Hatching: Part One
From the sands, The thrumming comes from many draconic throats and deepens as more dragons slide down to the perches above, but it originated with the pale and slender queen that stands on the burning sands. Her legs are splayed, her head is low, her eyes are half-lidded and her throat visibly vibrates as she thrums.
On the heels of the sound, another figure bolts onto the sands, far smaller but not, it seems, unwelcome. The weyrwoman stops at the edge, keeping carefully away from the eggs that will soon spill forth their damp and creeling occupants. She is a little out of breath and a little flushed, but she cannot help but be smiling.
Drawn by the humming, Reyce sidesteps just inside the entrance to the galleries and looks around at the gathering crowd, his expression - far from the excitement of many others - left in neutral. With a faint snort and a shake of his head, he passes up on the remaining good seats near the front and takes one at the back, away from the largest concentration of noise and activity.
From the sands, It takes Ruvoth only seconds to add his thrum to Tialith's; he's been at it for some time, belly-low to the sands so their eggs can likely /feel/ his vibrato, when the Weyrleader saunters in from the bowlward entrance. It takes him a moment or two, probably, to wind through the crush of candidates and spectators who've taken the first signs of the hatching's onslaught to heart. But R'vain does get here, and as he prowls around the edge of the cavern toward Roa, he shrugs out of his jacket. Already too hot.
K'rom rushes in a little with some of the other Weyrlings, having been drawn by the humming. Exciting is apparent among most of the current Weyrligs, and K'rom is no exception. He turns to J'sek and a few others, grinning and chatting.
Reyce isn't the only one with a mind to sit at the back - though he is the tardier of the two. Neiran is there already, with a book open on his lap as though the humming filling the cavern were but a mild distraction, and not an indication of any excitement to come. It's on a brief break from the page to rest his eyes that he spies Reyce ascending the gallery steps. In case the man might miss him and sit elsewhere, he lifts his hand to draw attention to himself. If they sit together, after all, they won't be harassed by chit-chat from other spectators.
With Arekoth settling on the ledges above the sands, his hum added to that of the Weyr's other dragons, H'kon finds himself moving up the stairs that are getting distinctly busier as residents react to that humming. Brownrider has abandoned the regular instinct to jostle others right back, and instead ducks between those hurrying for seats to make his way quickly towards the back benches. With even these benches filling up, it's toward a familiar face that H'kon moves, to sit himself on one side of Neiran, though by no means close enough to be friendly. Because he fully trusts this one not to offer him too many comments.
It takes a brownrider trying to get past the frozen-in-mid-aisle G'thon to wake the ethics instructor out of his thoughtful, sandsward-staring reverie. He pardons himself with a low, dry word and slips into a so-far empty row of seats midway up the slope of the stands.
J'sek arrives along with a good number of other weyrlings and never too far behind K'rom. Chatting is replaced, however, with silenced glances around the rapidly crowding galleries and then over towards the eggs. Then it's back to keeping his attention mainly on the crowd, to avoid being jostled around too much. He follows K'rom, waiting for the other weyrling to choose a seat.
From the sands, The humming grows louder still, with the gathering dragons up on the ledges adding their many voices to those of the dam and sire below. All the thrumming and shaking has, at last, its destined effect. An egg cracks, and the first hatchling of the day makes a partial appearance - one blue wing parting creamy shell to drip a wet puddle into the sand.
Sakher is not early. In fact, he's very nearly late; the first egg cracks just as he steps up the stairs into the galleries. And no wonder he's late, too--he's gone all out, or at least further out than usual, in his dress, donning finer finery in brighter clothes than usual, and much in the way of jewelry and accoutrements. After all, this is an Occasion! And while he shoots one look over at the sands, he mostly is scanning the galleries, looking for familiar faces and waving as he finds them, offering greetings to those nearest as he moves on through the growing crowd easily, in search of a seat and, more importantly, company for it.
K'rom thinks for a moment and chooses a seat near the front and towards the middle where he and some of the other Weyrlings sit. Kie seems to be looking around for someone too, and there's an empty space next to him that he seems to be saving.
Fienne is likewise not among the early, not quite grasping the importance of the dragon humming sending vibrations through the rock, or the dashing about until a friendly kitchen worker sent her on her way. Now she peeks into the chaos of the galleries, picks her careful way up to the spectator seating, and then hovers on the edge in a bit of shadow, eyes wide as she divides her attention between the sands and finding a seat. That first cracking egg brings a little gasp, and she lingers on her feet, too busy watching to sit.
From the sands, It's a small group of men, four to be precise, that take their places around the perimeter of the hatching sands. Ashwin's is at the exit that'll lead to the Weyrwoman's inner weyr, Vej and Morley's are closer to the spectators and Jensen's is at the only other exit out.
From the sands, The weyrwoman's gaze cannot find a place to settle. It moves from the parents of the clutch to the approaching weyrleader (he gets a nod) to the guards that make their way onto the sands (her eyes lingering Jensen a beat and then Ashwin a beat longer) to the cracking egg that reveals a bit of...is that a blue? Finally, however, Roa looks to the entrance of the candidate cavern, her hands coming to clasp in front of her. She rocks impatiently to and fro on her heels.
J'sek moves ahead a little to sit on the opposite side of K'rom, lingering only a moment in taking his seat as the first egg cracks. He grins a little, turning his head briefly to return some comment given to him by another weyrling. Aside from that, he's quiet, most of his attention on the sands with just a little focused on the galleries and those who are seated around him. Eventually, he notices the empty spot next to K'rom and smirks faintly. "Waiting for someone?" he muses to the other weyrling.
From the sands, The shell split open by the blue wing cracks wider yet and out pours the lucky blue, all wings and legs and creeling maw. Then it all seems to happen at once: three more hatchlings break shell, two greens and a bronze, and the day's off to the races as candidates press forward or shrink back from the suddenly-searching young dragons on the sand.
From the sands, "Don't get /too/ ansty, lil'Weyrwoman-- " R'vain smirks a sideways grin toward Roa as she rocks, then steals a glance over his shoulder to a spot behind them, where Ashwin's posted. Maybe there's some secret grin or grimace for the guard lieutenant. Soon enough, though, the Weyrleader's faced-forward again. Sweaty already, transferring the jacket from arm to arm, but for all appearances not yet fumbling a paw into its pockets for anything to ease his mind.
K'rom smiles at J'sek, "Well, maybe. Knowing him though, he'll sneak in and be in the back. If he's not lost in a hide somewhere and ignoring everything about him." A shrug then as Kie smiles and shakes his head. He peers at the eggs then, "I wonder....." And then eggs hatch and all the focus is on them.
From the sands, Kenathan steps out onto the sands, and sort of circles away from the entrance, trying to put himself a little away from the other candidates, although he does make another glance at Rysia. That is before the boy's gaze is fixed on the dragons already shelled, and he murmurs, "They *do* pop out pretty quickly."
Laelle comes in trailing behind a gaggle of Caucus girls, her cousin among them. As they move directly for an open group of seats, the tall, freckled girl pauses, lifting her chin to survey the sands first and then the galleries, her shadowed eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she scopes out the arrangement of heads in the stands. If there are any that stand out to her, she does not yet make any move of recognition.
G'thon is slow about slipping into his chosen seat - he keeps becoming distracted by the sands below, careless about his height blocking the view of those seated behind him. But in a time he does sit down about in the middle of a small span of empty seats, a curious little smile wry on the right-hand-side of his mouth.
From the sands, Jensen tries to make eye contact with each of his men from across the cavern, check their posture, check his own. It's the stoic Captain face he's wearing, hands clasped in front of him and feet spaced apart. And if ever there was a time he cursed his placement in life, it's right when that first dragon hatches. Of course, most of his attention is on exits and the gallery.
From the sands, Katriel files out with the rest of the candidates, executing a precisely proper bow towards dam and sire and before finding her own space a precise distance between two other candidates. And then she stands. Or tries to, at least. Standing still is quickly becoming a losing proposition, it seems.
From the sands, Nothing to see here - the guards are quiet where they stand, and their Lieutenant surveys the crowd from where he's positioned, hands behind his back. His face is on show when his eyes meet the Weyrleader's, so he only nods, before running pale eyes over those seated in the galleries, and glancing down for a moment from his height to where Jensen stands at the exit to the bowl.
From the sands, Amid the throng of white-clad bodies, a woman with short-cropped dark hair bobs, wincing a little as feet hit the sands. But Ella's jaw squares and her chin lowers as she tries to do a pair of things at once: keep relatively close to Essdara and also take a proper place into the semi-circle that is sloppily forming. She takes in the sights, the people above, and the bodies on the sands. Tialith is given a nod, and Ruvoth. And then the pair of weyrleaders are given a cocky half-smile before her attention lands and stays on the eggs.
From the sands, There is no network of fine cracks, or even much warning before the next egg hatches. It rocks hard, heeling this way, then that way, then back this way again one, two, three and then abruptly it splits, the occupant clambering free, in a hurry to be on the move. The sticky bronze hatchling who was inside unfurls his wings, and stretches them for balance as he waits for rapidly whirling eyes to focus.
From the sands,
Voice of Truth Bronze Hatchling
Dark, burnished bronze sweeps along this dragon's hide, faint green
undertones serving to highlight the rough-hewn nature of his features;
no beauty, he. A large, box-shaped head tops an atypically long neck
marked the whole way down by jagged neckridges, creating a slightly
unbalanced impression. His wings are also oversized things, folding
awkwardly against hastily polished bronze flanks, and reaching back to
strapping haunches. Thick, dark talons go with large, sturdy feet, a
darker, dirty bronze. His tail snakes away, faint green marking the
ridges that run down to its tip. It is only when he spreads his
awkward, angular wings that his workmanlike construction is set aside;
their topsides are drab, but underneath, a glorious mosaic of glossy
bronze, beaten bronze and copper, finely crafted and on display.
From the sands, Miniyal comes out by herself, which is not overly surprising and her place to stop only insures she's not too close to Essdara. That seems to work for her and she just lets out a sigh as her pale complexion already is turning bright red from the heat. She stands still, but her eyes dart everywhere to watch what goes on. Old habits die hard and although it's not her who has to watch and see what all happens she still will.
From the sands, Essdara comes out onto the sands with the other candidates, for all appearances calm and relaxed. She makes her way across the sands, sticking near to Ella and Rysia. As she settles into the right place for the Candidates, she ovvers the parents of the eggs a small smile and a wave, before turning to watch the outpouring of dragons. Greens, blue, and a pretty bronze. "Nice start." She says quietly tot he women near her.
From the sands, "Go, go," Issa hurries a lagging young boy on, gently but forcefully guiding him further out onto the sands with a hand placed between his shoulder blades. With that jump start, the boy picks up his pace and rejoins the pack of white robes, and Issa meanders off to the side to join the Weyrleaders and Weyrlingmaster nearby. With her jacket left behind, the beginnings of a good sweat stand out on her bare arms, the slope of her neck, her already reddened forehead. Nothing is said to the important people she sidles up next to, though smiling nods are sent around, even to R'vain, for the occasion. Then her eyes flick quickly back to the candidates, as if they'd already been left unwatched for too long.
From the sands, Rysia steps out with Essdara, Ella, and all the others. Tialith and Ruvoth both get a bow and a crooked grin, before she moves to take her place among the others, the view of eggs so different from the galleries. And also much closer. And bigger. Of course, she doesn't stay there, still for long - too hot, though that doesn't stop her from shooting a grin to Dara.
Late, just in time to see the candidates filing out, Penny enters the galleries wih a little bit less than her usual grace -- in a hurry, certainly, she comes skidding to a halt once she's there, eyes taking in the sands as the bronze makes his appearance. A few moments are spared for the dragonet, and the candidates, and then her eyes skim the edges of the sands, taking in the guards there. She steps aside so that a cluster of fellow students can make their way into the galleries, and then squeezes her way through to an empty gap near the edge of the stands. On her own tonight, it seems.
After being roughly brushed aside by a pair of adolescent boys, Fienne finally wrenches her eyes from the sands and back to finding a seat. Not an easy thing by this point, but she manages to spot a little span of a few empties dominated by the former weyrleader. Murmuring excuses as she steps around and over feet, she flashes the tall gaunt man a hesitant smile before dropping down in a seat, leaving one between them.
When Sakher finds a familiar old face in G'thon just sitting down, the Nabol man heads that way, ambling circuitously over to stop beside him, just out of his view. "Sir, good evening. How are you doing? Am I in your way? Pardon me; I don't mean to intrude," he offers easily as he shoots a glance back to the sands, studying them a moment and then moving to seat himself after lifting an apologetic hand when someone less couth yells at him to get his head out of the way.
From the sands, Sivoril is among the first of the Candidates to exit the caverns. His face is curiously devoid of anything that might suggest inherant fear or nervousness, which in many ways is admission that he is loaded with it. Nonetheless, each of his movements are almost overly precisely executed as he moves into a smooth bow to both Sire and Dam before sidestepping and following Rysia towards her place. He knows her, and there is safety to be found in numbers. Mentally, the opressing heat is shrugged off and a moment of sympathy is felt towards the Weyrleading Pair who have been out in this for the last weeks. Nonetheless he takes his place, murmuring towards his chosen stand-beside partner. "One way or another..." The various hatching dragons are flitted to, one each and after another. Blue, Gren, Bronze. The last one to hatch draws gaze even further. "I.." he states to Rysia, or to nobody. "Hadn't quite pegged them for being so large." Nevermind that they're two seconds old. That's Sivoril, logical mind already going.
From the sands, "How exactly should I--" but whatever Roa was going to say is stopped by the sudden arrival of the bronze that spills out onto the sands. She smiles softly, her head ducking down as she murmurs, quietly, "Look. He has her wings."
She of those wings, Tialith, warbles low and pleased as the eggs begin to crack and the candidates come forth to claim them. Blue and green eyes whirl as they reflect over and over again, in hundreds of facets, the hopeful figures that pour onto the sands.
J'sek only has time to nod his head a little to K'rom, mouth opening to begin some form of reply and then abruptly his mouth closes and his attention turns back to the sands with more interest as several eggs hatch so quickly that the weyrling is hard put to keep up. He leans forwards a little on his seat, a slightly crooked smile forming on his lips.
From the sands, Kenathan's gaze is drawn to the bronze. He steps off a little further, shifting his position slightly on the hot sands, but focusing for a long moment on that one dragon in particular before the cotholder's son shakes his head, simply. His attention, at that point, becomes more general, eyes flicking from dragon to dragon.
From the sands, A little group of three eggs starts to shiver and shake, cracks appearing in all three shells as they rub and grate against one another. The left one splits wide first, spilling out a fat little brown who goes immediately toddling out over the sands toward a trio of round boys from Tillek. The right one splits next, yawning forth a chunky, boxy blue who gallops immediately for a portly lad from the weyr's lower caverns. In its wake the middle egg, soaked by the goo of its siblings, finally pops open and out comes a lithe, dark-tipped little green, more tentative and careful than her bold and brash brothers, keen eyes thoughtful already about the world she's come into.
From the sands,
Fire and Grace Green Hatchling
Overall a rich leaf green, she's brushed at sinewed haunches and
slender elbows and smooth cheeks by strokes of lush, almost oceanic
verdigris. Her neckridges are arched, each flowing into the next like
a wave in constant motion along sleek neck and long, nimble tail. Like
her 'ridges, her wingspars are each gently, graciously curved; from
them drape translucent sails that shimmer with their own green fire.
Deep-set eyes are lined in a dark shade of teal, making their steady
stare seem sharp and wise. Finely bumped eyeridges and long, graceful
headknobs, too, are tipped with this richest color. Her face is trim,
with nose pert and small, jaw slim and tapered. That she might appear
to be cunning is accomplished in part by her features and in part by a
thoughtful grace in movement.
From the sands, Katriel is apparently composed on the sands, or resigned to her fate. With only shifting from foot to foot, she remains otherwise still as she watches the movements of eggs and hatchlings with a detail sensitive eye. Bronzes - including the recently hatched - are relegated to secondary concern, along with any blues or browns. She only has to keep from getting run over by them, after all. Greens, however, are watched more attentively.
Ah: company. "Fienne," offers G'thon, apparently not so entranced by the appearances of hatchlings and candidates below that he can't notice and greet Caucus students; "Sakher, of course not. Have a seat," comes next, and the ethics instructor can manage a mild smile and a wry, sparkling glance for each of them in turn. He has then time enough to gesture at the sands with a pale hand overturned: "Quick start."
Sefton's duty calls even now, it would seem -- the Headmaster is deep in conversation with a pair of crafters as he enters, which just now seems to mean that they're talking furiously, and he's nodding. The sight of the hatchlings silence them, however, and the man from Boll takes the opportunity to send them down, further towards the front, with a gentle push to their backs. For his own part, he hangs back a little, and slides onto the end of a bench, next to Penny.
From the sands, "Shame he didn't get more of her than that," rumbles R'vain toward Roa, stepping around behind her (so as not to block her view!) toward Ruvoth's flank. He raises his voice a bit so Issa, too, can hear when he adds, "Too much of ol'Roov if y'ask me-- Oh, now, that's a nice turn." The Weyrleader's eyes follow the green, while Ruvoth himself pauses in his humming to snort for having been implied unattractive. Well.
K'rom nods as he sees the bronze, but his eyes shine with interest when he sees the green, "She's a pretty one." The comment is low, but definitely can be overheard by the weyrlings.
From the sands, Voice of Truth Bronze Hatchling finds his feet, and spreads his still-damp wings for balance as he hazards his first step forward. Egg goo is everywhere, and a long string of it stretches from his body to the tip of his wing, catching the light for a moment before it snaps, and sails into the field of candidates. With a harsh squawk that seems to catch him by surprise -- he moderates it quickly into a better sound, and finishes with a cough -- he moves forward, forcing the first rank of candidates to jump aside with alacrity. Whatever he's after, he can't see it close by, and with his tail snaking back and forth for balance, he takes his search further into the field.
"Ah, you are Fienne?" Sakher says brightly, studying that woman wtih an easy smile. "The instructor mentioned your name to me over tea the other day, as someone I should meet, and I'm pleased to finally have the pleasure. Sakher, of Nabol," he tacks on an introduction. And then, to the elder man, as he shoots a glance back. "It's been so long since I've seen one, I shouldn't very well know," he admits apologetically. "How is Miniyal? Will she be joining us later, sir?"
From the sands, Ella was watching the bronze, but then pop, pop, pop, three new hatchlings appear on the sands and one, two, find new lifemates. The third, the green, holds her interest, the woman's head canting a bit to the side before she again scans the rest of the sands and the rocking shapes that coninue to shatter into moving creatures.
Sakher's appearance and subsequent seat-taking brings the number of comfortably empty seats between Fienne and the men to one. A pair of laughing girls come tumbling into the seats on the other side, and left between to choose between the two groups, the shy looking girl stands and scoots over beside Sakher. She gives G'thon a finger-wiggle of a wave and a soft little smile first, then another, slightly fainter, to the Nabolese man. "Very quick... though, I don't have much to compare to," she says in her typically whisperish tone. His cheery greeting leaves her shrinking slightly in her seat, but with a brighter smile. "I am Fienne, yes. The pleasure's all mine I'm sure."
J'sek breaks his concentration on watching the hatching below long enough to answer K'rom's low comment, being one of the few close enough to overhear among the humming dragons and chatter of other spectators in the galleries. "That she is. I wonder ... So many at once. Did you see the brown and blue that hatched before her?" Then there's silence again from him as his attention returns to the scene below.
Neiran acknowledges H'kon's presence with a nod, the lack of verbal greeting tacit acceptance of their treatise of near-silence. With the sound of cracking, the healer's hand lowers, and his eyes focus on the blue wing that's appeared. He takes note of it, then looks down at his page again. He idly turns to the next page, but he also places his bookmark in the crease and looks up once more. Whatever text is there won't command his attention any longer; it's there to read later, after all, but this event is passing rather swiftly. And it's hot even in the sands, so the healer - apparently just recently on duty or preparing to be - unbuttons the collar of his cassock.
From the sands, A deep breath is taken, Ken, still watching and waiting, folds his arms for a moment, then unfolds them almost immediately. "And a lady," he murmurs again, to no one in particular, looking more and more nervous as time goes on. Fidget, fidget, step to the side again, keeping his eyes on the various dragons.
From the sands, Miniyal moves her feet only when she has to. Better to burn them than to hop around like a fool. Besides, she's likely trip and fall and wouldn't that be embarrassing? Well, it would. So when she needs to she takes a half step to one side or the other and if she doesn't she just watches.
From the sands, Issa calls out the old names of two newly Impressed lads to bring them out of their haze and hardly a beckon is needed to draw them further, trudging through thick sand with the hatchlings. The effort doesn't entirely distract her from the goings-on of the more immediate area, however, and she turns half a glance to R'vain for his comment, and faint half a smile to go with it. That's all she spares, though, before turning silently back to tracking the hatchlings.
From the sands, Fire and Grace Green Hatchling waits for a time, quiet while the creels and murmurs of some of her more vocal siblings fill the air around her. She perks her head one way, then another, as though listening - but in time determines that none of these noises is one she needs to particularly attend to. She reaches out with a paw, prepared to walk - then looks down, to spot her path. Cautiously she picks her way out from among the shattered remains of her egg's close-by brethen, starting for the semicircle of white-clad folk, prim-prowling.
From the sands, There is a soft tsk from the weyrwoman at R'vain's pronouncement. "Honestly, if ever there was a day to be nice to Ruvoth..." she teases, her arms coming up to cross over her chest. Roa glances sideways, sneaking a smile to Issa and a glance over to D'ven as they move into action.
From the sands, Jensen drops his hands to his sides and moves slowly to get a better view of the galleries up above. Something up there catches his eye and he lingers, his weight leaned on one foot, before straightening to return to his post and check the other positions.
K'rom smiles and nods at J'sek, "Very handsome. Always good to see more of them." His interest seems to be on who the green chooses though as he chews on his lower lip.
H'kon returns the healer's nod, that awkward stretch of his mouth that somemtimes passes as a smile given when, indeed, it seems there will be no conversation. The rider's attention, however, is focused almost solely on the sands, but for the occasional glance to those new arrivals coming up the stairs late. The first brown does draw a 'hmm' from him, but otherwise, apart from various levels of eyebrow action, he is content to remain rather still, and fully quiet, in the back.
"Ah, I should have introduced you. Forgive me - " G'thon gestures again at the sands below, and there's no doubt now that his smile is knowing, maybe even smug. "I find myself occasionally distracted."
Up in his mostly empty back row seat, Reyce's eyes take note of the little gathering of leaders by the door, and they especially take note of the greenrider who moves out of that group to start herding the newly impressed back off the sands. For the hatchings - what color they are, or how pretty - he doesn't spare more than a glance now and then, instead reaching into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief and wipe a run off his nose without comment.
From the sands, Katriel continues to watch, self-contained in her observation. Absently, she brushes the back of one hand over her brow, flicking sweat away and trying to roll up the short sleeves of her robe. Too hot!
From the sands, Voice of Truth Bronze Hatchling moves now with an increasing sense of urgency, and two lads who lingered hopefully in his path are forced to jump aside at the last minute, as it becomes apparent that his momentum is going to carry him well past them. He tries out another creel, veering left to stare up at a cluster of white-clad figures, and nearly inhales a mouthful of sand in his hurry to signal his distress. Eyes taking on a hint of red, he flares his mosaic'd wings, half mantling, and then charges on once more, beginning to near the back of the crowd.
From the sands, "Look sharp," Ella advises to the women she stands near. There is a small chinjerk towards the dainty green as her toes curl in her sandals. But while other candidates shift and rock, the crop-haired woman from Tillek keeps her feet planted.
From the sands, Rysia probably wouldn't mind grabbing for hands about now, but there's not a need /quite/ yet. Sivoril gets a nod, as a grin would involve taking her eyes off the dragonets, "Never quite thought about how different they'd be lookin', down here.." she has to agree, before reaching up to tuck a bit of hair behind an ear, as it instantly sticks to the forming sweat.
From the sands, Kenathan frowns a bit. "I hope that bronze doesn't run somebody over," he says, finally, a little louder than his previous comments, perhaps even loud enough to be heard. Eyes flicker to the bronze again, then back to the green, then to other hatchlings...and he goes back to fidgeting, brushing sweat out of his eyes with one hand.
"No, please--don't apologize, sir," says Sakher with a shake of his head. "I commiserate. It is distracting, to be sure--I've a handful of acquaintances down there, and I can't help but be terribly curious as to how this will end. I probably shouldn't harass you with chattering, yes?" he asks, tilting his head slightly, smirking impishly. He finally glances sideways at the sands again, only faintly curious as to what's going on down there.
From the sands, Sivoril is having odd thoughts. Most notably of which are the urge to stand behind someone. It's an irrational thought for him and he knows it, and is yet unable to push it away. Fortunatly however, there is already someone standing behind him; peeping over his heavy shoulder. And so, he is forced to abort his thought at hiding and remain where he is. He is also having difficulty figuring out exactly who and what to pay attention to. So much happening at once. He is specifically trying to catch individuals at the moment of impression, watching personal reactions of both dragonet and new-rider. But the sheer amount of motion that is going on forces him to abandon this as his head cranes towards the bronze that is making its way to the rear, and the perusing green. So very different in their approaches.
From the sands, Essdara wrinkles her nose at Ella, "Can I look dull? Better yet, can I just stand behind you?" She asks, with a soft laugh. She nods to her other side and Rysia, "Yeah. You can't beat the view down here, shame it's so dangerous. It's like going to a bar and getting blind drunk, and hoping you don't wake up with the one-footed guy who sits in the corner."
From the sands, Fire and Grace Green Hatchling may as well be hunting: she moves with utmost care, talons leaving little v-marks in the sand behind her with each prowling, padding step. Her head tips one way and another, sharp eyes reflecting in their deep-set facets one young man, then another, then a somewhat round-figured woman standing a little away from the others. The little green lifts her head a bit and almost seems to smile, for her maw parts just slightly - hungrily, one might think. And then she moves on.
Fienne, too, gives a hasty shake of her head, sending pale curls bouncing at G'thon's apology. "Not at all, sir. It's not really the time for worrying about such details." Even as she speaks her wide blue eyes keep flickering back to the sands, restless and excited. In more of an undertone she leans slightly toward Sakher, nodding her chin sands-ward. "Who do you know down there? Other than Miniyal I guess, since you already mentioned her."
From the sands, "Better th'one-footed fella than th'ugly one," Ella notes with half-interest. The other half is on the hatchlings and she snickers as she watches the bronze that fumbles along on his wayward search. "That one's havin' a time've't."
Part Two