Igen Hatching 2021

Characters Alasse, Ashwi, Damahra, Iwa, Kallum, Ligeia, Lunasidhe, Padjma, Shixen, Talisyn, X'yr
Synopsis Toruth and Haijiventh's clutch hatches on a misty morning!
Out-of-Character Date November 6, 2021

Igen Weyr - Hatching Sands
As if temperatures in the rest of the Weyr weren't uncomfortable enough, the sands are positively blistering. The air shimmers from the onslaught of heat, leaving the area with a hallucinatory feel. Black sands stand currently empty but for the occasional egg-shard or 'print not swept clear. A raised platform of smooth stone provides a lounging-spot for queens or their mates, or a retreat for the lifemates that accompany them from whence they can cool their feet somewhat.

Painted Spotted and Playful Egg shimmies and shakes with the sound of the
hums, ready to join the fun party going on around it.

Haijiventh is humming just as loudly as everyone else. All the dragons within
the weyr will hear his proud boasts. « THE BABIES ARE HATCHING! » He's one
proud poppa as he lurks on the sands to watch. X'yr comes trotting onto the
sands to find his place to watch the newest weyrling class be born.

Toruth has started a hum deep in her throat, the hatchlings are coming, the
hatchlings are coming. Despite her putting each egg in a perfectly nice
shallow wallow in preparation the current cirumstances limit the ability to
quite admire her handiwork. The thick misty fog socking in the bowl has
filled the black sanded hatchign grounds as well givign it quite an errie
feel. That might not be so bad were it not for the dampness effecting the
electrical grid as well and the normally pleasant glow of the grounds light
is mostly dark with a few lanterns flickering feeble attempts. Iwa arrives
using a glow basket and dissapears into the mists int eh direction of hte
large queen, settlign in safely next to her. For the rest of the weyr, it
likely she's a strange glowing ball in the shifting shadow of the larger

Damahra has managed to find a robe somewhere, since even the briefest
inspection of hers would reveal much better needlework than anything she is
capable of, and she is tugging at the hem even as she emerges onto the
misty, foggy sands amongst the other white robed candidates. After a moment,
she remembers she is suppose to bow to the clutch parents, and awkward bob
before she finds a spot in the loose ring.

Lunasidhe might be accounted for, but perhaps present is a little too much
to ask of the dragonhealer-candidate. She wanders into the sands with the
half-dazed, distinctly-awkward aspect of a person who’s never set foot on
them before, never watched from the stands, never recorded outcomes from the
shelter of the weyrling exit. Maybe it's the vibes the weyr's been giving
today, maybe it's just nerves, but everything is off and so is she. The
misty miasma of the stands are considered before being abandoned in favor of
clutchparents, her fellow candidates, and finally, eggs. Their ovid
shapes hold her gaze through the bow, which she delivers as respectfully as
someone as windblown and haphazard-haired as herself might before melting
away to bite at her nails over there.

Shixen stumbles in with the rest of the candidates, practically bouncing on
the balls of his feet in excitement. And nerves. There are definitely nerves
here. He offers a quick bow to Toruth and Haijiventh before taking his place
with the others in a sea of white robes, "It's happening. It's really
happening." He squints into the fog, "I think…"

Ligeia bows - but, really, is anyone going to see it in all the mist and haze?
Really? Once she straightens, there's a glance to the galleries, but-
well. Look. There's nothing to see there, either. Fortunately, she's robed
and clean and all that. Silver linings!

Alasse may as well be heading into battle, for all that she looks grim and
shaken. It's probably a little hard to see how pale she is what with the,
y'know, flickery lights and mist, but the candidate may as well be a ghost.
Jaw clenching, she bows with her peers, an overly formal affair that sees
her nearly touching the sands. Alas for Alasse, it's hard to fade back and
blend into the crowd when you're as big as she is. She //tries/, still.

Talisyn steps onto the Sands amidst the middle of the pack, maybe somewhere
near Ligeia, maybe in Alasse's vicinity. He also might be nowhere near them;
how is he supposed to know in this fog? He squints through the mist, trying
to make out the eggs and those Candidates beyond his sight, and finally
gives a sigh and scrubs a hand over his face, then bows in the general
direction of where he thinks the clutch parents might actually be before
settling into a spot. This is his divit of sand and he's sticking to it.

Soft, the wriggling mass of bodies upon the ruler of the roost egg shifts.
More than just illusion this time its movement is betrayed by the trickle of
sandy grains from the edges of the shallow wallow it has been settled upon.
The crowds frenetic energy seems to have had some effect and perhaps now
whatever their efforts are finally coming to fruition. Time will shortly
tell what lies within.

Padjma isn't far behind Lunasidhe; having prior experience apparently doesn't
make her second time facing a hatching any easier. Her wary gaze all but
zeroes onto the first movement that's evident once she rises from her bow.
Hands curling into fists, she takes a bracing breath once she's settled into
a spot near the dragonhealer. "Can they find us through all of this?" she
wonders aloud.

Kallum looks a little sleep mussed as he walks in with the others, shifting
from one foot to the other and peering into the vague shadows of the fog
before belatedly bowing to the clutch parents.

Painted Spotted and Playful Egg gets lost in the beat, a banging happy noise
coming from within like a tail being beat on a drum. Bum, Bum, BUM finally a
loud CRACK as the excitement can no longer be contained in the shell.

Ligeia glimpses movement through the haze, but it's too close to be an egg -
and not red-eyed enough to be a dragon. "Hi," is thrown at Talisyn and she
makes shameless grabby hands for one of his hands. She'd look at him but
flickery lights and fog make this something out of a horror novel and she's
not assured of her Last Girl status.

Lunasidhe marks the familiar sounds of eggs beginning to quaked and crack,
favoring Alasse with a slight sideways smile as the young woman attempts to
blend away. It’s a little sickly around the edges, but what can you do - a
small age of anxiety is coming to a sudden, abrupt head. It holds true as
Padjma joins her, head shaking as blue-green eyes filter worriedly across
the sands. "I don't know. I can't even tell who's who if they aren't…" A
gesture to indicated their vague bubble.

Alasse sure doesn't know if the dragonets will be able to find them — she
doesn't particularly look like she actually wants them to, either. If
that's Talisyn fulfilling his contemplation of hiding behind her big
self, Alasse can't quite tell, but she does wave at the shadows of her
peers, probably stomping on at least a few toes as she shuffles sssllooowly
into the background. "How are we supposed to see them coming?" Is the
candidate's gruff follow-up, because. Well. Really.

X'yr does comment with a hint of worry in his tone. "A little spooky out here
with the fog and no lights…I hope the candidates are on their toes this

Desert Grace egg hops so high one might be able to air between egg and sand.
It’s a quick movement so it may be missed for it only moves once then is

Painted Spotted and Playful Egg rocks and shakes, whatever is occurring around
it only confirms the need for an escape. This baby needs out and as the
ovoid tilts and twists it finally falls down cracking full in half and
revealing the happy soul come to play with you. Hehehe, want to play a game?

Damahra will show no fear! She will… no, wait. She'll show fear. Shuffling
sideways through the mist, Damahra's gaze snaps to the general direction of
the eggs. "Uhm… Hello?" She offers, as if eggs will talk.

The Foresaken Vanguard Hatchling
An imposing figure this one fades in and out of the mists. It is a huge bulky
creature with glowing hungry eyes that cast a red glow onto shadowed
heavyset eyeridges. Large angular head glints almost silvery in the mists as
it hovers at that edge of dissolution. Behind filtered into shadow thicker
neck and deep chest mark this warrior in otherwise standard proportion for
his kind. Arms and legs fades into ghostly hints that your brain fills into
the gap your vision leaves. Above the mists swirl as wings stretch, darkened
sails flapping like tattered flags, battleworn, before settling to the broad
shouldered creatures back. A cape of protection that in reality offers
nothing more than a cloak of visual deception for this lonely forsaken one.

Talisyn did not yelp when Ligeia grabbed his hand. Really. That was someone
else. He glances down at her, startled, then his fingers close around the
girl's and he murmurs, "It'll be okay." He may or may not sound like he
believes himself. A shape looms before him. Dragon? Egg? No. "Alasse," he
greets, just a hint of welcome in his voice.

Ligeia stage-whispers at her not-yelping hatching-buddy, "We're all going to
die out here, aren't we." Still, she's bouncing a little on the balls of her
feet, eyes alternating between wide and squinting as she tries to see past
the the gloom. "Wow. Wait. I think- are those eyes?" She hopes they are.
Look, she's found her hatching-adult. She's trusting Talisyn here.

The single larger furry blob upon the rule of the roost egg has disappeared.
Perhaps the egg just rolled while no one was looking, or did it somehow dive
within the mass of writhing smaller bodies? Movement grips the shells
surprisingly hard surface in a few jerking thrusts, as though the one within
has given a few thrusting kicks against its confines. Two bright starbursts
appear as a consequence, shell yielding to the grown power within.

Shixen is on his does. Literally! The young blond boy is pale enough that he
sort of blends into the fog, anyway, so he better be on his toes. He rises
by a few inches, as though he can possibly stretch tall enough to see over
the fog. He flinche a little at a particularly loud crack and starts
edging toward the sound of voices, "Did you guys hear that?"

Alasse does not squeak, because that would absolutely be, um. Childish? Or
something? "What was that." She does demand, when the void shaped like an
egg catches air. Maybe she should be more worried about that
dragon-shaped shadow, but well, it doesn't look like she sees it, so focused
on glaring suspiciously at the mist. "Hey." Alasse's voice is tense, higher
than usual as she makes a sweep of her peers, gaze sharp. Everybody good?
No? That seems right.

The Foresaken Vanguard Hatchling rises with grace, body folding upward as the
low visibility conceals much of its movements. Instead, you'd have to rely
on your ears to hear the scraping of shell being drug along like an immense
weapon. In no hurry, this dragonet makes every move in short bursts without
any recognizable goal. If anyone is in its way, it's going to be sorry.
Admittedly it might be hard to form a plan under these conditions. When you
have no plan, you have to make it up as you go. The hatchling drives forward
chaotically with yowls and chirps as if trying to use echolocation. Even a
dumb idea can sometimes work, turning about and creeling the sound hair
raising as it get lost in the din. There's a pause with each noise as if
hoping for a response that never comes. Left with no choice, it continues
forward in another short burst, desperation demanding motion.

Lunasidhe twitches hard when that eggy shape appears to leap. Surely that
was a trick of the light. Right? RIGHT GUYS?! Gulp. Welp. Time to think up a
distraction before she hurls on someone. “I’m betting on that sandy one one
being a big old bronze,” she says of the Desert egg, aiming the thought at
nobody in particular, open for debate. “One of those particularly wicked
ones that bosses folk about even if they aren’t ‘leading.” The bet is made,
though her voice is tremulous, full of doubt. Why? Because she'd swear one
of those eggs just split open over there, though just what the little
beastie is, she couldn't tell you.

Desert Grace egg shivers violently for several seconds. The movement brings a
spiderweb of cracks before it falls still once more.

Padjma makes a little noise of agreement for Luna, but then there's another
sharp inhale for something somewhere emitting a loud crack. "That must
be — " And then there's a glimpse of red eyes and those hair-raising sounds
that follow. "Can you tell where it's going?"

Iwa shifts a little closer to X'yr with her glowbasket. Her expression tries
not to be to concerned as she squints into the mists, more hearing voices
than making out actual figures. "They were all normally nervous, I'm sure
they'll be on extra alert and remember what they were told." she hopes at
least, squinting more at a rather defiitive crack that should signal the
arrival of the first. Dragon eyes might be better as Toruth hums and seems
to confirm that yes, it has truly begun.

Talisyn is caught between being protective of Ligeia, because, you know,
teacher, and hiding behind Alasse, because, you know, wants to live. He's
still trying to figure out the proper solution to this conundrum when he
hears the whispers echoing through the cavern, speaking of a hatchling; of
eyes; of things going bump in the night. "Remember when Iwa asked us if we
believed in ghosts?" he asks Ligeia. "I think the answer's now yes."

Damahra yelps, shuffling a few steps backwards in the sands, as that un-Pernly
sound echos through the fog and she shakes her head again. "Why did you
think this was a good idea, Dama… The needlework wasn't that bad.." She
mutters to herself, eyes darting around anxiously.

Several candidates step back from the shaking of the ruler of the roost egg.
The vibrations thrum through the surface of the shell, threatening to
explode outwards in a not very safe manner. The audience should relax,
really the pilot within is quite in control and abruptly there is a large
CRACK and the back of the shell falls off like hatch from which a small body
falls out and away in the misty obsidian expanse of Igen's sands.

The Phantom Scout Hatchling
Small, slender and sleek this one's escape from its shell has left it coated
in the dark black Igen sands. Occasional glimpses reveal bits and pieces of
the creature from a rather small head with tiny headknobs, the arc of a neck
and flash of slender arms and legs and disappearing somewhere a rather
lengthy stretch of tail. Narrow wings tease in the mist with a ghostly gray
metallic texture as sandy grains have a harder time sticking to the flexing
membranes. The sand sticking to the rest of its frame makes it both hard to
make out what hue the youngling is and exactly where it is as well. Limbs
are surprisingly coordinated lending to the stealthy stalking as it uses the
camouflage coating to blend back in to the cloaked stillness of space it now
resides within.

Ligeia hears Shixen and calls over to him, "Hey. Hey. Come with us if you want
to live." Is he within grabby hand range? Because she will grabby hand. More
movement in the bright haze has her catching her breath and holding it. She
exhales abruptly at Talisyn's words, the sound almost a laugh. "Dragon
ghosts! … and maybe some of us candidates, when this is over." If they
don't make it.

Alasse takes a swift breath in. It's only to demand, "WHAT. WAS THAT." In a
much louder voice, shoulders stiffening at that thin creel. Such a foreign
sound, such a terrible sound, at least to somebody who's never…seen a
dragon hatchling. Or knows what noises they make. "I dunno. Faranth, I can't
think of anything but-" That's the problem, yes, Alasse. "M-maybe

Lunasidhe agrees with Ligeia, in the face of that inhuman - indragon? - sound.
"Definitely one of us. Shells. This was definitely not my brightest idea."
Damahra seems to echo her sentiments. Luna catches her gaze and nods before
edging closer to Padjma. "No, but it sounds like it's getting closer. Like
it's dragging something." And she hates it, thanks!

Shixen swallows hard and practically runs the last couple of steps toward
Ligeia's voice when she calls to him, "Sha-" He cuts himself off and clears
his throat, obviously changing what he was about to say, "Since when were
the sands this spooky?" He grasps for that grabby hand, squeezing gratefully
and staring wide-eyed into the shifting mists.

Desert Grace egg, which has been silent for several minutes, explodes with
little warning to topple out a small hatchling with bits of egg stuck on
every part of its body.

Endless Night Hatchling
Swirls of lighter and darker colors blend so perfectly across this hatchlings
form that they nearly disappear into the shadows around them. From behind
them the tail is long, skinny and constantly moving so much the eyes can’t
focus enough to determine color. Wings that are short and almost stubby like
flare open with impatience to be free from the confinement of the egg. A
large piece of egg sits across the eyes and muzzle to further obscure the

Talisyn doesn't quite grab for anyone, but he does stick out his free hand,
offering a lifeline to any Candidates seeking shelter - or at least company
- in these trying times. "I mean, do dragon ghosts still need to Impress?
Wouldn't they need ghost Candidates? Maybe they weren't just teasing you,
Alasse," he remarks to what he thinks is her bulk before him. "Maybe they
were warning us."

Ligeia puffs out a breath and continues bouncing on her feet, which is
surely a better way to cool her soles than ye olde shuffle. "It's
dragging a fallen candidate,
" is hiss-murmured and wide-eyed as she turns
to look in Lunasidhe's direction. It's the only possible explanation. And
then, the seance circle grabby hands candidate circle is complete.
Talisyn and Shixen get squeezes. "Maybe they're making ghost candidates
right now."

The Phantom Scout Hatchling is a fairly quiet stalker and if you could see it
you'd find it ducking behind the unhatched eggs or jumping into the deeper
wallows in an erratic path which is drawing it closer to the candidates.
It's a horrified human shriek from the end of the line of candidates which
might draw some attention to the scouting creature who has snuck up in this
mist behind them. A poor lass who got seperated can feel the hot breath of
this one on the back of her legs, and slimy egg goo of a tail that slaps
against her thigh as the hatchling quickly turns and retreats. Regroup,
regather and come up with a new plan.

Damahra catches Talisyn's comment about ghost dragons, before glancing down at
herself, words coming out in a rush. "But..w e're all in white. Maybe we are
the ghost candidates already." Well, now she is completely freaked out,

Alasse may get a-hold of herself yet, but right now? She's tense like a
bowstring, on high alert. Eyes wide, the handyman glares into the dim mist,
hands balled into fists at her side. Fight the baby dragons? Maybe. Who
knows. It doesn't seem like the worst idea. "Definitely. Definitely a bad
ida." She agrees to the shadow that might be Luna, or possibly one of her
other fellows, clearing her throat several times. Whether Talisyn means to
or not, he eases some of the tension in the candidate's shoulders- she
laughs, a short bark, teeth baring in what could loosely be called a smile.
"Faranth, what a thing! To be right, and still dead." WOE.

Chic Chateau egg doesn't so much as wobble as it SLIDES over like a fat house
feline on fellis, whoops this is unfortunate. It's now fallen and may not be
able to get up, oh bother.

Padjma's breathing hard next to Luna, body shifting forward slightly as if
she's anticipating having to move in short order. "Can't be dragging a
candidate, " she says as sensibly as one anxious person can to Ligeia-voice,
"we'd have heard someone scream by now, right?" Right? Of course, that's
also (conveniently) right before the phantom scouting through the mist draws
a scream from the end of the line.

Endless Night hatchling whips their head from side to side furiously for
several minutes. THE SHELL WON’T BUDGE! Creeling in half distress the
hatchling drops to the ground, slittering. AHA! That did the trick. Without
a backwards glance to the shell fragment left behind this hatchling marches
forward to inspect…wait? What’s the purpose of everything?? OH NO! Quickly
it darts towards a group of candidates, brushing right past Padjma with an
icky, goey, sticky wing brushing against the dark brown haired girl. Before
anyone can blink however the Endless Night Hatchling is lost once more in
the shadows.

Shixen shudders, whining softly, "Do we have to talk about ghosts right now?"
He gives the vague shape of Talisyn a pitiful look, "It's creepy enough
without talking about dead things!" He jumps, grabbing onto Ligeia's arm
with his free hand and yelping, when the girl at the end of the line
screams, "What was that? Did someone get hurt?"

Talisyn should feel guilty. He does not. He's too spooked to feel guilty.
Instead, he simply offers a hand to Damahra. "Well, come be ghosts
together," he coaxes her, although his attention is on the movement in the
fog. That shriek jolts him, and his fingers bear down on Ligeia's before he
can stop himself. "Sorry," he mutters breathlessly. "Faranth, is someone
hurt?" He shuffles closer to the girl at his side, hovering protectively
while tucking himself as deep in Alasse's shadow as he can. "Hey, being
right's a win. I'd take it."

The Foresaken Vanguard Hatchling can't find its way, sound failing to do
anything but create noise on top of the scraping of shell that bangs against
its unhatched siblings, the noise being the only warning that it's coming
your way. One foot in front of the other -slap- the sound of a tail hitting
a shell. Even worse than constant noise is silence, the lighting
particularly dim as this lost being can't be seen at all for several
long moments. Then, without any actual warning, it emerges near the
bunch, barreling forward with no care and knocking STRAIGHT into a
spike-haired teen. Anyone nearby will be slapped with a tail, feet moving
faster than brain apparently as this hatchling goes bowling for candidates.

Chic Chateau egg begins to roll slowly until the weight of whatever is inside
both stops forward momentum and leaves numerous cracks all over the bottom
side. It's just one thing after another today as the beautiful surface is
now marred and broken.

Lunasidhe can't help it - she laughs, the sound utterly gauche but listen.
Y'all handle your nerves how you want, and she'll do the same. Though not
quite part of the circle of trust, she does back near enough to the trio
when there's a shriek from one of their own, going pale and paler still.
"You know, suddenly that's seeming more and more likely." This to Ligeia of
the candidates getting drug along, bent and bleeding. Padjma's spidey senses
are on the dot, blue-green eyes catching the shape of the Endless Night
hatching just before it brushes her and— "G-g-g-ghost!" And there comes the
Vanguard right behind them. The sharks are circling in.

Toruth lifts her head and blows out a deep breath sendign some of the mists
swirlign. She did tell her rider sevendays ago about certain apparitions. Or
maybe its jsut lonely being stuck out onthe sands. For now if you could hear
her it would be along the lines of «I TOLD YOU SO», and Iwa simply places
a warm hand onthe warm hide in comfort and consolation trying not to think
the worst of all the noises that break through the gloom.

Ligeia regrets not having more hands to offer, but alas. "Maybe we are," is
breathed in Damahra's direction. "Or maybe we're all dreaming?
Together?" How creepy is that? Padjma's words prompt a thoughtful noise,
but then: "Maybe it happened too quickly for them to scream?" There's a bit
of a squeak when Shixen seizes her arm - and maybe at that other sound?
"It's okay! Sorry, sorry." But also not that sorry.

Damahra lets her hyperfocus drift away from the general direction of eggs and
potentially dragonets as there is an extended hand, but then something is
brushing by another candidate, and there is a scream, and there is just far
far too much going on. A yelp and she bolts for Talisyn's hand, even as she
positions herself behind him. Human shield? Yep, human shield. You heard
that scream.

The mountain guardian egg shifts ever slightly. Has something entered its
territory? An alert shivers through the surface of the shell that disturbs
its sandy wallow nest. There is a long pause, as if the egg is focused on
something distant before another small wriggle shudders the surface as the
one within shifts, stretching, its shells cautious watching coming soon to
an end.

Alasse's gaze follows the shadow that might be the first-hatched, or second,
or- "Are. There more than one? When did that happen." She ventures, looking
vaguely concerned about both 1. How she missed this, and 2. The fact that
there might be more than one. She should be more worried about why
SOMEBODY'S SHRIEKING. Actually, it looks like she is, stance quickly
shifting more defensive and low. "Are you- are you okay? Who was that."
Alasse asks, eyes scanning sightlessly and completely missing the melee,
except the noises, which are undoubtedly The Worst.

Kallum stares into the mist wide eyed into the mist, not entirely certain but
what maybe he is wathcning some kind of other worldly display. All this
talk of ghosts certainly isn't helping. His eyes dart from shifting, shadowy
figures to the sources of strange noises. He might as well have them closed,
however, as a young dragon suddenly barrels into him, knocking him flat on
his rear.

Padjma lets out a little shriek on the heels of Lunasidhe's cry of 'ghost' as
something sticky brushes past her. In a tiny voice, "Was that — " A hand
lifts to touch where the appendage made brief contact and comes away
egg-wet. With her other hand, she makes to grasp for one of the
dragonhealer's. Safety in numbers?

Endless Night Hatchling lurks in the fog. LURK LURK. Not overly quiet about it
either, loud chuffs or creels often erupt from the shadows whenever there is
a silent moment on the Sands. Unseen the Endless Night Hatchling is
searching for the one. The perfect one. Just the riiiiight one to….a snort
of dismay is sudden and very loud from right behind Damahara. There’s a wet
nudge against her back then just as suddenly there’s nothing there.

Ligeia resumes her alternating 'squinting into the gloom' and 'unhinged,
wild-eyed stare into the void' look to try to see if she can see, uh,
anything. Anything? At all? "Are they even hatching?" Back to ghost
dragons, see. It all comes back to those.

Lunasidhe's head shakes, furiously. "If this was a dream of mine, we'd already
be dead." Well, they did already cover that thought, back with the white
robes and the dragon ghosts. "I don't think my heart could beat this fast if
we're dead." But what does she know. She's just one candidate, who is
looking over into Alasse's eyes with mingled concern and disbelief. "There's
definitely more than one." Witness: a candidate going down in their midst,
others smacked with a tail, and her hand seizing around Padjma's, hard
without being punishing. "It's…" Well. It isn't ectoplasm, at least? "It's
just egg mess." There's relief in Lunasidhe's voice, relief that can't be
allowed to last, but give her just this one moment, alright?

Talisyn's hand closes around Damahra's, even as he jiggles Ligeia's slightly,
a bit bemused by her line of thought. "I'm not too good with the idea of a
group dream. There's some things I just don't want to share." And that's as
far as he's going. His eyes dart behind them; he thought he sensed - but
there's nothing there. "This place is f- ah, messing with my mind." Cough.

Shixen shakes his head, clinging to Ligeia and practically hiding behind her,
"But someone did scream?" Really. "I think I saw something over that way…"
He nods off into the gloom, unwilling to let go of his… human shield. "I-
I think it was a hatchling. It looked like it had a tail." Maybe?

Damahra screams. Sorry, Talisyn, hope you didn't need your hearing. So
focusing on what was in front of her, the pale blonde girl was completely
unaware of the creeping shadow behind her, and by the time she recovers
enough to whirl around and peer into the fog, the source is gone, and she's
left cling to Talisyn's arm as she peers into the reaches *behind* the
candidates rather than in front.

The Foresaken Vanguard Hatchling nearly reaches the wall, a wailing ball of
torment before it turns around in several circles cocking its head at each
figure huddled nearby, sniffling and snapping its jaws with hunger. Which
soul is ready for this task? There's a loud cry of deep sadness like a siren
for help into the abyss, not finding a willing one to see past the mask.
Finally, STumbling forward, dejectedly talons get caught on the robe of a
honey brown-haired individual, red whirling eyes slowly changing to
green-blue as it pulls back, dragging the figure along with it. You're
coming home with him, like it or not.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the The Foresaken Vanguard Hatchling has
found its partner at last and impression is made!

Armored Exo Guardian Blue Hatchling
From head to toe this one presents an imposing figure that even in a relaxed
stance radiates an intimidating power. Large wedge head seems comprised of
angular metallic blue plates that while seamlessly joined define the long
snout in boxy planes. The plates clamp over angular jaws and form thick
protruding ridges which protect the whiling electric blue eyes that indicate
a contentedness his build contradicts. Headknobs point back towards his neck
from base of his skull, a darker steel pair of horns contrasting the shimmer
of his hide. The same oxidized metal studs his short, thick and heavily
muscled dark blue neck which then blends into a deep barreled chest and
large pectoral muscles. Power and strength are displayed in the grip of his
talons behind which forearm and biceps flex. Hindlegs reflect the same,
somewhat shadowed in comparison to the rest of his body they propel him when
there is need with strong muscles that ripple and thick talons which easily
rend. Tail extends behind, a shorter length of sinewy muscles to which he
expresses a fine control of the whip like appendage. Muscled shoulders
support the broad swath of his billowing wingsails. The dark navy membranes
add to his shadowy cloak with the dappled by almost black spots along the
trailing edges giving the sails a tattered appearance. On the right sail
there is a distinctive thick trip of the metallic blue, standing out
brightly from the navy background. It seems to carry within a triangle path
of navy near his body and a dappled set of spots that form the number two
before resolidifying into a solid strip for the remaining length. These
impressive wings are most often neatly tucked to his back and settle like a
cape over his figure, flourished as needed.

Ligeia stares vaguely in Padjma and Luna's direction. "… oh no. You've
been marked.
" By what? Who can say. But then Damahra's screaming and she's
squeaking and clinging tighter to Talisyn's arm and trying to get an arm
around Shixen to hug him and maybe pull him in front of her reassure him
that all's well. "Okay. Yes. Okay." Nerves: rattled.

Chic Chateau Egg only has to give one final wiggle side to side for the egg to
fall apart entirely. There's apparently a weight limit on this abode and
whatever is inside has reached it.

It's Definetly Not A Hatchling Under A Sheet Hatchling
Apparently, not everyone got the Memo. This hatchling is far too round, the
sheet of fog covering it like a small blanket over a canine. A round snout
with slit nostrils and a pudgy body that waddles with each step. Little toe
beans poke out from the covering, and in the chaotic events, this little
one's short wings, rounded and soft, offer a bit of comedic relief.

Talisyn did, in fact, need his hearing - but what's done is done, and he's a
bit more concerned with what's happening with Damahra than the ringing in
his ear. "What? What? I knew there was something," he mutters. His arms
are hampered, clung to; his sight is blocked - maybe hiding behind Alasse
was not the brightest idea - and now there's dragons among the Candidates
and shrieking and screaming and was that a flash of blue?

Alasse has taken up a good ol' bar fight stance, like she's about to break a
foot off in one of these shadows — not that she mmmmm, actually would?
Maybe? Faranth, let's hope not. "I-" She can't seem to even form any sort of
words about how very much she does not want to share dreams with anybody
present- and then Damahra screams, and Alasse lunges forward, all ready to
yank somebody away from something and. Well. She comes up empty, and
//on her face
, just in time for that awful wail. This seems JUST. FINE.
Maybe she'll stay here.

The Phantom Scout Hatchling tosses back at the candidates the results of its
reconnaissance. The chewed remains of a sandal from that poor candidate
lands near Alasse. For all they know that might be all that is left as this
scout's movements remain hidden by the environment. Still need drives it on,
somethign pulling at it over there. The steely sheen of foggy wingsails
emerges briefly behind Ligeia and Shixen. It makes the little creature seems
ten times as big as talons flash near the pair when the hatchling is just as
startled by Damahra's shriek. Wait you all make the strangest sounds. It
retreats quickly a few steps, maybe more the mists swirling.

Wriggles soon shift into a urgent rocking motion upon the mountain guardian
egg. There, there, it has sensed something and the guarding occupant within
must get out. MUST escape and pursue that which has crossed into its
territory. This shall not be allowed, this shall not be tolerated, no not in
the least. Urgent needs push at the shell, bright white cracks quickly
breaking across the surface.

Damahra at least doesn't scream this time, but with Alasse on the ground and a
sandal without a foot, she is risking letting go of Talisyn's arm to try and
help her fellow candidate to her feet. "Hurry, before something -gets you-."
She hisses, even as there is movement in the mists on the far side of
Talisyn. "Hurrrrry.." She repeats.

Ligeia squeaks out, "I see blue!" But it's not for her and she's not entirely
sure if it's a dragon or maybe a firelizard? Or a ghost being
But then? Something is behind her and she catches her
breath, eyes gone completely wide. "… something's behind us but it's
totally okay, okay? Toootally okay." And then it's gone and thank
but she's not letting that breath out until her chest hurts.

Padjma mumbles something that's probably a swear, peering this way and that
while keeping her hand firmly in her fellow candidate's grip. "What happened
over there? Something flashed red then blue, but I can't — " She even leans
up onto her toes for a moment, as if increasing her height by an inch might
wishfully help her to see better.

Endless Night Hatchling increases the sounds of complaints as they shudder
several times to send more bits of egg goo and shells off their wings and
limbs. Not that they mind being messy but they have stuff to do and that
ooey gooey stuff feels sticky! There’s an urgency growing in their rumbly
tummy now that increases their absolute need to find someone and find that
someone RIGHT NOW! Another loud creel echoes across the hatching ground as
they rush forward to head butt someone right down. Alasse is that victim who
gets a sticky head into the stomach. They’ll continue on to walk right now
over if she isn’t fast enough to move out of the way. They have caught the
scene and now this Endless Night Hatchling knows exactly who they want. The
dark blond young teen is grabbed wildly.

Lunasidhe's… well. One might call her possessed. A fey gleam enters her
eyes, dangerous, terrible, perhaps, given everything around them when
she murmurs, "So are you," not nearly quietly enough to go unnoticed as she
reaches out one hand to brush against Ligeia's arm. Tag you're it.
Luckily the look clears from her features quickly, nose wrinkling with an
impish grin because man, sometimes you gotta make fun of the madness lest
you fall to it. Or something like that. Damahra isn't the only one unnerved
by Alasse's downfall - Luna pulls Padjma along with her just a tad as she
leans down to tuck an arm under the equally-tall woman's. "Up with you now.
Don't need you losing any parts." Especially since that sounded like another
- albeit adorable - beast joining the frey. "Huh?" This to the questions
about just what's happened over there. "Blue?" Squint. "I can't see sh—" Syne isn't
the only one nearly swearing.

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

Arabian Nights Desert Blue Hatchling
Multiple shades of blue cover Kadixenth from the tip of his short stubby
muzzle to the tip of his long and very skinny tail. The way the blues
combine he could easily disappear into the shadows of the night sky. Shades
of cornflower blue and sapphire blue move in crazy, random patterns from the
neckridges to cross over and completely cover his right wing. Across his
back three more shades of sapphire, cobalt and as dark as midnight blue
mingle in dappled colors to cover the left wing down to the lower back. From
there the colors lighten up gradually until the very tip of the tail is a
pale cornflower blue to match the lower neckridges. His whole head is the
darker midnight. Being on the smaller scale his body doesn’t seem
proportioned quite equally. His head is larger but his muzzle is smaller
than one would think. When he flares his wings out it is clear that the left
side is slightly smaller than the right wing. His tail seems much longer and
skinner than normal on a dragon his height.

Sleepless Sentry Egg shifts side to side. The low visibility combined with the
dark exterior of the shell easily conceals its machinations as its
inhabitant grows restless.

Ligeia registers further touch with another spate of hyperventilation.
Thanks Luna.

Talisyn reaches for Damahra even as she lets go, then drops his arm hurriedly
before it can become a target for curiosity - or ghostly hunger. "Alasse,
are you okay?" He'd come and help, but he's still got Ligeia, and apparently
there's something prowling out there. He caught a flash; the girls, it seems
saw more, and he twists in place, trying to pinpoint anything to help him
figure out what's going on around them. It doesn't work. This time at least,
the oath is internalized, even if the air around him is sizzling with the
strength of that unspoken word.

It's Definetly Not A Hatchling Under A Sheet Hatchling isn't sure what
happened, one moment comfortable and happy in a great new home, the next in
the middle of an overheated mess? Moping forward, it's not very fast, chonky
body plomping along and dissipating the fog as if it brings good news of
things much happier than all this. Maybe it's simply the size of this
behemoth. Whatever fed that egg is made of solid stuff as this hatchling's
belly slides along the ground as it walks. At least if you have to move out
of the way, you can?

Lunasidhe would mwah Ligeia's way if not for the dragonet's head going right
for her friend's soft underbelly. "Ohhh no you don't, you little—" Bleepity
bleep bleep bleep. The execs aren't going to like this content.

Sleepless Sentry Egg begins to rock faster. Whatever hides within the barren
shade of a shell is tired of waiting. Are your ears deceiving you, or do you
hear a frantic scratching sound from this ovoid? Internal pressure finally
pays off as cracks begin to form and spread at the base, with bits of shell
splintering and falling away.

Kallum quickly recovers from his little run in with the unknown hatchling and
leaps to his feet, giving himself a quick once over to make suer that he is
still in one piece. He winces at the Damahra's shrieks, almost wishing he
had some kind of ear plugs. Just as he starts to regain his composure, he
finds himslef flat on his back, again. This time, however, he is astonished
to find not the burning hatching grounds around him, but explosions and
amoke and scorching hot metal. Did he just die? As the scene changes again,
and then fades back to reality, Kallum— no, Malk'm— realizes he is being
dragged away by his robe. Huh. Guess he hasn't died just yet. "Let me go,
Jageroth!" Malk'm is perfectly capable of walking on his own, thank you!

From within the depths of the sands, Pure Cerulean Blue egg rocks violently in
several hops that result in a slow roll away from its previous spot. One
more twitch before it falls suddenly still.

Alasse does not look in the least bit chagrined when she pulls herself to a
half-standing crouch. She looks even paler, now, twitchy and shaken, about
to join Ligeia in her void-staring. Maybe she's already there? That flash of
steel and a sandal lands near her, and well. That, my friends, is the
sound of a candidate trying not to barf, and then, well. There's a hatchling
going over her to their own. Maybe she ought to have stood up fully? The
candidate goes down in a groaning heap and comes up swingin', Damhara and
Luna's cajoles are maybe something she should have listened to quicker, huh?
FIRST BLOOD, dragons. The look on Alasse's face says she doesn't want to
draw blood
, she just wants to maybe faint. A little. "Ow." Beat. "What's-

Ligeia tries another look to the galleries once she's pulled herself together
- and, sorry Talisyn, but she's really squeezing your hand, hatching-buddy.
She has to catch her breath and force it to something calmer and steadier,
but that's not saying much at this point. But- wait. Is that a name? "A
not-ghost Impressed," she breathes, relieved.

Shixen is being pulled out from behind Ligeia and out in front of her?
NOOOOoooooo… He squeeks, again, only to positively shriek when Damahra
screams, "What happened?" Okay. He can deal with having an arm around him.
This is super scary, okay! And then there are talons flashing just beside
him and he positively clings to the girl beside him. More than he
already was… "What was that?!" Okay. So he's probably not following proper
sands etiquite, but still… Then, grabbed! Grabbed and… "Kadixenth?" Huh?
He's hesitant, just for a moment, to let go of the girl he's clung to. Then
he falls to his knees and wraps his arms around the gorgeous blue that's
grabbed him, laughing, "Ien, huh? I like it!" He nods quickly, "Of course
we'll get you fed." He grins, "And play after." Thanks for the protection,
Ligeia. Or whatever.

Pure Cerulean egg shivers forcefully from where it stopped with one long
jagged crack nearly dividing the egg in half though no hatchling emerges

Sleepless Sentry Egg has waited long enough, the constant shaking and
scratching have destabilized the shell, and with a SMACK, it lands on its
side. With no small struggle, the dragonet presses its way upward and
squeezes through the fissure created by the fall until the rest of the egg
gives way around it, unleashing it upon the world.

Final Spectre Hatchling
An immense shadow of a dragonet, this wandering soul stretches upward, head
and shoulders placed imposingly above everyone. Entirely juxtaposed, it's
unwise to look away from this young dragon even as the natural urges to turn
away from such horrors demand action. Light plays tricks along the edges of
a tapered muzzle, lips tightly wrapped around barely concealed white teeth.
An iron jawline is cut with muscle and pulled taut around elongated upright
eye ridges that narrow along the side of the head and come to a point
appearing to all the world to look like perked ears. Draped in a fine mist,
it's hard to make out specific features, only quick glimpses of limbs
straight and lean ending in spike-like talons. Darkness ripples around a
deep barreled chest, with scarcely enough hide, stretched over a tight
skeletal torso where high withers meet tightly tucked wings. Granted,
preternatural foreshadowing this creature's appearance foretells grave and
terrible things.

Talisyn hmms. "We presume they're not-ghosts," replies the harper-Candidate,
but he recognizes the young man's voice, and despite himself, a faint smile
curves his lips. "Kallum, I think." Under normal circumstances, he'd
probably be offering congratulations on Impressing; right now, he's a little
distracted. More so than he was. There's flashes everywhere; tails, eyes,
talons. Sandals. "And Shixen." For being so nervous, he sounds calm. Too
calm. Anything might make him scream.

Damahra has decided there is far too much going on. Particularly as Alasse is
nothing about an obstacle for a hatchling as it goes for another candidate.
"Oh, shards, are you ok.." She whispers, hands covering her mouth, staring
at Alasse in shock, before turning to stare at where the wraith - ok, blue -
ended up. And its only then that she seems to remember there are many more
eggs and she slowly pivots back towards the center of the sands.

The Phantom Scout Hatchling paces inteh mists. The swirls might reveal its
indecision as the humans seem to regroup to varyign degrees. Head lifts,
sensing somethign, an undercurrent which connects as *just right*. Suddenly
it revs up and charges forwards. The time for passive scouting slips and
something requires immediate action. Drawn to a sizzling strength the
hatchling barrels forward and and doesn't bother with the breaks as the two
collide, talons flashing and wings wrapping determinedly around the chosen
human. Hello, mine!

With a triumphant cry it seems that the The Phantom Scout Hatchling has found
its partner at last and impression is made!

Language of the Pilot Green Hatchling
Small in stature this lady green is no less elegant a specimen of her species.
Olive green hide paints her from slender muzzetip to tailtip and everywhere
in between. The slightest variations in hue in irregular large patches like
camouflage break up what might otherwise be a dull coating. Small head is
wind worn smooth by the rushing winds that have even worn her headknobs down
to more conical soft points. Slender arcing neck is studded by worn emerald
ridges which fade into slender back before resuming along the extended
length of her sensual tail. Narrowed chest is deeply curved from which
slender arms sprout that along with suggestively curved hindlegs support her
frame when she is grounded from her true element. Wings extend from her body
as an essential tool which speak in a language all their own as she streaks
through the skies. The supporting bones are long and thin and hardly seem
able to handle the membrane stretched between them let alone carry her into
the skies. Yet no better wings could a pilot wish for, the long narrow
expanses providing great agility and elegant bursts of speed. Her body hue
carries into the fragile looking structures but are marked with circuit like
patterns in a lighter green hue. Circles, some within other circles are
connected by slender branches that break outwards only to end in a pooled
dot. They are certainly her most striking feature.

Padjma all but stumbles forward with Luna, gray-green eyes shifting briefly to
run a horrified look over Alasse. "Are you okay?" she chimes in, even as she
frowns in the direction of Kallum's call, then again toward Shixen's. "Not
ghosts, " she confirms unnecessarily, wiping her free hand down the side of
her robe.

The cracks grow upon the mountain guardian's shell. It is not long until the
egg can no longer contain the occupant urgently seeking to get out. The
shell slips down the back of its sandy wallow and into a thick bank of mist
from which a horrific CRACK can be heard. The creeling wail of the hatchling
that has clearly escaped its confines follows immediately in a spine
chilling combination that only heightens the ghostly flicker of wingsail
which is made out in the mists.

Messenger for the Dead Hatchling
A tangle of limbs sways deconstructed behind a thick bank of mist. A roiling
spot of color that emerges is the deadly beat, like Rukbat's rays, of a
starved eye that breaks through the shadowy silver veil. In fact, it is so
bright that the rest of its features fades in comparison to the focus upon
that one hungry point. Vague outlines of a hollowed skull with haunted hide
stretched in silvery mist gray wrap about a delicate seeming head that
tapers off into large flaring nostrils which stir the cloaking mists with
deadly intent. Long and serpentine the rest of the form teases to be in the
flickers of darker hue slowly making their way out from these shadows. The
flicker of the sand's irregular lighting is not helping. Though it might
lighten the mood for enstretched spars take on an ethereal prism of hues
upon newborn damp wings. The only problem is the rainbow colors filter I
multiple places so that this one seems to have not arms and legs but three
series of wings upon its stretched body. Surely that must be a trick of the
light as tapered muzzle points skywards and emits an unholy creel.

Ligeia is so very, very very distracted now, especially with her meat
fellow candidate being whisked off to a life of riderdom.
"See," is turned to Talisyn, her voice shaky with further relief, "also
not-ghost. We wouldn't be able to hear ghosts unless were were ghosts." She
doesn't make the rules here (except she totally is, in her head). That frees
up a hand, though, which is offered to any candidate around (pls no baby
dragon bites).

Lunasidhe, well. She's a little busy fussing over Alasse and that FIRST BLOOD
that's been drawn, but. Congratulations seem to be in order, and so they are
given, though perhaps with a shred less heart than could be put into it.
Under the joy at the realization of two bonded pairs - potential future
patients finding their lifemates, if nothing else - there’s also a multitude
of concern. Whether it’s at the nature of this whole nasty affair or the
uncertainty of their future, it’s hard to tell. She holds strong regardless,
even as another seems to find its place in the world. She's too busy trying
to see what damage has been wrought. "And yet somehow I'm not comforted." By
their apparent realness, she means. It clearly doesn't mean much, given
the sounds they keep making.

It's Definetly Not A Hatchling Under A Sheet Hatchling is plodding, stopping
several times and dithering over the horrible things that brought it to this
place. Each step takes all the strength it has, nose moving toward a dark
brown-haired girl with piteous glances of deep yellow eyes. Everything about
it says, 'are you, my mother?' But no, this person doesn't pass the test,
and it must continue on the quest. A glance back sends the prominent figure
into a panic, and it plip-plops forward in search of a hiding spot. It's bad
when even the dragons are worried about the other dragons.

Talisyn would apologize to the ladies depending on him for protection. He
probably should. It's the right thing to do. Unfortunately, he's in no
condition to determine right from wrong - or anything from anything. His arm
is torn from Ligeia's, his feet skidding backwards on the Sands as arms
previously claimed by Candidates now fold around a hatchling determined to
stake her claim. "Woah, woah, chill out, Qherakketh," he stutters. "I'm
right here!" He eases her down, kneels on the sands before her. "I'm right
here," T'syn repeats more softly, his voice full of wonder.

Final Spectre Hatchling emerges from the tiniest of holes, body defying
reasonable rules of space as it stalks forward, shaking its tail to flick
off any remaining pieces. A system check is done, toes wiggled, tail
wiggled, the dark head turns cocking and examining its own form. The lack of
light inside the eggs means this is its first time, a growl of approval as
it seems this hatchling approves of what nature granted it. Lowering down, a
deep sniff of the ground is taken, body crouching as this youngling stalks
forward in the dark. There are moments where the lights flicker, and you can
see it on the sands but look in the same spot, and the enormous visage is
GONE. How does something that big vanish? Without notice, the blackened soul
rises up, wings mantling as it attempts to JUMP above the fog and spot its
quarry. BOING.

Pure Cerulean Egg gives no more warning as blue egg shards flying every
direction to expose a damp, goey and now sand covered hatchling.

Ghosts of the Dead Hatchling
This larger shaped dragon baby is all wings and limbs that simply won’t stay
still. Egg goo clings to the hide. Sand clings to the long tail thrashing
against the sand. Movement in the low lighting and low fog only seem to
obscure the hatchling way too much to even begin to guess.

Padjma doesn't exactly snort, but — "Why would you be, " she mutters in reply
to Luna, "specters can't harm us. Real talons, however." And then there's a
little gasp for that flash of horrific-looking hatchling. "I don't remember
it being like this the first time." It's almost thoughtful, save for the
quaver that presents itself at the end.

Alasse is fiiiine, just fine, says the maybe a little bloody smile. Oh. Hey,
faces bleed a lot. Alasse's smile turns to a scowl, sandy hand slapping up
on some sort of not-awful remnant of- Kadixenth? Maybe? Or perhaps
Qherakketh, behind her now with Talisyn- T'syn. Well, she won't begrudge him
it later, but now she's wincing and grumbling, haunted by the spectre of a
dragonet at the corner of her vision. What's that? It looks fell and grim,
and this candidate absolutely does not want to tussle. "S'fine, don't worry
about it." She waves her free hand, shaking sand out of her hair and turning
a very wary look across them before she squints at the new rider
who's closest. "Faranth. Look at that." Wonder, certainly, too caught up in
the moment to remember anything like y'know. Congratulations.

Ligeia is about to say more and then Talisyn is stolen from her and her
hands, both freed, fly up to her mouth in a soundless squeal. Also, she's
feeing mighty betrayed all of a sudden and with her best hatching-buddy
being absconded with, she looks around desperately for some other safe
haven. She settles on hugging herself, eyes nigh permanently widened as she
looks into the flickering gloom. "How many are out there?" Does anyone

Damahra has lost her protection. Just like that, Talisyn is gone, and there is
a gap to one side of her - one clearly large enough for a young dragon to
take advantage of. A hand reaches out for Ligeia, making a grabbing motion
as she looks for some replacement for their recently claimed classmate.
"Where did she even *come from*."

It's Definetly Not A Hatchling Under A Sheet Hatchling stumbles forward into
the light, revealing his bronzed color. After wandering the sands aimlessly
for a short time, he arrives in front of a frightened young man hiding under
his robes with a nose bump of affection. Stumbling backward, the boy starts
to cry, first in fear but eventually in awe as he wraps his hands around the
fat neck and says, "Suzalith, I'll definitely get you something else to eat.
He says I'm S'bid now." A close examination of the chunky bronze may mean he
will soon get to skip a few meals, not today though, as Oddisa heps the
happy new pair off the sands.

Malk'm finally regains his footing as Jageroth reluctantly releases him. He
calls over his shoulder to anyone who might care, "All good here. Just a
little disagreement with Jageroth about who's gonig to be in charge."
Apparently he did Impress? The young hatchling jumps behind Malk'm and gives
him a sharp shove toward a weyrlingmaster. GO! "Alright, alright! We'll go
get some food," Malk'm mutters as he finally gets himslef in gear toward the
exit. At least he hopes it's the exit. How does Jageroth know?!?

Ligeia's self-hugging persists, but one-armed; her other hand grabby-grabbies
at Damahra's and locks in nice and tight. No longer forever alone! But, if
her luck holds, then her newfound hatching-buddy will probably be ripped
from her soon enough. "…I don't even know. What is this even."

The shimmer of metal flickers in a pool of dying light kissing the queens
consort egg. The protective pool of reddened bronze hovers over the
dominating gold before both fade to luscious cream. Simple and yet elegant
it will exist for not much longer, its brief voyage in life about to come to
an abrupt end. For now the party continues oblivious to coming fate and only
little shivers hint at what can not be avoided.

Lunasidhe; put upon. "Oh great." Her gaze has jerked away from Alasse by a
sharp motion in the mist, voice a hard sotto voce as she notes how high it
leaps. "They're starting early." There's a warble to her voice, as though
she's halfways between hysterical laughter and puking, or maybe both because
that would honestly fit the theme, if only her head could rotate a good 360
degrees. "I've never seen anything like this," she mutters back to Padjma,
head shaking. "Countless hatchings since I started this and—" And she's
never once been scared of impressions, even as Talisyn - no, T'syn - is
utterly claimed. "And I've never been afraid like this." There's small
comfort to be found in the rolly pollies and the comedic nature of some
things, but somehow it just isn't enough. Alasse gets a dubious look, but
Luna leaves well enough alone.

From nowhere…or did she just emerge from the fog. Ashwi starts gathering
newly impressed weyrlings and their dragons. "This way..this way. We have
food for your new friends." this will be repeated for each new rider.

Ghosts of the Dead Hatchling lays on the hot sands for several moments before
clamoring to their feet. Stretching out their wings they use the dim
lighting and fog to merely watch their prey. So many white shapes. But there
is only one for this hatchling. Ghosts of the Dead hatchling struts like
everyone is watching. Within the shadows flickering across the sands the
sandy, sticky hatchling can be seen strutting with grace. With STYLE! Mostly
silent. A MERE SHADOW to watch out for.

Messenger for the Dead Hatchling creels again, lonely, needy, huuuungry!
Rainbow reflectios glint as it begins to slither from the shards of its egg
towards the remaining ghosts of the sands. Can it be so basic as these white
clad offerings left to it? Deep breathing can be heard along with the sush
of sand as it slides on its belly arms and legs uncertain, or are those
additional sets of wings that help to propel it ever closer to its offers.

Alasse may or may not be doing a little warbling and squeaking herself, at
this point, but look. This is wild, y'all, and she's all but crawling
out of her skin with any number of VERY STRONG emotions. Mostly not-so-good
ones, also, but that's neither here nor there. She's got candidates to watch
out for! Fear not, Alasse is large and absolutely not in charge, but she
will try to stick herself in between the smaller'uns and danger. Just as
long as that only takes one hand. "You mean to tell me they're not all like
this?" The candidate ventures, because look, she just knew this was how
it was going to go. SCARY. "I don't know how- I. Are there still any eggs?
There's so many sounds…"

Ligeia has forgotten to bounce in place and this is a problem, because her
feet are heating up uncomfortably. She starts again, struggling to catch
sight of further movement. "Are there two out there? Three?" None? None
would almost be her terrible luck, frankly, with the fickle lighting and fog
playing tricks on all of them. It means she's seeing things.

Padjma breathes, "Me either. Even leaving — " But she catches herself, a
shiver traveling through her frame that probably translates through that
hand-hold. "I don't know about 'all, ' but the last one I was in was
certainly not like this. Nerve-wracking, yes, but not — " Not full of
grim, grinning, ghosts.

Damahra slowly turns in place, unwilling to abandon her hold on Ligeia's hand,
before slowly shaking her head. "I.. I don't know. I think 4 not-ghosts have
impressed. Maybe. Or well, maybe some were ghosts." Who knows.

The queens consort egg jerks suddenly, as if its been struck by something
beneath the sands. If an egg could leap upwards this one seems to. Not
nearly enough that it comes completely out of the dark sandy wallow but
enough that as it settles back something has clearly changed. Now the eggs
rolls, writhes as if seeking to heal itself from the dappled line of cracks
that run on one side.

Final Spectre Hatchling bounces along, revealing itself self and then
crouching below to remain hidden. Like a game. Up once, down once. Never in
one place simultaneously, it may appear to be everywhere all at once and
nowhere, depending on how good the looker's eyes are. Long in gate, it
arrives on one side of the circle, giant head lurching out from literally
nowhere to come to a fingers width from a gangly black-haired girl. Red eyes
deeply examine her, her nostrils flick, taking in the scent and opening its
mouth as if GAGGING. All razor-sharp teeth on display, the gesture is both
rude and terrifying all at once as it struts off into the dark.

Ligeia keeps that grip on Damahra's hand cling-wrap tight. "The one, the other
one, um- our ex-hatching-buddy. Oh. And- yeah. I think that's right?
Four?" Wait. How many eggs were there again? Suddenly, she's trying to do
math and it's not going well. … and then the gagging begins. "… is
someone throwing up? Seriously?" No judgment, but man. That's some bad
luck, if true.

Messenger for the Dead Hatchling moves in the shifting mists light, a
nightmare of stories haunting the sands as it draws near to the candidates.
The slithering serpentine body slowly casts off the clinging mists and
rainbow prisms where light dares to caress newborn damp hide. There is a
final step, of ebon talons that are more than covered by the black hatching
ground sands. Indeed it is the first toke of her actual being as she pounces
onto one of the candidates and comes into clearer view. Alabaster teeth
flash and tear at white cloth which quickly becomes a bloody mess to the
shrieks of the candidate and her two conspirators. Heads comes up, shaking
her head which splatters bloody bits all over and then swallows a good chunk
of meat, sure to fuel the horror stories of future candidates upon the
sands. At least until a rather strained voice calls from beneath the little
green dragonet. "Chidith, GET OFF! I'm sorry that's all I could fit under my
robe. I will get you more but you /are/ hurting my legs." As the hatchling
quickly recedes from atop her chosen where real blood begins to seep and
eyes take on a yellowed worried hue those around can get their first real
look at the baby dragon. Her hide is covered in a misty dampness which seems
to age the deep forest green of its hue. Multiple pairs of wings seen before
prove to be merely a trick of the light for a count will find the normal two
arms, legs and but one set of wings. She is rather small, and serpentine
sleek with long wings that stretch out. The delicate membranes lighten in
hue as the flickering lights filter through, hinting at deeper patterns
which might be visible when she can actually hold still and isn't dripping
bloody bits from the unanticipated first meal.

Lunasidhe twitches as that creel sounds again in the semi-dark, eyes tensing
as the words of others prompt her to try to make sense of what she's seeing.
It doesn't go great when the first thing her eyes land upon is, "Wings."
Point, and a half-step back. "Do you see all those wings?" Ligeia's 'two
or three' is nodded to, but she's still watching that one hatchling as it
fades out of sight, horror written all over her face before she recovers.
"No," on the subject of hatchings being like this, Padjma's input earning a
nod. "Sometimes they're even quaint." But this is not one of those times.
Her hand tightens again around Padjma's, needing the reassurance, the
candidate's long, lean frame tucked close as she says, "Just don't let go
alright." Because apparently she's going to //need the moral support
the Final Spectre rises from the deeps to confront her, and Luna's heart
leaps into her mouth before— "RIGHT BACK AT YOU, YOU LITTLE—" Sigh. Bleepy
bleep bleep. Padjma will need to hold her back for a second, though luckily
it means she misses some of the gore and horror going on over there.

X'yr strains to see across the ground as the commotion attracts his attention.
"What's going on over there?" he asks worriedly towards what sees to be a
bloodied but still alive candidate turned weyrling under the green Chidith.

Ghosts of the Dead Hatchling wanders among the remaining eggs with a wary eye
across the sands. Those white robed people are still there. Stalking quietly
the hatchling flaps wings silently as they gliiiiide through the fog. Now
you see them now you don’t! Wandering closer now the sniffing is audible.
Almost as if this hatchling has decided to find their lifemate by sense of
smell. Only bits and pieces of the hatchling can be seen in the flickering
lights. A tail there. A wing there. You can’t seeeee meeeeee……silence
falls as even the sniffing can hardly be heard now. Where oh where is this
hatchling lurking?

Damahra whimpers and draws closer to Ligeia. "Did.. Did she just get eaten!?"
She says all in a rush, even as she is turning to hurriedly look towards the
galleries. "Do, do you think we could make it to the edge without one
thinking we were its next meal?" She asks, maybe joking.. maybe not.

Ligeia can't help but laugh the worst, most horrible laugh at the worst
possible moment ever. "She- oh F-" whoops, nope, go to the second word on
the list, "-aranth. They did that. They actually snuck meat under
their robes!" Breathless and hysterical, it's good that she has a hand on
Damahra's, because she's doubled over and wheezing. Not a great look,
but. Also, she's too helpless to stop the other candidate from dragging her
around, frankly. "Sure," is breathlessly giggled.

The cracks have been slowly growing on the queens consort egg. The perfect
cream now speckled with black as the hatching sands stick to where some egg
goo has begun the leak out. No, no its occupant struggles from this mighty
tomb that will otherwise draw it down into the depths from which it shall
never recover. No, in a sudden RIP the egg splits along the cracked line and
the hatchling falls into the watery world of the oblivion mist.

The Silence of the Deep Hatchling
A silent sentinel to the great tragedy of the broken segments of shell now
abandoned on the dark sands, this one carries the mark of its doom. Flecks
of color are found only in the sticky remnants of gold, cream and bronze
shards that dot one flank like a tear into the very soul. Long limbs seem at
times broken in the swirl of mists, what might have been fine sturdy spars
worn down by time and element, drowned in this sandy abyss until it would be
lost to obscurity and legend if it weren't for the flicker of the hatching
grounds lights. These cast revealing light into the darkness, albeit
subsuming to the mists drowning of true colors. The sticking black sands
also help to obscure such that the broken arc of her neck and broad swaths
of sail when they are stretched appear tattered and gray. A ghostly wreck of
a hatchling which bequeaths a reminder of the fate of those who do not
respect the sea.

Alasse seems dubious at her answers — can something this terrifying be
not terrifying? Her very limited experience says no, but come on. "Oh."
A piece of MEAT LANDS AT HER FEET. "Oh. Faranth, it's- it's meat, they-"
Don't faint on me now, Alasse!! She swoons, a little, nearly misses Luna's
tiff with the spectre because she's busy wobbling in absolute sheer horror.
Until Ligeia laughs, and realization comes, and sudenly. "HA." Like a
braying dray, Alasse cackles, because she can't not. There's a dragon
gagging at the smell of poor Luna, somebody brought meat on the sands,
like, REALLY
…laugh it up, fuzzball.

Final Spectre Hatchling wanders aimlessly, nose emerging to push or prod at
anyone of interest before leaving them with nothing more than a snort.
Occasionally the brute reaches down and grabs a piece of cloth from the
robe, tearing it off and carrying it like a canine. A prize for its efforts
before turning with another bounce to take a second look. Without further
notice, it barges forward without thought to the consequences or the fact
that large feet are taloned and sharp. Rising on haunches for a bounce,
there's a momentary loss of balance as the hatchling tackles a barbarian of
a woman straight to the ground. That's going to sting in the morning,
scootching its feet sideways apologetically while still applying pressure to
the poor woman's ribs. Eyes lock, and there's a subtle cock of the head as
the behemoth finds a match.

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

Marauder's Pact Brown Hatchling
Strikingly regal this umber dragon holds his powerful body with an air of
confident distinction. A sturdy frame is swathed in near-black brown,
impossible to distinguish when not in direct light. The depth of darkness
creates an aura of roguish mystery reflected in cocksure posture accentuated
by a copper-lined broad triangular chest and high set shoulders. Atop those
shoulders rest ashen wing spars supporting elastic wing sails of smoky
russet which stretch impressively down his length. Thin membranous sails,
sooty yet voluminous, begin to grow opaque near the leading edge creating a
shimmering cloak of deep carob. Long limbs are balanced precisely with body
length, and a thin, sturdy tail provides expert counterbalance with its
sepia forked tip often curled skyward with intrigue. Designed to move in
silence, wide paws assure equal weight distribution while pike-like onyx
talons provide ideal traction control. Echoing the claim of vast
superiority, a broad elongated muzzle is chiseled and symmetrical, refined
without coarseness or weakness. There is a pull-up at the lips that
resembles a near-constant sneer. Offsetting the smug sense of
self-satisfaction are wide, knowing eyes set toward the front of his skull.
Soft wrinkles of charcoal rim both eyes, trailed on either side of his head
by laugh lines. Faded ebony whirls up heavily exaggerated and pointed eye
ridges building up and together to form sharp peaks. The identical
forward-facing triangles almost resemble erect canine ears perpetually
perked in a state of curiosity.

While X'yr is trying to figure out what's going on, Ashwi is on the prowl.
Stalking over towards that commotion her first job is to check on the
injured weyrling. Waving over an assistant to help she watches them lead the
pair from the sands. Then she turns to the other two friends who also have
meat under their robes. "YOU and YOU." she growls out. "Are. Done. Now!"
grabbing a fistful of robe in each hand she hauls them towards the exit of
the sands where they can collect their things from the barracks and go.
They'll be dealt with more later as she returns to the back of the sands to

Padjma shakes her head, hand tightening about her sands-partner's. "I won't
let go, " she promises, and stays true to her word even if she's left
gaping at the (literal) manner of the dragon that confronts Luna. "Let
it move on!" she hisses, tugging that held hand back toward her. Her head
swivels a little toward the sound of commotion with little Chidith over
yonder, then wide eyes turn back in time to see a large shape barreling for
someone not so far away. "Oh no!" Instinctively, she's going to try to
encourage Luna to side-step away from that meeting with her.

Iwa has gone abit pale, but she's realyl to far to do anythign about anything
at this point. It'd be much more dangerous to go off into the fog where all
that chaotic action is. "Ummm, I'm sure it's not nrealy as bad as it might
look." or sound really. She'll trust the professionals, the weyrlingmaster
team that's handling these things at the moment. That and the healers,
clearly standing by if not already engaged on multiple fronts for this one.
"Dear let's try to time your flight for a summer next time?" she looks up to
the still humming queen who watches non-committally. Sandstorms ain't got
nothin on this.

Obviously In Charge Egg has never been the most patient of the clutch, and
true to form, the moment humming begins, it starts to vibrate. A deep,
ominous chattering sound from within the green shell gyrates rhythmically,
the beast within anxious to emerge.

Ligeia might die here, y'all. She just might. Tears are running from her eyes,
she's got the full snot flow going, and hatching? Don't know her,
apparently, because she's just gone for a hot minute. Finally, though,
she buries her face in her shoulder to wipe the worst of the mess off and
blow out a hooo. Let the fanning commence because ya girl is sweaty and
sticky. Snot-heavy honk-snorts follow, wholly unashamed.

Obviously In Charge Eggs fevered pace increases in tempo, the ovoid dipping
back and forth like a pendulum with the trapped resident shifting to and
fro. Not one cracking noise but sickening crunching, crinkling like the pops
of bubble wrap until every inch of the shell is mushy and destabilized yet
still whole.

Damahra relaxes only slightly as she hears the others, "Oh.. Its.. Its just
meat?" She questions, repeating the words slowly, taking a few slow, deep
breathes to gather herself, shaking ehr head. "ok, maybe we don't have to
run.." And then, the girl at her side is crying, and the panic starts again.
"Are.. are you ok? You didn't get hurt, did you?" She asks, looking around

X'yr spares a glance towards Iwa, amusement flashing in his gaze before he
flickers his eyes towards the sands once more to squint into the foggy

Lunasidhe, defeated by impression. "And… and stay there," would have
more oomph if it weren't, you know, all going down quite like this.
Emotion breaks over her face in waves, what should be excitement
becoming much more like terror before she shakes herself and makes herself
look away as Padjma drags at her hand. "Listen, that was just rude, as
if we aren't struggling enough over here…" And as if to make matters
worse, there's labored breathing somewhere behind them, huffing and fanning
from somewhere she just can't see, and it's driving her mad. "I want all of
this to move on. Tell me it's almost over. I can't even see the eggs
anymore, if there's any left." But oh, she can hear one out there, and
it's unsettling, to say the least.

Ligeia flaps a hand, "No, no, I'm good. Just- I seriously- who does that."
Those girls, that's who. "I'm fine. Sorry, sorry. Just, ughhh. My
stomach hurts now from laughing." And she's still fighting the giggles, but
she'll squeeze Damahra's hand reassuringly. And, look! That's the good
hand - it's dry!

Ghosts of the Dead Hatchling is growing frustrated now. This first tactic of
smelling isn’t working. Letting out a very loud and unhappy CREEL of pure
anguish the Ghosts of the Dead Hatchling charges full force towards any
candidate they are close to. Claws reach for Ligeia, racking down her arm if
the black haired candidate doesn’t move fast enough. With hardly a pause
this hatchling is whirling around. THERE! THERE IS THE ONE! They rush
towards a fair skinned, fair haired teenage girl and nearly stumble into
their arms. CATCH!

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Ghosts of the Dead Hatchling has found
its partner at last and impression is made!

Mysteriously Spooky, Kooky, and Ooky Blue Hatchling
Darling! Eyes sparkle in mingled hues beneath prominent ridges on his chiseled
face as his gaze settles on a singular objective. The long taper of his
muzzle ends in a prominent point with large nostrils that flare dramatically
as he breathes. Regal headknobs are positioned just so at the base of his
head where elegantly arcing neck joins. Small ridges dapple along the
topline of this handsome fellow, fading when one reaches the joint of neck
and back where a tailored coat of dark blue in cinched neatly. Broad
shoulders frame a proportionally narrow chest which blends into the
stretched length of his body. Arms are neither slender nor overly muscled,
merely perfect for the one he is ending in long fingers that are expressive
in their pose. Few words are needed but for the movements he makes speak
more than any word could bear. The tailoring of his fine suede suite wraps a
pinstripe of blue down flanks and legs and into his lengthy tail. A tail
which sweeps behind him in a long loving arc effortlessly steers him through
the air and curls neatly to his side upon the ground. Of wings supported by
shoulders, the sails sparkle with a mysterious affair. Not that he would
cheat, no he is of singular mind to the one of his devotion. The near
translucent membranes carry only the slightest ethereal hint of existence.
The vaguest misty blue-gray swirls sparkles with diamond highlights to bring
treasure to that which he most adores.

Obviously In Charge Egg can't stand much longer. The ruined shell has begun to
cave inward, pieces falling like the rubble of a ruined city as the titanic
presence obliterates the only wall holding it at bay. Then, with a
nauseating snap, the dragonet's head emerges, the hatchling leaping upward
as the first sign of fresh air, raining shell bits and shrapnel on its
siblings and possibly any candidate standing in firing range. For better or
worse, it's here now and ready to make that everyone's problem.

Death's Most Loyal Servant Hatchling
A timeless otherworldy shade stands cloaked in mist and coated in dark sand
that blurs the lines between myth and reality. Obscurity aids in the
appearance of cryptic long limbs. Each step taken twists the appendages into
monstrous shapes as the shadows themselves have sprouted several extra legs
from the side of this ghoul. Blinking is not advised because whatever fresh
shell has been hatched molds and shifts with the fog. One moment a
normal-looking hatchling, wide-eyed and lost among the dither, the next
ginormous bug eyes that bulge and deviate side to side suspiciously upon a
pyramid-shaped head. A glorious deception of circumstance, as no one piece
is ever seen as part of the whole, two wings- or possibly four as each
movement brings a new view. Each new visage is more shocking than the next,
if only because it's impossible to know the truth. Death, after all, can
look like anything.

The Silence of the Deep Hatchling moves fluidly through the mists as if its
used to being submerged. The hungry red glow of haunted eyes can be seen to
draw ever closer to the dwindling crowd of candidates. Those remaining
bravest of the brave to face the few remaining terrors haunting the sands.
The approach is near sandless but for the watery rustle of wingsails you
can't even hear this one take a step.

Padjma grimaces. "I'd tell you it's almost over if I knew it to be true.
There's sound everywhere and — " If she was going to add anything more,
it's lost in the wince for the ear-splitting creels that keep bouncing
around the arena through the mist. She'll give a hand-squeeze instead.

Alasse is back, back again. Here she lies. In the sands. How did she get
here? She doesn't seem to know, for a beat, gaze blank as she stares at
aristocratic muzzle and whirring eyes. A million miles away, the searing
scald of the sands doesn't seem to bother her, and those broken ribs? Pah.
Nothing, compared to the sheer what of this. What is this,
though, even? "Guys, um," Alasse mumbles, vaguely, voice a bare whisper for
once in her life. "He's- Gwansuleth? How…" Did it come to this? Faranth's
aunt only knows. Alasse does not. "You're right about the bandages." Getting
up? Harder than it sounds, though, but there's something to be said for
shock. Automatically, the candidate rises, ignoring the various interesting
wounds she's acquired in favor of staring blankly at her peers. She doesn't
know what to say, apparently, since she kind of. Lifts a hand helplessly.
And stumbles off in the exact opposite direction of bandages and food.
Gwansuleth, of course, is totally fine with this, probably.

Damahra starts laughing - first triggered by Ligeia's own giggles, but then
they continue into almost hysterical ones as she is separated from her
fellow teen, and left to catch the blue that falls into her. Ending up
sitting on the sands, she is stunned for a long moment, before wrapping her
arms around the large blue head in front of her. "Oh Ferahainth…" She
whispers, lingering to press her forehead against his muzzle. "Damar and
Ferahainth.." She repeats his name again, even as she remains glued to him
where she sits on the sand.

Ligeia palms at her face with her free hand to get the rest of the gunk off.
Is she cool? She's cool- ish. Or was. Are those claws?! Yes, yes they
are. Any amusement is quick to evaporate, turning into a human-approximation
of a keening as her arm is raked. Blood is quick to well in the aftermath
and, suddenly, her bellyache is forgotten in favor of the pain in her arm.
"Owwwwwww…" Is it serious? Well, she's got some red on her, but she'll
live. And, oh, look, she's lost another hatching-buddy.

Ashwi hurries after Alasse who seems to be going the wrong way. "Alasse..and
Gwansuleth? This way. We'll get you all fixed up and some food too." she

Toruth lets her humming fade away as the last of the eggs in the clutch
sucessfully hatch. Neck stretches to nuzzle at her mate while the last of
the hatchlings make their way through the mists to find their mates. Iwa
just takes a few deeps breaths as one phase of the hatching end to trigger
the beginning of the end of it all.

Lunasidhe exhales sharply. "You're right. Shells, this is just the worst
timing, lights failing, and the fog, and… and I swear someone's playing
with glowbaskets because… because…" Because she swears these things are
doubling and tripling and quadrupling their limbs just for her, just to
star in some waking nightmare that's sure to haunt her right on into sleep.
"Oh, shells." This as Ligeia keens, and once again it's her leading poor
Padjma into the ever-dwindling frey. "Are you okay? I can… I can…" Her
look of apology is sick and sincere as she releases Padjma's hand to tear at
the long-long bottom of her robe, shredding off a piece of fabric to offer
up to at least wipe away the blood. "It'll be alright. It has to be
alright." Though maybe she's just reassuring herself now.

Death's Most Loyal Servant Hatchling is out, FINALLY. Unwilling to wait
anymore, it springs forward and darts with unimaginable speed. MOVE AWAY.
Several candidates are thrown aside. There's no retreat, only strategic
forward as it blasts forth through the dark. There's no way this is a
newborn creature. Each movement is far too practiced. Anyone who doesn't get
out of the way will be made to, looking upward and HISSING defiantly at
anyone who dares to impede progress. One look at the sorry lot left has a
screech of impudence, stomping a foot loudly and angrily before darting
forward and snapping in the face of a small boy. Regaining composure, this
hatchling stands up straight at walks with practiced poise, eyes narrowing
over each person left. DECISIONS.

Haijiventh has finally stopped his low level humming several impressions ago.
He watches with slow whirling eyes as so many of his babies maul….err,
find lifemates among the whiteclad beings. He returns the nuzzle of his
mate. They did good. They did so good.

Ligeia blows out a wavering breath and peeks at her arm, squinting at the
damage between the fanning of fingers over it. "It's- um. It's not too bad,
really," is trying to reassure herself as much as Luna. "But thanks,"
because she'll take that offered fabric to wrap it, only to fold forward and
rip a section of her own robe off to add to it. "They're shallow but, um.
Bleedy." Bait. She smells like bait. "I don't hear as many out there
though." Is that good? Bad? Oh, wait, no, that hissing sounds bad.

Alasse knew that. Yep. She knew that. "Of…course. Um. Yes." Trying to
sound like you've got your crap together while you are absolutely not crying
for reasons that you. Can't quite figure out (uh, maybe all those
). Gwansuleth absolutely does not make a noise like a snicker as he
follows his own off after Ashwi. Noooo.

Padjma hurries behind the dragonhealer toward Ligeia, wide-eyed as she gets a
glance at the younger candidate's arm. She doesn't even notice that she's
hands-free, the hand that was being held still extended where Luna released
it. "You're sure?" she presses for 'not too bad', hand beginning to lower
toward her side with a long exhale.

Another assistant weyrlingmaster hurries towards Damar and Ferahainth. "This
way. This way. There's food."

Lunasidhe, deed done and nod given to Ligeia as the candidate adds a scrap of
her robe to the lot, finally takes a moment to process. Damahra is gone,
Alasse is gone, and all she can do is stare after them for a moment. The
time has clearly passed to offer congratulations - that will simply have to
be work for her future self. "Good." It's belated, that word, drawing her
focus away from wandering candidates-turned-weyrlings to focus on their
dwindling group again. "I'm glad it's not too terrible, though shells, the
way they're behaving." This as a dragon snaps in a boy's face, Lunasidhe
flinching and stepping forwards as though intending to interrupt again. She
stops herself, but only just, voice of one girl or another anchoring her
in place. "Neither do I. I don't know if that can be trusted, though."
Chances are very good that it can't.

Ligeia rubs her bloodied hand off on her robe and puts on a smile for Padjma
when she draws nigh. "Yeah, yeah. About as bad as falling for a feline belly
trap." So: yes, all the bleedies, but nothing deep. Wrapping her arm
one-handed while watching for dragonets is awkward - but doable,
fortunately. "Do you see any more? I heard one a little while ago." The lack
of sounds is… concerning.

Damahra finally manages to get to her feet at the urging of the
Weyrlingmaster, and slowly makes her dazed way off to the side, one arm
still draped over Ferahainth's neck, making no move to break contact.

Death's Most Loyal Servant Hatchling retreates back, a dark spot hiding the
vessel of death as it contemplates the options before it. Any good battle
plan needs time, and death is not impatient. Why be in a hurry when you are
guaranteed to win? One red glowing eyes warn that it waits on the outskirts,
following each figure back and forth. Two with black hair, one with brown.
Pausing, the creature rudely closes its eyes, becoming invisible as it leaps
upward, landing ATOP, the curly black haired figure who is flinching. If
you're going to flinch, you need something to flinch ABOUT. This is an
expert in the field, and whomever it's landed on is sure to have a MASSIVE
headache tomorrow.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Death's Most Loyal Servant Hatchling
has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Destiny's Reluctant Mercenary Green Hatchling
In every generation, a champion emerges, built for battle and prepared for
anything. This wiry-toned warrior was born for combat from the tip of her
moss green nose to the forks of her broad tail. Nothing is wasted, a
fastidious expenditure of flesh with a short slanted yellowed olive face.
The color is broken up into semicircular fan-like shapes that bear a
striking resemblance to scales. The near reptilian scalloping continues past
an ample set of horn-like eye ridges that do not detract from the
streamlined head and neck. Compact forelimbs are straight out of a
mechanic's dream as earthen lime hide wraps fluidly around sharply angled
elbows. The lower limbs strikingly variegate as vivid chartreuse teardrops
are stamped in perfect tessellation all the way to wide grounded paws. She's
a final boss fight, with an ample chest of steely polished citrus, the color
deepening to vivid bronzed emerald over well-sprung ribs, the chain mail
pattern creating a camouflage that's a grave injustice to the rest of the
world's creatures. This is the girl with all the gifts the degree of raw
strength on display peaks as tarnished copper expertly molds into sizable
wingspars, high set upon a sloped laid back shoulder they're mesmerizing as
the corrugation creates a vivid trick of light. When fully open, the
differing levels of transparency in her expansive sails produce the
appearance of a stained glass window. Compared to that, it's hard to be
surprised by robust, rounded haunches and malachite talons that are frankly
a zealous degree of overkill. If any dragon needed a warning label for the
uninitiated, it's this one.

Padjma shakes her head; "I don't see any — " and then she's all but leaping
away as something much larger hurls toward the cluster of girls she's
in. She's not the one who just got shoved into the sands, but she'll let out
a scream anyway, gray-green eyes riveted to the meeting of dragon and

The Silence of the Deep Hatchling has set a course and holds it steady. It
clearly knows what it wants and as it moves it picks up speed in its
determination. Yield to others, is shall not! Reaching the broken line of
what remains she counld steer through but no, this one will push through in
an unerring arrow to its chosen. An older lad who might be attending his
last hatching is brave enough to not step aside. As if he might determie the
outcome of this encounter but no, this one is headstrong and will not be so
easily tamed. Instead the lad is shoved aside with a wing, sent sprawling
and crying onto the hot grounds without pause. Hold the course, steady as it
goes this one draws quickly closer to a group of girls who don't seem to be
paying as much attention as they should. That's alright, attention of one is
about to be gotten, whether they like it or not, fate has arrived. Nose
pushes forward, determinedly ramming into the gray-green eyed brown haired
candidate lest she be distracted by the mere presence of the other hatchling
atop her fellows.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the The Silence of the Deep Hatchling has
found its partner at last and impression is made!

Portrait of a Queen Gold Hatchling
Sweeping grandeur rises in the long arc of her smooth muscled neck. Elegant it
rises as if one could run a hand along the untouched rail before reached the
rounded base of her slender jawline. Wedged head turns for a three quarters
perspective, the finest carving any master might produce down the slender
length of her muzzle to smooth pointed tip and softly flaring nostrils.
Timber of finest oak seasoned and treated with a grain so fine that she
blends into a singular golden oak hue from afar. Up close the fine grains
could be traced down into the broad sweep of her chest where railing
spreads, stepping invitingly to her slender arms. The smooth curve of her
body is inset by gilded paneling, the pure metallic tones untouched by time
or weather, as if presented to the world for the very first time, every
time. Muscled legs end in gilded talons, as does each delicate but deadly
finger. A fine scrollwork of iron blends the panels of her body into the
sturdy shoulder and ties down the broad sails on the underside her wings.
Doors open grandly where neck spreads onto her back. The simple wooden
decking falls away into the endless membranes that stretch as far as the
seas. Sunset lit waters ripple softly offering a promise of a bright future,
or adventures to be had over a lifetime of indulgences. The waters tug at
this pristine scene, where upon a longer inspection one finds at the edges
of her being eerie hints of deep watery blue-grays. It might seem a trick of
the light but for the hues persistence in hovering at the edges of her
trailing sails, touching like ghostly fingers along her feet, and finally
just barely kissing the bottom of her tail in a hint to a distant tragedy
unspoken. A final stroke of genius by the artist who has so perfectly
captured the portrait of this lady at the beginning and ending of her

Ligeia is distracted by sudden movement again and- is that a hatchling
tackling a candidate? And is that another candidate impressing shortly
after? Some mental math ends with a pretty straightforward conclusion and
she exhales softly, one hand going to her injured arm. A glance goes to the
galleries and, there, she finally sees what she seeks, but is it what she
wants? Unclear.

Haijiventh bugles in triumph as their young golden daughter finds her mate. «
She's perfect » he nuzzles happily at Toruth. What a proud pappa he is with
a beautiful Gold in the clutch.

Lunasidhe. Lunasidhe is going to have a massive headache tomorrow. She
should never have released Padjma's hand, though there's doubtless anything
the candidate could have done except be in the way. That in mind, there's
nowhere else Luna would rather be. Well. Maybe on a beach far away from
here, martini and book in hand, utterly removed from all this shit but you
. Sometimes, you aren't the one calling the shots. Sometimes, destiny
chooses you. The fight that's balled up in Lunasidhe's lanky form goes out
of her as though snuffed, limbs falling flat, eyes going blank, glassy, and
she might be dead if not for the broken noise she makes, the tears
leaking from the corners of eyes as she's confronted with first herself, and
then, with her. "Tufirath." What's likely a concussion is shoved aside
as she elbows herself up enough to curl a hand around headknobs, pulling the
dragonet's forehead against her own as mystery gives way to understanding
and, "Of course. No. You're right. But I have to" Do nothing. Things have
happened in her brief time away, and Luna
No, Siha, finds she's not
needed in that way after all. Sucking in a hard, wet breath, she squares her
shoulders and surrenders to the better sense of the green at her side as she
drifts towards help and safety, clearly already locked in deep, shared

Padjma — Dahjari might be distracted by that too-close Impression nearby,
but the nose that rams into her sends her into a backward stumble — and her
attention is, at last, arrested. The color drains from her face, only to be
followed by a shaky breath as she regains her footing. "Oh, Esoireth, " says
Dahj tearfully, "but how did you know?" She's laughing, crying, or
perhaps both as they take their first steps together, each no longer adrift.

Toruth rumbles as the last of the hatchlings fid their mates. She has been
stuck here long enough thank you and the moment it's over, a final nuzzle to
her mate and she rears back and launches skywards, swiftly dissapearing
through the skyward dragon entrance. It leave Iwa to swat and spit the dark
sands which were suddenly stirred by the abrupt departure of her bond. "Ugh,
geez thanks." she mutters uder her breath and looks over to X'yr. "Sorry
'bout that. Let's get this done then." lifting the glowbasket nad making her
way tot he remaining candiates to offer condolances and hope in future
hatchings which she tries to assure shouldn't be /nearly/ so terrifying.

Ashwi pushes herself from wherever she was leaning to watch as two more, and
possibly the last two, hatchlings hatch. At least there doesn't seem to be
any more eggs cracking or hatchlings roaming around out there.
"Lunasidhe…Padjma?" she calls softly. "Congratulations…follow me to get
you four settled into the barracks and get some food there."

X'yr smirks faintly, amusement in his gaze as he watches Toruth take off.
"Guess she's done with the sands." which his bronze seems to agree as he
leaps up after his mate. He's hungry too! He has no idea where /she's/ going
but he's gonna go eat. X'yr follows alongside Iwa towards the remaining
candidates. "Don't stress it too much. There's always a dragon out there
somewhere. In the meantime we'll have some great food for a breakfast
feast." he thinks. Or assumes.

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