Fort Weyr - Hatching Sands
The sands. The most prominant and possibly most important area for a weyr, this section of Fort is no exception to the rule. Completely enclosed from the outside elements by a high rounded ceiling, the golden white sand glitters under the streams of sunlight that manage to make their way in from the upper openings. Ledges abound in the upper areas of the dome, perfect for riders and their dragons to watch the action happening on the ground. At the back of the sands there appears to be a raised section of sand, built over generations by the golds who have laid clutches here, a couch of sorts for basking on while protecting their eggs. Slightly to one side of that, a small nook has been carved for the weyrwoman to take respite from the heat of the cavern.

Fort Weyr - Galleries
The galleries are carved right out of the rock face, the rows and rows of benches rising high up into the air on a slight slant. Stone and wood benches that used to be known for offering little in the way of comfort, are now padded with cushions in Fort Weyr's colors. Placed along the railing at regular intervals are antique looking baskets filled with cheery fabric flowers. The curving walls sport tapestries in warm vibrant colors that seem to add a dash of color to the otherwise dreary stone. Where the galleries curve slightly at the ends, affording those attending hatchings or clutchings a decent view of the sands, shaded laterns offer warm lighting along the rows of benches.


It's just after noon, to the point where it would be more called 'noon' than properly 'afternoon' that egg-heavy Kouzevelth's body seems to decide that it's time to, well, not be anymore. Egg-heavy, that is. And so she makes her procession to the sands; faster than some other gravid dragons, with her tail and wings both lifted slightly so as not to trip. Her summons to Kainaesyth is brief and quick, a flash of all the information at once in a rapid psychic burst. The news trickles to others more slowly, but no doubt the sight of her has the galleries filling quicker than not. Inri, in her new orange sundress — nobody ask how Brebain managed to pull off that color, but she does match her lifemate! and is also wearing a coat slung over her shoulders, since this isn't the party and it paradoxically can help with the heat to have something light covering her arms — walks behind, for once not looking utterly exhausted by what her dragon is doing. She finds a seat; Kouzevelth laboriously inspects the sands for a good place to start, and begins digging small holes.

Meanwhile, some of the interested parties to the events on the Hatching Sands have to find out through the Weyr's second-fastest means of disseminating information — gossip, instead of psychic dragon-bursts. As a result, by the time Kouzevelth has dug her first two or three egg-holes to her satisfaction, the galleries are already filling up with those who don't have dragons of their own, or even firelizards — including at least some of the family of Fort's Steward, Zhirayr. As for Zhirayr himself? Well, he's still off making sure that the kitchen staff is getting things settled for the now-it's-going-to-be-lunchtime party.

It actually takes some time for Kainaesyth to arrive - time enough for Kouzevelth to step onto sands and start getting all comfortable. Mostly because he has to come from the fields, because yes, of course he was out there. It also means that Ha'ze arrives sans the not totally-terrible finery that Brebain had cooked up for him and is actually still sitting in the man's workroom. Just to avoid Kainaesyth being all "Oh, you know who needs that? There's this…" and thus having it disappear because everyone knows that when Kainaesyth gets the bit into his mouth Ha'ze can't deny him anything. (Or they don't know it, but Ha'ze does.) There's dirt rubbed along Ha'ze's face, and he's not shaved at all. All in all… Absent flight father has now shown up looking uh, scruffy. "You look good." At least he's polite as he proceeds Kainaesyth onto the sands.

Probably better to save finery for the party; Inri simply had time to change. Because Kouzevelth is kind of … slow to make just about any decision, and so as soon as she decided it was time to clutch, Inri figured she had half an hour. She was right! Now, though, everything seems to be set for the dragon: she is content to identify Kainaesyth as present and willing to fuss over her and provide assistance. So let's finish this hole off, here, good, and — an egg. Just one to begin. One easy little egg.

Paraskevidekatriaphobia Egg
There's nothing about this egg that is out of the ordinary - it's of an average size, an inoffensive shade of grey, and it fits in with its siblings as comfortably as any day fits into the week… and yet something about it is just a little, well, off. Maybe it's the too-sleek curve of its sides, washed in stony shades? Or its broad, bulbous bottom, where the grey is more of an asphalt colour? But it's really just ordinary, isn't it? How can an egg possibly be foreboding?

Mirinda, nearby, should possibly be avoiding Zhirayr's family; too bad she doesn't, necessarily, know which ones Zhirayr's family are. She's met one sister. His parents probably hate her. She is also really not paying attention to that right now — her children may or may not be arriving with a nanny, and she was actually just on her lunch break and figured she would come watch the clutching. There are other Healers with her; namely C'rus and Tiye, both more focused on watching than conversing, along with a young apprentice who whispers, "Creepy," about that first egg.

Unlike his father, Kainaesyth is actually something to look at. Details twist and dance about one another across his hide. He steps carefully, reaching out his neck to brush it lovingly about the mother-upon-the-sands. His thoughts bear the fresh tang of growth, of flowers recently opened. It does not matter that the first egg is strange, is it not that which is different, that which produces the most complex stories?

The support is appreciated. No, really — Kouzevelth makes a soft little crooning noise, nosing the egg about a bit before poking it firmly into the hole, covering it and nuzzling Kainaesyth in the shoulder before she sets to finding a new spot, not so far from the old spot, to perfect another couple of holes and come up with another couple of eggs. Two in short succession is unpleasant, and Inri has to stand up atop her paw to be able to reach her snout to rub it gently. "Relax, don't push it too hard. It's not like you've got twenty in there." She hopes. She really hopes. Kainaesyth can't be that virile, right?

Not Your Typical Scapegoat Egg
Is this tapered and lopsided egg's shell too soft? From a distance it seems that way and on top of that it sports no flashy colorings or markings. In fact it almost blends into the sands themselves and would too if it didn't look so… hairy? What is wrong with this egg? Hues of off white, beige, grays and taupe all gather together on this egg in a seemingly chaotic manner with no rhyme and reason until one approaches closer. Then the shell certainly looks tough enough and the colors now take on a textured look, coarser where the strokes are longer nearest the wide and lopsided base, softer where they are minutely blended near the narrower tip. How odd this egg is… and should it be disturbed?

Forward or Die Egg
Is it possible for something as innocuous as an egg to be annoying? This one is smooth, a little on the large side, but theres nothing overtly offensive about it - well, save for the gaudy bright scribbles on its white sides. But even they cant be considered truly offensive. Theyre just colours, smattered in bold, italic, sans-serif splashes and stripes. Cyan, green, pink, magenta and black at the apex, swirling around the eggs round shell in a somewhat orderly pattern, as if theyre forming neat lines. The lower those colours go, though, the more urgent they seem to become - bigger, brighter, a Flash of red flickering and blinking. Down here, those seemingly random markings might even start to look like words and they might just be telling you to share this egg with as many people as possible for a lifetime of good luck.

Over to one side of the sands Ha'ze settles himself away from the action. There's a nice seat where he can settled, drawing one foot up to rest on a nice perch not too far away. From a pocket comes a well worn journal, and frowning, he'll turn his attention to it. Though… as inept a writer as Ha'ze is, the awkward angle doesn't work. Up he'll go again to, uh, leave. He's going to go look for something.

Zhirayr is, therefore, late but not too late to the Galleries — only three eggs on the sands, and already he's gotten the kitchen staff to realize that if they want to see any of the eggs, that means they have to have their work done quickly. We'll see if any of them try to sneak in at the back as the clutching progresses, right? As he comes in, he looks around, spotting a wealth of family members — a number of whom have not met Mirinda in the context of being related to him, whether or not they've actually met her as the Weyrhealer — an assortment of weyrbrats, currently under control by their nannies thank goodness, and, well, other people. But he walks up to join Mirinda, because he's either smitten, a masochist, or both. "Hey, you," he murmurs. "Good show so far?"

Does Zhirayr know there won't only be three eggs? Kouzevelth's second clutch had four, didn't it? She might be done. Mirinda isn't actually so rude as to suggest that, though; instead she gives Zhirayr a tiny smile that doesn't bely any nervousness that may or may not be hidden in it, and says, "So far. I've not seen many of these, but nothing disastrous has happened yet, and the eggs are … interesting." The rest of the Healer contigent? Still rapt attention.

Kainaesyth could totally be that virile. It's his theme right? Life. All the life. The first egg gets some attention from the clutch father, as he shifts some of the sand just slightly around it. So careful. « They will come as they ought. » His voice reaches out, heavy with slow moving breezes, and not even bothering to work though Kouzevelth. Right to Inri. Because this is Kainaesyth.

Inri probably should be more surprised than she actually is; it's not the first time someone else's dragon has spoken to her, though, and Kouzevelth doesn't seem offended. She didn't miss out on it, either; she emits a low hum of satisfactory agreement before attempting to move to a different area of the sands. Which means dislodging Inri from her foot. "You're the wise one," the goldrider tells the bronze dragon as she allows for his rider's departure. He will presumably come back someday. Kouzevelth moves once, then moves again, then goes to someplace completely different where there aren't even any holes and sets to making a new one, depositing an egg inside it that … is not the most comfortable of eggs to clutch, ever. Her mindvoice is reds and thundercracks as that one comes out.

Owe Me An Egg
To start, this egg is just a little bit oblong, shaped in such a way that it's got extreme bottom-heaviness and comes almost to a point up at its definite 'top.' Some eggs can roll comfortably and be turned every which-way, but not this one — it gives the impression both that it was unpleasant to clutch and that perhaps its dam has to push it rather than roll it across the sand. The elegant sheen of color and texture makes up for any demerit it might suffer for being oddly shaped: it is coated in deep caramel brown, with haphazard but attractive swirls and swaths of frothy beige. Its darker undertones shine slightly when they catch the light, smooth to the eye and touch, where the lighter features have almost an uneven raising, a look as if they'd be bubbly under one's fingertips.

"Heh, she's working fast." That comment is more of a grunt as Ha'ze is back with… a desk. More a table really, but a solid piece of furniture that at some point use to rest somewhere else in the weyr and has now been appropriated for sands use. "Wondered if he'd do that…" regarding Kainaesyth's choice to talk to the goldrider. It's like him to bypass translation errors, even with nonriders. With another grunt Ha'ze lugs the table over to his seat and begins the process of getting it settled for use.

Oh, Lianri is here. And for the most part being not at all misbehaved. Of course, that can only last so long, and the girl in her skirts is already starting to wiggle in place, her hazel eyes dancing away to look at STUFF. Like over there. Why does that spot look newer than the rest? A glance sideways at the ADULTS. Are they paying attention? A slight wiggle to the right. A test. To see if they notice.

"Place your bets right here, folks!" one of Fort's inveterate bookies calls out, from one of the sides where he's got a good view of the Sands. "Starting with total number of eggs, and don't forget that we're taking bets on heinous deaths within the next twenty-four hours! This is Fort, after all!"

"She does her best," Inri agrees, giving Kouzevelth's leg a pat. "Although I think she might need a break now after the surface of that one. Do you want some help?" Inri is nowhere near as strong, physically, as Ha'ze. She can probably help with, you know, spacing. After all, she let D'ani set up an igloo once … though that was a gift and in the galleries and on the old sands. This is actually Kouzevelth's first time on the new ones, too, and so she's being finnicky. Quick, still, but finnicky. And now … yeah, she's taking a really short nap. Five minute nap. Because the ridges on that egg.

Mirinda probably shouldn't be laughing at the bookie, right? But she can't help herself — there's a little quick laugh before she covers her mouth. As for Lianri's nannies? Not so much, no. She is absolutely getting away with whatever she's attempting to do.

And so now, at least, yes, Zhirayr does know there will be more than three eggs, because there are already four on the sands. In the sands. Whichever. He snorts a laugh at the bookie, as well, sharing an amused glance with Mirinda over the man's attempts to get people to place bets. "What do you think?" he murmurs to her. "Should we place a bet that someone's going to be born in the next twenty-four hours, in order to balance things out?" Is it cheating if they do? Presumably Mirinda knows who's pregnant enough to pop…

A shot yells to the bookie, "Seven eggs, two deaths!"

"Um." That's consideration, from the Weyrhealer. Is it possible? Yes. Is it cheating? She has no idea. Mirinda looks thoughtful, bites the edge of her lip, and glances out at the now rapidly-snoozing gold dragon. "These things take a long time, right? That did look a little — eggs aren't usually like that, are they?" The funny textured one. "And I would, er. Bet a very small amount on someone being born."

The bookie, not missing a beat, shouts back at the sniper: "You gotta put your money on it, or you don't get any money back!"

"If you want." Ha'ze kneels on the sands, shoveling some of it under one leg, and out from another. "Tell me when this is level." Because it's hard to tell exactly when he's under it. Kainaesyth blows on each of the eggs, saving some love for the last strange one, before stepping towards the queen. One wingsail is extended, and he'll cover her protective-like and wait till she continues to drop her burden.

That little wiggle of hers didn't gather attention from the adults. PERFECT. Moving slowly Lianri finishes her extraction from-group so she can go INVESTIGATE that thing over there. The new spot RIGHT by the ledge keeping people from the sands themselves. She doesn't look back for her keepers, and moves like someone who is SUPPOSE to be going there. None of the other adults realize she has ESCAPED.

"A half-mark on a new birth in the next day!" Zhirayr calls to the bookie, and in the course of looking over to make sure the bookie sees who it is calling out this particular bet, sees the back of Lianri's head, heading off… that-a-way. Can he tell for sure it is Lianri? Well, no, but — whoever that is, she does look familiar

That is a job Inri can do, and she watches-watches-watches the desk until it seems as if it's not going to fall over, and then calls out, "Try that." This is enough to stir Kouzevelth, who has at least gotten a nice rest in; a nice rest wrapped in a comfortable, warm wing. Kainaesyth gets all of that gentle mind-rain, the sort she gives only her very favorites and newly-hatched children, before she lets herself stir to move to a space between her two egg-piles to make a couple of odd whuffling nosies and produce another.

One Smart Cookie Egg
Were one hungry enough, this egg might be might be seen as crisply golden-brown. Honeyed tones curve across the surface to where two perfectly caramelized edges meet but its just an illusion, right? Because a crack cannot exist in a viable egg. Not yet anyway. On the underside, shadowed hues of summer wheat mimic a fold, but again, it must be a trick of the eyes, for the shell, a sugary gleam glinting in the play of the light, is whole and unblemished.

And, after a yawn and a flutter of her wings, along with a twitch of tail, one more:

Cuprum Curse Egg
This particular egg seems to have forgotten that eggs ought to be smooth. Bumpy and dimpled, the egg has more in common with the surface of an orange than that of any self-respecting dragon egg. Bright copper shines cheerfully upon the highest of ridges, reflecting light joyfully and enticing the viewer to touch. Deep within canyons flashes of a dirty green linger, oxidization showing the bitter side of joy.

Someone is failing at child-minding. Mirinda isn't doing much better, because she isn't seeing what's going on either, and so she actually asks, "What are you looking at?" with a soft curiosity that she is distracted from by the production of two more eggs.

"Does she need you over there?" Ha'ze jerks a head towards the laying queen just in time to catch sight of that last egg. "Damn. That can't be comfortable. None of Rhenesath's eggs looked like that." Which means it isn't Ha'ze's fault right? Kouzevelth must just have weird egg-starters inside of her. He stands and brushes sand off of his knees and hands. Annoying how the stuff clings.

Oh don't mind the red-head over here. She's just leaning over the side of the rail now, having found that SPOT to be utterly uninteresting once she actually gets a close up look at it. But there, that one spot, just over the side. That looks interesting, if only because it seems just out of reach. Most of her body is over the side as she reeeeeaaaccchhheesss for whatever it is she wants to grab.

"I can't remember many of hers looking like this either," Inri murmurs, though it's not judgmental in any way. She certainly doesn't blame Kainaesyth any more than Ha'ze might. Every clutch is different, and apparently this one is just … weird. Goldrider skitters over to gold, offering another comforting noserub and some gentle encouraging murmurs. "They're very — angular, to say the least." Kouzevelth, despite not looking happy about the fact that clutching them has been relatively uncomfortable, offers, « They are distinct and I love them, » even though part of her wishes the shells were just a little bit smoother. She has to take another moment. No more eggs right now.

"That's not good," Zhirayr mutters, and eels his way out of his seat, nudging his way past various observers — some of whom, it seems, are just watching this kid fall to her doom. Zhirayr, meanwhile, manages to get there just in time to grab her by the ankle as she passes the tipping point, starting to slide too far to rescue herself — and pulls her back up, if not back upright, as some asshole complains that that could have been the first death why was he going and spoiling the bets, man, come on!

Mirinda, of course, stands up when Zhirayr does simply because he said 'that's not good,' and that's the kind of thing that attracts her attention. It's when she realizes what's going on that she gets closer, and before she realizes it's her own flesh and blood who may have hurdled down into the sands that she is turning on the jerk in question and making some extremely unhappy comments about how utterly inappropriate it is to say something like that, especially at an occasion like a clutching. She still hasn't actually looked closely enough at Zhirayr and his rescue yet to identify her … she's too busy scolding.

Lianri doesn't even realize she needed to start screaming as her weight over balances and then SOMEONE is pulling her back up onto the galleries. "Zhiirrrayyyrrr I ALMOST HAD IT." The whine in her voice is clear to hear, clearly, she has no idea of her AMOST DEATH. "Auntie, I almost had it." Big sad eyes as she finds her aunt.

"Yes. You did almost have it. Where by 'it' you mean a broken neck," Zhirayr points out acerbically, dropping her on the floor in a not-altogether-gentle fashion that does, at least, ensure that she has room enough to get up again. (Because nobody in the galleries is actually stupid enough, right now, to get in the way of flailing ten-year-old limbs. Or Zhirayr's glares, which are directed generally around instead of At Lianri, right now.)

"Heh." A grunt. Ha'ze is abandoned for the side of the gold dragon, and doesn't even mind. He's going to sit on the table and allow his weight to make it sink. He'll probably look pretty stupid there for a while as he bounces his butt on the wood, driving it deep and firmly downwards. « A little adversity builds wisdom. » Sage advice, which manages to actually smell like sage too, from the bronze as he coos (ugly) and encouragingly.

Now Mirinda is actually staring. She seems torn between thanking Zhirayr, clinging to Lianri and scolding again. Resulting in a largely bereft-of-any-real-expression expression: it's relatively blank. "I," she says, and then forces herself to sound a bit sympathetic, "Am so sorry about whatever it was, dear, but you did almost fall down onto the sands …" And die. Or at least break her neck. That second one is sometimes fixable. "So really we should be grateful to him —" Now Zhirayr can have a grateful look, over her shoulder. "Why don't you come sit with me, now, Lia?"

Huffy Lianri is HUFFY as she smothes out her skirts and edges away from Zhirayr. She's not really all that good at whispering, so Zhirayr probably does hear. "I don't know why you let him be so close Auntie. All that black. You're much prettier." And with a childlike smile of total adoration Lianri tucks her hand into Mirinda's.

Sage is a nice smell. Sage is a smell Kouzevelth likes, and it's mildly encouraging; with that from her mate, the amusing presence of Ha'ze trying to get the desk to settle into the sand properly (useful, in the end, as he and Inri will probably both use it more than once!) and Inri's urging words, the gold finally deigns to deposit another egg near its uncomfortably-ridged siblings. Maybe this one will be more normal.

Shattered Shards Egg
Cool silver encapsulates a smooth ovoid of stunningly simple flavor. No bubble, nor bump marrs this metallic sphere, the illusion of a reflective space facing the viewer. Only once rolled over from where it rests upon the sands do the imperfections manifest. Hairline cracks form a delicate spiderweb of connections outwards from where the egg sits. So real, yet they somehow do not impact the integrity of the egg. An unwary hand against that silvery facade will find sharpness where the black will lines cross.

The favorite egg might just have been hatched, except, when Kainaesyth draws close there is a sense of… confusion at first. There is a paradox within this egg that causes the bronze to PONDER. AS in, he folds himself onto the sand, lays his head down, and watches it. As if its secrets might be given up by the inspection.

Does he see his own face in it? Kouzevelth, too, gives that one a long consideration, and then … decides not to bury it just yet, because Kainaesyth is, er, using it at the moment. He'll bury it later. She trusts him to figure out that much, both as a competent sire and previously her Most Depended Upon Egg Sitter. Now he gets to be both. So, that laying didn't go so poorly, did it? Maybe she'll try that two-at-once routine again. Slowly, but … she'll try it.

Eggsplosive at Best Egg
Contradicting in a startling contrast of colors, this medium sized egg stands out even if half buried in sand. Dark is its shell, like the deepest of pure black night and broken only by the bright, rich reds that pepper that darkness like many pinpoints of light. From far it's difficult to make out clear details but up close the red against black takes shape. The smallest of red splotches are grouped and clustered as though to make the impression of the leaves of a tree, with bold streaks of black between as the branches and trunks. Larger circular shapes of red, streaked with orange and yellow in the centre give the image of shaded flame, safely contained and glowing with a comfortable warmth. The egg certainly seems inviting and safe… but perhaps that's the lure and trap?

Zhirayr doesn't laugh all that audibly, but — well, there's at least one snort of amusement in that, before he calmly elbows his way back away from the gallery overview/ledge/thing to his original seat, there beside Mirinda's original seat. Does this mean that Lianri is going to end up sandwiched between the two of them, so she can't escape again? Well, that will at least keep Mirinda from sitting next to Stark, Unrelieved Black, right? "I do my best to make her look prettier by comparison," is all he actually says, mildly, highly amused. Out of the mouths of babes and idiots who think diving out of the galleries is a good idea.

Upside Down Egg
White filigree stretches in uneven stripes across a shell marbled in cream and pale pink, with the occasional odd-one-out splotch of orange and blue. Its texturing is interesting, the lacelike pattern raised up just slightly, for fingertips or the edge of a dragon's snout to find distinct. This egg's mystery is not in how it looks, though, but how it balances ? how exactly does it sit like that? Upside Down Egg lives up to its name in an extreme — from the moment it is laid it settles the wrong way up, with the smaller, more pointed end on the bottom and the wider smooth side up. It seems as if the dragonet inside has shifted its weight the wrong way around, existing in a pre-hatching limbo of topsy-turvy.

Okay. No. That was a bad idea. Kouzevelth is never doing this again.

"She's going to hurt herself is she keeps popping out those weirdly shaped eggs." The peanut gallery that is Ha'ze makes this commend as he sits back down, pulls journal again, and begins to painfully write. Painfully. Eventually Kainaesyth will sigh, the mysteries of the egg not yet broken (because that's bad for eggs) and scoots to cover it up with sand. « Soon sweet one, soon. »

"He certainly makes me — and everyone else — look more vibrant," Mirinda agrees, as she attempts to get everyone settled back into seats to catch what is probably the near-end of the clutching. There can't be that more eggs, right? What is that, nine? Lianri is not forced to sit in between them, as Mirinda wouldn't force anyone to sit anywhere, but Taimri finds the family at that point too and she's attempting to squeeze in to sit on top of someone. Anyone, in fact, to be able to see the now-covered eggs.

"She claims it already hurts," Inri relays, giving a sigh that mirrors her lifemate's — though Kouzevelth's identically-timed sigh actually dislodges some of the sand and sends it up in a puff, as well as shaking the ground, because she is enormous and Inri is not, "but it wears off quickly, and she's going to take a long lazy soak in the lake after she's taken a long lazy sleep right here." These declarations aren't quite bothered to be made with words to the bronze too, but Kouzevelth is at least producing things like the sensation of cool water and naps. But mostly naps. She really wants a nap. But there's one more —

It's a huffy Lianri that follows them back to the seats and this time she doesn't try to escape. There's some brief squabbling among the children over their CHOICE of seats, before Lia falls into silence, arms crossed on her chest, clearly bored. "You should make him wear color when he comes over."

Flock of Fate Egg
It's black. At first blush, it seems like that is all there is to it — black. Black and shiny, if the light catches it a certain way, but nonetheless black. Only a closer glance — or a more careful inspection, as those with keen eyes may see from gallery heights — will reveal that other colors are present on the smooth and oddly reflective shell. Placed haphazardly, a few sparkling spots of silver and one toward the bottom in pale blue, bright prizes for the discerning eye to find.

— and it's not covered in bumps. Hallelujah.

"And why," Zhirayr asks, still incredibly amused, "does it matter so much to you," being Lianri, "if I'm wearing colorful things or not?" Leaving aside the fact that the most anyone has ever seen him in is a single very-dark-blue shirt, so far as being 'colorful' is concerned.

Joyous greeting comes both in mind and noise (hopefully everyone in the hatching cavern brought muffs or something because Kainaesyth's not-quite-flute-like voice isn't totally wonderful to hear) emerges from the bronze as the last of the eggs (what feels like the last of the eggs) sit upon the sand. He'll pay some attention to each of them, making sure they're perfectly packed, before moving to sooth the queen herself. Promises of cool water, a snack, and naps are made, and he's just going to tell her a nice calming story as she sleeps.

"I'm not sure he actually owns any color," Mirinda adds, though her expression, soft-smile and all, comes with agreement behind the healer's eyes. She isn't actually contradicting the question, and would certainly love to hear it answered, but … "I think," she continues, "we should make him get some." We, not just her. Make it a family affair. Maybe his sisters will get in on it too, along with Mirinda and her daughter and niece.

Zhirayr objects, immediately. "I wear color!" He points at his knot, to demonstrate — there is a tiny brown string involved!

SUDDEN EXCITEMENT is going to be Lianri's response to that. "I bet uncle Brebain would help!" Hands clap wildly as Lianri is just going to spin off into all the COLORS they could shove the steward into.

Aaaaaand now Zhirayr looks slightly hunted, as he stares at Lianri, and thinks more about what Mirinda just said, and realizes that he has an assortment of female relatives in earshot who all seem to think this sounds like a hilariously awful and wonderful idea — and he stands up, abruptly. "That looks like all the eggs," he offers brightly. (Too brightly.) "I'll just be — going — and making sure that the feast is ready, now, I think!" And Zhirayr bolts.

He's lucky he has to work, that one. They will catch up to him later. He does have to attend the party.

That's all the eggs, indeed. This is one tuckered-out queen, and it's not because it's the most eggs she's ever clutched (that record goes to fourteen) but because those eggs were. Awkward. Especially the one that was completely topsy-turvy and has settled with its top end down and its end end top, and the weirdly sharp ones, and the bumpy ones, and she is just done. Kouzevelth is sleeping right here and enjoying Kainaesyth's narrative. Inri, on the other hand, gives the bronze a very sincere, "Thank you for the announcement," with a grin, before she's patting her dragon and getting herself ready to go to the clutching party, too. Even Ha'ze will be forced to put in an appearance. Dressed nicely. For 20 minutes.

Maybe he'll just stay here. Writing. That's better.


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