitting the sand with a sizzle. He could not have been this warm before, surely?

Once again D'len strides forward, leaving the pairs thus far to his assistants to tend to and goes to the newly Impressed Sasoveth and her chosen one. "This way for some food, and maybe some oil? Newly hatched skin is itchy once it dries you know."

A faint tremor passes through the Not Just Stories Egg, barely enough to disturb the sand cushioning its base. Only just beginning, after a pause it shivers again, occupant invisibly struggling for freedom.

Ryeokie seems to be surrounded by so many hatchlings, candidates, impressions. It's hard to really find any one thing to focus on for too long. "Well, what do you know, a gold." He looks down the line at the remaining girls. "Five hatched, five to go." There is a glance to the bronze still wandering the sands, but also to the eggs that still remain on the pile, waiting to hatch.

Aliona snorts a little, "Y'say that now…." She can't hide the grin for Kiralyn though, adding a, "Yeah, she's awesome." beofre the nearby movments of the green distracts her, "Marty!" Anything other than the initial, "Cong…." is swallowed in a rather long, rather colourful, expression of surprise at the gold's hatching.

Perfect Predatory Poise Egg has been still all this time, as if watching and waiting for the most opportune moment to make its move. Perhaps only the keenly observant would notice its now subtle lean off to one side, just before it rotates ever so slowly around to reveal the impressive crack along the backside. Once this becomes visible though, all movement ceases.

Far Side Of Darkness Bronze Hatchling has a purpose to his speedy(ish) wandering, though it does take a moment's whirling-eyed searching for him to spot what - or rather who - he's looking for. En route he's totally distracted for a moment by his posing gold sister, but if there's a slight tip of the head to her, it might just be imagined. He doesn't linger to admire the scenery, though. Once he does spot what he's looking for, nothing else matters, and he trundles over with a definite /purpose/, stopping in front of one of the littlest of candidates and then going very, very still.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Far Side Of Darkness Bronze Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Doom Do Do DOOM Doomy-Doomy Doom Doom Egg is rather still, despite the movements of the others nearby. It simply sits there, no wobble, no movement. It is not there.

Turning the Tide of Storms Blue Hatchling
Long and lithe of form, this blue dragon is thin as a whip, slender tail extending far beyond the length of his peers, his serpentine form giving him a slithering gait whether on the ground or aloft. His neck and face are made from the same, narrow mold, as his head tapers down to a long, triangular snot, mouth twisted into a permanent, toothy grin. The pleasing, even cerulean hue of his hide is interrupted abruptly by a deep band of navy, wound around his head, casting large, faceted eyes into sharp contrast, before the night sky sweeps downwards, dusk spreading over the mountains of his ridges, slipping over the plains of his oversized wings, casting them into shadow and giving him a permanent cloak of darkness. The pure color of a cloudless sky gathers upon his belly, slipping and twisting around each of his long limbs, wrapping around his tail, before being stopped short in each place, a frosty baby-blue creeping upwards, claiming talons and tail-fork, even as stars fight the brightness appearing as white specks on his slender stomach.

Tiny claws poke out from the Sin of Sundered Sky Egg's large crack. Bits and pieces of egg are pulled away as the dragonet inside works up a hole big enough to work its way out of. There's a bit of snout that appears, covered in goo, from the hole. Big enough yet? Not quite. Though the dragon inside is sure trying to fit itself through that tiny hole. The egg lurches a bit as the dragonet keeps pushing and pushing. Finally after one big push the egg tumbles across the sand cracking in a million places and freeing the dragon inside.

Last Breath of Summer Gold Hatchling seems to have a vague idea of the lay of the land from her moment of observation, and finally she is on the move. One foot is carefully set in front of the other, and she's carefully entering to begin Court, stepping past the young men without a passing glance, though many of the young women receive the same treatment.

Malorim, much like the girls, can't help but to stare at Ista's newest queen; a glance flicks to Eulweth, then back to the miniature version of her. "How do they get so big?" is uttered, low. Another quick look at Aliona, and he's muttering, "Breathe, Al. How much longer do these things last? It's sweltering out here."

Faen stares into the eyes of the hatchling before him, surprised by the sensations of its 'voice'. "Ah I'm Yes. Lets get some food." He mumbles almost in a daze. He turns, headed towards the Weyrlingmaster before remembering. "Oh!" He exclaims, then turns towards the crowd. "Rakauth. His name is Rakauth." Right. Now for that food.

Surprisingly not out of breath despite the sweat gathering on his brow, D'len once again returns to the sands to usher Ista's newest bronze pair from the sands. "Rakauth must be starving, this way and we'll get him something to eat, hmm?" he says cheerfully, offering the boy a smile before leading them off to the others.

Turning the Tide of Storms Blue Hatchling gets himself right ways up from his egg's little tumble across the sand. He seems to glare at the left over pieces of the shell for a while, nudging pieces of it with one of his feet. He doesn't seem to at all be interested in the row of candidates for the time being. He flicks one piece of egg with his forepaw, and a piece of egg goo clings to him. The blue's eyes go wide as he sees there's something attached to his foot, and he begins to shake it out like a cat to remove the goo from it. Finally he manages to succeed, and a wad of goo goes flying towards the group of candidates.

Perfect Predatory Poise Egg has done its best to obfuscate the fact that its been wracked by tremors almost invisible to the naked eye for quite some time. With a crackle and a jerk as its final curtain call, it splits in two nearly identical halves and reveals the treasure contained all these many months.

Flaunt It If Ya Got It Green Hatchling
An opalecent sheen of seafoam green runs from snout to tail on this daintily built little lady. While her dominate color is something akin to the darker side of olive, she simply shimmers beneath the light of day without even trying. Every inch of her is slender, from the delicate curl of her toes, straight up all four of her shapely legs which connected to a strangely effeminate body. Neck and tail are long and slim, fitting in well with her overall design, right down to the delicate spurs of her wings, the sails there of nearly translucent and colored a green so pale they may as well be white. Patches of teal accentuate her underbelly, eyeridges and the tiny headknobs atop her head, found again in an airbrushed effect along her spine with a thicker concentration towards the forks of her tail but is found to be much more subtle over her paws. Talons are short and neat, hued an oddly rose-tinted lime.

There seems to be no incoming Doom at all, as the gray and green egg merely sits upon the sands, still not moving, not twitching, and showing no sign of doing anything.

The efforts from within the Not Just Stories Egg are starting to come to fruition. At first, only hairline cracks break the outer shell, but determination and ceaseless motion see them slowly growing wider and longer.

A tubby male candidate pushes his way to the front, pointing at the most recent blue hatchling. "That one's mine!" He cries out. Another candidate 'accidentally' steps on his foot, mashing his toes. And the tubby boy starts to sniffle a bit. "Ow…."

Aliona is breathing, and swearing, sometimes both at the same time. Faen's impression gets the briefest of congratulationsas Aliona's hand one more lifts to tug at the neckline of her robe again. Her necklace still isn't there.

Flaunt It If You Got It Green Hatchling rights herself and shakes off any remnants of her birth that might be clining to her hide. She waits for a few precious moments to get her bearings before taking one careful step after another. She practically glides with an ease of step over the sands, far more steady than the majority of her siblings. She snuffles delicately at this and that candidate as she passes them, a snort or two for those truly unworthy of her. Then she spots him, that frighteningly tall and imposing boy from Telgar with the slicked blond hair and penetrating dark eyes named Fredrick. She stops before him and locks gazes, bringing the giant to his knees in seconds. He coils arms around her shoulders, before triumphantly announcing that he is now E'ric and she is Pamulath.

Ryeokie lets out a low whistle as one of the youngest candidates manages to score the bronze, "Nice going!" He shifts his feet once, then pauses to run his hand over his forehead again, still sweating like mad. There's still a blue and a green, and as he tries to keep an eye on them, the starcrafter gives a quick warning down the line towards a the candidates about to get goo-splatted. "Look out." He winces, then chuckles to himself, spared from being slimed.

With a triumphant cry the Flaunt It If Ya Got It Green Hatchling has found its lifemate at last. After a few moments the Weyrlingmaster leads the new pair off the sands.

Eulweth has been quite sedate as the eggs have been hatchling, all things considered, the gold looming now and then as she stretches out her neck. As a candidate shifts bit too close, a nose is stretched in her direction, and the young woman is hurriedly scurrying back to her spot, while Angharad is shaking her head and offering a distracted pat, attempting to keep an eye on the gold in particular, looking rather proud - as if it was *her* clutch, and not Eulweth's.

Turning the Tide of Storms Blue Hatchling follows the flying goo with his eyes and head as it launches itself across the sands. Whee! Oh, look, there's a lot of humans over there! All in a big group. Crouching down, he tries to sneak along the sands and shoves his way between a group of candidates. Sliding his neck up along one of the older female candidates, he spends a while looking her over before huffing and moving on. Not quite. He looks over to the other side of himself at the next candidate. No, still not quite right. Not tall enough. Too young.

Siaryn's arms knot about herself no matter how much she tries to stand tall and keep them at her sides. Shuffling again, trying to ease some of the tension running through her, she seems determined to dig herself a little niche in the sand.

Flakes of shell have been falling steadily from the Not Just Stories Egg, revealing the thick off-white membrane inside. A determined push causes it to bulge outward upon side, stretching and stretching until finally it tears open and the sticky hatchling within crawls free to sprawl limply upon the warm sand, panting from the struggle.

Create Your Own Fairytale Green Hatchling
The vibrant hue of new leaves in spring suffuses this dragon's hide with perpetual brightness, subtly mottled undertones of bottle green giving her a sun-dappled look. A certain delicacy of bone structure lends a refined elegance to her appearance despite her size, notable especially in the fine features of her head, with a narrow muzzle and gently curved jaw. Sweeping eyeridges are highlighted in chartreuse, enhancing the shadows that pool about her faceted eyes and creating the illusion of an exotic slant. Headknobs and spinal ridges are also touched with the bold shade, slowly fading as the tips of her forked tail are reached. Off-setting her deceptively fragile foundation, her muscles are well developed, creating a sturdy curvaceousness throughout her body, particularly in the width of chest and shoulders, and in the breadth of her hindquarters. Her small feet are oddly elegant, long toes tipped with short, dark talons. The brilliance of polished peridot spreads across her wingsails, framed within bottle green 'spars and lightening into a dusting of jonquil speckles along their trailing edges, thickest near the outer tips.

Suddenly, the end has come, and what made of the shell of the Doom Do Do DOOM Doomy-Doomy Doom Doom Egg is gone, and instead there is a rather surprised looking green sitting in its place. It was a dragon ALL along!

Starlit Ambassador Green Hatchling
Garish would be the first word that comes to mind with even a passing glance of this dragon, her hide a pattern of greens from end to end. A dark Persian green sets the base for her elaborate costume, flowing seamlessly from blunt muzzle to tail-tip, the soft teal undertones muted by the layering hues, visible in great, sweeping spirals that cover her rounded sides. While a delicate headdress of jungle green has been set upon wide, flattened headknobs, ridges of sea green flow down her spine, like a trailing veil, sea green melting into her Persian hide. Mint sails sweep between peacock spars, speckled with iridescent shamrock spots, like a sweeping cloak as oversize wings frame her otherwise average, but yet somehow imposing form, as speckles of lime seem to have been showered upon her from above, flecks of light upon the dark expanse.

Last Breath of Summer Gold Hatchling continues her careful pace, snorting distastefully at one young man, hurriedly turning her head away from him. But then, there's seems to be something that catches her attention and she's turning hurriedly towards the other portion of the Candidate circle, before she's primly setting down at the feet of a dark-haired young woman, snorting judgmentally as the young woman seems content on pulling on her collar. So unladylike.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Last Breath of Summer Gold Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

There's a tightening in your chest, pressure against your back, and it is as if a corset has been pulled and laced and knotted, even as your mind is engulfed with dark emeralds and sapphire, satiny smooth against your thoughts. « Stand up straight. At least pretend to look like a lady. » The voice is chiding, firm, and then the satin seems to settle more evenly against your mind, as if a gown specially made for you and fits to your form. « I am Isanath, it is a pleasure to meet you. » She offers politely, much like a lady making a first acquaintance. « And you.. You are my partner, Aliona? » And then, a flash of gold shoots through your mind. « I think it is time for our welcome feast. Don't embarrass us. » And then, you find yourself back on the Sands, the ginger-gold sitting primly at your feet, waiting for you expectantly.

Starlit Ambassador Green Hatchling is here! And just in case anyone could miss the appearance of the garishly colored green, she is stretching and crooning loudly, awkward damp wings stretched out. And then, she flips them back to her back and she's proudly stalking towards the candidates without a moment of hesitation.

Malorim is busy trying to keep tabs on how Aliona's holding up, where the hatchlings are located and - he automatically freezes as the gold primly sets herself down nearby, gray eyes huge. Silently, he backs away, staring wordlessly at his friend.

P'rel has been doing his utmost best to keep Malphath from consuming poor little candidates for all the eying and discontented rumblings that the bronze has been making. He turns golden eyes towards not Angharad, but rather further up to the stands where he probably expects to see a certain bluerider. This done, his usual frown deepens and he returns his attention to the hatching. "Gold and Bronze. That's better." he offers his lifemate, patting his firelit hindquarter.

Ryeokie raises his eyebrows at the sight of that boy claiming a hatchling as 'his', "Man, what kind of candidates did they bring in." He shakes his head, but his usual smile stays present, pushing ihs glasses up on his sweat-laiden nose. "Looks like this is the last of them." He sweeps his eyes over the remaining hatchlings, offering a few congratulations here and there, but keeping his eyes on the hatchlings mostly.

Clambering to her feet, Create Your Own Fairytale Green Hatchling wobbles in place for a moment, newborn legs unsteady. Turning first one way, and then the other, she can't seem to decide what she wants to do or where she should go first. While she's trying to make up her mind, the remains of her own egg capture her attention, nosing curiously at the crumpled shell. It doesn't hold her interest long, and with hesitant, bumbling baby-steps she finally starts to explore, heading towards her dam and sire. Hi!

Starlit Ambassador Green Hatchling pauses by one young woman, crooning up at her with curious look, seemingly weighing her. But then, it seems that she isn't quite right, and the hatchling is moving on with a dismissive croon, practically prancing as she continues her circle.

Turning the Tide of Storms Blue Hatchling is tired of looking over all these… women. Or girls. Whatever you can consider teenage girls in this age bracket. Instead he moves over to one of the boys. A pudgy one with a big curly mop on his head who's been complaining about his toes being wedged into his sandals since he got out on the sands. Oh no. This one is absolutely no good. The blue hatchling actually grows and snaps at the boy, who shrieks like a woman and skitters off to the back of the group. Something shiny glints into the blue's eye, and he sneaks over to where it's coming from. This candidate is older, and a male. Yes, this one is perfect! He slides along him and wraps the end of his tail about his leg. Caught!

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Turning the Tide of Storms Blue Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

One poor white-robed kid who totally got splatted across the face with flying egg goo earlier is doing the candie-dance, and shuffling his feet, eyes darting with wide-eyed terror. Poor lad, maybe he wasn't cut out for this standing thing.

Ryeokie is finally silent. Not a word escapes the starcrafter's mouth as he stands there, brown eyes staring into the swirling orbs before him. Seconds pass before he's suddenly throwing his head back and laughing. "Oh shards!" There's a touch of relief that tinges the happy exclamation. Long fingers rake through his hair, sweeping it back. "Wai-wha? Ki…Ky…Ryeo….K'irye? I kinda like that" As the new rearrangement of letters comes from his lips, the man can't help but grin crookedly. "Haneutath. Haneutath…" Ryeokie, now K'irye, chants the name a few times, as if testing it. He'd probably go on like that for ages, but a thought skitters across his mind and the starcrafter turned weyrling gives a snap of his finger. "Oh yeah! Food! Right, sorry man, kinda got caught up in it all. Let's get outta this heat." And with a smile, the pair is off, following one of the weyrlingmasters away.

Aliona didn't need to breathe anyway, right? Her backstraightens and a faint colouring appears on her cheeks as if she's embarassed by something even as her eyes stay unfocussed. "Isanath?" A few blinks bring the world into focus, "I ain't gonna do it delib'rate. Honest." She follows it up with a short laugh and a word that definitely is not supposed to be in her vocabulary now, no matter how quietly it's spoken.

One foot in front of the other, D'len goes forth to rein in not only Ryeokie (now K'irye) and blue Haneutath but Aliona and her golden lifemate Isanath. "This way sweetlings, let's get some food in them shall we?" Another smile, and he escorts Ista's newest blueling and junior pairing off the sands and amongst their peers.

One of the other candidates is peering at the goo on the terror-eyed lad. Then he sticks his finger into it, getting a stream of goo hanging from it. Then he… proceeds to lap up the goo like a noodle.

Malorim's stare remains incredulous, wondering. "Faranth's eye, Al. A weyrwoman, " he says with not a little awe. Casting quick little looks from side to side, he side-steps toward the remaining candidates, posture still unwavering.

There's just so much to see! Create Your Own Fairytale Green Hatchling moves along, stumbling less as she grows more comfortable with this whole walking thing. Bravely, she attempts a trot, eyes whirling bright as she stretches her neck as far and high as she can, gawping at the filled benches of the galleries. Her lack of attention to her own movements cause her front feet to tangle together, but she recovers swiftly from the trip, barely slowing as she continues to explore this fascinating new world.

Starlit Ambassador Green Hatchling is more than happy to continue her prancing walk, crooning, and twitching her tail time and again as she goes. But then, there something else that catches her attention and she's practically shooting forward, pausing at the feet of a blonde-haired young man - who while outwardly does not seem that much different than the others she inspected, in his white candidate robe - seems to have what it takes, as her crooning takes on a different tone, and she's nudging his stomach with her nose. Look here!

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Starlit Ambassador Green Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Siaryn all but jumps right out of her dip in the sand when the girl next to her steps over to whisper something in her ear, a something that she doesn't actually hear, so startled is she. She murmurs a few words in response, but doesn't look at her or ask her to repeat whatever it was.

Every frolicking adventure must have a happy ending, and that time has finally come for Create Your Own Fairytale Green Hatchling. She's looked in all the wrong places, but of a sudden she /knows/ where she must go. Nothing can distract her as she runs to the other side of the Sands, awkward baby limbs gaining grace with the focus of purpose. Still-damp wings are flared for balance as she comes to a bouncing halt a few paces away from her target, a slender girl with brown hair and dimpled cheeks. Barely containing her eagerness she closes the last of the distance, pressing her nose against the young woman's chest.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Create Your Own Fairytale Green Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Malorim backpedals in an attempt to get away from the green who has decided to propel herself at him at warp speed. Unfortunately, his haste causes him to trip and go sprawling down onto his back, expression frozen into something that resembles horror. It takes a few moments for him to push himself to his feet and brush himself back off, clearly confused. "Come again? I - " And then he straightens, nodding surely. "Mzath. It is nice to make your acquaintance. Uh." Help?

Siaryn just about manages to recover from that unintentional fright, only for something - someone - else to startle her, though this time she doesn't jump or back away, but leans forward, arms immediately unknotting to land careful hands gently against the muzzle of the green before her. Maybe she'd stumble forward, but her new lifemate prevents her from doing so, as she breathes, "Vaniveth…" and nothing more, too lost for words and otherwise /lost/ for anything else of any sense.

D'len has two more greenlings to collect, and after a few precious seconds of lateness goes and does just that. "Sorry, sorry," he apologizes, herding both Malorim and Siaryn as well as their respective lifemates Mzath and Vaniveth off the sands. "There's food and all sorts of things waiting over with the others. Step lively, there's plenty of time to reflect later." And so they go, off towards a new adventure.

With the last of the eggs hatched, the last of the hatchlings Impressed, Eulweth is shifting forwards on the Sands, rumbling, while Angharad is moving to offer condolences and options to those candidates left Standing. With one more croon, the gold is vacating the Hatching Grounds - glad for her freedom - while Angharad is moving to do the same herself.

P'rel sighs as the last of the greens are Impressed and removed from the sands, looking over the sands littered with shells and disappoint. With a shake of his head, the Weyrleader jerks his head towards the exit and leads a reluctant Malphath out and into the Ista air.

Ista Weyr - Living Caverns
Large enough to house the entirety of Ista's population at one time, the cavern set aside for the very heart of the weyr's life is a grandiose, somewhat circular affair, filled with rows of long tables surrounded by benches and chairs. Bustling and busy, it is a rare moment indeed when there is not someone at work or leisure in here. The long trestle table by the kitchens is perpetually filled with plates and trays of food, as well as bottles and flasks of drinks both hot and chilled. A pot or two of something is always bubbling upon the hearth, along with warming enough klah to keep weryfolk and riders going throughout the day and night. Although a high table is set aside for respected dignitaries on formal occasions, most of the seating here is not designated to any particular group - rather, all ranks of the population eat together, intermingled across the broad area.
Great tapestries have been hung upon the walls, orange and black borders proudly displaying the weyr's colors, the age-faded hangings depicting scenes of importance to the area - the eruption of the volcano; the first clutch; the view from the star stones, over forest, dark beach, and glistening waves of blue. Propeller-like fans have been affixed to the ceiling in more modern times, cooling the cavern on the hottest of days, the only real sign of modernization outside the infirmaries and craft caverns. Passageways lead up the stairs to the kitchens, down a second flight of stairs to the lower caverns, and out into the expanse of the bowl.

As afternoon fades into a brilliant sunset evening, the sky is awash in vibrant hues of violet and fiery reds. The hatching feast is well underway by the time Cenlia makes it back to the weyr, having been caught in a holder meeting which, unfortunately, had the lot of them unfashionably late! However, she didn't return alone, Nziekilth's new straps carrying a passenger of some note, the gold for once not doing her usual jarring landing as massive wings sweep dust and sand across the bowl, and maybe get a few peoples' gather clothes slightly ruffled. But most of the weyr knows by now to make way for her, and there's a pleased rumbling for any of its newest members, her generally strong whisky and rye mindscape softened considerably in gruff, but gentle greeting to the hatchlings. An off bit of formality from a creature that often has no patience for such. Speaking of formality, as the gold lowers herself, and Cenlia swings down, the weyrwoman is quite obviously clad in what appears to be.. a bright red gather gown, with straps hanging off her shoulders and a white sarong over the flowing skirt of it. What she's doing in /that/ getup is maybe questionable, but the man she offers a hand down to from the gold's back might provide a slight answer, the woman nodding more politely to Altair, but with her usual lopsided grin, "Looks to be good party getting started in there," before she's urging them both into the living caverns, which have been set for a right proper hatching feast.

Dressed in the kind of finery you'd expect from the heir of a hold, Altair stands straight and tall at his height of well over six feet. He takes the hand offered him, his own clad in pristinely white gloves and slides down to the ground with a gentle tap of feet. "It seems I arrived just in time." he replies, straightening out his dress coat colored a rich deep purple. His long raven hair tied back into a low runnertail at the back of his neck which falls in waves a bit of curl. He pauses behind Cenlia, waiting for the small entourage which would of accompanied him for but a second, long legs carrying him into the living caverns soon there after.

Ista Hold's steward is already nursing a glass of something smoky and amber, appearing less than pleased. Steely eyes narrow, calculatingly watching the entranceway to the caverns as others filter in to join the gathering in progress. Deliberately, he sets his glass down and gets smoothly to his feet as one of the newest weyrlings enters, staring down Mzath's rider from across the room.

"Here we go, " M'rim mutters to Aliona as they finally leave their new charges to their first nap. "This isn't how it was supposed to be." There's a brief pause, a startled jump of his eyebrows before he hisses, "No, I didn't mean it like /that/." There's a panicked look for his friend. "I can't keep anything from her. What do we do?"

Enter Eastern's Weyrleader, dressed in pristine white uniform with gold accents and leaning upon intricate dragonhead-carved walking stick. It's rare that J'em drags himself from his hut at Eastern Weyr, but when he does, it's usually for good reason… like free booze! With a nod to those gathered, the old one-eyed man moves inside, immediately scoping out what beverages may be on offer.

Aliona has changed, in terms of clothing at least. Outwardly there's little sign of the recent upheaval in her life beyond the new knot and the slightly bemused and tired look on her face. "Least you ain't gettin' lectured 'bout not embarr'sin' her if y'go out! Good thing she's sleepin', ain't gonna blast me if I think a swear. Can't even… y'know." Her hand waves, fingers forming an odd pattern before dropping to her side again. "I need tea. C'mon."

"Would've been here sooner if yer father weren't so much fer procedure and formality and such," Cenlia, by happy coincidence, is totally entering with Ista Hold's heir in time to hear M'rim and Aliona, although the weyrwoman is pointedly not hanging off Altair's arm as other.. more bred ladies might. No, she strides with definite purpose, toward the booze. A crooked grin is spared for J'em when she notices his own path, though she herself is pausing just in time to offer M'rim a wryly sympathic, "Will get easier, dun- er, don't worry," as she passes behind him. Ninja weyrwoman. Speaking of goldies, there's another pause, her own eyebrow quirking at Aliona, maybe sizing up the girl or maybe trying to figure out which of the candidates she was, "Congrats to you both, by the way. Relax, too, ain't anyone gonna judge ya on yer first night as riders." Obviously, she has missed the approach of a certain Hold Steward. Ahem.

Ma'am comes in from the bowl, having stuffed his new lifemate into a deep slumber, dressed like a weyrling - in a plain white pillowcase— er, robe. With some meat stains towards the hemline. "Sasoveth." he murmurs, tone hushed. "Sasoveth." his volume rises to speaking, and he shakes his head in bewilderment. "She picked me!" he sighs, like a lovestruck schoolgirl. Nevermind that he was shuddering from her sight beforehand. A visiting dignitary or two? Well, there /was/ just a hatching… "Cenlia! Hey, Cenlia!" he waves to the Weyrwoman, "Sasoveth chose /me/!"

Altair had offered Cenlia his arm, as a genleman should, but when its not taken he merely lowers it again as if it had never happened. As for the comment that was made about his father, the hold heir merely smiles thinly. Barely there, but done all the same. "He is a man set in his ways." he replies, following a respectful step or two behind her towards the refreshments. Deep blue eyes slide over the room, tipping his head to a few of those already there seeming to be paying extra attention to knots and tidbits of conversation that may be drifting in such a way as to allow him to overhear.

Lyvius doesn't yet join the rest of the Ista Hold contingent, too intent on reaching his son - who's following the newest goldrider up to the tables to get refreshments. Stride fluid, he reaches M'rim before he can help himself to a roll, intercepting the duo. "Malorim, " he greets evenly, nodding to Aliona, "and the new, young queenrider, if I'm not mistaken? Congratulations." The sentiment isn't extended to his progeny. "I see you weren't interested in my offer of a better position. Pity. Your potential was quite good, you know. I had hoped - but it's no matter."

"Father, Aliona. Aliona, my father, " M'rim says as indifferently as he can manage. "Mzath changes everything. You knew as well as I that this could have happened."

"It wasn't supposed to be a green, " Lyvius concludes, staring down his pointed nose. "You weren't supposed to be like - them." Recollecting himself, he abruptly turns away to join the other holders, leaving Mal to stare furiously after him.

J'em regards the spread of drinks, giving a brief stiff bow of greeting to Ista's Weyrwoman. "Good hatchin', strong lookin' group." The old Weyrleader compliments Cenlia. "Beaut'ful gold." And silver-blue eye travels over towards the pair of gold and green weyrlings, again sizing the girl up. Then, it's back to the booze and he settles on a drink finally, moving towards a table to slide into a seat at.

Aliona smiles back at Cenlia, "Thanks. That mean we c'n have a drink?" She's joking, mostly, and quickly changes the subject lest she be taken too seriously. "Ain't sure how long she'll sleep so ain't gonna be here long I don' think. Will try t'enjoy it though." She's polite at least, though as they move away from the Weyrwoman she hisses at M'rim, "She says Ain't! How comes I ain't allowed to now!" But then comes M'rim's father and Ali's already on the defensive, "His p'tential ain't been dented none. 'f anythin' he got more now." A pause, and then, "Ain't s'pose t'be like who?" Insulted? You bet!

Cenlia continues on toward the food and drink tables, nodding agreement with Altair, "Mebbe a little /too/ set. There's something to be said fer flexibility, y'know." It's less of a criticism on the man than an observation, the goldrider sounding as if she's long since gotten used to expecting that sort of thing from Lord Holder Trolessi. Though maybe she might give his son the benefit of the doubt, judging by the look she throws his way. J'em's bow and greeting do have the goldrider smiling again, however, offering the Eastern weyrleader a nod of her own, "Thanks, am hoping they're all as-" totally cut off as she once again pauses, the sight of Ma'am still in his pillowcase- that is, his robe waving at her. She can't help the lopsided grin, though, missing most of the exchange between M'rim and Lyvius in the process as she chuckles to Marty, "Er, I see that. Congrats, yeah?" Reaching for a drink of her own and making to follow J'em's example while telling Aliona, "Only if ain't booze," and tototally trying not to laugh as poor Aliona has a vocab moment, though her cheerful expression disappears the next instant. "Like /what/?" oh, she totally overheard that bit. "Thought yer folk were supposed to 'least have manners 'nough not to grouch at a feast," is said pointedly to Altair, the weyrwoman giving the man a sidelong look, as if she expects him to do something about it.

[Dragon/ISW] Alarm and indignance flare loudly to dragons at Ista Weyr, a chaotic swirl of colors that stems from the weyrling barracks. Someone's not asleep anymore. [Mzath]

Ma'am catches the word 'green', and his head turns, eyes flicking to Lyvius. "Them?" he repeats, blinking away some of the fog of infatuation he's been riding since leaving the sands. It probably helps that Sasoveth is asleep. Now the Marty uncertainty shines through. "Green is …bad?" He frowns, and again tilts his head, then shakes it, again not hearing anything. "Shouldn't stay, she might wake." he mumbles, tugging at the neckline of his robe. Still in it, because he dare not stray from Sasoveth's side for more than the absolute minimum, not even long enough to change. "Yeah, thanks, yeah." he bobs his head at Cenlia's congratulations, though it's clear his good cheer has gone now.

[Dragon/ISW] Fenrith rouses from his post-hatching napping. « Huh? what? » Old bronze, just ignore him, ayup.

[Dragon/ISW] Nziekilth rouses as well, though less sleepily and and more like a suddenly very aware and loomy mountain that's decided the background isn't good enough, echoing her own, « Wut? » but with a vaguely steely edge. Who's picking on Istan babies? WHO? Grr.

"Blue and greenriders, I expect, " M'rim replies to Aliona, gritting his teeth as he casts another glare at his father's pointedly turned back. "I'm sure you've heard the stories. No son of his would, you know." A hand automatically presses to his own temple as he grimaces. "She's awake. She's so /loud/."

Despite Cenlia's less than diplomatic way of speaking of his father, Altair takes it in stride, or rather like water off a water avian's back. "Perhaps." is all he has to say on it, hs feathers not in the least bit ruffled. He helps himself to a small glass of red wine, having checked pointedly to see if there was any spots on it given the eying he's lavished upon it far more than one should in such a social gathering and then strolls again after Cenlia as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Ista Hold greetings to Eastern and her queens." he says to J'em, inclinging his head in a show of respect to the weathered Weyrleader. Dark eyes then wander after a polite amount of time has passed to M'tim and Aliona, taking the young weyrlings in before attention falls to Ma'am and his hold's own steward. There is but a subtle twitch to one of the tall thirty turn old's eyebrows, sending it upwards for less than a second upon hearing what was being said between them. Lashes lower towards Cenlia, taking in her words and the look he's given before he inclines his head once again. "If you'll excuse me Weyrwoman." That said, he strolls on over after Lyvius without any hurry. Offering faint ghost-like smiles to any that greet him or happen to be in his way as he weaves through to get to where the holders have collected. "Steward, may I have a moment of your time?" he asks, his voice never wavering from its epitime of calm.

[Dragon/ISW] Mzath is confused, indignant, tired and still so very new to the world that she can't quite articulate just who or what has caused her lifemate distress. There's a jumbled mix of muddled colors that briefly resolve into a view that resembles a cavern. It's hard to tell, really. The force of her thoughts, however, bely her youth. /She/ is not an /it/. And she most certainly is good enough!

Aliona's anger is growing, and unknown to her at the moment transmitting back to someone who would much rather be sleeping at the moment. An explosive curse is followed by a sharp mental rebuke, "He should think himself lucky I ain't got the energy to kick his arse fr'm here t'the ocean an' back." Another stab of anger makes her wince, a reply that should have been internal spilling out for all to hear, "I don' care! He ain't gettin' t'say that t'Mal!"

J'em has, likely overheard the little conversation over yonder as well, though it's not his weyr and therefore not his business, is it? Whether it is or not, he straightens his shoulders, thin with age, "M'son's a greenrider, s'nothin' wrong with th'colour green Laddie." Mentioned to Ma'am as well as M'rim if he's near enough to overhear.

Lyvius is quick to rearrange his expression into neutral politeness as Altair's polite inquiry reaches him. He turns, glass still in hand. "Certainly, " he says smoothly, dipping his chin deferentially. "How may I best be of service?"

"I think I'd pay to see that, " M'rim confesses, reaching over to tug at Aliona's hand. "Food and tea, remember? Let it rest, weyrwoman-to-be. I suspect, " and there's a quick glance for Altair's progress, "he'll be justly chastised. I won't be seeing him again too soon, I think."

[Dragon/ISW] Fenrith sends a wash of calm to the upset young mind. « They are nonriders, they do not understand, Mine's was the same way, they will get used to it. » This from the old bronze who really doesn't belong here but isn't about to sit idly by while a youngling is being upset.

Aliona's hand flicks in a gesture that you don't have the be initiated with the traders to know is nothing but insulting, while her other is captured by M'rim. "It ain't right, Mal. Don't care what happens, it still ain't right." For some reason she winces. "Ain't. Ain't ain't ain't shaffing a'int."

Ma'am's eyes glaze over at some distant signal. Then he sighs. "I… need to get back to the barracks. Sasoveth." he mumbles, turning and running. Ah, the life of a new weyrling. They grow out of it, in time… The dragons, too.

Altair gives a flowing gesture that suggests that this conversation between himself and the hold's steward would be best done in private. Once his silent request is followed, he lowers his voice to the point that any attempt to being overheard would be met with failure. Whatever is said, the hold heir's expression never once shifts from its mask of ultimate neutrality. Though the smile, faint as it was, has completely disappeared. Taking a testing sip of his wine somewhere in the middle there, he swirls the crimson fluid around within his glass in a practiced gesture that barely swishes but rather swirls the contents. Once done, he simply turns and wanders off back towards Cenlia, leaving the steward to stew, as it were.

Cenlia snorts, agreeing with J'em, "Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' a rider, period. That sort, stuffy as a sack of tubers, couldn't impress a trundlebug," her opinion maybe a little clouded by the previous meeting which had kept her from attending the hatching itself. Although she nods to indicate the departing steward, possibly not including Altair in the description. There's a wince of her own, and a glance out toward the bowl where Nziekilth is shifting, the gold probably having words of her own to say about that. To the weyrlings, there's a lopsided grin, though, "Relax, dun think he'll be having a good night after this," said wryly as Altair heads after the steward. "There's hope for some, though," added as she raises her glass in silent toast to the Hold heir before moving to join J'em at his table, motioning Aliona and the greenies to join them, "Yer riders now, though, dun forget that. Only thing that matters anymore is your dragons." Speaking of which, there is a bt mroe of a grin as poor Ma'am rushes away to tend to his lifemate. Aah, the life of a new weyrling.

J'em raises his own glass with a nod. "Your whole life'll be yer dragons from now on, or at least 'til they be grown." He takes a long drink from his glass, only to shoot a glance towards the clearing where his own greyed bronze is shuffling. "Ah, speakin' o'dragons, m'beast says his lady needs him, canna ignore th'call of th'senior, right? 'Twas a wonderful hatchin', perhaps I'll hafta come back t'enjoy more of yer special drinks. Farewell an' clear skies t'ya fer now tho." And the old weyrleader is getting to his feet and making his way stiffly towards the exit.

[Dragon/ISW] Nziekilth doesn't seem to consider Fenrith out of place, especially as he soothes the young greenling, her own craggy thoughts in agreement, though fading with a sort of smug satisfaction at something unseen and unheard.

Whatever passes between Altair and Lyvius is enough to leave the man frozen where he stands, outwardly still smiling even as the Istan heir rejoins the feast. After a careful dusting of his person to rid himself of any creases or errant crumbs, he returns his glass to the kitchen staff and silently departs, sweeping out to the bowl where he no doubt hopes to find someone returning to Ista Hold before the end of the hour.

"Eat, " advises M'rim again, turning to stuff a newly acquired roll into Ali's hand, which he releases once they get up to the table without being impeded by wayward fathers. There's an amused lift to his brow as he snags a bit of food for himself, staunchly not batting an eyelash as his sire exits. "If you're going to be a weyrwoman, Al, she's right. You have to become a diplomat, or at least seem to be good at those kinds of things."
Childish mental argument won, for now, Aliona turns her attention back to where she is and who she's with and has the decency to look ashamed. "Sorry." Roll is squished first, then bitten, then squished some more.

Cenlia nods to J'em, sparing the man a much warmer smile than she usually might, telling the Eastern Weyrleader, "Yer always welcome back to try our brews," and raising her own glass in brief farewell, "Clear Skies an' all that." As the remaining two weyrlings either don't see her having motioned to them, or are too distracted, she turns her attention back to the returning Altair, the goldrider looking more than satisfied that the man seems to have scared the steward right out of the feast. "Think he'll bugger the next tithe?" is asked idly, though without humor, more a sort of thoughtfulness at the sort of man who berates his own son at a hatching feast. She does glance over, correcting M'rim with a chuckled, "Junior weyrwoman - think I've got soem turns yet before I fall over dead and gotta be replaced," offering Aliona a crooked grin. Considering the senior is only a handful of turns older, that probability is less than likely, though apparently she does find the new greenrider's words amusing.

Less than savory work accomplished, Altair does stop in his forward motion once he's reached Cenlia, and once again lifts his wine glass to his lips, taking the smallest taste possible before swallowing. He inclines his head to the departure of the Eastern Weyrleader, storm-dark eyes moving over the room and perhaps making note of the absence of Ista's own male leadery-type. He makes no comment on it to the Weyrwoman, instead letting his gaze fall to the remaining two weyrlings, white-gloved hand poised before him with two fingers clutching the stem of his glass. As Cenlia mentions tithes, broad shoulders are brought back a fraction of a inch before relaxing again. "I believe he'll be on his best behavior from now on, I do apologize for the disruption in the festivities." he says quietly, looking to M'rim breifly before his attention centers on Aliona. Taking another sip of his wine.

M'rim snorts after overhearing Cenlia's question, waving his free hand in a formless gesture. "He won't risk his job any more than he just did, trust me. It's the 'only honorable post' left in our family." The quotation marks are audible, even as he takes his roll and a glass to join the Istan heir and senior weyrwoman. A graceful nod acknowledges Altair's apology, cheeks warming slightly. "I apologize for my father's behavior, sir. I know it was not his intention to embarrass you, or Ista."

Aliona's head snaps up at the mention of shorting the next tithe and there's a definite flash of fire in here eyes - though for once it doesn't each her mouth. Crooked grin is replied to with faint smile that died as soon as the Istan heir come back within earshot. "Thank you." At least there's little anger in her voice as she speaks to Altair, though her right hand does twitch A Lot. "Sorry f'r what I said ealier it weren't… wasn't my intention t'upset ya." Quieter, with her head turned to one side she adds, "I'm tryin', okay. Shu'up."

Cenlia herself relaxes back in her seat, having caught that minor straightening of shoulders, and seeming more than willing to take Altair's word, although she does offer the man a nod and an, "Appreciate all the help lately. Will have all the rest sorted eventually," referring possibly to whatever prior business might have had them out of the weyr. The apology, too, she takes in stride, apparently considering the matter settles and encouraging the Hold heir, "Oughtta try some of the cakes the cooks've been bringing out. Better'n anything lately." A brow is quirked at M'rim, Cenlia canting her head to the new greenrider and telling him pointedly, "Would be happy to explain to him just what an 'honorable post' is," grin tilting wryly, "Or let Zeek an' m' shovel do it." For Aliona, though, there is a closer look taken at the girl, before Cen is telling the apologizing goldling, "Usually find is better to peak yer mind. Leave the walkin' on shellshards and such to them that ain't got anything better to do." For Cenlia, tact perhaps comes secondary to getting things done.

That ghost of a smile returns to Altair's lips, the expression not reaching his eyes which have a decidedly guarded appearance. One of those types that has a public facade perhaps, or merely is someone who keeps their private thoughts private. "Not necessary," he informs M'rim and then extends that courtesy to Aliona as she too apologizes. "I believe he and I reached an amiable agreement on how things should be done in the future." He looks down at Aliona, but his expression never changes even for a second. "I'm afraid I didn't notice any slights on your part, junior weyrwoman." Ah, so he was listening, even if he seems to be passing it off that he wasn't paying attention to her outbursts. He inclines his head to Cenlia's promise that other matters would be tended to, but likely doesn't see any reason to hash it out in mixed company. He also, pointedly, remains standing despite everyone else being seated.

M'rim busies himself with partaking politely of his nourishment, cheeks still pink after Altair's moved on to reassure Isanath's. His father's insensible display no doubt makes up the bulk of the evening's embarrassment, leaving him staring carefully at his food. The set of his shoulders, however straight, remains tense.

Aliona eyes Cenlia for a second as if she's not entirely believing her own ears, and her eventual reply is simply a nod and a smile - this one lasting and genuine. It fades, however, at Altair's response. "Ain't that yet, Sir. Jus' a weyrling'." A pause follows where she looks increasingly uncomfortable in such important company, and eventually she blurts out. "I should go. Isanath's proper awake now an' I don' want t'leave her too long. Y'coming Mal?"

"Mzath could use some settling, " M'rim is quick to agree, folding the remainder of his roll into a napkin as he stands, wishing Weyrwoman Cenlia and Altair pleasant evenings before following Aliona as they head back to their newborn lifemates.

Cenlia doesn't appear likely to go into whatever other matters, though she will crane her neck up to the still-standing Altair with a bit of a quirked brow. "The chairs don't bite, y'know," teasing him possible with a wry touch of amusement in her expression. Considering how tall the man is, she isn't likely to be doing anything but peering upward even if he were sitting, especially as she's been relaxing into a slight slouch. Dignified probably has to take a backseat to her enjoying a good hatching fest, even if it's the booze she seems more interested in sampling, watching the drudges wander out of the kitchen with the latest chilled offerings. If she notices any awkwardness for the high-ranked company they seem to find themselves in, she at least doesn't comment on it, though there is a not to Aliona and M'rim as they make to leave, offering them another, more cheerful, "Congrats," and then turning her attention to the holder, and maybe signalling a drudge with a plate of pastry.

Altair looks down towards Cenlia at mention of chairs, and again his expression ceases to change. "I spend most of my time seated," he explains, perhaps with an odd note of apology despite there being no change in the tone of his voice. Still as level and even as it ever was. "There is some pleasure to be had in doing otherwise when possible." Despite his words, the over six foot hold heir reaches out with his free gloved hand and pulls out the chair beside Cenlia, and effortlessly deposits himself into it. Long legs clad in white crossed at the knee. He sits staight and ridgid in his seat as if the habit had been part of his DNA. "A trivial detail, one that will no doubt work itself out with time." This said to Aliona, with his daeep blue eyes shifting off towards M'rim as the two make to depart. Even the adbruptness of their departure doesn't even seem to phase him, simply inclining his head and leaving them with a soft farewell over the rim of his wine glass. Still nursing what most people would considering less than a mouthful of liquid sitting in the bottom of his glass.

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