The starving and toiling masses? -- The Bowl

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Date Posted: 16:05:41 05/31/05 Tue
Author: G'nen - Raghath .. L'meak - Marath .. B'mulf - Zeeth
Subject: The starving and toiling masses?

A sturdy brown hatchling struts from the hatching sands, his bewildered rider in tow. G'nen takes lead when his Raghath comes to a halt, not knowing where to go. I helped them set some of these up, before the hatching, I know what to do. The new rider seems proud of himself.. for knowing that, for being able to love and guide and be chosen by this dusky miracle. Raghath dips his head and trails after the portly boy, who makes for the buckets and finds one with a brown stripe. Here, he urges, and the dark brown dragon creels, fanning his wings and lunging to gulp chunks from the bucket. G'nen is too lovesick to care about the rather gruesome spectacle. When the quiet Raghath finishes, he leans his bloody skull against the pale Candidacy robe, smearing it with crimson. The Weyrling is mollified, going a bit clammy, but wrapping his arm around the hatchling's neck and leading him off in any case.

--

Following the brown is a green with a dangerously simple edge to her demeanour. Everything about her speaks of violent proddiness and a fierce hostility to come, when she gets older. She, too, drags a boy in tow. L'meak's blonde hair is ruffled by his Impressed's roughness with him - smacking his thigh with her wedge-shaped head and snapping at his heels when he didn't move fast enough. Theirs was a bond of deep-rooted need rather than love, but it was still beautiful in its own darkness. Her orange eyes connect with his pale, frosty ones and a silent exchange happens. The Weyrling leads his dragon to the buckets and gestures to a green-marked one. Marath snorts and feeds bloodily, head whipping from side to side as her jaws chomp. Snarling sounds emit from her, territorial, until she's finally done. The green pauses to scratch at her hide with her talons, until L'meak beckons her with a sharp tug of his mind. Together, they stride towards the Perches.

--

B'mulf and his brown Zeeth trot out abreast. Zeeth seems exuberant to have found his Impressor and expresses this by chattering nonstop. The quiet young man's face is crinkled into an awkward smile, broad, knobbly hand resting atop the large and gangly darksand skull. The brown doesn't seem interested in eating for the moment, but when B'mulf shows him the buckets, the hatchling seems eager enough to chow down. And chow down he does! Zeeth crunches the fats, muscles, and ligaments with a hungry ardour, quirring while he does so, blue-yellow eyes closed. After he's polished off all that's in the bucket, the dragon snuffles up to another and prepares to munch it, as well. His Impressor stops him, however, wrapping long arms around a rangy neck and pulling the skinny brown backwards. Only one, Zeethy, those are for other dragons.

Fine, starve me if you must, The brown grumbles and sticks his snout in the air. B'mulf clouts Zeeth on the shoulder and hops to his sandals, which he sheds impromptu. The grass is cool on his broad, yellowish feet, a wonderful relief from the scorch of the sands. The fresh rider leads his hatchling off to the Perches.

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