2019-08-17: Szetamirath and Aeldhiyth's Eggs Hatch (30th PC Clutch)

Monaco Bay Weyr - Hatching Sands
The sand of the cavern stretches out to all sides, searing hot at all times of the day from the geothermal heat that this extinct volcano provides. With only the very top of the cavern open to the elements, allowing vision of the sky and the occasional shower through, but little more. Thick with dark sand, imported and sifted for its extreme fineness and silken feel, this cavern is home to the Queens during their brooding and their multitude of eggs. Off to one side is a risen platform for the Queen's rider and her mate's rider, allowing them a rest from the heat their dragons endure.

Egglist: You Have Connected Egg, That's MY Profile Song Egg, A War Amongst The Stars Egg, Don't Be Evil Egg, Promises of Gold and Treasure Egg, Now Accepting All Your Marks Egg, Self-Proclaimed Perfection Egg, Is It the Real Egg, and An Ominous Shade of Blue Egg.

Public Announcement from Jazhira: The eggs hatch NOW! Join us in trying to see the Impression of Monaco Bay Weyr's newest riders through the ash storm! (+go mbw, hc, hg)

The candidates trickle in, or — presumably, they do? It's hard to tell with the ash hanging in the air, but there's a mass of white coming from the direction of the barracks, so theoretically, that's them. They're being led, at very least, by the Weyrlingmasters, so surely they can't wander too far. Their bows to the sire and dam? Not at all uniform; several bow in the direction of the stands, actually, as they take their place in formation away from the eggs. Still. Surely it's the thought that counts, for the poor, nervous souls.

That's MY Profile Song Egg is /so/ ready to burst open….but it really just seems to be twitching?

Brohdan wasn't ready for this, despite all their preparation - the last hatching wasn't easy, in the end, but it lacked the unholy element of A HAIL OF FIRE. Ash. Whatever. It could be worse, he supposes, than the black smog that encircles the weyr, and the mask on his face meant to keep the worst of it out. It could also be raining. And so amidst the hums and quaking eggs and bowing candidates he is, quick with the movement and even quicker to skitter away at the end, making no comment about the poor people that bowed the wrong way. He can't even blame them one bit.

Isaija has no idea what he's doing. He's just going to follow along with the others, stand next to another ash-streaked white blob, and try not to break down gibbering. Surely he'll manage.

Ysabella tries to make her bow as coordinated as possible, but with so many to try and synch up with it's almost impossible. She's been through this twice before now, only a couple days before, but still her heart pounds and her fingers curl in her robe with nerves.

Xh'vyr's here, and obviously Aeldhiyth — the bronze is where Szeta is, after all. Tucked in the crook of protected air directly under the massive bronze's neck, Xhae's taken to winding a scarf around his lower face like a bandit. Any comment he has for the incoming candidates? Lost to his head-wrappings.

That's MY Profile Song Egg begins to shudder more violently now, as if something inside was violently pounding against it.

Ityrziel is among the candidates, absolutely. He's obviously shifty blob #23, the one wearing his mask a little bit askew. He's definitely the one ignoring the din from the stands, staring in the…maybe general direction of the eggs? Then again, maybe he actually did the bowing to the stands. "I can't see!" The candidate hisses, maybe at Brodie, maybe shifty blob #18, straining on tiptoes. "Are they still there?"

Horgrimm is wearing his sandals, and a rather shapeless white robe-shift monstrosity. He even has his mask on. He's ready. "Finally. I've got a few bottles of wine with my name on them when this is over." He mutters to himself, not really worried if anyone can hear him. "Nicely chilled…take the heat right off." Then he remembers his manners, and moves to bow to the gold queen and her rider. Whoops.

Now Accepting All Your Marks Egg shifts on the sands and rolls about towards the side as though it's going to fall off some unseen ledge. Where is that egg trying to go? Certainly not towards the Candidates — they're the other way. Oh dear. A gentle redirection from one of the parents shifts the egg back to where it belongs, and is given a ledge of sand to make sure it doesn't try to go that wrong way again.

Wendyn is awkward despite the practice when Seyu's eggs hatched, and she is pausing long enough as she rises from her bow to squint at the galleries - and completely fail at seeing much at all. And so, she is following that white-shaped form that happens to be in front of her - Isa maybe - to join in a loose circle around the eggs.

Caydan is here, yes. He's here, and he's bowing, and he's in white robes and definitely not wearing a pineapple themed majestic button downs or sunglasses over top his mask — because Caydan obeys all of the rules. He obeys all of them so well, in fact, that he's making huge, wide, enormous space between himself and every other candidate but especially Brohdan and Tyr. If he got any further away it'd be awkward, but he's never too far away to lean sideways and whisper, "If they maul you, I'll send a finger to mother as a token and write an ode to how red your blood was on the sands." A beat. "And how tragic it was, of course." That it didn't happen sooner, he means.

Barnaby is most def one of the Candidates who bowed the wrong way. All that ash, you really can't blame him… He squints against the assailing ash, and tries to stick close to the next Candidate in line. He ties on a purple scarf over his face as he walks. It would be roguish if it weren't so fabulous. Caydan gets a sideways glance, and his voice is slightly muffled by the scarf as he replies, "They don't /really/ maul people. That's just a story they tell Candidates to scare us…" A beat, and then, "Right?"

Aeldhiyth is a dick, so he leans down to inspect Caydan in particular, the candidate being close enough to whuffle. Suspicion whirls obviously in his orange-streaked blue gaze. A muffled sound comes from underneath his neck, as if he's somehow forgotten about the rider he has tucked away down there.

That's MY Profile Song Egg promptly breaks two legs burst through the shell. The offending cage is torn piece by piece until a small dragonet somersaults its way onto the sands.

Defender of a Five Cent Posterior Hatchling
Ash and dust cling to a lean frame, obscuring this dragon's colors completely. Through the haze a slender tail and overly large wing sails quickly become apparent. This dragonet's body may seem somewhat gangly, but with time this will certainly sort itself out. Head knobs that should be rounded nearly come to a point but are rather average in size. Eyes, on the other hand, are smaller than those of most newly hatched dragons and more oblong than round. From afar they appear nearly opalescent, but that's only a trick of the light….right?

Ityrziel isn't going to barf, he's not, he's not, not even with this being definitely the nightmare scenario. Not even able to see the chaos about to descend on them? There's a reason he's legitimately bouncing, head bobbing like that might help him see through the ash. It doesn't. "You're such a joy." Tyr tells Caydan, maybe a little waspishly, nearly toppling over on a particularly — "AUGH!" It's by the grace of somebody that Aeldhiyth doesn't scare Tyr clear off his feet, and manages not to teeter right on over, but you know? It's not by much. "Faranth. If they don't, the adults might finish us off."

Brohdan would certainly have thrown an elbow Cassie's way if he was any closer - as it is, he's busy squinting daggers at his twin before fixing Tyr with a wide-eyed look. "I… I think so. Either that, or they got very convincing stand-ins." Aeldhiyth's leaaaaan towards Cas earns a gulp and a shimmy away, which…. doesn't really do much considering how FAR AWAY he already is, but it's the thought that counts. Hush. Still, the looming dragon is just enough to keep him from noticing the first hatchling straight-away in his effort to behave, so. Mission accomplished?

Now Accepting All Your Marks Egg is forcibly settled in the direction of the Candidates, as though it's being put on display for all to see. Yes, it is a lovely egg, isn't it? That is, until cracks and breaks start appearing across the surface. There's a talon sticking out, dark ebon in color before it's retracted back into the shell with a hint of ash. Again, a talon thrusts forward, like someone trying to open a plastic bag of cat litter by stabbing it with a knife. It'll work. Eventually.

Szetamirath isn't going to finish off anyone. Her great golden bulk, visible even in the ash and gloom, towers over the eggs and her expression is positively BEAMING. Look at all of this wonderful attention! Jazhira, meanwhile, has a mask wrapped around her face, goggles on her eyes, and is trying to stay sheltered in the bulk of her dragon, one hand resting protectively over the mound of her belly.

Defender of a Five Cent Posterior Hatchling is ready for /action/. The dragonet's angular head quickly swings to and fro as to examine its body. Wings are briefly tested followed by a quick limb check. Yup, there /are/ indeed four legs…the perfect number for walking. The young creature makes its way over towards the row of candidates, stopping just sort to examine each and every one of the offerings.

Wendyn squints a little, ducking as the shadows change overhead, even if she isn't particularly close to where Caydan is standing, lifting a hand to rub at her face, scratching her nose through the awkwardness of the mask. "Shards, I think.." And then, 'think' turns to 'know' as there is a dragonet in their midst and she takes a half step backwards.

Isaija glances back at Wendyn and smiles at her - not that she can tell beneath his mask - and then turns back around, just in time to see the first hatchling. "Oh - uh… what is it?"

You Have Connected Egg gives a little hop and then stills completely.

Caydan hates you, Brohdan. Not unlike he hates the sound of eggshell splatter and the appearance of that sooty little — "Tyr, maybe you should hug Brohdan. I think he's about to hyperventilate." OR, or? Cassie just wants the two of you to make a larger target for that itty baby dragon to run over in its quest for QUESTINESS. Look, these poses were mostly pre-written y'all. Predicting the future is not Cassie's forte. Neither are people. Or dragons. But he does give Barnaby a LEER and a rather dangeresque smile. "That's just what they want you to think." RUDE.

Clasping her hands together, Ysabella squeezes them. Quietly she's cursing the obscured sight they all have, wishing she could see more clearly as the eggs began hatching. She glances at her fellow candidates as they talk, moving a little closer to Ityrziel as he's a familiar face that may, hopefully, settle her nerves. Especially since those nerves just skyrocketed now that they're, maybe, being looked over by one of the dragonets?

Now Accepting All Your Marks Egg finally gives way, the smattering of holes and cracks allowing its occupant to slide out of the shell and right down a hill of sand that it'd been piled on. While other hatchlings are covered in ash, this one is covered in a coating of ebon sand that sticks to just about every part of the poor creature who tries to right itself. It takes a couple tries, before the small hatchling starts on the way towards the row of Candidates.

Thirty Shade of Black Sand Hatchling
How it is that a hatchling can be so coated in sand, but still manage to have definition and coloring that transgresses it? This small dragonet may be coated primarily in sand, but the ash has managed to accumulate on it in ways that make it look as though the creature is wearing a black harness and a mask? That long tail? It's as ebon as night and the beast whips it around like it's got a beef with all of the candidates. Every single one. A twitch here, and swish there. They better get out of the way unless they want to find out what this little sadist wants with their hides.

Ityrziel has stopped bouncing. FOR NOW. It's just, well, he's maybe realized that this is more precarious than it otherwise might have been — late, but not too late. So he's still. Except for the squirming. Is he chewing on ash-crusted nails, too? MAYBE. Who's to say. "That you, Ysabella?" The harper hisses, eyeing the shape that might be a baby dragon in their midst. "Do you see that? I think it's — oh, yes, I'm certain hugging is encouraged!" Crabby? Tyr? Nooooo. "Oh, I'm certain it is a baby." But which one?

Thirty Shades of Black Sand Hatchling makes a bee-line for a young girl with pigtails amongst the row of Candidates. A little blonde thing, it would seem, a Harper Apprentice named Safrie? Well, not one any longer! That little blonde is now a rider. With a dragon that seems intent on causing… well, only time will tell? "Markaeth!" She exclaims, before running over to stop the little hatchling from picking on any more of the Candidates. "That's not nice! There's supposed to be food this way, come with me!" She says, and leave no bones about it - despite the little dragon seeming like the one in charge, no no.

With a triumphant cry the Thirty Shade of Black Sand Hatchling has found its lifemate at last and its color become clear.

Paint the Sky With Stars Blue Hatchling
No sooner than the ash and sand decides to fall off of the little sadistic creature, the star dappled blue hide takes prominence along with whorls of violet and magenta. As though someone captured what's seen from a telescope and threw it on the canvas of the dragon's hide. However, that isn't the only rendition that could be said about this blue's coloring for it resembles the look of dark bruises that might be left behind on the hide of a pale creature - not all bruises are left out of malice though, for some believe that beyond pain there can be pleasure.

After a few moments the Weyrlingmaster leads the new pair off the sands.

Aeldhiyth enjoys baiting candidates, but HIS FIRSTBORN has just hatched and holds him captive. AND LOOK. A SECONDBORN! The scent of warmed bread fills every mind in the entire cavern because, well, he has a volume problem. Xh'vyr complains and ducks out from underneath, moving over the ashfallen Sands to join Jaz. He probably is going to check the fitment of her mask, because while a scarf will suffice for his forge-scorched lungs, there's only the best for Monaco's curviest goldrider.

Horgrimm is fairly certain that not being able to see much of anything, only hear, is probably a plus. "I wonder if I could get a rider to take a crate between with him, then it would be perfectly chilled." He can hear all of the other candidates and what they're saying. His eyes squint against the ash, and he swallows. "Um."

Defender of a Five Cent Posterior Hatchling licks its lips, and if it had hands…they would start rubbing together. Instead, its wingsails rustle slightly and it finally makes its way over towards the plethora of white robes. As it begins walking up and down the line the dragon's tail appears to have a mind of its own. It definitely just stole one candidate's sandal, poor thing. Oh and it /definitely/ just slapped that candidate on the ass. Nope…nope…none of these will do.

Barnaby blinks from behind the half-mask of his scarf. It's hard to tell exactly what his expression is, really, with most of his face obscured, but it would be a safe bet that it's some version of confusion. "If they wanted me to think that, why would they say the opposite?" It's just logic, really… And before Barnaby can further expound on all that, a hatchling wanders by and he retreats a step or two. "Um. Is that dragon grey? I didn't know that was an option…" A beat, then, "A nice neutral, I suppose.

Upon the glittering Sands lies nascent and white the gleaming shell of Don't Be Evil Egg. Does the dragon inside dream of alpacas, or of ruling the known world and all the information that lies within it? Good question. For the moment, there is only the faintest hint of a refresh, a movement that might not quite be movement, but… maybe it was.

You Have Connected Egg begins to sway back and forth before promptly falling onto its side!

Ysabella nods, then pauses as she realizes that might not be the best way to answer in such low visibility. "Yes, um, it is me. Oh goodness, this doesn't get any easier does it?" Ysabella looks around, squinting briefly as she takes in her fellow candidates. "Have you seen Wendyn?" Build up the group, strength in numbers!!

Brohdan can't live in denial any more. There are definitely dragons coming out of those shells. "So much for replacements," he mutters to Tyr, picking the last of that purple polish off his nails in a sudden onset of nerves. "Blast this ash. It's so hard to see them until they're right there. SEE. One even STOLE a SHOE right over there and he missed it, except to squint towards the sounds of the kid suddenly hopping to stay aloft on the hot sands. "I didn't either," admitted towards Barnaby. "This is all very strange and I don't like it."

Wendyn is completely distracted by the one dragonet currently torturing candidates and stealing sandals, and thus completely misses the second which has made a beeline for the group - though, the once-miner-apprentice's shoulders relax noticeably as that one at least finds its lifemate quickly. "Just this one, right?" She asks, even as she leans forward, peering around the candidate next to her to keep an eye on it. Hearing her name, she lifts her voice a bit. "Uh, this way. Somewhere."

You Have Connected Egg cracks in a single clean line from top to bottom and moments later the dragonet inside slides forth, covered in alll sorts of goop!

Gliding Through the Multiverse Hatchling
That's a dragon…right? A mish-mash of limbs, wings, and a tail make it look more like a lump of dragon /parts/ rather than an actual dragon baby. perhaps its because everythings is /way/ too big for this tiny baby. Wings are ridiculously large for the small body and the tail? It's short but a bit thick and bottom heavy. None of this helps the very slender legs that the baby is trying to stand on. It shakes at the knees from all of the effort, but it doesn't fall…yet. There's jus a LOT of wobbling going on.

Don't Be Evil Egg definitely didn't move earlier; what are you thinking? It's too dark to see anything in here anywhere, but if it was light enough to see anything, well. It might just be that the tiny properties of this egg are starting to split across. Is that the outline of a hairline crack, right at the top, where the colorful runes lie?

Defender of a Five Cent Posterior Hatchling is /not/ going down the line checking out each and every one of the candidate's butts…definitely not. There are so many other factors that go into this sort of decision. Taste, for example, is quite important. This is also why the dragonet's tongue is occasionally flicking out towards the poor offerings. Is this specifically an effort to weird them out? Yes. Never does the beast bite though…at least not yet. The dragonet is on its /third/ walk down the line when someone seems to finally catch those watchful eyes. Wings quickly flare and its tail comes up to catch the chin of one very large candidate with golden-brown hair. This one is /perfect/.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Defender of a Five Cent Posterior Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

A Hero (Trainee!) To Save Us Blue Hatchling
The depths of oblivion bathe this dragon's chest, creating an ebony pool that rests over the beast's heart. As if something were attempting to tear him apart from the inside, lines erupt from the jagged edges of the mark and race across his hide. The strokes ebb and flow in intensity, crossing each other at irregular angles until the lean strength of this blue is completely hidden from afar. Behind the dark forest of his torment lies absolute brilliance. What may appear as a landscape of gray flares to life when light falls upon it. Royal blue and cerulean weave together, their bond broken only by the occasional iridescent gleams of green and purple. The moment an onlooker's eyes begin to grasp the pattern of this dragon, a quick movement of sinewy limbs seems to change it almost entirely. Though his narrow head carries the same colorful properties, his eyes stand out against the kaleidoscope-like backdrop. Each is a nearly opaque white and the surrounding scales have been dyed deep midnight, The swirls of emotion they hold are duller than those of other dragons, but given the agility with which he moves there is no problem with the dragon's sight. Equally well functioning are his wings. From above both wings and spars carry waves of cobalt and teal, but from below the sight is nothing short of horrific. Each time he stretches his wings, this blue displays knots of scales and flesh that appear to have been shredded mercilessly by some creature. No ichor oozes out from his mangled appearing undersails, proving that this is more illusion than actual injury, but the display is gut-wrenching nonetheless. The harsh juxtaposition of beauty and grisliness is eased, perhaps, by the forks of his lengthy tail, which seem bent at the tips to nearly create a heart-like shape.

Promises of Gold and Treasure Egg starts to shift towards the front and center now. This egg is not to be held back, and even as it waits to crack, it rocks. Back and forth. Back and forth. Whatever is within it simply can't be held still. It doesn't just wobble once and then settle, no way! This one is an eager creature, looking for its release soon. Be prepared.

Isaija shuffles from foot to foot, peering cautiously through the ash as he takes deep, measured breaths. He will not scream. He will not scream. He will not, "Hey! That's my butt!" Even as the hatchling finds his lifemate elsewhere, he's swatting his robe down more firmly over his posterior.

Horgrimm finally gets a relativelty good look at one of the dragonets, "What is that?" He asks, before he can stop the rather rude words from coming out of his mouth. Sure, he was startled because it looks so…ungainly, but still, that's not a thing to say in front of a bunch of baby dragons. Even if it looks like it has huge wings on a tiny body. "I need a drink." He mutters. Again.

Ityrziel twitches, a little, because: "Was that Safrie?" He ventures, loudly, wiping ash away from his eyes with a grimace that says he regrets that immediately. "I— I'm not sure, I thought I heard her, but. It's hard to see." Because he's rubbing ash into his eyes, among other things. "How many is that — ow! My foot's attached to that!" Really?? "Was that you, Cass?" Tyr? Accuse Caydan of terrible shoe-stealing crimes? Noooo. He might have gone on about the lovely palette of the very grey hatchlings, had he not been inching away from Brohdan. "Don't look, Brodie, but…" There's a dragon there.

Gliding Through the Multiverse Hatchling takes its very first step….AWWWWW. And then it goes tumbling. There's a squeak from the little dragon as it goes tail over heels, somersaulting several times until finally bumping into a young girl with dark red hair. "Oh…oh are you alright Drementh? You're not hurt are you? Of course I'll be your Ailee, but…time to eat first! Careful!" With a /lot/ of assistance from one of the AWLM's, the newly bonded pair does manage to make it off the sands!

With a triumphant cry the Gliding Through the Multiverse Hatchling has found its lifemate at last and its color become clear.

Escape From Reality Brown Hatchling
The tones of tree bark drape over this dragon from head to toe. Each sturdy claw is coated in a reddish tinge awhile somewhat dull claws are dipped in deep red. Large for his color, this handsome fellow holds his large wings flared proudly at almost all times. His tail is somewhat short and thick, but it is contrasted by spines that look almost delicate in nature. This brown's somewhat wide head harbor two large eyes that constantly swirl with colors. His appearance is gentle overall, and smooth headknobs add to this impression.

After a few moments the Weyrlingmaster leads the new pair off the sands.

Ysabella turns to look at Wendyn's raised voice, standing on her tiptoes as she squints. The dragons are momentarily forgotten as she touches Ityrziel's arm lightly. "I'll see you on the other side, so to speak." Then she's following the direction of where she head Wendyn's voice, when she reaches the miner she waves with a small nervous small. "Already so chaotic."

Don't Be Evil Egg stretches vast and white and blinding, seeming to build, and build, and build: there is a roar underneath the tension sprawling across the hard shell, one that matches the volcanic spray of ash and hatred of the mountain for all who dare to arise fresh and new upon the boundaries of Pern. As if the algorithm of the egg's shell has computed one final sequence — the self-destruct — Don't Be Evil abruptly shatters into fine powder and jagged remnants of old properties, leaving only Thus Begins The Game Dragonet covered in goo and ash and the lingering white powder of egg.

Thus Begins The Game Dragonet
From the ravages of time eggbound does rise this wraith clad in dragonhide and chilling white: the screams of the fallen follow, fallow, forgotten, a mantle of egg-powder and ash obscuring most pertinent details. This new life moves with old purpose, and such a gaunt and skeletal form gives little away. There is the sense of height and length, and wings damp with amniotic fluid and filled with the promise of skies as-of-yet unseen. Here lies the mystery of darkness underneath bone-chalk white of ash, and the eyes that whirl show streaks of red for more than merely the taste of flesh.

It's dead, Jim. At least, that's what An Ominous Shade of Blue Egg would have you think, because there is NO MOVEMENT to this incredibly large egg. It just sits there, gathering dust and ashfall and glares, really, mostly from Aeldhiyth because an egg that large and beautifully blue MUST have some kind of amazing warrior for the light hidden away within.

Promises of Gold and Treasure Egg lets loose a large *crack* sound, even if very little of the shell itself seems to be broken where people can see it. Still, it rocks. Harder, and harder. It's getting closer, and closer to ? hopefully it won't shatter when it breaks, right? Certainly this egg is not the ticking time bomb that it appears to be. Right?

Isaija shuffles, shuffles, shuffles, glancing towards Horgrimm - or where he assumes Horgrimm is, based on the direction of the other Candidate's muter - and grins beneath his mask. "You can say that again," he agrees fervently, even as his gaze tracks back to all of those dragons.

Wendyn offers Ysabella a wide grin as the young woman joins her, moving to loop an arm for support - and perhaps to not lose her fellow candidate on the sands, not the there are so many shardin' terrors roaming around. "Shards, I thought I was ready, after before but.." Not for all this. At least, though, the terrors seem to be finding life mates easily enough, and perhaps their terrorizing of the class at large will cease - or maybe not.

Thus Begins The Game Dragonet steps upon the Sands with a deliberate intensity that shrouds all of this creature and radiates outward as the blackest aura. Or perhaps it is just the ashfall and the egg-goo. The dragonet stalks through several paces and stops, disoriented in the mire of darkness that they faces in the first steps of new life. This one faces the galleries, not the candidates — hopefully that grand purpose that drives this skeletal creature will turn him around as well.

Brohdan, it can be said, cannot account for taste. Have you seen him out of his robes? He HAS NONE. So it's safe to say when that dusty dragon passes them by not ONCE but TWICE offering slaps and licks, he swats at the ridiculous thing and asks, "Don't you have more important things to be doing?!" And that's when it happens. That's when his body crouches weirdly, as though someone invisible's gone and sat on his lap, face scrooching as this makes him JUST short enough that a tail can land on his face… and caress weirdly. "I… uh… Sek-see-canth? Seksicanth? That… that can't be your… Oh it is. It really is, isn't it? Well. I." Broken. Brohdan is broken. Oblivious to anything anyone else is saying (what else is new), he allows himself to be drug off with a yelped protest of, "You absolutely cannot have the entire supply! The wherries are my friends!" Oy… Eventually he'll catch on to the rest of what's going on. Give him time.

Ityrziel is definitely inching ever-so-slowly away from Brodie and the chaotic dragonet — friends don't abandon friends on the sands, but Brodie's Busy, and he can have this particular moment to himself. Also, Tyr still has one sandal, and he'd like to keep it, thank you. "Well, they certainly are less bright than you might expect." The harper mutters, in what might be Barnaby's direction, or. Thin air. Who knows. Not Tyr. "Oh, do be careful, Ysabella." He adds, glancing anxiously in the healer-candidate's direction (or, again, not). "Do you see anything?" Who? ANYBODY.

Promises of Gold and Treasure Egg shatters, and no sooner than it does there's a shower of albumen that follows that flies with golden shrapnel everywhere. This egg was not as full of dragon as the exterior would have one believe, for what steps out is a much smaller specimen which gets covered in a shower of ashes as soon as it steps free of the remains of its shell. Egg explosion? YES! The ash draws the dragonet's attention away from the white robed candidates, as it side steps to get out of the way before getting hit with some more flakes of ash. Oh, now this is fun, the dragonet twirls in place trying to catch a few extra pieces on its wings, and then flaps to try and get them back off again. It doesn't stop flapping, until it becomes unsteady and ends up face first in the sands. That's embarrassing.

Dancing in the Ashes Hatchling
Smudges of ash have managed to obscure this hatchling's colors as quickly as it was shelled, even with the expended effort to try and get some of it off. Instead, it's smeared and mottled the ash so that it's mixed with dark sands from the hatching grounds to make it have a more sinister appearance. Except, this one is hardly as daunting as it could be. It's a smaller dragon, for sure, and with how it's twirling on the sands it's difficult to tell if it's lost or confused or perhaps a little of both. Either way, this one is well built, sturdy if not large, and agile for a creature so young from how it appears to dance among the floating ashes. This day was made for it, and it was made for this day - the ash doesn't bother anyone, especially not this dragonet. It's not until it gets closer that there's smears in the ash that can be noticed, the exposed hide appearing dark as night or perhaps it's just shadows?

Honestly, there's just no point for anyone to think that An Ominous Shade of Blue Egg is going to do ANYTHING. Mana-blue and gorgeous, it still … it just doesn't have the capability of moving. If there's a hatchling in there, it's stuffed in to the point of stifling, perhaps. Some creature so large that it cannot even strain for a crack. At the end of this all perhaps the egg will just vanish, as if it never existed to begin with.

Ysabella laughs lightly as she loops arms with Wendyn, moving closer. "The lack of vision is really making this more nervewracking than it needs to be I think. Oh, I think I heard another hatching."

Horgrimm nods at who he believes to be Isaija, though it's hard to tell. "After this is over, I'm breaking open one of the crates I brought with me, and getting very drunk. You're welcome to join me!" He squints in the other candidate's direction again, still not entirely sure what's happening. "Is that….? Who just Impressed?" If the candidates are getting covered with ash, and the sands are covered with ash, and the dragons are covered with ash…how does anyone tell anything apart?

Dancing in the Ashes Hatchling starts making its way over towards the row of Candidates, though it stops only briefly at a couple before taking long deep looks into the eyes of Wendyn. Yes. This one. Wait. NO. Not this one. It makes a huffing sound and then spins in place before making its way on farther along the line. This blonde boy looks cute, doesn't he? She leans in to take a closer look before again, shuffling off down the line. No. No. No. None of these.

A War Amongst The Stars Egg is all but covered by ashfall and grime, dark and mysterious and hiding that inner violence quite well, all things said and done. The very universe threatens mutiny, and so it stays still… except it doesn't. Did it just move? Tip to the side, just a bit? One might want to watch it.

In a burst of sudden, frenetic energy, the bright blue of An Ominous Shade of Blue Egg turns radically dark, the shell going black as if it died. It soon becomes evident that the inhabitant within finally punched their way through, and here and now stands in the wreckage. Is that… is that it? All that fuss for this little thing?

Have You Tried Turning It Off Dragonet
This creature is tiny and spindly and for all the world seems hysterically disproportionate based upon the grand and spacious confounds it has just left. That dark egg-undershell conspires with ash to occlude all potential colors but dark, but there need not be shine or hue to discern that this creature is frenetic as a honeybee, buzzing with electric energy that seeks outlet, any outlet. Glittersand especially clings to the lanky line of this dragonet's neck, and coats the long nose and longest-yet tail, giving a topline ridgeback of shimmer against all the gloom.

Wendyn murmurs some sort of agreement to Ysabella, leaning again in the direction of a voice - a familiar voice. "Shards, I think that was Bro.." Slowly, she begins to straighten, only to find herself face to face with a ash-covered dragonet, eyes widening. "Uhm.." She stammers, even as she steps backwards, and after a moment, the hatchling goes on its merry way as well. "I was -not- shardin' ready for that." Too close for comfort?

Ityrziel's head swiiiings in Horgrimm's general direction — "Did you say very drunk?" Can't see a thing, but can he hear talk of drinking enough to make up for lost time? Totally. The harper-candidate seems to be trying to follow Ysabella's path — not extremely successfully, but well. "I'm certain it would still be nervewracking if we could see. What was that sound? Was that an egg?" He ventures, eyes oh-so-wide, the better to let all the ash in.

Have You Tried Turning It Off Hatchling rocks back and forth in the ruins of its prior home, humming softly to itself as it stares blindly into the distance. Seconds turn to minutes, and still it does not move, does not acknowledge anything or anyone. Even Szetamirath's attention is drawn from the rest of her clutch to stare at this singularly odd child. With a curious rumble, she reaches down to boop the baby on its butt. With a jerk, the hatchling comes it its feet, squalling, and takes a flying leap forward, tumbling into the feet of one of the remaining Half Moon Candidates. The girl from Landing leans down and helps set the hatchling right, then her eyes widen with delight. Muffled beneath her mask, "Oh Peeceeth, of course I'll be your Mac!"

With a triumphant cry the Have You Tried Turning It Off Dragonet has found its lifemate at last and its color become clear.

A Few Screws Loose Green Hatchling
Lucid green wraps in hyperfocus this slender creature, elfin in proportion and whirling-dervish in kinetic potential. A cascade of cyan, magenta and yellow tip narrow neckridges and conspire to swirl around stubby 'spars, leaving only lime green and chartreuse - one distinctly darker than the other - to check in harlequin patterns across the spaces between. Though she be dainty, she be fierce.

After a few moments the Weyrlingmaster leads the new pair off the sands.

In the gloaming, A War Amongst The Stars Egg seems to be all stars, a soft glow suffusing the shell with electric fervor. The world outside is stark and the night is full of terrors; but here and now, the world threatens to end… at least the world that the dragon inside has known, and known only. A crack appears, jagged and ominous and leaking surprisingly dark egg goo.

Is It the Real Egg rocks in place, the thin scanlines pulsing lightly across its shell as it stirs the sands around it. Ash stirs, sands scatter, but then the egg is still again, and once more, the watcher is never quite sure if it actually exists at all, much less had moved.

Isaija stands there, staring at everyone and everything. Just what is happening here?

Thus Begins The Game Dragonet does not, in fact, turn around. Instead, the creature stalks forward with intent, and ends up staring up, up, up. There is no Szeta or Aeldhiyth here, only the daunting first steps to the Galleries above. Will this one determine to rise into the ranks and pick their own lifemate from those unchosen? A girl in a blue dress laughs down at the obvious confusion writ across this young dragon's face. A catalyst, the movement turns Thus Begins The Game Dragonet and sends them furious and stalking back toward the ring of white candidates.

Ysabella watches the hatchling walk away before turning back to Wendyn. Ysabella frowns slightly, "Are you alright? Well if one is unprepared for a sudden dragon to the face…" The Healer perks up as Ityrziel wanders over and nods. "I imagine though we would all feel better if we could see where everything was honestly."

A War Amongst The Stars Egg has grown larger and brighter and bleaker and colder. The sundering of the universe itself coalesces with the cataclysm that ruins the egg's rock-hard shell: as without, so within. The hatchling that erupts from the remains of the night-dark-and-gleaming egg arrives upside-down, spilling out into the ashfall all wings-and-spars-akimbo. The chalkiness of the volcano's byproduct obscures many details, leaving only the impression of what has arrived 'pon Monaco's sands.

A Night Without Stars Dragonet
A capable rogue, arresting and ashfall-arrested: so difficult to see the details, beneath such woeful camouflage of chalky dust! The sense of animation and determination outlines a strong Roman nose and lifts damp sails in pride - nay - arrogance, self-sure and composed from first-hatched breath. There need not be stars in the sky for this one to shine where it most counts. Legends gather 'round the soot-speckled edges where spars and talons must be; and oh, storied the details obscured by that mire! It conspires to leave only the sense of mystery lingering at the lighthouse-brilliant edges of glitter-limned dragonet, a song unsung beneath the stifling song of soot and sand.

Is It the Real Egg comes into reality with a shudder and a crack, shards of shell sifting down to decorate the ash-choked sands as the scanlines pulse and part, showing flashes - mere hints - of the vast worlds contained within the slowly breaking shell. Then the shuddering subsides, the cracks tightening to once more contain the hatchling within - but now you know. It exists. And it hungers.

Dancing in the Ashes Hatchling opens its wings a couple times, trying to get some of the ash free from them? It's not working. It may also be flapping sand towards Ityrziel. Sorry, he's just in the way right over there. A pause as it realizes it's disruptive, and then goes to take a look into that boy's eyes. NOPE. Continue on. NEXT. It's starting to get tired, all that moving and bouncing and weaving is taking its toll on the creature.

Horgrimm nods, though he's not looking at anyone but those lumps that he thinks may or may not be dragonets. "I said very drunk. Possibly even very, very drunk." He responds. "And I do have enough to share. Possibly enough even to drown a herdbeast in." He looks to his left and right. "And it's a lot cooler than here. My feet feel like they are on fire." And he looks down to ensure that they are, in fact, not.

Isaija is just going to stand here and rock back and forth. Kind of like that one dragon earlier. Because, you know, it's the safest thing to do.

Thus Begins The Game Dragonet has failed twice, and will not stomach a failure of thirds. To hell with the ashfall. To hell with the girl in the blue dress. To hell with those useless siblings, and those useless people not suited for grander purpose. Before this dragonet lies two necessary items to further a very personal agenda, and it should surprise none that the decision upon the Sands merits furthering both goals. For it is Isaija that is picked, as it must be a lad, and must be a lad that will _feed_ him… and why wouldn't a smart dragonet pick the meat man to ensure the quality of his earliest days? As the dragonet rears up in a moment of resolute joy, the ash and egg-powder shakes off, leaving open answers to one early mystery of the game for any who has eyes to see them.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Thus Begins The Game Dragonet has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Acquainted With The Devil Bronze Dragonet
Dante's dreams dance in dark peril across the wide sprawl of this fine-lined gunslinger, painting obscenities in bombastic bronze and pouring champagne highlights across his hide of antiqued shadow and burnished embellishment. Those few, incongruous bubbles of bold brightness curve the high arch of his lean neck and fall with sham pain to his underbelly: mottled and irregular, they paint his tender flanks with an appaloosa's spots, hidden except in movement and flight. His build stretches, rangy, from long-shanked legs to forward-sweeping wings, but there is no sense of gangle about him. This sinner's saved from such ignominy: the devil's in the details, and he's left a lanky demon suffused in that all-encompassing darkness. Hell's black rage claims the map of his fine-accoutred hide and fills the narrow space of his sails: bright only with metallic glitter, it shines as a night sky seen through smog.

Ityrziel is trying some nice breathing exercises, or…you know what, maybe just trying to keep breathing, with a mask that he hasn't fixed. Mainly? Because he's too busy eating the varnish off of his nails like some sort of deranged ferret. "Maybe." The harper-candidate concedes, twitching a little, at the rustling sound of — "Hbblegh!" Sand: mouth. Wide-eyed, Tyr stares at the dragonet, does not breathe for a long moment, not least because of all the sand in his mouth. It moves on, though, and he's free to cough in peace, pbleeth-ing sand out and definitely not shaking at all. It's cool. "You have…a point. About seeing them coming." WAS that the point?

Is It the Real Egg shudders and shakes and abruptly shatters, parting along the scanlines as though rings were falling to the Sands. In the detritus rests a quiet hatchling, barely visible through the slowly settling dust of hatching and the still-stirring ash that chokes the air and coats the Sands. By the time the last shard of egg has settled on the sands, there is nothing to see but a pile of pale turquoise shards and an ash-and-sand covered hatchling, all gangling legs and tail and long, fragile wings as it slowly stumbles to its feet.

For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Hatchling
Slender, almost slim, all whipcord and bone and lean limber strength, this hatchling is coated from stem to stern in a chalky conglomeration of volcanic ash and glitter-infused sand. The thick crust leaves no hint of color but for what sparkle and shine peeks out from amidst the monochromatic coating, speckled flickers running the gamut of the spectrum; one last gift from Half Moon. Flakes sift through the air at every movement from pale, thin cracks winding along the lanky frame like kudzu snaking up the pines.

Self-Proclaimed Perfection Egg wobbles slightly, but does not crack. This egg barely draws attention as it does so, for the movement it does is so minute as to be missed entirely. There should be no effort to open this egg, it's designed with perfection in mind - isn't it? The egg shifts though, on the sands, swirling so that the bright side of it with the ? what is it again? A heart? It shines in what light it can, for soon, it will have the spotlight.

Caydan is surprised that you thought these pre-written poses would get any better. They're only getting worse. LOOK OVER THERE, WHAT'S THAT? A baby ashy dragon. NOW LOOK BACK AT CASSIE, NOW BARNABY, NOW HORGRIMM, NOW B'AN — wait, B'AN?! "BOOOO!" — NOW BACK TO CASSIE. Why impress a dragon when you could impress and ride all of this? LOOK AWAY, LOOK BACK. What's that in Cassie's hands? The secret recipe to your favorite bubbly pie passed on for generations from your grandmother until your uncle-dad lost it in The Horrible Bubbly-Pie Fire of 2789 (we know, he's from the future too; it's okay if you need to fan yourself we understand). You're welcome.

Isaija is a man that's easily distracted by all kinds of things, like the splitting of that egg or the egg-wet gleam of this dragon. Wait. This dragon? THIS dragon? Hol' up. Revelation hits hard, like a cast iron skillet to the back of the head. His mouth opens and closes and finally just splits into a wide, dazzling smile. Whatever the man says is for his lifemate alone. Don't mind him, folks, he's off to feed his bronze only the choicest of meats that they have to offer!

A War Amongst The Stars Egg has grown larger and brighter and bleaker and colder. The sundering of the universe itself coalesces with the cataclysm that ruins the egg's rock-hard shell: as without, so within. The hatchling that erupts from the remains of the night-dark-and-gleaming egg arrives upside-down, spilling out into the ashfall all wings-and-spars-akimbo. The chalkiness of the volcano's byproduct obscures many details, leaving only the impression of what has arrived 'pon Monaco's sands.

Barnaby has gone remarkably quiet. It's pretty uncharacteristic, in fact. Probably just the stress of the situation! What with the ash and giant babies looming unpreditably out of the soot. He shuffles from foot to foot, and then awkwardly adjusts his scarf to wipe at his eyes, which have started streaming a bit from the irritants in the air. He clears his eyes just in time for another dragonet to pass by, and he flinches to the side a little. "Shards… There's gotta be a better way to do this," he remarks, trying to avoid another close encounter of the dragon-talon kind while readjusting his scarf.

Wendyn is torn in every direction, still staring after the dragonet that came so close to her face, to the sound of cracking eggs and moving hatchlings, and then to Ysabella. "I just.. wasn't expecting it. Not to look at it and.. not hear anything." That's what is suppose to happen, right? And then, the candidates are shuffling and more dragons are finding their lifemates - some rather close for comfort - in fact, some practically on top of her.

Ysabella winces in sympathy as Ityrziel gets sand in his mouth. She pulls back from Wendyn it seems quick enough, to help brush Ityrziel off of what sand she can, before a dragonet comes over. She looks over with slightly wide eyes. Ysabella isn't quite sure what to do in this situation.

Dancing in the Ashes Dragonet almost never stops moving some part of its frame, from its tail to his nostrils - it's sniffing at that candidate! Smearing off some more of that ash from its face in some attempt to get free of what's fallen on it. However, no sooner than some of the ash is smeared off, it's on the move again! Thank you very much random candidate it isn't interested in, your white robe now has an ashy goo smear on it for good measure. A flip of its tail, and the dragonet is on the move again. But, wait. HOLD IT RIGHT NOW. This one. This one. YES. The dancing creature twirls and runs towards a young woman and seems intent on faceplanting right on her. It skids to a full halt barely an inch from the chosen one's toes, and looks up with swirling, eager jeweled eyes.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Dancing in the Ashes Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Incandescent Radioactive Green Hatchling
Some of the darkest forest green imaginable is poured over this young dragon to try and tone down the bright colors that peek out as though someone was trying to offer her some camouflage. However, no amount of dark coloring is going to keep this green from showing her true colors - that which is the brightest, fluorescent green that has graced the sands in quite a while. This lithe, slender beauty is neither too big nor too small, settling somewhere right in the middle with a well proportioned frame. Dark emerald green covers her from nose to tail, with only her headknobs with a smattering of bright green freckles between her eyeridges, on her wingsails, and a bright trail following down along her ridges being luminescent highlighter green. Does she glow? Well, you'd have to take her to a place dark enough to test it, and the likelihood of her actually glowing is pretty much zero. However, it'd take a pitch black night to not be able to tell where she is.

A Night Without Stars Dragon weaves their way around the candidates left, a glittery rolling as if one is at sail rather than on dry land. The baby dragon parks in front of Caydan because it seems to be the right thing to do. It even rears up a little to stare the lad in the eyes. Did you say… bubbly pie recipe?

Ityrziel takes his time recovering from the encounter with the dance-y dragonet — but it's not quite fear that shows in his gaze, following the vague shape of the little dragon. Maybe some mild disgust, because ash-sand is really not tasty, but that's life. "I heard another, I think. Which ones do you think have hatched?" Maybe it's best that they don't know. "Thank you." With as much dignity as he can muster, Tyr smiles at Ysabella, glancing anxiously back in Wendyn's direction — just in case. Does that distract him from the thing? Maybe a little.

For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Hatchling is quiet for a long moment once it has gained its feet amidst the ruins of its previous abode. Slowly, it pieces itself together - one foot here, one foot here, and there's the tail - and, oh my, those wings. Eventually sails and spars are tucked neatly out of the way, clutched tight to long spine, and, with a soft sigh, the hatchling turns its attention to other matters. Like people. Or… whatever those white things are.

Wendyn tilts her head at Tyr, considering as she glances up and down the line, biting her lip. "All of them, maybe? Maybe.. Maybe not all. I don't know, I've lost count." Because there are dragons coming up to candidates on her left and right, and further down the row, eying the brother one of already gone.

Self-Proclaimed Perfection Egg is still not looking for the shock and awe of the other eggs, for when it starts cracking it starts as a simple line. A line that slowly grows with time as what's within starts to shift and move. For a moment, you might see the shimmer of color peeking through the fissure - what was that? The egg settles again, for the occupant needs to garner more strength to finally get the egg to open as it was intended.

Caydan went to sea to sea to see what he could see could see but all that he could see could see was the deep green BABY DRAGON. SUP LITTLE CHICA COZYING UP TO A GIRL CANDIDATE HE SEES YOU. Cassie's interest is piqued in all that CUTE. Mostly because all that CUTE spells potential CHAOS and also because one more dragon impressed means that dance Caydan is starting to do on the sands can probably cease SOON. VERY SOON. His feet are hot. He's sweating in places that you don't even want to know about. But not in the gross way though. Only sexy sweat always. Tsssss. That's just the fizzle of his sex appeal as he drips on the sand.

Horgrimm moves closer to things that are vaguely candidate shaped, and rubs at his eyes again. "Five? Maybe six so far?" He answers Tyr's question, even though it wasn't asked of him. "Not that I can see…I've been trying to count what possibly could sound like eggs cracking open."

A Night Without Stars Dragonet dismisses the boy with the OBVIOUSLY PREWRITTEN POSES as someone entirely too rigid to spend the rest of their life with. Come, now! You must be FLEXIBLE. Physically. And perhaps morally as well, given the next move of the glittering dragonet is to nip at the exposed heels of some poor schmuck, then casually rip baby-teeth through the floating hemline of the robe left flickering in the ashfall.

Self-Proclaimed Perfection Egg has managed to crack apart at what look like specified lines, and no sooner than it does the occupant starts to move forth out of the shell it was barely contained in. The egg itself looks as though it should have burst if left for a moment longer, but instead the long legged creature steps out of it with a grace that assures that this is exactly as it was meant to be, a perfection in departure from packaging that was engineered to encompass its occupant neatly. However, no sooner than the egg shell cracks open, a flurry of ash collects on the goo covered hatchling to obscure its color. Once it's fully left its shell does one realize just how large it is compared to most of the other dragonets, from lengthy wingsails that unfurl slowly and become ash covered to a tail that uncurls from around talons and starts dragging along behind it in the sands.

No Pain No Gains Hatchling
Wings and legs and a tail, this dragon seems to be made primarily of those three things and the core - well, that's more stumpy and sturdy. Where most seem to be better proportioned, this poor thing seems to have focused on wing and leg day far more than its core. With ash covering all of its body, the definition in the young muscles in that sturdy core becomes much more obvious as shadows glide over rippling musculature when movement begins. One might wonder if within that perfect egg there was a gym that this dragonet was attending daily, for even with those long legs, and expansive wings that stumpy, heavily muscled midsection manages to keep everything under impressive control.

Ityrziel maybe is eyeing Caassie's general direction like he might like to headlock the other candidate — but does he? No, no, he just kind of. Twitches, instead, looking vaguely terrified because hey look. "Ysabella, ah…" Maybe she already knows, though. Maybe she knows that these dragonets are terribly biased against the poor prewritten fellows??? RUDE. "All, do you think? Oh, shells." That means there's a lot of baby dragons around. "Six? I thought…oh, Faranth. It all sounds like eggs to me. Except, none of it does." Sense? Who needs that.

No Pain No Gains Hatchling doesn't take long to get moving. The packaging it was contained in assured that its form was ready to go as soon as it was released. Released? Yes. Indeed. The hatchling starts making its way over towards the row of Candidates and starts making the rounds as all the others. Last does not mean the least. Not at all. The hatchling glowers at one Candidate that looks bored. How DARE you look bored in the presence of all this?

For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Hatchling manages to maneuver through the Sands with only one or two slight mishaps - really, how was it to know its tail was long enough to reach under that girl's robe? It's not like it was trying to make her scream. Scurrying away from the shrill sound, it decides to avoid that part of the Sands and instead begins studying the Candidates grouped nearby. How hard can this be, anyway? It eyes Caydan thoughtfully, then snorts egg-goo and sand full in the boy's face and turns away. Maybe harder than it thought.

Wendyn glances back to where the clutch was, blinking. "I, uh, I think I was wrong. I don't even know anymore." A shake of her head, and Wendyn is shifting closer to Tyr - protection in numbers and the numbers are dwindling quickly - and perhaps she can push him into the way of the nipping dragonet that seems to be searching yet.

IS IT DEJA VU?! A Night Without Stars Dragonet finds this life to be quite acceptable, out-of-shell: there are so many things to do, and things to see, and people and dragons to… investigate. Alas, that glittering crust of sand and ash has started to crack, which means one thing, and one thing only: it is time. Upon night-dark paws does this dragonet roam, weaving a drunkard's path through the remaining candidates. A nose-bump here; the teasing ghost of a brush of wingsails there. It's all mild flirting, but there is only one. There has only ever been one. Rearing back on lighthouse-brilliant haunches, A Night Without Stars Dragonet settles wide paws upon a particular thief of a candidate, and makes merry mutiny, because she needs some Wendyn her sails.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the A Night Without Stars Dragonet has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Legends of the Lost Gold Dragonet
Never will the light wholly set upon this queen of lost gold and brilliant sunset sails, for she is lit in statuesque silhouette — almost as if she is the focus of a lighthouse's beacon, incandescent in honeyed amber. This vast siren balances the legers of her broadside bounties against the glory of her wings: they are unexpected and storied in the way of legends, transfigured and carmine-washed, charting perfectly the charming curve of a galleon's neatly-rigged sails. Moored fast between the fabled arches of those sailor-warning sails, the rest of her feels as endless as the sea itself, flowing with sea-spume highlights over ample curves. The dying of the light threatens only in the perilous shoals of her piratical carriage; darker, ominous, her jagged neckridges of ill-hidden edges evoke the bold and wicked sharpness of ebon-pointed spars. Indeed, those who gaze upon her would do best to 'ware her siren call: in the darkest moments she shines the brightest, and there need not be stars in the sky for dreams to be dashed against the treacherous allure of her lantern-light glory.

Before Ysabella can reply, one of the dragons is nearly faceplanting right in front of her. But before Ysabella can take a step back, or try to get out of the way, those jeweled eyes are looking right into hers. A quick intact of breath, and she's breathing out the young green's name. "Astartith?" Everything falls away as the sweet cinnamon voice filters through her mind and Ysabella wonders how she ever thought this way of communicating was strange. Ysabella doesn't even have time to reach out and touch the dragonet before she's on the move, leaving the Healer - weyrling - floundering for a moment before she's stumbling after the green. She barely even remembers to wave goodbye to Wendyn and Ityrziel before she's hurrying to catch up and walk by the dragonets side. "Well don't just go leaving me behind." Ysabella places a hand on Astartith's head as they walk side by side over to the Weyrlingmaster.

Caydan has just been fired by all these HATERS, but too bad he just rehired himself. He could totally be doing better things with his time other than writing terrible nonsense, but Cassie isn't here, and neither is his player, and so you get stuck with what the sweet yet unfortunate puppeteer has been left with as guidance. Or you could totally just blame them. Brodie-player, this is your fault. Wait. RIGHT. DRAGONS. "Congratulations!" because somebody definitely just impressed right? RIGHT?!

No Pains No Gains Hatchling makes his way through the smaller group of Candidates. This is all he has left to choose from? This one is too angry. That one is too scared. This other one. No. Close but not quite right either. A whorl of red filters through the luminescent eyes of his hatchling as time carries on. It moves out of the way of retreating pairs, but continues scouring the line of Candidates for /the one/. It knows it's still there, surely. Nobody else would have picked the one it's claimed for itself.

Ityrziel looks like he firmly believes in safety in numbers, but the joke's on him. All his friends~ are Impressing~. Or, Faranth, but he hopes that's what the little green and gold are doing, because he's all but moon-walking out of their way as fast as he can. "No, no, you ah — you talk to that one." Throw Wendyn under the wher? Absolutely. He does glance wistfully in Ysabella's direction as the vague shadow of her goes, but for now, here he is. Maybe look a little like he might bolt at any second, straining to see the eggs-or-dragonets, but look. Stress. It's fine.

For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Hatchling is tired, and the cranky whine that escapes its gaping muzzle proves it as it abruptly sits back on its haunches and stares tetchily at the Candidates in front of it. What if it just makes you people come to it, hmm? Maybe that's the way to do it! Gaze shifts from masked face to masked face to mas- wait. Whirling gaze shifts back to that second face, widens, and abruptly the hatchling springs to its feet and leaps forward, barreling into the chest of a black-haired harper boy. Ash and sand and glitter fly everywhere as long, fragile wings wrap gently around the newly Impressed pair. Ah ah, you're not going anywhere, my dear.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

I'm a Dragon, Not a Green Hatchling
The death of spring heralds the start of summer, and this fine lean creature speaks to the transience of the moment by the brilliance of her hide. That vivid chartreuse springs forth with mint and magnolia twining amongst the wide toes of her broad paws, threading lively ivy-green growth up through the lean anatomy of her lengthy legs. Summer's heat tempers this poison-ivy encroachment upon the sensible mantle of her slender shoulders, accosted with the muted sunlit warmth of plains-grass and the subtle hint of unripe wheat still green with potential. Her wings lift with fragility unseen in the rest of her composition, the bourbon-soused membranes so thin that one can easily see the ichor pulsing life — beautiful electric-green life, so vivid! Green as Aldebaran whiskey, and as intoxicating — in steady heartbeats that ebb and flow. Black-label spars are naturally dark against the delicate cradle of her sails, promising her own defenses against any windborne threat. It is the arch of her grimly-laced, grimly-ridged neck that brings proper posture to the rest of her, no matter how lovely she might be; with her head tossed to the sky and caustic affront written in feminine sardony by the crooked slant of her julep eyeridges, there is never any question that she is, by any other name, a dragon.

Wendyn finds herself suddenly not alone - certainly, she was not truly alone before this moment, surrounded by her fellow candidates but then there are paws on her shoulders and there is so much more beyond that.. Wendyn's words to her fellows die her on her lips as she gasps, lifting a hand to curl around the small gold's face. The name that slips forth is more of a hushed whisper than anything else, "Kiyaszaeth.." A shake of her head, and she laughs softly. "I hope you are sharding right…" But then she shakes her head, glancing around. "Right.. food.." And she moves to follow a Weyrlingmaster to get the gold her first meal.

Horgrimm can't help but wonder how many are left to share in the drinking. Didn't he hear somewhere that Weyrlings couldn't drink either? In the mean time, he squints, and moves closer to the other grey, roughly candidate-shaped forms that he thinks are left. For all he knows, he's probably standing next to some riders or something. "How many eggs were there originally?" He asks, jumping from foot to foot in the heat. "I think we're up to 8 now? Maybe."

Aeldhiyth watches his last spawn roam and considers the remaining candidates intensely. Which one of them is WORTHY? He lowers his snout to sniff again. (It's 100% not Caydan, FYI.)

Ityrziel isn't actually expecting the shadow from the ashy cloud to come at him, so well. When he finally ends up flat on his back, a wing wrapped around him, it's the last thing he expects. After all, he did such a good job of escaping, but… "As it happens, knocking somebody on their ass does that." Oh. Not enough to knock the sass out of him, then. It hasn't sunk in, not yet, but Tyr still stays wrapped up for a second, several deep breaths' worth of time, before he inches back to his feet. "Khaatxhath. We…can see what we can do about that, perhaps. The food, yes. Absolutely." Tyr'ie'll do everything in his power to get the other, but look, he can only do so much, wobbling away from the sands absolutely with Cass in tow, right. Alas, happy blooming plans for going and getting well and truly drunk.

Barnaby eeeeedges his way toward Horgrimm as other Candidates are quickly being claimed and dragged off into the sooty shadows TO WHO KNOWS WHAT FATES. He muffles a bit of a cough behind the scarf, then answers the question that wasn't really aimed at him anyway. "I think there were ten." There were not. "I thought we were at six?" They definitely aren't.

No Pain No Gains Dragonet is still working his way through the line of candidates, giving each one a thorough inspection as it goes by. Gender? Doesn't seem to matter. It's giving long looks to both, determining nope. This one is no good. Then moving on to the next. This hatchling is mindful of its body though, and doesn't whack anyone with a misplaced limb or anything, unlike some of its clutchmates might. Frustration is building, however, and no matter how calm this one seems to be, the whirl of red in its eyes grows more intense with each passing candidate. Then there's a revelation. This one. Right here. Another, deeper look as it presses his headknobs against the white of this male's robe. Yes. This is meant to be. Will the chosen one fall? Only time will tell. Certainly, he didn't think he was going to leave the sands alone.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the No Pain No Gains Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Dawn of Immeasurable Light Bronze Hatchling
Glorious. This dragon straddles the myriad of colors between deep amber and the brightness of copper wire in shimmering hues that change and dance with the glare of light upon his hide. There is no subtlety in this bronze's coloring, leaving observers without any doubt about what color this majestic giant is representing. From nostrils to tailspars, he is uniformly colored in whorls of dark brass and vivid copper as though someone buffed him, but with dark edges running along musculature as though defining where it should lie beneath his hide. His wings are his pride and joy, beautifully boned with intense copper spars that allow them to stretch farther than some small golds, with sails that shimmer and gleam with a bright honey glaze over a deeper bronze. This dragon remains unwaveringly amber bronze colored across every section of his frame whorled with copper, as though he was hewn out of one solid piece of bronze and then sculpted to perfection including his razor sharp talons. Even when fully grown, his body seems more stout, thicker and broader rather than longer - all the rest is wings and tail.

Caydan is offended. DISHONOR. DISHONOR ON AELDHIYTH. DISHONOR ON YOUR COW. Dishonor on— no, honestly, that's fair, he wouldn't choose him either. So don't mind him. He'll just throw Ael an epic raspberry as he's hauled away (hopefully before he gets eated).

Horgrimm glances in what he hopes is Barnaby's direction. "I honestly cannot remember right now…and I think more have hatched since then." Yes, and it's looking like a lot more wine for him later. "Um….how many candidates are left?"

Barnaby would answer Horgrimm, but he's too busy being frozen in place. His eyes go round behind the purple scarf-mask. "What?" He looks over his shoulder. Because certainly there's some /other/ person behind him, but then he's looking back at the little dragon and can't look away again. "I… Honestly, I haven't seen much of anything…" He mops at his eyes and finally tears away the scarf because it's in the way. "Oh. Yes. Yevith. You need— Food? A bath, too, I think, but food first." The purple scarf flutters to the ground, smeared with soot, and is left forgotten on the sands as Br'aby leads the new bronze away to find that meal.

As the last egg falls to pieces and the last hatchling finds its lifemate, Jazhira takes a deep breath, gazing up into Xh'vyr's face. She reaches up, briefly brushing her fingertips along the bronzerider's cheek, then, with Szetamirath's soft, supporting croon to bolster her, the plump goldrider steps forward, sandaled feet whispering on the Sands. "I'm sorry," she says, hands clasped over the mound of her belly as she gazes earnestly at the Candidates - so many Candidates - left Standing. "Your lifemates weren't in this clutch, but that doesn't mean that they aren't out there. You are, one and all, welcome to remain for Fuerioth's clutch. If not, then we will be sad to see you go. Please, for now, join us in the Caverns for refreshments. Even those who want to remain Candidates," she adds, a slight smile crinling the corners of her amber eyes. "I can relax the rules for one night."

Horgrimm blinks, listening to the goldrider. "Well…." He starts to smile for a momoment, then starts to hot-foot it off the sands - literally. "There's a few bottles of Benden wine with my name on 'em! Congratulations everyone!" And with that, the Vintner Journeyman exits.

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