Egg Touching

Xanadu Weyr - Hatching Sands
The large circular "stage" is surrounded on one half by a towering wall, thin slit windows high overhead letting in some light without truly endangering the objects on the sands, though plenty of lights are spaced at human-level all the way around. The other half is ringed by the dark blue seats of the observation level, rising upwards towards the back wall. 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.

Kirilla steps onto the sands and ushers a group of candidates after her, eyeing them distrustfully. "Mind you pay your respects, candidates. If anyone gets too hot, come over to me; I have water. Don't make any loud noises as to disturb Zaislinth, and please move quietly about the eggs." Having made enough of a speech for the time being, the Weyrlingmaster steps to the side to watch.

Matteo looks about him in wonder. Seeing it from the galleries was quite the view, but now to be down in here… He looks at the woman uncertainly and silently wishes Vatyri was there with them. She'd done this a few times, he could watch her. He takes to watching the others instead. Wouldn't want to mess something up out of ignorance.

Lahela walks out onto the sands, fiddling with the hem of her shirt, as if nervous, walking far enough out, she gives a little bit of a bow to both the gold and the bronze sitting over the eggs, before moving off in the direction of the eggs, keeping her distance from most of the candidates. Not comfy. Meeeh. But then her pants decide to get in the way of her walking on the loose sands, and she nearly stumbles, but catches herself first, a flailing hand coming to rest - lightly - on the Fiddler's Egg, blinking as if confused how this happened. But of course she never made a peep.

Estasravel's eyes are all for the eggs and their sire and dam — their rather large and possibly over protective sire and dam — as he listens to Kirilla's speech. He chews briefly on his lower lip and then, fidgeting with his tunic, steps out and bows to Zaislinth and Alhenaeth. He eyeballs the other candidates and takes to walking about the clutch's perimeter, hands buried in his pockets.

Matteo takes his time, after watching Lahela, and approaches one, the Quietly Suffered Sanity Egg… liking the scene upon it's surace. Here goes nothing

But something is wrong. Lahela shakes her head, definitely not used to intrusions into her mind by any foreign bodies. Much less minds that don't /have/ a body yet. Lah continues to shake her head every now and then, her free hand raising up to her temple as she half glares down at the egg. "What?" She whispers, not wanting to attract attention from the weyrlingmaster. "What do you /want/? Tugging at me like a canine's pull toy! It hurts my head!"

« In Matteo's Mind, Vanishing gardens of celestial blue things appear here and there in your mind - just a tingling sensation at first, accompanied by the softest of musical keenings. Midnight and sky blue vines tenatively reach out, then firmly grasps your mind, holding on tightly. At the same time, whirls of soft violet and glowing amber float forward, curled around bunches of wilted flowers. Images it has, but reality it wants; a burning desire for knowledge of reality comes with the presence of this egg. »

Estasravel brushes his hand gently against the Groovy Mambo Egg before continuing on along, around and through the eggs. His hand traces a portion of the Sweet Harmonious Sonata Egg before he jumps back at the yelp of another nearby candidate. "SSSSShhhhh," he utters, pointedly sending a wary glance Kirilla's way. And then he continues on, arms crossed.

Matteo stares for a long moment at the patterned shell of the egg, not seeing it at all. He is shocked by what he sees and feels. But he can't quite understand it at first. "Are you a dreamer?" He finds himself whispering. "A lost dreamer, probably… huh?" Was reality really the place for such beauty? He wondered.

Lahela nearly falls onto her bum onto the sands, but instead she merely sways as the egg releases its hold on her suddenly. Blinking again She continues to rub her forehead, pondering sidling away from the egg, trying to keep it's mind away from hers, holding back a whimper as the egg latches on to the memory and hurt, hate and insecurity of her last - and only - romantic interest that didn't work out by a long shot.

« In Matteo's Mind, Vanishing gardens of celestial blue things continue to reach out within whirls of violet, amber, and blue. Knowledge is sought. Tendrils of lavender stretch around your words and a trumpet's sad call expresses a wish for explanations. Lost dreamer? »

Estasravel finally makes a complete circuit through and around the clutch, and thus begins his second. Noticing that the other candidates are all occupied, the boy looks for an unoccupied egg and comes across the Circle of Eighths Egg. He touches it and traces a hand along several of the colorful circles before he places his other hand along the bell shapes and follows them to the 'ugly brass blob' on the egg's apex. His nose wrinkles.

Matteo finds himself giving a sad sigh. "So much you want to know and so much you should be taught… In time…" The smallest bit of sanity asks him why he's talking to an egg. But the rest of his mind growls at it and it goes whimpering to the dark recesses of his memory. "A lost dreamer is a being who forever thinks of things never to happen or that they wish to happen." He felt great sympathy for this egg.

Lahela quickly snatches her hand away from the egg now, clearly glaring it. "Stop that, you naughty thing." She scolds softly, holding back the want to just start shaking. "Ask before you go parading into someone's personal thoughts. Or better yet, don't parade there at all!" Ends her quiet scolding session as she wraps her arms around herself, aimlessly wondering in and out of the numerous other eggs, looking at a pattern here, and a pattern there as she passes.

« In Matteo's Mind, Vanishing gardens of celestial blue things fade slightly, while the lavender pulls back and is replaced by a braided tendril of spring green and baby blue. The tendril curls around the explanation and dim in brightness. A feeling of utter loss accompanies a soft strumming of guitar, and the being within the egg pulls back completely, receding into it's world of sorrow. »

Matteo lets go of as teh image withdraws. The poor thing. He looks over at the others as he steps back and gives a sigh, trying to shake off teh sadness of that little mind.

Estasravel's eyes snap wide open before he blinks profusely down at the egg — blink-blink-blink. His head tilts in an action similar to that of someone listening closely to a strain of music, his expression gone attentive and eyes once again wide and blinking, though at a slower pace. His eyebrows draw downward and he remains motionless a moment, until he gives a brief intake of breath and steps away from the egg.

Matteo leaves the sad egg behind, walking about the eggs and watching the others for a few moments. The one Estaravel touched catches his eye and he approaches it carefully, reaching out to place a hand on it. "Now what's your story?" He mutters quietly.

« In Matteo's Mind, Darkly rich melodies and twisting prisms enter your mind slowly, tenative and uncertain of the new territory being charted. The volume rises in a symphony for your ears only; prisms twist around and sunlight passes through, creating a rainbow made of tendrils that reach out with the rising volume. The tendrils stretch out across your mind, then pull back immediately, leaving behind a mist and a feeling that you have clouds below your knees. »

Estasravel closes his eyes and shakes his head, shaking off some sort of feeling or fog. His eyes quaver open and the guard-gone-candidate shoves his hands in his pockets before brushing past Matteo towards the Fiddler's Solo Egg. He extracts one hand from his pocket and places it on said egg.

Lahela keeps on wandering, until one of the eggs finally catches her attention. The egg, newly deserted, catches enough of Lah's curiousity to edge over to the egg, hunching over the Quiet Egg as she does so, not realizing in the process, that she does indeed lay her hands on the egg, tracing the top of the egg's pattern, inspecting, but still trying to recover from the intrusion of the Fiddler's Egg.

Matteo is suddenly overwhelmed by this and lifts his hand back. That was impressive indeed. He looks curiously at the egg's shell but his mind is still rattled from that encounter and he blinks a few times to clear it. He doesn't persue the blast and takes a step back. Talk about showy.

Cue Estasravel's profuse blinking, coupled by a slight shiver. "Er, everything can't be alright all the time," he says to the egg, as he indecisively lifts and replaces his hand from the egg's shell multiple times. He grimaces. "So, um…Hi?"

Lahela snatches her hand away again quickly, as she wasn't expecting the contact from the eggs, but slowly she places her hand back on the egg, looking at it closely. It has a 'firm grip' on her, almost like she's entranced with the images in her mind's-eye, but then her mind reels back slightly, shelling up as her soft tone ventures forth again. "No intrusions?" As if she wants a basis of trust. Give and take, share and privacy.

Matteo shakes his head a few times. He takes a few steps back and ambles across the sands, gazing at the many other eggs there. He watches with interest reactions to the first egg he touched but he pauses watching the handsome knotted pattern on the Celtic Egg… Hm.. Nah… he continues down the line unhurriedly. Should he be?

Niva takes a deep breath as she scurries onto the sands after an older AWLM, all the while murmuring to the woman about how she wishes people would tell her these things, but its probably better that she stuck her shift in the infirmary out. Stopping in her tracks, she glances around her and then manages a half curtsey-half bow to the watching clutch parents and then she slowly approaches an egg, choosing the Circle of Eighths Egg without truly thinking.

"Er, is there something you'd really like…to know?" Estasravel says uneasily, shifting side to side, foot to foot. His gaze flickers nervously about the Hatching Sands, and then down at the egg, at sepias and mahoganies, at whites and vermilions. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, seems to be in meditation.

Niva shakes her head suddenly as she touches the Circle of Eighths Egg, blinking multiple times as she takes half a step back, glancing around her curiously, and rather sheepishly before fingertips lightly touch the egg once more. This time she keeps from pulling back, or at least that's the plan, as she steadies herself meticulously, widening her stance slightly.

"Swords," murmurs Estasravel softly, his eyes remain closed as he withdraws his other hand from his pocket. Both hands rest stationary upon the warm shell. "They're used to…protect others. That is, others who can't protect themselves." He pauses for a few moments as he squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as well. "Though…there are some who use them for the wrong reasons. I…use them for the right."

Yanlish comes scurrying in quickly, the sand spraying abit about him as he dashes in, a soft, appologetic smile on his face. Of course, the reason for his being late is obvious. The smell that pervades his pure runner, and not of the nice kind of the smell. Seems the weaver has been given the task of mucking out the stables and only just now got word that he could come look at the eggs.

Niva squeezes her eyes shut as the presence returns, slowly opening to glance down at the egg shell. "What are you looking for? Healer stuff isn't that interesting…" Well, at least those things that Niva would like to remember aren't. And she wrinkles up her face idly, before shaking a head and taking a step away from the Circle of Eighths Egg. "I think…" And she turns and moves away from the egg, looking around as she goes.

Lahela gives a parting stroke to the egg, indeed feeling the regret the egg emits, but leaving with a sad smile. "I'll see you again, I think." She mumbles softly, close to the eggs shell before she withdrawls, halfway staggering towards the exit, stopping by the Weyrlingmaster, collecting a few gulps of water, before staggering off to either her cot, or some new chore. Though she'd opt for the cot. Oomph.

Yanlish comes up behind the retreating Lahela, looking at the eggs, his eyes larger than saucers. Seems he's never seen an egg before. Hopefully the smell won't disturb anyone as he edges just a little closer toward the eggs, his hand, almost as if on it's own, reaching toward the shell of the rioting egg, reaching as if to caress the flames that flick across the shell, as if hypnoitized by the suffering sanity of the clashing colors.

"Right…wrong…" Estasravel frowns and gives a quick sniff, his features smoothing out from his wrinkled expression. "Right is…well…it's easier to explain wrong…" He pauses and chews on his lower lip, the motion of his closed eyelids a clear indication of his mulling everything over. "Wrong is…when you hurt others or do something you KNOW isn't right or could hurt someone. Right is…doing good, or doing what needs to be done." He frowns slightly at his quite unevolved answer.

Yanlish's eyes quiver a bit as they become a bit distracted looking at those flickering flames, but not really seeing them, 'Ohhhh, lovely.' is all that comes from his mind as he closes his eyes, a soft smile on his face, swaying a bit as if he were hearing some kind of music. His mind fills with the flow of flowers and greenery for deep in the southern jungles, from his home, vistas of flowing tropical greenery, punctuated with sprays of red and purple flowers, distant mountain craigs flowing from the sea of green to pierce the white clouded heavens of a soft blue sky. Yes, this was his home, and a land he loved, carried with him still in the needleart designs he puts on the clothing he makes, memories of studying the looks of all the flowers and plants, of delicately placeing them on clothing, it all swirls behind his eyes in a dance to the music only he hears.

Estasravel gulps, expecting more than a simple of curiosity, but when that doesn't happen, he breathes a sigh of relief and steps back from the egg. He walks over towards Kirilla, "Might I have some water, please, Weyrlingmaster?"

Kirilla glances warily at Zaislinth, who seems to be sleeping still, then turns toward Estasravel. "Of course, lad.. I think we'd best all get off now. Zaislinth's been sleeping for awhile." She offers him the jug while she hurries out to herd the candidates off the sands.

The look of near rapture on the weaver's face slowly twists to an almost desperate longing as he leans a little further, gasping, his eyes turning sad as he remembers where he is and steps back from the egg, eyes down cast.

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