Sickly Hatchlings at Igen

While the flight itself was rather lackluster, and the 5 eggs that Xanadu's renegade gold Lusiath deposited at Igen seemed small and oddly shaped, there was a bit of rejoicing when they at least began to move, exhibiting some signs of life as their adoptive mother looked on. In the end, however, only 3 of the 5 eggs did hatch - the real surprise however was that one of those that survived turned out to be a gold. With the three hatchlings quite sickly, the hatching was kept quite under wraps, and the weyrlings were kept apart from the others to avoid taking undue risks. While two of the Weyrlings seem well suited for the difficult task ahead of them, sadly it is the gold weyrling who is likely the weakest link.

The young set of weyrlings included:

Out for Blood Green Tavnth Impressed to Alaha, a brown-haired, strong-willed woman nearing her twenty-seventh turnday with a number of her own children spread through the foster system.

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Surging, neverending power, lethal as arsenic and as refined as old lace - this is the Out for Blood green. She is the relentless predator, the perfect stalker, evidenced in the sharp ripple of sinew and wire just beneath her hide. Hollowed and wild are her eyes, smudged beneath with heavy charcoal pockets, evidence of a sleepless hunter. The rest of her is a blanched olive drab minced throughout with whorls of mold-toned green, skin pulled tight over her body. It visibly lacks the rich pigmentation that only comes from the warmth of Rukbat's rays. Indeed, she is rarely one to venture out into the sun, hardly understanding its worship and hating the way its rays bite and chap at the skin. She prefers to stalk the shadows instead, mixing into their depths in spite of her pale form, leaving no trace of her to be found except the hungry red of her gaze. Lamplike eyes hover, poised, eternally prepared to seduce and hypnotize prey into a false sense of security until - shnick- it is too late. Sunshine and sparkles? Not on your life - she's out for blood.

Curdled Cottage Cheese Egg
Yellow and white, with hints of green along valley floors, this poor egg not only looks misshapen but lumpy and groved as well. The sickly coloration of this egg closely resembles curdled milk, with bile colored streams oozing along the shell to pull along the moldy greens that hide in the crevices created by odd looking lumps that seem to inhabit nearly every inch of this misbegotten shell.

Wisps of Wraith Blue Phanth Impressed to R'on (Rion), twenty-two, who was formerly a beastcraft Journeyman used to the perils of sickly young beasts.

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He is 'empty night' personified, a hazy cobalt tone that makes up the bulk of his coloration. Here and there, like spectral trees rising from a foggy lagoon, there are slashes of a darker blue-grey, rising up his paws and reaching across his legs and chest like so many ghostly fingers. Through these phantom hands curl dank tendrils of smoke, or perhaps is it soul-matter itself. Regardless, it winds across his hide, growing thicker and thicker the closer it comes to reaching his throat. Across his black-ice wings, the mist shatters, dusting his 'sails and 'ridges with a layer snow, the kind that hangs untouched for months across the skeletal eaves of a long-abandoned mansion. Composed entirely of ribs and bones, the kindest word that can be used to describe this blue is 'emaciated', though he seems strangely sturdy in spite of his perpetual gauntness. «I am not afraid,» he seems to say, «Death is only one more part of life to face.»

Jellified Gravy Egg
Ugly beiges and awkward browns seem to be glopped in big, awkward blobs all over the shell, the egg looking anything but solid - instead it seems to have a particular lopsided shape to it. Here and there, the browns seem to be more translucent or more opaque, like some sort of sauce forgotten for too long.

Rotting Zombie Gold Zoeyth Impressed to Rochelle, a rather skittish girl who worked as a seamstress and is just past her fifteenth turnday, who often seems to have a hard time simply keeping a thought in her head.

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Unlike the rest of her kind, the sleek, sinewy queens that pride themselves upon keeping up the weyrs, this gold is full of belly, frame alternatingly rounded and concave, almost spindly for lack of strong muscles. Even if well-fed, she is a slave to her gut, always wanting, hunting, needing to need. Though her body shape is improved from from the wraithly ghost of some of her siblings, her color cannot be fixed. She exists in the pale colors of death: mold lacing over old cream, the rotting ochre core of an apple, the sickening yellow-green of putrid flesh. It all mixes and melts across her hide in the most disgusting way, as if all the life was beaten out of her, and only the death is left. Only around her eyes, empty of any real sense of will, is there anything special. There lurks the pale purple of days-old bruises, an impossible color for a gold, but there none-the-less. It is not dull, and indeed stands out from the rest of her, accentuating her craggy brow and unintelligent gaze… and yet it is something. Nothing to hope for, nothing to experience pleasure over, but something just the same, if only there to be a point of interest in an otherwise brow-beaten, mindless drone.

Orange Juice Vinegar Egg
From a distance, one's heart might skip a beat, pleasantly expecting a nice, normal gold egg in the clutch. Indeed, even from across the sands, the ovoid is simple, bright, a cheerful spot in a clutch that otherwise seems rather plain (or just plain rotten). Closer inspection, much like a deep whiff into a long-sealed jug, will reveal all of this egg's lurid secrets. Instead of being strictly amber in tone, it seems to be more of a sickly gamboge, oozing and dripping over a sagging shell. Repugnant olive and mustard strands slither and wrap alternately around the apex, visibly and almost texturally slimy should one touch the area where orange juice was slowly turning into vinegar. Hmm. Maybe its not so golden after all…