Gold Leirith and Bronze Xermiltoth's Eggs Hatch!

Xanadu Weyr - Hatching Sands
A domed ceiling stretches high above the sands, enough open air for a queen and her mate to be comfortable with their clutch. Thin slits of windows around the edges let in a little light, though more of the illumination comes from electric lamps diffused off the dome. The sands are ringed by the dark blue seats of the observation level, the first third exposed to the sweltering heat of the sands but those in the back glassed off for the comfort of those watching.
The circle itself is filled with a mix of red and white sands, deep enough to cover the largest of dragon eggs with ease. To one side, a small door is visible, hidden away behind a platform meant to provide a place for the clutch parent's lifemates to stand during the on goings.

Public Announcement from R'hyn: It's a dark and dreary midnight that finds Leirith and Xermiltoth's eggs wobbling upon the sands! Of course the weather nor the hour decided to be convenient for anyone, but as they say down there in Xanadu Weyr, « YOLOOOOOO!! » (type '+go xaw, ha, ol' to watch the hatching chaos unfold! <3)

ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT DREARY - just kidding. Kind of. It is midnight, and the weather is dreary. It's so dreary, in fact, that the stadium lights seem to be the only source of light to be found beneath a moonless night. Storm clouds weigh heavy and daunting, threatening a downpour at any moment while dragons hum and Leirith yells EVEN LOUDER and Xermiltoth just kind of takes it, probably. With pride. Too much pride. An inordinate amount of pride. DOESN'T MATTER. WHAT MATTERS IS THAT THEM BABIES ARE A-HATCHIN' Y'ALL. They're shivering and shimmying while Assistant Weyrlingmasters and The Weyrlingmaster hisself (WE'RE LOOKING AT YOU, C'CON) are all moving in varied states of urgent haste to propel candidates from cots, to robes, to sands without incident. Leirith simply looks amused that her progeny have, YET AGAIN, chosen exactly The Worst Time to hatch for everybody involved - including her. But Risali is there along with R'hyn looking as if they were both pulled from the midsts of something important (like sleep) and haven't exactly reconciled where they're at, why they're here, or how one utilizes a brush on their hair to make it look as if they didn't just stumble out of bed and know.

Once the humming starts and the Weyrlingmaster machine gets into high gear to gather the raw materials, it's not long at all before Candidates are dispensed and dispersed on the Sands in various states of assembly put-together-edness. All bow as one to dam, sire, and riders before humanity returns in all of its sticky, sweaty, and shuffle-footed glory.

Light as Air Egg moved? Maybe? The fluffy pink and white hues do seem to be aligned slightly differently now, however it still just seems to float upon the Sands.

Arrow of Fire Egg ripples and quakes, almost as though something within the egg were rolling over - and promptly going back to sleep. Five more minutes?

< Galleries >Lalawethikayn bounds up and into the observation level with waaaaaay too much energy for a ten turn old at MIDNIGHT! "Hihi!" she'll greet anyone and everyone as she bounces to an empty watching spot to watch stuff and things GO DOWN!

Tejra knows this path, knows how to walk it, even if her feet have never made this exact trip in this exact place. It's simple, really. Begin at the beginning… and go on till you come to the end: then stop. What could be easier? For all that, stepping on to these sands this time cools the temper that fueled her to get this far. Feet that know they'll never walk this way again, not even in another place, slow, nearly drag, caught in the agony of anticipation that is the place where one wishes time will hurry on allowing events to unfold so swiftly as to grasp only the most important bits and simultaneously yearn to have time stop, to not take those steps that mean trying and possibly— most likely failing, yet again, to find hope fulfilled and dreams realized when all is said and done. Still, one foot moves after the other, with effort, with focus, with design. At least this makes her more graceful, not less, in her bow to dam and sire, in her stepping into the semi-circle. It might also be what's distracting her from realizing that she's just placed herself with Izobet and Andalise for hatching companionship. So, wait for it. That reaction is coming.

Kyszarin straightens up from his bow and reaches out to snag Ligeia's hand, dragging her over towards Kyriel. Why? Even odds whether he'll play protective uncle and keep hatchlings from eating the other young man, or if he'll shove him right out in front of the nearest convienent green and hope for kismet - or at least a laugh or two.

Andalise, head likely not long ago having been filled with dreams of wondrous deeds and creatures that fly as much as anything practical, finds herself sandwiched right next to Izobet and Tejra as the candidates file out to face the moment for which they've been waiting. The perils (and possible joys!) of making this choice are not lost on the tall baker, who is white and wide-eyed by the time she rises from her little bow to Leirith and Xermiltoth. If there's a seeking sort of look for the latter, it's brief; the eggs are the protagonists of the minute at which she stares after reaching up to rub her eyes with a wrist.

Ligeia blows out a breath once the bow's done and the sheer weight of the moment's had a chance to sink hooks of dread and excitement into her gut. Fortunately, her hand is easy pickin's for Kyszarin to catch and she's easily tug-tugged along to wherever the other candidate's headed to. A furrow sets in her brow, hazel gaze fixed on the eggs that are allegedly shimmying and shaking in the relative gloom. "I guess they might as well hatch now, right? Not like I've been getting much sleep these last few days."

Light as Air Egg definitely moved that time - there is no doubt at all, as a sharp crack appears along one side of the egg, a dark shadow emerging from the sickenly sweet shell for just a moment, before it snakes back to the sheltered realm inside the shell.

Kyriel stumbles at first, probably literally from his cot, but he's here with the rest of the Candidates. Nothing like a dose of adrenaline to wake up with! He's in his robe, his hair sleep-mussed and definitely a mess but that can't be helped! As they go through the motions of bowing and moving off, he's casting a wary look to those eggs but also a hopeful glance to those around him. Anyone he knows? And then there's Kyszarin drifting close and he gives a brisk nod; all nerves, but there's a flicker of a smile somewhere.

Wild Tides Egg jumps so much that it leaves its nestled place in the sands to roll and roll and roll until it hits another egg. Then it stops moving completely.

From the barracks where her robe was flailed on and her wild hair pulled back out of her eyes, to the Sands where at least the bowing has become familiar enough to be a point of calmness for Izobet. Don't worry, that's probably not going to last very long. But at least those wide eyes look fascinated and not terrified as they settle into position on the Sands. Not even when she realizes how close she is to Tejra or her partner in positivity, Andalise! "It's happening!"

Light as Air Egg was.. And suddenly simply was not. The pink and white ovoid that existed for all those sevendays upon the sands of Xanadu simply became something else - Something else that was also not a stick - or not precisely. No, what it became was a tangled pile of brown vines that seemed to have erupted from the desert scape of the Hatching Sands.

Dannissin files in with the rest of the candidates, bowing clumsily to Learith and Xermilitoth. She's among those that are a little less put together, her red hair practically a rat's nest and still straightening her robe. She finds a spot a little further away from everyone else and braces herself, feet planted firmly in the sand for as long as she can before the heat makes her shift her stance to seek a little relief while she frantically tries to tame her wild mane with nothing more than her fingers.

Manifestation of the Mind Brown Hatchling
Weaving, winding, whirling - tendrils of sepia intertwine with those of a warmer russet, the vine-like patterning appearing to mingle, to fold over upon each other, until they tangle into a mass that it somehow, it seems, is a dragon. Ebony talons are the dark roots from which the brambles of his body grow, crafted carefully first into each of his limbs - limbs that seem to lack true definition as they support his smaller than average frame, definition that remains absent through belly and haunches, even as the darker hints of umber appear here and there, adding shadows to the tangled thicket. And yet, despite the haphazardness, there is a certain beauty to the patterning, as if the vines were carefully cultivated to curve around his hips, to encircle his long tail, and to sit solidly upon his slender shoulders. Further emphasizing the perhaps planned nature of his body are the crystalline ridges of bone that are spaced evenly, perfectly down the center his spine, so pale as to appear translucent. Smaller crystals, or rather small bits of the pale bone hues, sprout here and there from amongst the trailing tendrils that form the leading edge of his wings, even smaller speckles appearing along each spar where they stretch between the only unpatterned, smooth portion of his body - wing sails of translucent mahogany - carefully planed wood that thins to nothing at the trailing edge. As for all the vines, all the tangled tendrils? They all seem to come together at his head - overly large headknobs, heavy, expressive eye ridges over his faceted eyes, a wide muzzle with dark nostrils and a nearly comically large mouth, the only true break in the briar patch.

< Galleries > Ava is awake, really, she had been in the middle of rotation when the call to disorder came from the dragons, their hums summoning everyone available to the sands. Someone in the chaos had dragged her by the wrist to the event, firmly pushing her down into a seat where she now sits. She gives a little wave to Lalawethikayn, delivering a bit of a sheepish grin before she turns back to the sands. She had never seen dragons hatch before..

Do you think giant Maulra is afraid? SHE'S NOT. She faces impending doom like a champ, not looking in the least bit like every strand of hair on her head got mussed in whatever vague sleep she was awoken from. Whosit. Whatsit. No it's fine, they've GOT THIS. "Which one of you took my left sandal!" Nobody, that's who. Probably. Beat. "Wait- oh, oh my. That's a dragon." REALLY.

Ligeia wiggles her free hand in passing greeting to some of the other familiar faces in the mix, but it's all eyes on eggs in the meantime, with an awkward shift-shuffle of feet and an eventual plucking of fingers at her robe. It's a nice robe. She probably shouldn't be getting it all covered in fingerprints or- something. Fingers tighten on Kyszarin's as well, with a look darted his way. And then: "Oh. Hey, a brown!"

Kyszarin, still gripping Ligeia's hand, gives Kyriel a bright grin. "Relax," he advises. "What happens, happens. There's no reason for nerves." See him? Cool as a cucumber. Not a flicker of nerves. Not even in those storm-blue eyes. What? That glint? Just a bit of laughter. Ha. Ha ha. Oh. "Brown," he murmurs, his attention stolen by the hatchling dumped upon the Sands. "What a handsome fellow, wouldn't you agree?"

< Galleries > Lalawethikayn is all but bouncing in her seats with each movement of the eggs down there,. "OOooh. Aaaaaaah." a few blinks as she leeeeans way forward to see better. "A brown!" she squeals with excitment.

Arrow of Fire Egg definitively cracks this time, splitting straight down that shimmering line that runs around its center. The drama behind the act must exhaust it, for it settles into silence once again.

Kyriel would have attempted to gain the attention of others he recognizes — in Izobet, Andalise and Tejra — but already the chaos and swiftness of the hatching is splintering his focus. Just has his attention is drawn to the eggs, there's the first one to hatch and he sucks in a shallow breath. "You make that sound too easy," he manages to grouse towards Kyszarin around the shaky exhale. See? Almost a laugh! He gives a equally shaky smile to Ligeia.

Tejra's eyes dart away from Wild Tides Egg when the reedy voice of Jaigan a few candidates away cuts the chaos in just the right moment for his disappointed declaration of, "Impossible!" to carry. Red brows tick upward, amusement touching the older(est?) candidate's face for the briefest moment. She is, after all, the sort to sometimes believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast~ The dancer's pale gaze careens away from the boy, following his attention to catch sight of the brown that she somehow missed (missed!). She's not disappointed. Her wild grin is elation, not for herself of course, but for the dragon, the one who made it, who's here, finding his footing. Maybe Jaigan's more correct than he knows, even he might only be upset by losing a bet on first color to hatch. Each dragon is a miracle, after all. Maybe Tej isn't as far removed from the Happy-Dee and Happy-Du— er, the other positivity partner as she likes to pretend~ She still hasn't noticed them though, not even with Izobet's words. Or she's pretending she hasn't. It might be best that way?

Lazing in the Sun Egg rocks gently, questingly, as though seeking those jewels it demanded in the sands around it. Whether it does or does not yields the same result: ensuing silence.

Dannissin grunts quietly in agreement with Kyszarin's comment on the brown now on the sands. She's not awake enough to offer any other sort of commentary.

Manifestation of the Mind Brown Hatchling is an egg! No, wait, that's not right. He's a stick! No, wait, he is not that either. Oh, right, he is a *dragon* - that's what that bead upon the sand had the potential to be, and so that's what he is. He remains in the spot so recently occupied by his egg, looking beyond confused for a long moment, before finally there is some attempt to figure out all these limbs. One leg.. Two legs.. ok, those go underneath him…

Arrow of Fire Egg finally surrenders, the side facing upwards rolling back as though it were a carriage opening to expose its precious cargo… You know, if 'precious cargo' was a brown dragonet the size of a small horse, one that stretches from nose- to tail-tip in celebration of finally getting free of its egg. With one big shake, it flings egg-goo thither and yon, finally exposing the surly little beast beneath.

Find the Way Home Brown Hatchling
Here is a dragon without excess, every inch of him honed, forged, planned with purpose. The dark russet of his hide grips tight to economical strength, musculature prominent without traipsing into the ridiculous, for his is a body built for one thing, and one thing alone: ridding the world of its monsters. He's a handsome beast at least, not in a 'cleans up nice' rather but in a 'dirties up well' sort of way, rugged and liberally streaked with soot. It concentrates in a stripe up his nose, splitting at the bridge to frame both of his narrow eyes, breaking up the faint luster of rare metal that helmets his low brows and strong jaw. This color darkens to ash, both smudged and sprinkled, as it courses down his neck and back, adding texture to the otherwise militaristic precision of well-formed 'ridges and loose, chrome-tipped wings. Legs are powerfully built, forearms strong, thighs bulked, ambidextrous paws leading to long, bladed talons whose colors vary from left to right. Argent slashes cut across his chest, shoulders, and sides, remnants of battles well-fought whose numbers are destined only to grow as turns pass.

Little Yongal has probably never seen anything quite so terrifying as that baby dragon (or maybe THAT one?), just a few yards away. The way he edges ever-so-subtly (not at all) behind one of the taller candidates is uh, coincidence, though. "He's beautiful." The boy squeaks, as the brown very awkwardly tries to figure out where legs go. The answer is ground, but we can't always have it all.

Ligeia blows out a breath and continues the time-honored dance of the white robes, though it's not a particularly energetic version - yet. Give her time. "'Relax' is the worst advice, just FYI," is side-shot to Kyszarin, though her eyes are wholly fixed on the roaming brown, now. Fate has made itself manifest for someone and she aims to see where it goes- except now, there is another. "Oh, wow, look at him. Another brown!" Thus begins the commentary, wide-eyed while she hunts for every detail to devour and absorb.

< Galleries > "Oh!" Ava rocks back from the railing in startled amusement, an infectious grin spreading across her face. "Well, they really make a grand entrance into the world don't they." She mumbles aloud, her voice hummed with delight. Her head tilts to Lalawethikayn , brows raised as another dragon crack free. "Two browns, what color do you think is next?"

< Galleries > Lalawethikayn considers a moment before saying. "Green." she's quite positive on this one.

Andalise is trying hard not to lose her head as the show before them gets well underway, for all that she's reaching to give Izobet a hopeful hand-squeeze now and again once she registers that her fellow ray of sunshine is near as that brambly brown takes the stage. "It's happening!" she agrees with the dolphineer, sparing a little side-eye for Tejra that turns into a fellow smile for the other's elation; it's exciting to be in the middle of it, for once! Dark eyes can't quite settle when there are browns and eggs to be watched simultaneously.

Kyszarin shrugs slightly, his gaze never leaving the first hatchling - at least, not until the second one breaks shell. "I shall laugh," he remarks, "if every dragon from this hatching is brown." Although knowing Kys, he'll laugh anyway. Ligeia's comment draws a grin - just a bit shaky, but only because it's hot, natch. "It's either relax, or end up pulling something because you're tight as a drum." If anyone on the Sands knows the truth of his mood, it's her - the fingers wrapped about her own are gripping tight enough to pinch.

"Ooh," Izobet murmurs when the first of the eggs expells the brown inside of it. "Wow, look at him!" She's probably not even actually talking to anyone in particular. She's just a talker. And there's another one! "Oh, look at him!" Izobet might even clap if she weren't clutching the fabric at her hip with one hand, and holding her other in a fist near her chest.

Another jump from Wild Tides Egg produces tiny fissures with each hop as this egg seems intent to jump its way to the candidates without hatching.

Find the Way Home Brown Hatchling observes all of the goings-on of the sands, the hub and bub and general chaos… and is not impressed. He watches it all with an already-weary eye, gaze slowly - so slowly - swinging up to his dam and sire as though to say 'you present me with this'? What a world, what a world, he seems to think as he shakes himself yet again, this time to shed discomfort from his rugged form before taking his first steps towards those candidates.

Kyriel manages a brief half-smirk when Ligeia makes her comment on the 'just relax' advice, but that expression is swiftly wiped off his features as yet another egg hatches. "Two browns," he reflects on the obvious, but his mind is not working on all pistons here! His thoughts are likely leaning towards 'how to watch out for both' and also keep an eye on the eggs and on the other Candidates around him, and… why did this have to be at midnight?? "Has that ever happened?" he reflects, distracted and belated, to Kyszarin — or perhaps to anyone who overheard.

Tejra has doubtless reminded herself that best behavior is required on the sands more than once for all that she's so nearly thirty turns old and so many of the other candidates here have the bright faces of those the world has yet to do more than nibble upon. AND LISTEN, she's tried. She really has, but when Thogart's unflattering comment (we won't say 'jeer' because Leirith or Xermiltoth might have to eat him and then best behavior just goes out the window) about Manifestation of the Mind Brown is just a little louder than he intended, carrying beyond his knot of cronies to where the redhead still not to distant from the pique that kept her feet moving on her way onto the sands, can she REALLY be blamed for interrupting his beginning, "I don't think" with her own, "Then you shouldn't talk," in a tone that smacks of utter certainty and disdain? Well, even if she can be, perhaps she'll be ignored since Find the Way Home Brown has made his entrance and is surely more interesting than her —picking a fight on the sands lapse.

Exaltation of the Sun egg is just streeeeetching towards its dam, reaching for something sun-like even if - YES, OKAY, SHE'S MUSTARD YELLOW. Way to ruin an eggs vibe, y'all. NOW IT'S GOING TO MAKE YOU WAIT.

Manifestation of the Mind Brown Hatchling finally seems to have figured out that the four leg-limbs are what gets him moving, and he is basically upright, at least for now. Giving a long look at the other eggs on the sands, and then at the white robed things further away, he hesitates for a moment before starting in their general direction, wings sagging in the sand as he almost slithers awkwardly towards the half-circle. The first young man he comes to receives a look and a whimper, before he is moving on, his tail dragging carelessly behind him - a hazard? Probably.

Ligeia utters a soft 'pffft' at Kyszarin, daring to rip her eyes from the roaming souls for but a moment to cut a look his way. "I'm overdue for a visit to the infirmary anyway," she teases, giving his hand and arm a little bit of a swing and sway. "It's been, uh- at least two sevendays since my last visit." That time: a mild burn on her arm from an incident in the kitchens. "And if it's all browns, imagine the story that could be written about that?"

Dannissin is finally starting to wake up, if the way she blinks and finally gives up on finger-combing her hair is any indication. Hands drop to her sides for a moment before she crosses her arms, hands clutching at her upper arms with visible force, and fully focuses on the clutch and two browns wandering the sands. It's not quite a glare, but not far off.

Wild Tides Egg FINALLY decides it's time to emerge. Its Without further ado several large pieces of egg fly across the sands. A large, wet and floppy brown dragon lays sprawled out on the sands.

The M Stands for Mobile Brown Hatchling
At first glance it might appear someone upturned a cup of cold and sweetened klah over his lean brown dragon, a river of caramel and chocolate pouring over his hide. Dark, loamy grounds streak the peak of a large, wedge-shaped head that's almost too big for his body, dusting back over soft-topped neckridges to the tip of his whiplike tail. Nearly camouflaged with the darker browns are multiple greenish stripes, running center from his small headknobs towards the center of his back, right where the wings flare from his broad back and shoulders. Creamed sweetness oozes over a clever, pleasant face and his long, slender neck, splashing over his chest before fading into something darker, and more mysterious. Black and blue twists of color emerge from the tendrils of caramel and chocolate browns to color his wings completely, a manifestation of some inner severity ending in pure black at the very tips of both wings. Despite his overall lanky appearance, strong muscles lay hidden within his soft hide: narrow yet powerful legs end in slightly snarled, pure black talons, mottled shades of heated syrup and that same militaristic near-green disguising the definition of abdominal musculature and the launching strength of his thighs.

If anybody was wondering, C'con's doing just fine. He's standing solidly off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching the candidates impassively. They're up to their usual chicanery, but nobody's getting up to too much trouble, now are they. It absolutely does not look like the midnight hatching has ruffled any of his feathers. Really, isn't this just about par for the course?

Kyszarin glances briefly at Kyriel. "What, someone pull something? Undoubtedly. Imagine being all tense with nerves and some dragon comes charging you? You dive away, and bam! There goes your back." Not the most comforting thought to have when one is slowly being surrounded by… browns. So. Many. Browns. "I was only kidding." And it's this point where even he starts showing off a few nerves, just a bit uncertain with three hatchlings to watch and no Impressions made yet. "After," he promises Ligeia, but his smirk is only half-hearted, and his attention is decidedly elsewhere.

< Galleries > Lalawethikayn was wrong. NO GREENS have emerged. YET! She watches. And waits.

Lazing in the Sun Egg cracks suddenly, harshly, an almost-violent sundering of its flaxen shell. It's your final warning to brace yourself for the emergence of whatever lives within.

< Galleries > "Next one," Ava offers with a bit of a grin, arms folding on the railing she leans while watching.

Ligeia risks a look to the galleries after that third brown has made its appearance, but what she's looking for? Hard to say. Can she even see? A slight shake of her head follows and her fingers tighten a bit on Kyszarin's, then relax, with a brief tensing of her jaw in a forced swallow. "Maybe," is her reply to him, oblique and distracted in turn.

Kyriel shakes his head, somewhat dazed. "No, I know injuries can happen," he quips back, a little hurriedly, to Kyszarin. He's probably not wanting to invite fate, here! "I meant the 'all brown' thing…" And lo and behold, there is the third! He frowns, "We're at about half now?" All three hatchlings are given a cautious glance, but his focus tips back towards the final eggs too.

Izobet's eyes are going to get stuck in that wide-eyed wonder if she keeps that look on her face for too much longer. No one tell her that's basically what her face usually looks like already. "Another one!" she tells herself, practically a surprised gasp, like she has any idea what the color distribution of a typical clutch of six might be. She absolutely does not.

The M Stands for Mobile Brown Hatchling The M Stands for Mobile Brown Hatchling gathers himself with as much dignity and pose as he can muster. After all he totally meant to faceplant the sand as he came out of that too cramped egg. Preening a little bit he first spares a glance to the parents as if ensuing it is indeed okay to proceed. Assuming it is he veers first headlong into a gaggle of girl candidates. He sniffs each of them though clearly none of them are who he's searching for as he moves along away from them. NEXT!

Exaltation of the Sun Egg thinks you've waited long enough - or perhaps it is the one that's waited long enough. Fissures race like licks of lightning across its once brilliant shell, something almost violent in the sudden appearance of ruin over what some might have considered perfection mere moments ago.

Find the Way Home Brown Hatchling can feel the call of destiny - he's getting close. Silvered nostrils lift skywards, sniffing delicately at something upon the air. Hmm. It's not quite a grumble, not quite a harrumph, but a sound of displeasure no less as a scent that was previously strong is now buried by the shuffling of sweating bodies on the sand and the haphazard waving of some child with a batter-wrapped sausage in the stands. At least that he can do something about. No fantastical stands impression for this brown - he gladly cold shoulders them in a very literal sense before padding onward.

Maulra is probably not the only one looking pretty completely baffled. "Are they- are they all brown? Is that…" Beat, wandering gaze takes in the hatchlings as she shuffles antsily in two mismatched sandals. "Normal?" Whether answered or not, the candidate is scooting, maybe pretty obviously, back towards the back of the pack. Don't mind her. Scuse. Coming through. Somebody has her heart set on green, sheesh.

Kyszarin's eyes flick briefly towards the other Candidates scattered about as the browns begin to make their inroads into the offerings laid before them. "With only six eggs, anything is possible," he murmurs to his companions, "but the odds…" Never tell the man the odds. Coughing slightly, he shakes his head, relaxing his grip on Ligeia slightly before he manages to send her to the infirmary before the Hatching's over.

Dannissin takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, "So many browns…" A quick, suspicious glance is thrown at the clutch parents before her attention returns to where it's supposed to be.

Andalise doesn't exactly back away when one of those huge, reddish eggs starts to move, but takes one tiny step backward, darting a look at Izobet with an only slightly higher-pitched, "Um, here, why don't I stand behind you — " Shuffle, shuffle, " — and then you can see that brown over there more easily." Listen, Andy might hope against hope that it isn't obvious how she's trying to stay invisible from whatever's about to emerge from that egg, but she's doing as fine of a job of transparently hiding as one who might have bolted through an entire bazaar in plain view.

Tejra's was-supposed-to-put-a-stop-to-this-nonsense remark to Thogart did not go as planned because he might be ten turns younger, but that just makes him ten turns dumber (or, you know, thereabouts; Tej generally gave herself very good advice (though she very seldom followed it), and therein lies the real variable in the equation). The point is the younger candidate has the gall to speak again. The glare Tej levels on him would, anywhere but Pern declare: 'OFF WITH HIS HEAD!' Of course, this is a hatching and it's Pern so heads generally stay all but figuratively attached to shoulders by and large and so, too, must Tej even if she's only one of many of the mad here~ Madness is catching, if temporarily, when chaos reigns. She's decidedly grinding teeth when she finally, in looking back to find the now three browns on the sands engaged in their various post-shelling activities catches a solid eyeful of Positivity Pal #1. Then, with eerie slowness, she swivels her head as though to simply confirm who she knows (just knooows) must be there on her other side. The muttered, "Of course," is probably not the most flattering words to speak in that moment, but they're not he least, either, and maybe they'll be lost among all the— madness, you know, out there. LOOK AWAY, Y'ALL.

Manifestation of the Mind Brown Hatchling is not particularly good at this whole walking thing.. A small trip and he ends up actually sliding on his belly across the sands. More whimpering and there is a careful attempt to get back on his feet, wings and tail and limbs all sorted once more. It seems, though, to have all worked out in the end however, as he has recovered at the feet of one freckle-faced woman who is paying attention anywhere but at him, and lifting his head he stares at her for a long moment. A long, drawn out draconic sigh-huff, and he shoves his head at her midsection awkwardly and without consideration (or understanding) of the consequences. This is the one.

Ligeia nods a little to Kyszarin, with a sidelong look to Kyriel, then to some of the others that haven't yet been claimed - but the browns seem to be coming closer? "I left some stuff by some of the eggs," she admits in a murmur to her friend, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Not that I think that did anything to cause, uh, this, but." Why is she saying anything at all? She's nervous, that's why. Give her time and she'll start spilling all of her beans.

Xermiltoth returns Dannissin's glance with a deep, wing-ridden shrug. Listen man, if he had any influence over the destiny of these eggs, don't you'd think he'd make them all in his image? Imagine it. Bronzes for days. BRONZES FOR MILES. The horror.

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

The M Stands for Mobile Brown Hatchling zig zags his way through white robed obstacles. Nothing here. Nothing there. So many females. Who ordered all these females? Not that he's complaining but how can he find THE ONE with so many to look through. Brown haired candidate there…no. Not the one. OOoh., he rushes over to one with black hair. You know the one in white? Nooooope. Not her either. Dejected he lets out a sad bugle of sadness.

Dannissin's hard look softens at The M Stands for Mobile Brown's sad cry, shoulders slumping as she takes half a step forward before catching herself. Nope. Can't interfere! Just let him cry. "Poor thing…" Oh look! She actually does have a heart!

Kyszarin casts a glance at Ligeia. "Define stuff." With her, it could be anything. But his attention is stolen before she responds; there appears to be something going on between one of the browns and another Candidate. Before he can determine Impression, however, another of the browns bugles and his gaze slides over towards the Mobile hatchling, studying him thoughtfully. Dude. Never complain about too many girls. Seriously.

Izobet glances over her shoulder to where Andalise starts disappearing from her peripheral vision. "What if you're his?" she's asking as she looks over in the brown's direction. Not that she won't let Andalise stand wherever she likes, of course. BUT WHAT IF.

Find the Way Home Brown Hatchling freezes, sensation visibly rippling through him. There. He didn't smell it this time - he felt it, felt the tug on his heart, his mind, his very soul. He was certain the person meant to be his was here, but to feel the bond creep into place is shattering, life-changing, even for one so new. It's a revelation that has him paying little attention as he first walks, then sprints across the sands, all but taking out a young, curly-haired brunette. Surely she'll forgive him.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Find the Way Home Brown Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Ligeia squints over at Kyszarin, but there's a scrunch of her nose at the sad bugling sounds from one of the browns. "I hope he finds his person soon," she asides, brow furrowing a touch. A slight shake of her head follows and, while it seems one brown is down- er, Impressed, she's not yet sussed out where he's gone. "Two- um. I left necklaces with and one of them got some poetry." All of that is probably trampled, churned, and lost, but it's the thought that matters, right?

Unpredictable Winds Egg is completely still. What do you mean, it moved behind its neighbor? It's right where it's always been, still, silent. Immovable, even, unbothered by the hectic nonsense going on all around it. Can an egg exude a sense of focus? It can. It does, even, very intently set on being a pillar of stone.

Kyriel's attention darts back to the two still wandering browns, as they continue to move among the ranks. Is he shifting a little on spot? Definitely. No retreat, though! Just movement to dispel those gathering nerves. Shallow breath, shaky exhale and in the time that it takes him to gather enough of his wit? Not one but TWO of the browns Impress!

The M Stands for Mobile Brown Hatchling is growing frustrated. EVERY SINGLE FEMALE he's sniffed or licked ( yes, he's licked a couple), has been WRONG!! Perhaps he's going about this the wrong way. Instead of continuing on this path the stops. HE STARES at the remaining candidates. WHO ELSE IS THERE? Then the air shifts or perhaps his eyes meet another pair of eyes from across the sands and IT'S LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. THERE! His perfect match is all the way over there. Strutting with determination he marches right up to a tall drink of water who just thinks he's going to continue medicine all alone.

Kyszarin's lips curve slightly. "Why you softie," he murmurs, briefly dragging his gaze from hatchling watching to grin down at Ligeia. "I'm sure they'd appreciate it if they knew." Who knows, maybe they do. No one's ever quite explained how much dragons remember from their time in the egg. The second Impression draws his attention briefly and he cranes his neck, trying to see who's getting hitched Impressed to. Too much going on here, guys! Calm it down or somethin'.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the The M Stands for Mobile Brown Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Exaltation of the Sun Egg roils on the spot, a vicious twist of ovid vengeance that finds it tipping over onto its side and then shattering open, leaving bits of egg and goo clinging to the wilting wings of a nearly-hatched hatchling.

Labyrinth's Lock Brown Hatchling
Ancient and ethereal, wild and winding, this brown's moon-bleached hide stretches tight over long, lean musculature. He is a force of nature coerced into bestial form, one whose body cannot help but rebel against the constraint of sharp edges and mortal dimensions. One might once have called him stone-sculpted, adonic, but eons of unknowable wear has softened some edges, honed others to deadly shears, each as unpredictable as the last. His visage remains utterly predatorial, malice subtle but stunning - his is the kind of beauty that is as much warning as lure, constructed to draw one's gaze to hypnotic eyes, smoke-stained lids, the sweep of arrogant brows up to pointed headknobs, anything other than the very real threat of bone-white teeth and feral claws. Wind-worn sandstone picks up where a strong jaw leaves off, contours fading in and out of sight down the length of his neck and sides in a winding knot that would once have been elaborate. Now it's merely a shadow of its former weaving, a secret subtlety meant only for those that can see past discordant neckridges - some broken, some blunt - to his true, beating hearts. These he so often hides even from himself, titanic wings pulled tight around his shoulders, dextrous thumbs stretching to press just above his collarbones, giving the impression of a clasped cloak. Though seemingly plain, it is only by dusky light that one can admire the faded sky that paints the underside of long pinions, clotted cream and soft umber clouds otherwise ruined by his wings' translucence.

Unpredictable Winds Egg goes BANG, but does anything happen? No. What even made that awful noise- like metal rending, almost, creaking and groaning until a final terrible collapse. Nothing to see here. Don't bother looking too closely — nothing to see here, folks. Its surface is as smooth as ever, nary a hairline fracture to be seen, and it certainly isn't moving.

Andalise, speaking of frequent-flier trips to the infirmary, knows as well as (if not more than) anyone that hey, accidents can happen. Something as simple as trimming hair can go just a little askew and — well, that's literally another story. Meanwhile, dragons are Impressing all around her — and the brunette is practically bouncing in place, weight shifting up-and-down from the balls of her feet, to her heels, and back again, a movement that grows into happy hops that's as much an outlet for joy for her fellows as a way to keep her feet less uncomfortable.

How long is forever? Sometimes, just one second. One moment before, a singular insignificant moment before, Tej's attention was on the people here. There's at least one Harper somewhere who would be deeply shamed by the way that brown— not just any brown, even, but THAT one, the one who moments before was pathetically laid out and whimpering, snuck up on her. There will be plenty of time later to avoid those sorts of reactions though. Now, it's her turn to react. Blindly, the redhead's arms move, perhaps seeking to steady herself against a sudden loss of balance - or maybe a reorientation of gravity. Those same arms end up closing over the weight against her midsection and the PRIZE she's walking out of this hatching with. Perhaps after so many attempts, she really has no room to complain, but something about her expression, about the way there's blankness, then confusion, not anything resembling tears of joy (yet?) perhaps something is off. Maybe she's just surprised. Finally, pale eyes blink and blink and she goggles down at the dragon against her. "Eyistirth?" It certainly seems to be a question, one she doesn't seem to get a response to and so she's left looking perplexedly to— C'con? Anyone? Is it hers? Help? (She'll probably sort out that much in a moment when her mind catches up to what she's just experienced. Give her a moment. NO COMMENTS NEEDED, THOGART. She'll probably see the irony of her momentary IQ-drop, too.)

C'con and his Assistants are on hand, honest. "C'mon, let's get you over here." The man murmurs to one newly-Impressed, while an Assistant waves off another with cheerful hand-flaps and a short bark of laughter. Scram! Best get those baby dragons fed.

< Galleries > Lalawethikayn gives a loooong suffering sigh. "No girls yet." IT'S A TRAGEDY!

Lazing in the Sun Egg splits just as suddenly as it cracked, one half of its shell spinning away into the seeming-ether as the coppery hatchling within spills onto the sands. He doesn't remain there long. "Oh. Oh." In fact, the hissy, spicy little brown dragonet has barely righted himself, barely sorted out long wings and tail from their entanglement when a young female candidate splits from the crowd - at his invitation. Anyone, be it sibling or parent or candidate, that moves to help or stop her is fft-fft-hissed at before whirling eyes lock on the young crafter. "No, of course, Akatath, they won't come closer or take your share of the food, I promise. Your Enza will see to that." Or will at least dote the reassurance on him either way as Enza assumes her feet and leads the striped and speckled brown towards the nearest weyrlingmaster and the barracks beyond.

Everybody Wants to Be a Brown Hatchling
Svelte and slinky, this mid-sized brown stands out very little from the pack. Reddish clay covers him from lean snout to long tailtip, varying only slightly here and there. A dusting of deeper umber speckles in a haze of tiny flecks over slim shoulders and down his long back, fading out by lanky haunches, much less down that whiplike tail. Where they settle, the motes of shadowy dust coalesce into vague collections that might almost be the start of stripes, especially along the top of his head and cresty neck. Standing out most, near-white buff sweeps down angular chin and throat, lines large round eyes in a delicate mask. The same buff details the inner aspect of long limbs, the undersides of refined paws, just a haze by muscular keel and soft belly. Cinnamon-y clay reigns over the smooth expanse of the brown's balanced wings, just a shade more saturated than his body, growing brighter and brighter into a shiny copper near the trailing edges.

With a triumphant cry the Everybody Wants to Be a Brown Hatchling has found its lifemate at last. After a few moments the Weyrlingmaster leads the new pair off the sands.

Who knew Izobet's eyes could get that wide when a brown hatchling makes a run in her direction. Whether she's too scared to move in those moments, or just has faith that he won't bowl her over, the girl stands her ground. Never mind that sound she makes when she's not sure she made a mistake in standing there, though, right before he stops. But whatever fear there was is quickly replaced by… well, him. "Mine?" she says like she's uncertain what that even means. "My Xulanth," comes a little more comfortably a few moments later as she reaches out to touch him while wilting to her knees on the hot sand.

< Galleries >Ava nearly bolts out a lough, her face sore from grinning. "Looks like their might be none at all." Ava teases with an amused grin.

Unpredictable Winds Egg has, in point of fact, been doing something, or so it would seem, because there stands a dragonet in its ruins. How'd he get there? Faranth knows. Tiny shards surround his feet. Massive wings drape down into the sands, awkward for the barest moment before they're folded primly to his side. You saw nothing. If you did, you better not mention it, say the red-whirring eyes that survey the sweating masses with cool impassivity. Well. What's this, then. You're all here to see him? A dubious glance towards the omnipresent shadow of his parents confirms — yes, these are, in fact, here for him. They couldn't be less…disgusting, though?

Kyszarin is happy to play. He's happy to work. He's happy to do a whole lot of things - except sing. You really don't want him to sing. Thankfully, as the world crashes down around him and all time stands still, the gasp he gives is unmusical - a simple sharp exhalation as he takes a sharp sucker punch to the mind. "What th-" Fortunately for little ears, he cuts himself off before he can finish the thought. Standing eye to eye with a brown dragonet, his brow furrows and he frowns at his new lifemate. "Really. That is your name? How would I even begin to say that?" He reaches out to absently brush his fingers along the hatchling's cheek, and slowly, painfully, he tries. "Tchechayzanenth. Is that right?" Must be - his new best friend doesn't eat him at least. "Man." He might sound irritated, but he's grinning fit to burst.

Dangerous to Know Blue Hatchling
Balanced on the razor's edge between terrifyingly solid and sublime, empyreal and interminable, this behemoth is alarming to some deep-set instinct. Something about the careful normality of him, this simple, well-balanced — if absolutely massive — blue seems off. A shadow at the edge of your vision that might turn into a monster, if you only move your head just right. The abyssal depths of nothingness swallow wide-set nostrils, barely giving way to fathomless indigo by sharply sculpted eye ridges, and cheeks set beneath flinty faceted eyes. Deepest navy fades over his neck, takes over the bulk of the blue's massive body in a storm of barely-varying midnight. Faint tendrils of celeste start breaking the monotony along the sturdy upper line of his powerful neck; trailing in soft cirrus wisps to brighten the uneven line of neckridges. Teal and azure pepper down robust shoulders and a balanced back, bursting into fiery blues across long, long wingsails. Cyan, ultramarine, indigo: a dozen, two dozen, a million shades of incandescent blue flare in a glorious cloud along both aspects of broad sails, roiling in a thunderous cascade of color. The brilliance doesn't last for long: by powerful haunches it's back to inky navy, leaving the void to swallow long tail and toes, ending as he began.

Ligeia is distracted by a second Impression- and, then- "Four- five browns?" Sorry, sorry, just a little sidebar there. "I don't- I don't know if they know, but I do, and maybe-" but her words falter and fall away as that brown comes a little too close for comfort - and not for her. Kyszarin's hand is released with an uncertain flex of fingers on her part, as if she doesn't know what to do without that connection. "Oh. Congratulations, Kys-" but she'll not finish the name, not knowing the new shape of it. Instead, she sucks her lower lip into her mouth and cuts a look to the observation area again, then it's back to looking at the eggs egg yet to hatch with an added sheen to her eye.

Labyrinth's Lock Brown Hatchling should probably go back into his egg. There's something wrong about the all at once too-beautiful and too-strange creature that stands amid the ruin of his shell, baleful eyes peering out from beneath bits of egg that slide slowly, slowly, slowly down without ever causing him to blink. His attention swings slowly to Leirith and Xermiltoth both, a curious chip-chirr-cheep crooned as his head tilts to one side. He waits, perhaps for an answer, perhaps merely curious, but it takes a moment too long before his attention turns to the candidates aligned and waiting on the sands.

Kyriel blinks as yet another brown hatches and his brows furrow again, "That's… four now?" And he's eyeing that latest one with considerable wariness — along with some suspicions cast at the remaining eggs. Commotion draws his focus away to where the other browns have made their matches and a smile tugs briefly at his mouth. He recognizes Tejra, his congratulations muted to nothing more than a glance and, perhaps, happiness for her luck! And when it's clear Izobet is next among those to Impress? His smile returns, a stitch wider — if not close to a grin. And then — Kyriel is shifting back and back, as Kyszarin has drawn the next brown and he's not about to tangle himself in that! A smile though too, as he graciously gives the new pair space.

Andalise happens to lack both a crystal ball and a magic mirror, but neither would be necessary to show her that — she's suddenly bereft of both her positivity partner and the not-so-positive one. The journey continues, even if the number of her companions is — dwindling? Dwindling. She's not quite front-and-center, but there's no one she knows well enough nearby with which to share a nervous look, not until she ends up in the press closer to Kyriel, anyway, heading forward right about the time he shifts back. And then there's another brown, another Impression, a blue.

Xermiltoth is spectacularly smug. There now, see, they weren't all brown. Just you know. Most. Most of them. This is fine right? Perfectly normal~

Maulra is outta here. "You kidding me?" The candidate's laughing, but her tone is high-pitched and just shy of shriek-y. "Not one green?" REALLY. "Just browns-" Oh, wait. "Oh, and him." Sus looking little blue. SIGH.

Dangerous to Know Blue Hatchling hasn't moved. It's not like one corner of the egg pile is any less messy than any other. There aren't fewer eggshells ten feet to the right — it's a veritable maze, honestly, but that's not the problem. The problem is limbs. How do you limb? He does not know, and yet, he must, if he wants to move from the spot that he's standing. Red-whirring eyes focus on the mass of sweating humans waiting for him to join them, glaring pointedly. This is, clearly, their fault. Oooone step…good. Fine. All limbs in order. Two. Hey, he's getting the hang of this. He'll get to his destination maybe sometime next turn or so.

Ligeia blows out an uncertain breath, attention shifting to the lone remaining dragonet and the other candidates ringed hopefully 'round in a tightening half-circle of white-robed selves. Another look to the galleries precedes an attempt at a smile, but it's thin and taut, held together by sheer anxiety. In the end, her hands need somethign to do and they curl into fists in her robe at about hip-level. When did her palms get so sweaty?

Labyrinth's Lock Brown Hatchling is already a predator, there's no other way to explain why this little hatchling seems so at one with his limbs when too-oft egg-wet younglings are prone to missteps and tumbles and accidents on the sands. His steps are slow, yes, but even, measured, purposeful. That's a curiosity in this movement too, a stillness as he brings one paw up to inspect with his eyes, the soft hiss of sand as he rolls it beneath talons and seems to enjoy the play of it shifting beneath his weight. His eyes go to the crowds lining the arena and focus for too long on what he finds there curious scents, roaring sounds, the myriad of colors and faces watching him. But then he's on the move again, small and confined but somehow insidious.

Kyriel is relieved to find Andalise to be drifting closer — or simply relieved to have any number of Candidates surrounding him. Safety in numbers, right? He has yet to look over his shoulder towards the Galleries or even towards the space occupied by Leirith and Xermiltoth. He's just going to remember to breathe and push those nerves down, down, downnnn (and let it manifest instead in some shifting foot work). "That's all of them," he mumbles at some point, to no one in particular. His focus is back on tracking the last few hatchlings.

Thogart is actually turning to leave. THERE WASN'T A BRONZE, WAS THERE, XERMI? Obviously, that's the destiny in store for a strapping boy man like Thogart and it's really only a lackey's hand and some quick words (he must be the smart one of the bunch?) that keeps the weyrbred dunderhead on the sands long enough to be POLITE, you know, especially with that brown and blue still LOOKING for THE ONE. It would probably be best if they did not look here.

Dannissin is still shuffling standing there. Green eyes cautiously watch the remaining hatchlings, one brow twitching upward when something other than brown finally hatches. Well, at least there's a little variety in the clutch, even if they are all male. She lifts her chin, almost challenging one of the remaining two baby dragons to come her way.

Labyrinth's Lock Brown Hatchling doesn't falter the way other dragons might. There is no need for him to prowl the sands, to walk the candidates, to stare into the eyes of each hopeful face eager for him to be their one. None of these are good enough, none of these will do; he can already taste the obscenity of their pairings like a flavor on his tongue, rejects them before he can even consider tenuous bonds because there is one sweet song waiting in a sea of white robes — him. This one. The one with hair dark as pitch and eyes blue as skies. He rises just enough to press paws to chest and sinks with him down to the sands as talons pierce through white-material and latch into skin.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Labyrinth's Lock Brown Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

Listen, Maulra, Andalise would also have been giving those hypothetical greens who never hatched the most hopeful of looks between getting ready to dodge any chances of being baked, boiled or shish-kebabed maimed in the arena, but as it is? There's that predatorial brown and his angry-looking brother to warily eye instead; the baker spares Kyriel a nervous look post-mumble, fingers twitching as if the thought of reaching for his hand came and went. "They don't look very happy, do they?"

Ligeia inexplicably forgot about the other brown (but, in fairness, there were a LOT of them), but she's keeping an eye on both brown and blue and still kind of twisting her hands up in her robe before remembering herself and releasing the fabric. She's fallen silent, eyes focused only enough to remain on the last dragon - because that brown finally does Impress, even if it's happening in her peripheral vision.

Dangerous to Know Blue Hatchling is not pleased. Sand sticks to his every corner and cranny, somehow, and no matter how hard he tries, his wingtips droop down, dragging a trailing line in the sand behind him. Finally, the little blue stops, pulls himself up with injured pride, and glares. Khht-khthhthth. This is all the candidates' fault, somehow. The drag in his appendages, the gnawing feeling in his middle, the absolutely annoying pressure to keep going and not stop for breath or contemplation. A master needs time to work, but here he is, struck low! Standing at the mercy of gravity and all her cruel friends! It's almost enough to make a dragonet want to sleep.

< Galleries > Lalawethikayn looks sympathetic. "Awe…poor little blue."

Never fear, weyrlingmasters are here! Things are occuring at a pace, but there's someone for everyone, faces both friendly and not here to assist the newly impressed in exiting the sands. As things begin to slow, Xermiltoth shifts and bends his head towards Leirith, communication passing between the two with audio-visual bursts of gold dust and drumbeats. It's almost enough to disco by~

Seriously, if not for Thog and his antics, Maulra would be out. As it is, the candidate glares fiercely down her nose at all the unimpressively not-green dragonets, glances sidelong at the other candidates remaining. Well. Almost nobody is pitching a little tantrum, but isn't she entitled! Gotten up outta bed for nothing, man. Well. FIVE browns is really something, and that blue is fine, but Maulra couldn't be less impressed.

YOU AND ME BOTH, Dangerous to Know Blue Hatchling; not pleased at all. Thogart's scowl and crossed arms are not about to help him if you felt like giving him a not so friendly mauling and HONESTLY, would anyone miss him? Really? But maybe it's for the best that you've got your own struggles. Maybe Maulra and Thog can get a drink later. SOOTH EACH OTHER'S DISAPPOINTMENT by being impressed with each other's deep entitlement and colorist attitudes.

SOOTHE even. Or Sooth. WHICHEVER. It's fine.

Kyriel takes his mind away for a second, just a second and that's all it takes! Before his mind can even begin to register movement approaching, there's another sensation of movement — HIS, going down. Other sensations too, ones that stun him completely and scatter his mind to pieces. He's not even aware of the breath knocked out of him, of the talons too close and then pressing through fabric… the yelp that follows is mixed pained and surprise but weighed down by a surplus of complexities. It's everything and it's too much and Kyriel is drowning in it. Until, at last, he gulps in a breath and manages to find his voice — which wavers, potentially falters (he's definitely crying but likely unware of that too). "Bhalahhaith, please…" And yet even as awarness draws back and Kyriel's arm shifts from a defensive hold to press a hand to the brown's chest; both to push but to also confirm. "Bhal.." he breathes, while dazedly trying to right the both of them and get them to where they need to be!

Ligeia shifts a bit, attention slipping to Kyriel when he Impresses. Another smile, fickle and fleeting, and then it's all down to the blue - and all those other hopefuls on the Sands with her. She tries to shake her hands out a little, tries to catch her breath, but everything feels like it's snagging on- something. Maybe there's a loose thread somewhere. Who knows.

Andalise might not have taken a look in the mirror last night and cried, exactly, but all of the pent-up, whispered hopes in the turns spent believing that the what-if could be possible have undoubtedly taken some kind of emotional toll. There's an automatic step away as Impression occurs right next to her for the third — third time, and the baker swallows hard, fingers fisting into the sides of her robe with quick, shallow breaths. She allows herself a second of watching another familiar face go through the transformative moment of being found — and takes another step away. And another, chin held high even if her jawline might be quivering a little (or a lot).

Dangerous to Know Blue Hatchling has not quite figured out limbs, but he's got something figured out. One moment, he's sitting and mantling little oversized wings angrily at the crowd of disgustingly sweaty, anxious candidates, and the next he's in their midst. Did he get snatched up by a sudden breeze? Did he walk into their midst? Faranth knows, but he's here! There's nothing so ghoulish as shoving or snapping as he descends on the only one among the masses that holds any interest to him, no. He simply appears before the only candidate who holds any interest to him, brown haired and sweet-faced and waiting so long for something certainly not in the least bit represented in him. Here he is, though, humbled by circumstance and yet unbowed, meeting the girl's eyes evenly after he's finished glaring away any candidates close enough to interrupt.

With a triumphant cry it seems that the Dangerous to Know Blue Hatchling has found its partner at last and impression is made!

< Galleries > Ava's gaze cast over those impressed, and those left, an odd, sad feeling sinking in her chest though before elation peeks and she waggles her elbow at Lalawethikayn. "Oh look, there he goes!" The aformentioned blue.

< Galleries > Lalawethikayn is watching that little blue and even she has no idea how he suddenly got amongst the candidates. She does breath out a sigh of relieve though as he finds his partner. "Good. He found a girl. Girls are awesome blue riders."

Andalise's expression takes a funny turn; she might be halfway to a sob, except that there's confusion, followed by a moment where she freezes in place before a flood of red fills her cheeks. She's a little wobbly as she all but lurches forward to meet the too-bold blue, dropping to a crouch so that she can better stare into those rainbow eyes with all the wonder of Impression. That half-sob? It materializes, fully-realized now. "Um, " breathes Andy shakily to her (her!) dragon, "no. I mean, yes. I mean — " Somewhere between the ugly crying and struggling back to her feet, she adds a softer, "Oh, Qilaeth, " and seems quite incapable of steering them both in the right direction for some long moments more.

The last egg has crumbled and shattered, every bonded pair lead from the sands leaving Risali to step forward and Leirith to come along at her heels. The gold lowers her head towards the sands, the better to see those left with, and then dips herself into a bow. « YOU WERE FANTASTIC. » A beat. « YOU ARE FANTASTIC. » And she's rising as Risali raises her voice enough to carry without really shouting. "Thank you, each of you, for? everything. We see you and we know how hard you've fought to get to today. We're sorry that your lifemate was not among these, but we hope they'll find you on our sands in the future. We have food in the caverns, and we hope to see all of your lovely faces there."

Ligeia lets out a breath she didn't know she'd held when the blue finally chooses and all is- quiet. Still. She doesn't chance a look up to the observation level this time, though. Once it's clear that there's nothing left, she pins a smile on her face, offers a bow to the clutchparents for the final time, and turns to leave with the others in search of succor in the aftermath. It might be midnight, but that's when snacks taste the best!

< Galleries > Lalawethikayn wants food! Without further ado she'll scamper down to the caverns for midnight…well after midnight food. YUM!

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