She would prefer to go unnoticed, the hunter in the darkness green. As she gains control of her senses, the rush of vision, the roar of hearing, even the feet of sand grating beneath egg-soft talons, the hatchling huddles close to the ground until instinct and hunger urge her forward. Even then, her gait might be considered more a prowl than the clumsier waddle of her siblings. Slowly and carefully, she creeps towards that sentinel line of white and those who dare look at her receive bared teeth and a hiss for their interest.
From the galleries, The subject is inevitable, and they're certainly not the only ones conversing about it. Diya's lips part to answer, and then shut again, hands finding a resting spot on her lap. "G'thon," she notes, a slight emphasis on the elision of the name, "Is made of stronger stuff than it seems records indicate of others in his situation. I suppose there's only so much you can believe of the harpers' tales, embellishments added for dramatic flair." Despite her words, the aging weyrwoman's gaze leaves Issa to seek out the dragonless rider on the sands. "It may be denial," is murmured, far more quietly, with her lean frame bent forward to offer those words directly into the greenrider's ears. "But I'm no mindhealer."
And there comes the unsurprising tumble. The shadows and firelight brown nearly takes out a line of candidates when a shard of egg beneath his foot gives far less traction than the sand, dropping him onto his side for a roll. While some of the candidates rush forward to make sure he's okay, others in the line are busy checking themselves for blood. One finds it, in a shallow gash on his forearm, though the pain is soon soothed by the arrival of a worried green. For his part, the shadows and firelight brown shakes off the concerned candidates, backing away to test his limbs before resuming his search in a more judicious fashion.
Milina watches Anaddui leave for a brief moment before looking back to the other hatchlings moving about. Nervous teeth bite down on her lower lip as she moves to her left towards the candidate that's standing on that side of her.
Olliren reaches out in a swift motion to stop the candidate on his other side from reaching forward as if to pet a passing dragon hatchling. "Careful," he says in a warning tone before releasing the hand in question. Even so, he catches Anaddui's impression, and he actually smiles for a few seconds, and it's not sardonic for a change. "That's why you have to watch it," he adds, gesturing to their peer with the gash on his arm. The other candidate nods, and Olliren glances over toward Legarisen for a few moments, cocking an eyebrow in a 'you okay?' expression.
Korinne's eyes can't be everywhere at once. The brown's tumble captures her attention for a brief span, long enough for her to judge that neither hatchling nor surrounding Candidates have really garnered any injury. Sighing softly in relief and brushing the back of her hand over her forehead, she turns her gaze to the sands once more, trying to see where each of the hatchlings is currently located.
Legarisen nods his head as he notes the slash on the unlucky candidate's arm, "Some have to learn the hard way..." is all he says as he returns all his attention on the hatchlings.
For a moment the newly arrived nobly streaked brown hatchling flails about. There's a brief thrashing of tail before he calms and allows gravity to carry him into the soft sand. It is then that he is able to sink his new, moist paws into the ground and gain traction and support. Lifting himself up, the sandy brown hatchling orients himself, first glancing at the gold and bronze pair presiding over the clutch. Then the white robed individuals are spotted and it is in that direction that he unsteadily trods.
There's a determined rattling from one of the eggs, which then lurches to one side. Cracks web the egg's bottom and it breaks open over the sands, spilling forth a slim, leather-brown hatchling. His hide slick in the glowlight, the aged parchment brown picks himself up from the ground only to discover that one wing is still lodged in the egg-shards. He tugs his pinion free with a little stumble, haltingly folds it across his back, then sets off towards the candidates with an unmistakable sense of purpose.
Aged Parchment Brown Hatchling
Not a graceful hatchling, this; he's too slim for comfort and
possesses a large breadth of wing. His coloration pleases, however,
with a base hue of rich and ruddy tan, reminiscent of the supple
leather of scroll-casings or fine glove-work. It's washed with a
lighter tint, one that folds into the burnt yellow of aged vellum
along his prominent spine and neck-ridges, down the spars of his
expansive pinions. Long-muzzled, the brown's eyes have an arresting
distinction to their glow: narrower than the norm and slightly
almond-shaped, they fairly spark with awareness. There's assurance in
the slow and measured steps this hatchling takes, and he keeps his
head crisply raised for the view it lends him, not snuffling along the
ground as others might.
The shadows and firelight brown seems to make a sudden realization mid-inspection of an eager young weyrbred lad, stilling before looking quickly towards another, inconceivably more suitable candidate. Turning on a dime, and taking a tumble for his effort, the little brown makes a mad dash towards a rugged young man with dark hair and watery grey eyes. Right there, before Legarisen, he rises up on his hind legs, wings spreading with a triumphant creel as the angry red in whirling eyes fades to violet and Impression is made.
Your eyes go dark, vision fading from your senses as the world slowly fades away. Darkness. Cool, quiet, alone. The near-smothering sense of weight, as though you're moving through a cool, damp cavern far below the earth, solitary in the darkness. And then, at the corners of your vision, warming the edges of your mind, firelight flickers. A single light at first, and then a procession of them, like torches moving through some distant passageway. And then, with the startling suddeness of a lightning strike, your mind lights with a rush of flame, the heat searing sudden certainty into your thoughts. << L'sen! There you are. I knew if I looked long enough I would come across the right one. I knew I'd just know it. And I just know you! >> Slowly, the flames receed, allowing the darkness to creep in, though the flickers at the edge of your mind remain, a reminder of the enlightenment just around any corner. << I'm Kenazath. And the other thing I've just now realized is that I'm very, very hungry. >>
From the galleries, The brownrider next to Issa rattles off a list of the colors that have Impressed so far, a list growing by the second as the new hatchlings pair off rapidly. Issa particularly watches the green Impressees, noting that a girl there Impressed and following her over to the side, craning her neck in an attempt to see the face. "Not one of mine," she comments to herself. The greenrider lends her ear to the murmured conversation that Diya offers, and she sagely nods. "I had thought of that. It being so soon and all. I guess we'll only know in time, though. When the flight happens, when someone else takes over leading the Weyr." The words are murmured back, though it would probably be safe enough with the buzz of conversations covering their words like a blanket, the intermittent cheers disguise enough. "What're your thoughts on that front? Any likely men besides Ch'dais to take the spot?"
Legarisen stand there with mouth open but not a word escapes it for a long moment as he stares at the brown uncertain what to do now, "Kenazath, well yes we must get some food into you that's what we need to do.." He turns to look for the weyrling Master knowing that he'll know where to go.
The hunter in the darkness green continues her careful inspections, still slinking with exaggerated care through the treacherous sand. Purposefully, she prowls around what was the back of a group of candidates, though the lack of cover on the distressingly open sand leaves her exposed when they turn to watch her. Thwarted, she hurries her stalking towards the next group, slipping up behind them unnoticed by any but the gallery crowds to slip her head beneath Milina's hand, bumping against her thigh.
The shadows and firelight brown, now known as Kenazath, comes down from his brief rear to butt his head at L'sen's shoulder, looking quite pleased with himself and suddenly much smaller and unimpressive with bright wings folded away once more. Now more interested in food than searching, he shifts his weight from foot to foot impatiently.
From the galleries, Diya shrugs, easing back into her seat, her voice strengthening with the lack of confidentiality in the subject. "What are the general Weyr bets on the next flight?" There's only one queen up for discussion: Vasyath, and it's back to her rider that the other goldrider's eyes drift. "Will it be soon enough to establish stability I wonder. Ch'dais is only acting in the Weyrleader's capacity in Fall so far. As for who?" She volunteers no thoughts on that, but her lips twist in a thoughtful quirk as she skips over likely candidates, both on the sands and off. "Ch'dais would be a good leader, but we may get R'vain as Weyrleader for all the dragons know."
L'sen stumbles a bit at the nudge from Kenazath, "Patience we'll get you some food then we can watch the rest of this hatching and see who else will join us." L'sen looks for the exit from the sands and the food so he can get Kenazath fed and the both of them off the hot sands.
Korinne makes quiet note of each Impression, her countenance becoming more relaxed as the clutch dwindles. Though she's not beyond disappointment, there's the faintest relief in her eyes as well - her Search was hardly auspicious, after all, and Ch'dais' worries must have rubbed off on her. Still, she watches carefully, alert for any possibilities.
Olliren seems amused that he catches Legs's... er, L'sen's impression, and then Milina's. He clenches and unclenches his hands once to keep them limber, still very wary for the sake of keeping his appendages intact. Judging by the looks on the faces of any of the new weyrlings, they wouldn't hear his congratulations, but he does at least offer them to the nearest one.
Lexine continues to watch the impressions as they happen in droves, for once surrendering a degree of dignity in favor of seeing as many pairings as she can, hand still tight around G'thon's.
Milina just blinks, shocked to say the least at what she's hearing "Eirth? Hunt for food? Yes that we can do." Looking up she just seems to look around for some direction to go to with the huntress that's found her.
A little late, but better late than never - Lachien arrives on the sands, tipping his lazy salute to the clutchparents as he joins a group of timid-looking girls. "Ladies," is his cheerful greeting, spoken in no way accidentally as he's spotted Olliren.
R'vain most certainly does know where to go. He's got his feet under him now - the traffic control is lightweight and easy. "L'sen, is it? And Kenazath. Come along." And along the way-- the Weyrlingmaster guides promptly toward the antechamber with meat and quiet for the new weyrlings-- there's Milina and her new green. "Gah," R'vain generously exclaims, "Another one. Come on." Agitated, he sweeps his hand at her, too, to urge her along.
Tiny Cavern
This room is intended to serve two purposes. Firstly, it serves as a place for candidates to gather and wait before entering the sands, either for an egg-touching or for the hatching itself. Secondly, this is where newly Impressed weyrlings retreat during the hatching. Because it's meant for such simple purposes, there's very little here. The walls are bare and the floor is uncovered, though the stone is warm with its proximity to the sands. Large bowls and bins are stacked along one wall, intended to be filled with raw meat and oil before a hatching.
From the sands, With each shaky step the nobly streaked brown hatchling takes, he regains stability as each paw sinks into the sand. Despite this procession of shaking and wobbling, the young brown makes some good time as he paces across the sands. Lifting his muzzle, he has only eyes for the male candidates in the group. After a cursory glance at those directly in front of him, he resumes his unsteady weaving onwards. There's another clump of males over there...
From the sands, So long still on the sands, the aged parchment brown finally rouses himself to activity, having completed his visual scan of the area. Dignified, he takes his time with the maneuver, making certain that he, unlike the rest of his lackluster siblings, will not be making a fool of himself.
A flickering vision of light and shadow, the sleek outlines of this
long and narrow brown seem to shift with a change in the light or a
lithe motion. His base color is dark, a rich shadowed brown as deep
and impenetrable as the inner bowels of the earth, giving over to
shadows at sharp talons, the blunted end of his snout, bony elbows,
and the tip of a whip-thin tail. He would be unremarkable, were it not
for the flickers of brightness that trace his outline in marked
chevrons of lighter shading, ruddy brightness giving the impression of
flickering firelight in the darkness. Along the line of his 'ridges
they fly, lighting the curves of wiry musculature from narrow
shoulders to slender hips before the color bursts into flame on the
undersides of his wingsails, flickers of russet and amber fairly
shimmering with brightness, only to disappear again into the darkness
with a folding of his wings.
From the sands, E'sere remains at ease throughout the hatching, taking it all in stride--after all, it's not like /he/ actually has to do anything. Though, he's not so focused that he can't spare a brief glance sideways at his mother and G'thon.
"More!" As if it's shocking that thirty-three eggs should produce thirty-three pairs - well, perhaps seventeen are here so far - the elderly brownrider who's attending, along with an equally elderly but more creepy bluerider, creaks on over to offer buckets of meat to the latest arrival. "Eat hearty, he looks like he'll need it," grins the rider to L'sen.
From the sands, A tiny green struggles free of her egg and goes sprawling limp in the sands. For a moment it seems as if the hatchling has stunned herself with that abrupt escape but then she thrashes about to gain her feet. Once standing, the morning's glory green shakes herself to rid her glossy hide and plump body of clinging sand and eggshells. Then she's off across the sands towards a section of surrounding candidates, brilliantly whirling eyes as keen as her balance is not.
From the sands,
Morning's Glory Green Hatchling
Small though she is, this hatchling has an undeniable presence in both
body and mind. A dusting of sun-kissed dew clings to the tiny knobs on
her head, dappled over a misty green along her pert muzzle and
circling large, round eyes. That liquid stippling continues down the
aquiline ridges of her neck to highlight narrow shoulders and wings
with spars as pale as the 'sails that connect them. Darker shades
appear streaked over dainty paws and the underside of her plump belly,
where misty green deepens into mint and sage as if her glossy hide
were brushed with water from a stroll through damp grass. Dawn breaks
again over sleekly muscled flanks and a tail that is as restless as it
is delicately shaped, leaving the last of her touched with hints of
fading rose and pastel fire.
A flickering vision of light and shadow, the sleek outlines of this
long and narrow brown seem to shift with a change in the light or a
lithe motion. His base color is dark, a rich shadowed brown as deep
and impenetrable as the inner bowels of the earth, giving over to
shadows at sharp talons, the blunted end of his snout, bony elbows,
and the tip of a whip-thin tail. He would be unremarkable, were it not
for the flickers of brightness that trace his outline in marked
chevrons of lighter shading, ruddy brightness giving the impression of
flickering firelight in the darkness. Along the line of his 'ridges
they fly, lighting the curves of wiry musculature from narrow
shoulders to slender hips before the color bursts into flame on the
undersides of his wingsails, flickers of russet and amber fairly
shimmering with brightness, only to disappear again into the darkness
with a folding of his wings.
Kenazath follows close on L'sen's heels, interest keen in his mind as he catches sight of the entirely new surroundings of this cavern, with all its activity and...And food! The moment he gets so much as near a bowl of meat, his nose is in it and maw gaping to suck it down.
L'sen see's where Kenazath is headed and then the rapid devouring of meat, "Kenazath it's not going anywhere, slow down or you'll get a stomach ache and there where will you be?" Shaking his head he wonders how his life has suddenly taken this strange turn of events.
From the sands, G'thon, blissfully unaware of the discussion up in the stands, spends much of his time straying out to assist this new pair or that in finding the direction they must stumble in order to find the Weyrlingmaster or the alcove off the sands in which that precious first meal is located. For much of the time he strays not far from Lexine, as if his Weyrwoman is some security to his hobbled stride, but as the number of eggs diminishes he goes farther and farther afield, eventually taking up a pacing haunt below the gallery stairs.
Aurenth settles down with a burp, sated at last. The chunks of chewed meat are showing on her still-damp belly, and Anaddui cradles the green hatchling's head in her lap as she falls half asleep. Looking up as the new L'sen and his brown come in, she offers L'sen her congratulations.
From the sands, With all the dignity a tiny hatchling can muster, the aged parchment brown begins his careful, methodical inspection of the available candidates. It's perhaps a good thing so many of his brothers and sisters broke shell before he gathered the energy, as such intense scrutiny of the nearly seventy original candidates could all too easily have ended in starvation. As it is, he'll have his hands full at this rate.
Kenazath is busy eating, see? And not from his bowl, either! No, the bowl he chose /was/ in use by a new green-pair, and the little green is not happy about having her first meal broken into! Snappish, she darts her head out towards the little brown, who, of course, snaps back, leaving the riders to work it out before one or the other is injured.
From the sands, Olliren has fortunately no attention to spare to a late arrival since said arrival doesn't match the general definition of 'baby dragon'. He remains silent at this point, moving only when he has to, since there are fewer folks left to impress, and there's some space between himself and the next available candidate.
From the sands, While hatchlings mill about in search of a worthy candidate, or others stand about in confusion as they attempt to get their bearings, at least one of them has found some direction. The nobly streaked brown hatchling takes unsteady steps on a definite path towards one of the older male candidates. Slowly as he approaches the candidate, the hatchling pauses a few feet away before crouching before the former guard.
From the sands, As hatchlings impress, leaving the sands quieter, Lexine takes care to glance now and again towards G'thon on his trips, gaze scanning up towards the galleries for a brief moment at his post before she turns her attention back to the dragons remaining on the sands.
From the sands, Bumbling progress is made by the morning's glory green, for her small limbs are unsteady and her coordination nonexistent. She weaves a ragged path across the sands and it seems every chance encounter with discarded eggshells, or the zip of a fellow hatchling across her field of vision causes a stumble. Long before she even nears the white-robed candidates, the little thing finds herself staggering along sideways and this is finally her downfall. There's no recovery from the the tumble she takes then, going down in a gooey heap of wings and tail and talons. A startled wail rises from that pile of misty green hide but she's soon up and struggling on.
From the sands, Korinne stands amongst the dwindling ranks, gazing out over the sands with new restlessness. As more and more of her companions abandon her for new lives, she begins to shift her feet more thoroughly, anxiety peeking through her fragile calm.
"Kenazath stick to your own bowl please, there's more than enough meat to go around no need to takes another’s food.." L'sen shakes his head, this is going to be an interesting time, oh yes it is. "How are you doing Anaddui? Over the shock of this development?" as L'sen sweeps his arms to indicate the dragons and themselves.
From the sands, Veresan, too, is aware of the thinning ranks - both of eggs, and of candidates. These things he observes in silence, eyes shadowed, feet unshuffling.
From the sands, That space is what Lachien slips into, against all good judgment. "Shards, lost mah bet, cuz," he laments, his crooked grin set in. One arm bends to wipe sweat from his forehead with creamy sleeve.
From the sands, That's what he gets for leaving himself all alone out there on the sands. That meant there was no one else nearby for the dragon to turn away to. Olliren stares down at the brown dragon crouching in front of him. He could say any number of things, but those with fast-sketching capabilities officially have an opportunity they won't have ever again... the sight of the guard looking like a fish with his mouth open in an expression typically described with the word 'agape'. Finally, finally, he closes his mouth with an audible snap. "Well, I'm hot and hungry too, Moianth," he answers once he finds his voice. "Let's get outta here and fix that..."
Please? Kenazath is not aware of this please. And no one's offered him his own bowl! And in lack of an own bowl, he'll snag the edge of the green's in his maw and toss it into the air, sending chunks of meat flying along with the wooden bowl before going in search of more. This is no time for conversation!
Anaddui appears to be quite relaxed now, with her slumbering green's head in her lap. "Oh yes, I wasn't half as nervous as I thought I'd be. Dear Milina helped me so much! How are you going with him?" She jerks her head towards L'sen's brown "They eat fast, don't they?" Is her wry observation.
From the sands, Thankfully, the aged parchment brown does not extend his thorough inspections to mere women. No, he concentrates his attention on the remaining male candidates, moving down what remains of any lines or circles and pausing in front of each for an equal amount of time. This is, after all, an important decision.
L'sen sighs as bowl is sent flying, picking it up he gathers the flung meat and places fresh meat into it, "Kenazath over here I have a bowl for you, come get some fresh meat." L'sen nods his head, "Yes I've not seen anything eat like this before...I hope that at some point he'll be full and stop?"
From the sands, Milina retreats from the heat of the sands, moving into a small cavern off to one side.
From the sands, It's becoming easier to make forward progress as the morning's glory green begins to adjust to the concept of wings and tail as stabilizing agents. Her wail has faded into a pleased burble as she continues on, the sound broken with curious chirps while pausing here and there to peer up into the faces of those who remain on the sands. But as the crowds thin out, the journey of her search becomes longer and longer, and the effects can be seen on the hatchling's movement: she begins to slow, her steps growing sluggish as she tires and her eyes gaining the speed of concern.
From the sands, With Olliren impressed, Lachien is free to concentrate on the girls amongst the ranks - hey, is that one's robe kinda see-through? A hand shields his eyes from above (like it's necessary), and he nods appreciatively on closer inspection. "On ya', cuz," he mumbles, offhandedly to the newly impressed guard.
From the sands, "Hot and hungry, hot and hungry. You know, lad, I could use a drink." That's R'vain, slapping Ol'ren on the shoulder as if the guard and Weyrlingmaster were old pals. Then the one's leading the other off to the alcove where meat awaits.
When L'sen offers fresh meat, Kenazath pauses his reign of destruction long enough to approach his new rider and begin bolting the meat down again, not even bothering to chew. With a sudden exclamation, an older bluerider hurries over.
"Boy!" he shouts at L'sen. "Don't let your sharding dragon eat like that! He has to chew or he'll get stopped up with thicktail and you'll be cleaning it up." He remains stern at L'sen's side, watching him carefully, as he begins to mutter about useless weyrlingmasters unable to teach what they need to know.
From the sands, After a careful and methodical search, the aged parchment brown at last creeps up alongside one of the male candidates. He turns his almond eye upon the lad, head canted, looking him slowly from foot to crown as if he were assessing every contour of his body, every nuance of his features. The brown is still for a moment, and then, with waning strength and wings pulled behind, he shuffles round to place himself directly before Lachien. His head draws up proudly on a sinuous neck, riveted. He's made his choice.
From the sands, Moianth retreats from the heat of the sands, moving into a small cavern off to one side.
From the sands, Ol'ren retreats from the heat of the sands, moving into a small cavern off to one side.
Ol'ren enters from the sands.
From the sands, Korinne takes a deep breath, clutching at her robe as more and more new-made Weyrlingas leave the Sands, and she's left in the open, in the middle of her own little patch of tramped down sand. With fewer hatchlings to watch, she allows her eyes to linger on that last, tired green, concern replacing anxiety as it begins to falter. "Someone..." she trails off, taking an abortative step forward.
From the sands, The morning's glory green hesitates in front of the girls. This search has been wearying and the little creature's legs betray her finally, causing her to collapse back on her haunches while looking up to study a particular young woman's chocolate-hued eyes. Whatever she sees there seems to promise an end to her hunt; strength is suddenly found to draw herself up and stumble forward, shoving her muzzle between Korinne's torso and arm as if seeking comfort. Troubled creels turn joyous and it becomes apparant that Impression has been made.
"Kenazath, CHEW.don't gulp it down like that..slow down!" L'sen sighs as he watches his partner wondering just how much trouble he's going to cause him as he grow's up.
From the sands, Korinne's half-step was apparently the right one to take, and she barely hesitates a moment before half-turning, clasping that green muzzle between both hands. Staring into the hatchling's eyes, she smiles gently. "Yes, Eosreth. Your Korinne... and eating sounds very good about right now."
Tiny Cavern
From the sands, Then the last impression's made, a delicate blue and an equally slight young lad to accompany him, and all that remains is a sea of shell-shards amongst a milling wash of white-robed figures. The queen and sire regard them all, as do the eyes of those watching from the galleries. Then something is suddenly obvious: it is quiet. The dragons have done with humming. The hatching is over.
From the sands, "Korinne." R'vain smirks. "I obviously didn't herd you well enough." He directs F'ul and his new blue as well with a sweep of his hand, and exits the sands between them, two weyrling pairs and their 'master in a line.
From the sands, Lexine has reconnected.
From the sands, Lexine finally allows herself to release her breath as the last of the new hatchlings find their matches, turning with a warm, proud smile to E'sere. She reaches out in silence to give his shoulder an encouraging squeeze, then starts across the sands towards G'thon, moving to slip her arm in his once more.
From the sands, Korinne's oblivious to R'vain, enchanted by her lifemate. That won't last, but for now... she moves to follow, one hand on the green's head.
From the sands, Korinne retreats from the heat of the sands, moving into a small cavern off to one side.
From the sands, Lachien squints, still trying to make out that candidate's form underneath her light robe... "Ay? Ayyyyy..." Of course, his head sweeps down in a fluid motion to the dragonet at his feet, eyes wide and bewildered. "Ah, Kirtith, yo!" Spoken for the benefit of the masses.
From the sands, Eosreth retreats from the heat of the sands, moving into a small cavern off to one side.
Eosreth enters from the sands.
From the sands, "Well," says E'sere abruptly, straightening and dusting off his hands as that last blue impresses. "That's that, then. A good clutch--Citalth has done us credit," he remarks to Sinopa lightly. He glances sideways as Lexine squeezes his shoulder, offering her a smile as well as she steps over to join G'thon.
Anaddui grins as L'sen chides his gulping brown. "Olliren...uh Ol'ren? Well done!" A quiet snore escapes Aurenth's bloody lips, making Ana jump a little. She strokes the green calmly. She waves to the newly arrived Korinne and Milina, congratulating them on their Impressions.
From the sands, Lachien retreats from the heat of the sands, moving into a small cavern off to one side.
Lachien enters from the sands.
From the sands, R'vain retreats from the heat of the sands, moving into a small cavern off to one side.
R'vain enters from the sands.
From the sands, Kirtith retreats from the heat of the sands, moving into a small cavern off to one side.
Kirtith enters from the sands.
From the sands, After a moment G'thon steps stiffly up to the landing of the galleries along with Lexine. He pauses there, tipping his chin up to address those who are seated above. "We invite our guests to celebrate High Reaches' newest dragonriders with us over wine and supper in the main cavern. Our posted harpers and some members of the Caucus have been so gracious as to provide entertainment." The Weyrleader, as he remains, turns halfway to glance down at those in white who remain below. "Once they have had a chance to freshen and dress, our honored candidates will also join us in celebration." He turns back to the galleries and spreads his hands wide in welcome. Suddenly informal, the hollow-eyed man manages a smile: "See you there." Then he's picking his way back down the stair and off to the caverns complex.
From the sands, Well, the show's over. Citalth sits upon the sands, looking both relaxed in form and yet immensely proud of herself. A fine clutch indeed, and there will be thirty-three new pairs. Sinopa glances over to E'sere, smiling as well. A glance is spared for the weyrleader's speech before the junior tilts her head towards the weyr proper. "Nothing like new dragons and a great celebration," is her chipper remark to E'sere.
Ol'ren frowns as R'vain claps his shoulder like they were buds or something. With something resembling a long-suffering grimace, he carefully brushes the hand off, trying not to make it seem rude. "Thanks, sir," he mutters as he steps off the sands, his eyes seeking out the first things to resolve Moianth's problem with being hungry. "Hey, good job," he says to Anaddui in a rather distracted way. And then, when Lachien arrives, the former guard's jaw tightens again. But he says nothing.
The elder blue- and brown- rider posted here to hand out meat move forward to offer buckets full of the raw tasty stuff to the newest, last candidates. As they move along passing out the stuff, the Weyrlingmaster - with little awareness of Ol'ren's behavior - makes the rounds here, counting off heads.
Eosreth is the very picture of good cheer as she bumbles along at Korinne's side, unable to bring herself to tolerate any distance between herself and the young woman. The looks she directs up at her new partner are adoring-- but once they arrived in the waiting area and the scent of food is discovered, her chirps and warbles gain a new intensity: hunger! Hurry hurry hurry, so hungry!
From the sands, Smugly, Morelenth is already hauling himself up, wings shifting as he prepares to escape the stifling sands for good--or at least until next time. E'sere turns his attention back to Sinopa with a smile. "Nothing," he agrees simply. "Exactly what we all needed. Would you care to accompany me?" Gallantly, he offers her an arm.
From the sands, Lexine remains at G'thon's side, following, or perhaps supporting him, on his way off the sands.
From the sands, G'thon retreats from the heat of the sands, escaping to the entrance.
From the sands, Lexine retreats from the heat of the sands, escaping to the entrance.
From the sands, As the bronze sire begins to move, so too does Citalth. However, she does allow Morelenth to leave so there is a clear path for her to exit as well. The egg shells that remain? Not her job to clean up. Sinopa nods to E'sere and steps forward to take the offered arm. "I'd be delighted," she says.
You are carrying:
Korinne should be nervous in the presence of so many men, but with Eosreth there, filling her eyes and mind, all she can do is giggle softly, overcome by the same cheer that seems to infect her newfound partner. "Food, food, yes, dear, I know." Gentle fingers skim over the dragonet's head as she takes a bucket from a bluerider's hand, nodding polite thanks before finding an empty stretch of floor and settling down, ready to feed the anxious hatchling.
L'chi and Kirtith shuffle in, the former more shuffle than the latter. "Huh? Who doesn't take me seriously, cuz?" He grabs a bucket, tucking the thing under his arm as best he can as he searches for a place to rest and recuperate. And feed.
The thing shakes and begins to crumble.
From the sands, E'sere beams at Sinopa, then starts for the entrance to the sands.
From the sands, Sinopa retreats from the heat of the sands, escaping to the entrance.
From the sands, E'sere retreats from the heat of the sands, escaping to the entrance.
looking more like a disgruntled librarian following a noisy troublemaker than a little brown desperate for food. Not that he protests its arrival.
Kirtith claims that.
From the sands, Citalth leaps into the air and wings up to the ledges above the sands.
From the sands, Citalth has left.
Aurenth continues to slumber with her wedge-shaped head resting comfortably on her lifemate's lap. The little green is completely oblivious to the new arrivals, but Anaddui is not. Offering her congratulations as best she can to each newly arrived pair, she looks about for Milina.
Tall and lean, Lachien lacks the tone that those of more active lifestyles tend to keep. His shaggy hair is dark and dead-straight, and is cut in a way that it often obscures his vision. Deep brown eyes are set above a lightly freckled nose, the tan color of his skin serving to hide the appearance of said blemishes unless one is within very close range. The curve of his lips looks to form a crooked grin when at ease. His limbs are a little long, giving him etra height and an awkward balance. Clad in dark green and black, his tunic-pants-and-boots ensemble does little to flatter his frame; on the other hand, it does little to condemn it, too.
L'chi makes a face like a properly chastised troublemaker. "Jays, cuz. We need ta' get one thing straight, ay? I speak how I speak, you speak how you speak. Why don'tcha hush up and eat some, ay?" The former baker gives his 'mate's meal a wary eye, but offers it over regardless.
Eosreth takes the first offerings from Korinne's hand with wolfish hunger, bolting the strips before the new Weyrling can remind her to chew. Casting a questioning gaze at the girl, she watches her rider's jaw move in mimicry. The next few slabs of meat are consumed more daintily, until her stomach bulges and the bucket is nearing empty. With a soft sigh and a lady-like burp, she nudges the bucket aside, laying her head in the girl's lap and closing her lids one by one.
Milina seems to consider for a moment, then Eirth approaches.
Korinne seems to consider for a moment, then Eosreth approaches.
he'd like as not roll his watery gray eyes and claim that that all those words are just unnecessary.
Kenazath continues to eat though this time taking time to chew each piece of food.
Ol'ren seems to consider for a moment, then Moianth approaches.
Weyrling Barracks(#43RA)
Every Weyr on Pern has a room like this. A center aisle is flanked by stone couches that dwarf newly hatched dragons and barely fit those who have grown old enough for graduation. The rock in the center of each has been worn smooth with Turns of sleeping bodies while the rock on the edges has been scored deep by countless talons. Each couch has an accompanying cot to its right, and each cot has a single clothespress. The walls and floor are bare and cheerless, leaving little doubt that this is but a temporary home for those who dwell here.
Aurenth falls back into deep slumber, stomach and chest rising and falling with every breath. Anaddui takes one more proud look and then sneaks out to join the feast.
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