UPCOMING HATCHING: Urmath x Soforith

[DMITRI]

Hatching date: As soon as we've decided we have enough candidate characters.

Egg count: 30, although the hatchrate will probably be half, or less.

• 1 solid gold
• 1 solid bronze
• 1 bleached bronze
• 1 solid brown
• 2 pied brown
• 2 pied blue
• 2 bleached blue
• 6 pied green
• 1 bleached green

Candidates: 16

female: 8
Tsulain of Oyba Hold (murder ok, maiming redundant)
Omina of Oyba Hold (murder ok, maiming ok)
Feena of Genghis Hold (murder ok, maiming ok)
Vesadi of Baron Hold (murder, maiming ok)
Rogatis of Tazum Weyr (murder ok, maiming ok)
Celiira of Uther Hold (murder, maiming, injury ok just not to hands/eyes/face)
Iphira
Trismera of Thomos Hold

male: 8
Restrenon of Baron Hold (maiming ok, murder ok)
Leoinv of Uther Hold (maiming ok,  murder)
Mehalen of Tazum Weyr (maiming ok, murder)
Ofalnyr of Tazum Weyr (maiming, murder, mild injury ok)
Juzou of Joa's Ravager Hoard
Fitets of Oyba Holder (maiming ok, murder)
Alydor of Thomos Hold
Bokugar

The candidate list will be filled in as applications for characters are accepted. Feel free to make candidates just to fill space even if you don't want to play them, just put up a basic application with a note that they're free to be killed/maimed and that you don't want them to Impress. We can always insert various NPCs if it comes down to it.

[MOMO]

Okay, I have made some changes to this - since the site is #ded, ya'll get to know how many eggs were gonna be viable, and in what colors. Might give you a better idea of what to describe your character's last moments as

Since we don't technically have enough candidates, feel free to make up some NPC characters and throw them to the wolves.

[Hydaja]

She knew the moment that it was time.

How could she not? Soforith knew, and through their mindlink, Hydaja knew.

One moment, she was in the kitchens pitching in with peeling tubers for the evening meal, and the next she was breatheless, her chest full and head filled with song.

With a grace she hadn't thought possible, she set down the knife she'd held in her hand and stood, her skirts quietly falling around her legs. "Excuse me," she begged of the ladies who ran the kitchens. "My thanks for allowing me to join you, but something else demands my attention."

Hathar looked up at her, slightly agog, and insisted it was a matter of course. A matter of course, that the Weyrwoman would deign to visit the scullery and handle the foodstuffs like a common maid. But Hydaja was a peculiar one, prone to fits of pique and intent upon knowing all who lived beneath her wing. Nothing would change that he was the rider of the golden Soforith, and nothing would change that he mate was S'ris, rider of the bronze Urmath. Not pestilence, not mutiny, and certainly not a few smudges of dirt and a nicked finger or two.

Hydaja smiled down at her, and took her words in stride. "As you say, Hathar. And if you may, please, send a runner to the candidates' holdings - they will need to know it is time, but it does well to send for them nevertheless."

With a decline of her head, Hydaja bid the women farewell, and made for the sands that housed the great Soforith and her clutch. The song in her heart beat stronger with each step, and with it came intense emotions.

Love.

Loss.

Hope.

This would be her beauty's final clutch, and with it, her final hopes for the future of Tazum Weyr and the riders of Pern.

[Liajind]

Having grown up at Tazum Weyr, as the son of a bronzeriding son of a bronzeriding son of ...  the feeling of an impending hatching was as familiar to him as his own skin, even though they were infrequent.  Liajind excused himself from his chores as the humming of dragons began to become audible and walked briskly back to his bunk for the white robe he'd worn only twice before.

The story was that, before the bleaching started, there were clutches every turn, and sometimes more than once a turn. How exciting that must have been, with a fresh opportunity to Impress just around the corner. No wonder his lineage all had bronzes, with two or so every few months for the ten turns one was allowed to stand as a candidate.

He shrugged into the traditional robe and sandals and made his way down to the hatching grounds where Soforith was presiding over thirty eggs, not all of which were rocking. He frowned. His grandfather said that dud eggs in the old days were rare, not common.

Liajind made his obeisance to the queen and Weyrwoman. Expected. Required.  

What would this day bring for himself and for the other candidates... some of them were more eager than others. Some weyrbred, some not. There was a wholly unfamiliar girl to his right, tears streaming down her face. He wanted to tell her it would be all right... but would it?

[Loralayn]

Loralayn was not having a good day. Not in the slightest.

She'd been woken early by her dormmate being violently ill.  She'd been shooed out of the room with only enough time to grab clean clothes and her boots, and wasn't allowed to go back. It was too early to work at the loom - people complained if the clacking began before breakfast - and all her handwork projects were neatly stored in her cubicle in her room where they ought to be.

Finally someone lent her a cloak and she went outside.  There was, unexpectedly, a dragon there.  The weaverhall seldom saw dragonriders, especially not this early in the day. She kept a wide margin around the piebald blue and walked away from the Hall.  Loralayn didn't notice that the dragon had taken an interest in her and had turned to watch where she was going.

Without warning, something grabbed her, and lifted her, and then there was bitter cold an dnothing. In a few heartbeats, light returned, an an unfamiliar place as the dragon descended towards Tazum Weyr.

The eggs are hatching.  A voice said in her mind. We brought you as a candidate.

The blue landed, set Loralayn neatly on her feet, and his rider slid down and came around to face her.  "You have to change." He said, and pulled her to a tiny closet of a room and threw something made of white cloth at her. "Hurry!"

Loralayn stared.

"Change! Are you daft?! You have to wear white on the sands!"

Out of fear of the rider she undressed and put on the candidates robe, and he led her to the hatching grounds where the giant gold watched over her eggs. Some were rocking but most were not.

Fear and hunger warred for control, and Loralayn began to cry.

[Khania]

Khania had been having a lovely time. Even though she was now a candidate for eggs that might not hatche, that might hatch colorless draogns, that might hatch murderous violent beasts... she was happier now than she had been in months.  She was her own person, she was not being beaten, and literally nobody cared if she wanted to have children or not.

She was a candidate, of her own free will, and Tazum seemed glad to have her. If she needed to do chores to earn her keep here, so be it.  Khania was safe and there was nothing her father could do about it. 

"The eggs are hatching." Someone said calmly into the room where she and another candidate were rolling bandages for the healers.

"We'll finish." Said an apprentice. "You go change. Good luck." 

Khania and the other girl raced back to the dorm, hurried into their white robes and then ran to the sands.  Breathlessly, Khania greeted the Queen and took her place near the gold egg with the other girls.  Someone had said queens preferred holder girls, but why would they? Wouldn't the next leader of the Weyr want a mindmate who knew the business? And wouldn't bonding the new queen just tie her to babymaking all over again?

Khania's eyes drifted to the other eggs. Maybe she could attract a fighter. A fast one. She didn't need gold; she needed wings and freedom.

[Tesis]

Converting from a journeywoman smith who worked eight to ten hours a day at the forge or swinging a hammer to a glorified scullery maid for a chance at impressing one of Pern's great beasts was taking a lot of time and patience that the broad-shouldered smith girl did not have. Why did they have her in the kitchens of all places? Was it because she was a girl? Couldn't they see that she'd be of better use almost anywhere else? Kitchen work was going to make her soft.

She'd already cut herself trying to wield a tiny knife to peel tubers, and had been banished to sit by the fire and stir the stew, and stew herself. At least the heat from the hearth had a comfortable familiarity.

What kitchen gossip had provided was more information than the candidatemaster had been willing to divulge. According to gossip, half of the thirty eggs weren't expected to hatch. Of the half that did, three-quarters would be all or part white, and of those, half would be violently insane and go between without impressing. The rest would be "different" but nobody ever said why. Tesis didn't like those numbers.

15 dead in the shell.
15 hatch.
3/4 of those are sick.
Make it 16 for easier math; 14 dead eggs.
4 are okay; 12 are sick. Half die.
4 are okay; 6 sick but impress.
10, or less, out of thirty.

Tesis did not like those odds. Not one bit.

The Weyrwoman set down the knife she'd been using to peel tubers, and there were words between her and the headwoman that didn't make a lot of sense at first. Then "they will need to know it's time."

After Hydaja was out of the room one of the kitchen workers turned to Tesis. "That's your cue. GO get changed. The hatching will be starting soon." The girl looked happy. "All the new babies!" she burbled to herself as she took over watching the stew pot. Tesis decided that one wasn't paying attention to the gossip around her.

She got up and walked back to the barracks. Maybe she should bring a hammer, in case one of the violent ones came at her with murderous intent. She signed. Where would she even get one without arousing suspicion this late in the game? The smith changed into the white robe and flimsy sandals and went to the sands as she was bid. She bowed to the Queen and Weyrwoman as they'd been taught, and took her place near the queen egg, which was rocking. She began to count the ones that were moving... 13, 14, 15... 16... 17.

[Celiira]

Celira had been busy cultivating relationships with the Weyr residents. Notably, the riders of bronzes and browns that were untouched by the illness. "Solid" bronzes and browns. Healthy stock. Healthier, at least. The current clutch had been laid by a solid gold, but only half of the clutch was expected to live, even though the sire was also a solid color. Did these people even know what was wrong with their beasts? Nevermind; she would sort it out when she was a dragonrider herself. There had to be some way to strengthen the lines and increase the number of viable hatchlings.

She turned her attention back to the man, who was trying to kiss her. Someone, Feena, called her name in the corridor.

"Lady Celiira? Oh where are you?!"

She did not receive the kiss as the rider took a half step back. Pity. This one was actually good looking.

"Lady? Lady, your husband is here."

Celiira blinked. Here? The soft thing she'd been wed to had roused himself from his books long enough to travel to the Weyr? She rolled her eyes. The rider stifled a laugh. She checked her gown and made her way to the door, speaking loudly so her voice would carry. "Thank you again for the history lesson. I feel more properly prepared now." She stepped into the hallway.

"Lady Celiira, he's here." Feena fretted. "And he wants to see you immediately."

"Then he shall.  Where is my delightful husband hidden?"  Her words were saccharine.

Feena led her to a guest room where Dorvan was waiting. Pacing.

"Husband!"  Celiira said and threw herself at him as though she'd missed him a lot or even at all.

He caught her but did not embrace her. "You have to come home." He said without preamble.  "You have to come home at once."

Celiira frowned slightly. "But the eggs haven't hatched yet."

"All the better!"  Dorvan said. "I have disc...."

"But what of your plan to improve relations with the Weyr?" Celiira interrupted purposefully.

Dorvan shook his head as if to chase away cobwebs. "There is something I need to show you at home, Celiira.  We must go now. Before it is too late." 

She stared at him. "Too late for what? The hatching..."

There was an unusual sound building.  It seemed to vibrate the whole Weyr.  There was a shout in the hallway: "The eggs are hatching! Candidates to the Sands..."

Dorvan's hands tightened on her arms.  "We have to go now."

"Nonsense. I have to go to the sands now. I have obligations to the Weyr. You agreed to this, Dorvan. Pulling out now only hurts our relationship with the Weyr. When it is over we can go home, but not before."  She turned and left, her husband squawking in rage behind her.

Feena was already gone, but that was fine, she knew the way.

* *

The dorms were bustling with candidates getting ready, and Celiira was soon among them, unlacing her gown and stepping into the soft bleached white shift she'd had sent from home.  The candidate robes the Weyr provided were worn, and worse, itchy and uncomfortable.  She would wear it, because it was part of the ceremony, but she would not wear it against her skin. Absolutely not.

She made her way to the hatching grounds unescorted. She saw her husband among the spectators, but did not acknowledge his waving. She was doing this, whether he liked it or not. She took her place with the other young women, some of whom were no more than teens, and some making fools out of themselves by crying.  Queenliness is as queenliness does.  Celiira set her chin and smiled pleasantly, thinking welcoming thoughts. Thoughts of love, safety, pride and ambition.

[Feena]

Feena didn't know or really even care why Lord Dorvan had come up from Genghis Hold on this day.  It wasn't a short trip; no dragon would have brought him and even if they had, no dragon would be willing to leave to take him back now, not with the eggs about to hatch. 

She had been coming to the conclusion that she was the only competent woman in the group of candidates. Most of them seemed to be ladies of some breeding who had no idea what an honest day's work was even like.

Her own lady, Celiira, was a conniving weasel, here for her own political gain.  Feena didn't know if Celiira even wanted to bond a dragon, but one thing was certain. Feena was not going back to being a drudge.  It felt like she had finally woken up. She wasn't just a servant here. Yes, she was still scrubbing floors and doing menial labor, but she had potential as a candidate.  She'd moved up in rank and it was her choice to go back or stay if she wasn't chosen today.  She'd be staying, dragon or no dragon. Let Celiira fend for herself with her doughy husband.

Feena put on the clean white robe, neatly mended by her own hand, and the sandals, and went to the sands, presenting herself before queen Soforith and the eggs.  The girls were ringed around the queen egg, mostly.  Some ranged farther afield, but most of the women had all but been promised the golden hatchling.

Feena? Feena was hoping for a green. 

[Ofalnyr]

Ofalnyr had spent the last few days in the archives, reading whatever he could get his hands on. He knew those eggs would be hatching soon, and he knew that if he bonded one of the hatchlings, his life would change in ways he couldn't exactly anticipate.  If he survived the day at all.

They'd told him to think welcoming thoughts to attract a hatchling, but had no advice on how to repel an out of control hatchling other than "Just stay out of its way."  Running away didn't seem right. People didn't used to be afraid of dragons. The illness turned them into monsters, and made draongriders less respectable.  Nothing Ofalnyr could find in the records had any information about how impressing even worked. "It just does" is the only answer that existed.

It was in those dusty halls that the runner found him.  "Time, Ofalnyr."  The young woman said. "Eggs are hatching."

Ofalnyr put the book back on the shelf and followed her out.  Time to face his fate.  Would a dragon find him today? Would it be the beginning, or the end? 

* *

The bleachers full of spectators stood as testament to the tradition of hatching day.  Who wanted to watch all of this death? Many eggs would fail. Many of the hatchlings would not impress, and many of the candidates may well die.  

He bowed to Soforith, and saw a girl crying.  He went to her and took her hand.  "You're not alone. What's your name? I'm Ofalnyr. I'll stay nearby" He smiled and tried to comfort her, even though she was a total stranger.  She must have just arrived, poor thing.

[Roveno]

Young lord Roveno, son of Lord Holder Rosinian, had been at the Weyr for slightly less than a sevenday. He, and his bodyguards (who were unfailingly loyal to his father) came in with an extra tithe from Cove Hold. Maybe it was actually more of a bribe to allow Roveno's visit, but shipment and visit were both welcomed.

The young lord got a full tour of the Weyr, with a few notable exceptions, was given a lovely suite, and was kept away from trouble, mostly. More than once Elmir caught him trying to sneak out to go exploring by himself. It got so bad that the two guards actually had to take turns sleeping to keep the little lordling in his room at night. Elvir was tempted to threaten to take Roveno home before the hatching, but that would show his hand. He knew the kid wanted to sneak in and see the dragon eggs. What kid didn't? The only thing that had kept Elvir from trying it was living half a continent away from Pern's only Weyr. He sent daily reports back to Rosinian via firelizard. The Lord HOlder was glad his son was curious, but said the lad needed to be more subtle.

* *

Hatching day finally came, and clad in a silvery-grey tunic, young lord Roveno made his way to the frontmost row of the stands, his big and muscular guards to either side. His smile was nearly as wide as his face. "Look, Varl, look" He pointed at the eggs. "That one's cracking! Look Elvir!"

The guards obligingly looked. A dragon hatching was a spectacle neither had seen and neither would likely ever get another chance to see. For all his plotting to get here, Roveno was only a child of ten. ELvir thought that letting boys that young be candidates was a mark of how desperate the Weyr was. Those lads wouldn't reach their full adult height for another eight or ten years...