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Date Posted: 20:48:59 04/20/05 Wed
Author: Wessae~Shrineth Marath, Kronth, Sanoth, Loriath
Subject: A Five, Six, Seven, Eight!

Wessae waves a cheerful greeting to incoming riders dropping off new hopefuls. It was so encouraging to see so many coming out for the hatching. The Search dragons had certainly done their work, and she knew more were still Searching. Unfortunately, the number of white robed people far outnumbered the spheres of life cradled within Shrineth's protective gaze. But she knew, like all of the candidates did, that other queens would fly and there would be other clutches to stand at. Though it was comforting to know that there were so many present for these little ones, it was sad knowing there would be disappointment for quite a few. Glancing at the eggs, she feels a shiver of anticipation race up her spine at the thought of the lives cradled tenderly within each one. "I feel just like it's MY attempt at Impression!" She says out loud to no one.

You've already done that, Shrineth observes with mild amusement before her attention is attracted by the loud entrance of one of the candidates. Narrowing her eyes a bit as they whirl a light orange of annoyance, she calms enough to fussily turn the eggs and reposition them. This clutch is apparently sensitive to touch, for once Shrineth's snout is done, four eggs start rocking quite heavily at once. Uttering a sharp exclamation of surprise, Shrineth shifts each egg so that the dragonets that burst from them will not upset one another in hatching. Convinced now that this clutch is quite healthy and ready, she makes no attempt to hold these youngsters back but instead encourages them with a low, steady hum.

The first egg to crack, cleanly in half at that, reveals a petite green who picks her way out of the shell with a few quick flicks of her tail and all the sleek agility she will possess in later years. Fanning her wings in a no nonsense and capable manner, the dragonet begins a determined march across the sands, the small muscles under her hide knotting and releasing as she moves, casting her head about in swift, accurate decision making swipes as she surveys girls and boys alike. No! No! Not right! NONE of them was right! Most of the girls had their minds full of gold and didn't have a mind for her. And the boys had THEIR minds full of bronze, brown and blue. It would not do, not at all. But then like a shaft of sun in a stormy, desolate landscape, she finds a line of thought that is not preoccupied with other colors. Her red-tinted, deep blue gaze is arrested by a girl standing newly alone after her companion had gone away with a blue dragon. With all the regal grace due her species, the green prances to Atinaya and gives her an appraising look, first with one eye and then a head turn to look from the other. After a moment, she warbles happily and her mindvoice echoes her joy in a voice as bright as her sun-kissed green hide. Atinaya! I am Loriath, and I am TEN THOUSAND times better than her, the green tosses her elegant head back to carelessly indicate the queen egg, her dam's slight arrogance and self assurance present in every line of her body. Food?

As this is happening, another egg cracks and another green emerges. This one is slightly larger and less refined than her clutchmate, and much darker in color as though cast in the shade. Her eyes whirl a dark red as well, and where her sister pranced, this green fairly stalks, neck coiled as she hisses and claws her way almost angrily through the candidates. They had heads full of fluff, most of them. She comes to Sahira and after a cursory glance, the girl is shoved mercilessly to the ground with already sharp claws, the green careless of her damage. This brings her to Isabel, who recieves similar treatment, with a vicious hindkick for good measure. A small gathering of people catches her shifting gaze, and one in particular who seems set apart from his groupmates by his own choosing. She casts disdainful looks at Bomulf and Mahiri before settling on Lemeak. Testing his mind and thoughts, she finds them appropriately unsentimental and a headbutt is given. L'meak, I'm Marath. Please let's get out of here, I'm hungry.

An egg that is considerably larger than that of the greens shatters as they do, the brown inside taking his first breath as a roar of noise that causes his mother to thrum with pride. A muscular tail makes short work of the binding prison, and the compact brown shakes himself off and leaps mightily from the nest, wings fouling to trip him up, though he regains his balance. He's not as dark as the first brown, nor as large, but he's an interesting shade, almost like a tree trunk in that there are definite ripples of lighter browns and deep mahoganies in his undershade of mud brown. He takes a surveying look across the sands with eyes that are still a bit large in his head, and then his choice is instantly made and with ease. A soft, polite touch is given to Liandro's hand with a blocky muzzle and a smooth tenor voice floats through his thoughts. L'ndro, I am Sanoth. Your healer friend might need to attend to those girls, as you must attend to me now.

The middle egg of this foursome of hatchlings erupts with a reckless abandon that causes blue limbs to kick wildly into the sky and a high pitched, somehow cheerful croon to fill the air. Righting himself, the blue shakes the shards off and tosses his head, egg innards still gumming his eyes. When they open, they are an arresting green, and begin to cloud with the siren red as the hatchling feels his hunger from his long imprisonment. But he can't seem to slake it on his own, he will need help! With an uneven back sloping up to hindquarters that are somehow massive and angular at the same time, the blue cuts a somewhat comical figure as he moves along the line of candidates, passing the unacceptable ones with oddly no physical contact of any kind. He knows a few of them would chuckle at his odd way of walking and his uneven topline, but it's only a sign of growth and he'll mature into an even, clean limbed fellow eventually. Now, though, he seeks the food of his soul as well as his stomach, and he comes to the one he's sure shall fill him with both, laying his long, slender muzzle against the young man's knees as the croon halts and the dragonet's somehow full and capable voice echoes in one candidate's mind.

Y'geni, I'm Kronth. You Impress me, but we need some food before I keel over here. I think I'm partial to wherry.

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