Welcome to the planet.... {HATCHING!}

”DIGGING, SHOVELLING AND DIGGING THE SNOW!!!”
C’ian shouted as he shovelled the snow around the Weyrbowl with extreme enthusiasm, tossing any leftover slosh off the main path and over his shoulder. He skipped about a little and then looked over at Shirath with some confusion. The purple was acting very oddly indeed. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, C’ian crept towards the purple and then jumped onto his foreleg just as he began to hum.

“Whatcha doing!?”
A clutch hatches.
“Couineth!”

And then, far from running to the sands, C’ian turned in the other direction and bolted towards the kitchens. Sneaking in with the expertise of a Weyrbred, he grabbed a bag and a whole pile of food then charged back outside.

C’ian clambered onto Shirath’s back and settled himself there.
Miine get off. You’re too heavy.
I am not you great lump of lizard, now ONWARD!

Shirath grumbled and made his way to the Stands of the hatching sands as C’ian slid down the dragon’s back and petted him on his side.
Ugh none of them will be as beautiful as me. I am truly wonderful. Find someone to admire me Mine. It will be so boring here otherwise.
That’s why I got food Shirath! Gosh, where’s your food?
Hmpf. I do not wish to eat now.
Suit yourself!

At that the weyrling dumped the bag on the ground and looked at the eggs as they shook.

Tedaon, as always, was present and approached the sands. He stood on the perimeter, close to the stands but ready as he always was with a bag of bandages and other healing supplies. Fel made her way to the hatching sands, Dhanuth in tow and took a seat.

Agrippith hissed her displeasure but took up the humming herself as she flew to the sands, Lirone on her back. The orange landed and looked down onto the sands at the Gold. Hideous and not fit to rule was the summation she came to. However, she pleasantly hummed knowing she needed to be friends with the dragoness if she wished to have any sort of control over what should happen.
We shall see whether this Weyr is worthy of us Mine.

Lirone, straightening from touching the ground, looked at Agrippith and rolled her eyes, making her way down into the stands as Agrippith moved to a ledge.
I’d say they are dear…
That is yet to be told.

From the ledges, Hephaeth and Hydeth took up the hum also as their riders moved to take a place in the stands.

If he hadn’t been so on edge as the sevendays grew in number, Sebolaren may have been completely oblivious to the growing dragonhum; however, even if he had managed to go on without noticing the larger dragons on the ledges above, he could not have ignored the quietly humming Cyan where she lay to be oiled by the lakeside. In that moment between recognition and acceptance, the world shifted for Sebol in a way it had not for many, many months. The event for which he had been preparing, and expecting, and hurtling toward through every day was finally upon him—upon all of them. Sea-grey eyes briefly met green, his own a shock of surprise, and excitement, disbelief, and hope, and then he turned: As fast as his legs would carry him through the fading slush of cold months soon to turn to new growth—he ran. Not for the Hatching Grounds, not yet, but to his pristine white robe, and something more: To the boy he’d roomed with between one hot Stand and the next.

Cold air was a shock of energy to his lungs—long healed from the kiss of fire that had devastated the Weyr—even though he was no man of great speed, those powerful lungs drew in the sweetest breeze to lift him forward steadily: Endurance above a bright flame that would die. As he ran his large fingers were already picking apart the layers of his cold clothing, pulling the thick and drably-coloured scarf from around his neck as he unsnapped the fastens on the too-small wherhide jacket he wore: It would be replaced. Everything would be anew after this day. The hum of the dragons was growing in his ears, even the crunch of his boot heels through the half-melted snows faded under the pressure of every dragon of the Weyr coming out to sing their welcome. Flitting colourful shapes interspersed in the airs above—firelizards—forming their own halos of exultation. As if summoned by the recognition of his siblings, Sigard winged into view across the forward vision of his bonded and swept in front of the ex-Herder at chest-height before his fanning wings lifted him to greater distance above Pern.

Sebol cast his broody eyes upward to catch that smoke-blue form and he smile, though the expression was as clouded by his thick woolen scarves as his breath was by the biting cold of the persisting season. The firelizard was a silly creature, but loyal, and apt to get himself—and his bonded—in trouble; so though the ex-Herder was filled with emotions he could hardly contain (ones that were fit to burst from his chest and cause him to sing if he would let them) he forced his firm will upon the small creature. To Xiro’el or to the Stands, little one. There would be no argument, and disobedience would not be tolerated; Sebolaren was uncertain if Couineth would maim the little creature should he attempt to find his way on the Sands, but it was not a risk worth taking—not any day, but especially no today. The Blue voiced a tremulous whistle—he wasn’t happy—but at last he agreed, disappearing between as his bonded reached the Candidate Barracks at long last.

Ah these stone walls and echoing corridors of doors, and stolen children, and promises, and work, and intrigue. Home to him for near a turn, and home to others. The bustle rose above the birthing hum for one brief moment as he set foot to stone and was engulfed in that long echo from both the female and male sides of the Barracks, but as he turned away down his own corridor, the sound of hurrying Candidates fell below the chorus once again. At that moment his focus fell only on two things: Making himself worthy to stand before the Golden Queen, and his room-mate Daymar—the man who would hopefully feel comfort in the fact that no angry threatening mother dragon had summoned him to the Sands (with the intentions to eat him most likely). When he opened the door to their mutual space he found the boy in a half-state of dress with a look of pure terror on his face—as expected—Sebol offered him an encouraging smile, soft words spoken during this time only for Daymar, ”I suppose I should dress then as well?”

Of course Daymar would have none of that, and the ex-Herder found himself summarily shunned from the room by the anxious shoving of his crawler-thin room-mate: The prospect of which rendered him so amused that the shoving nearly threw him off balance. Falling would have only made the moment funnier, yet it didn’t happen; he was able to pull himself together long enough to keep his pride, and pressed his back against the cold stone wall—leeching the strength from it for himself. For once, however, there was no dawdling and worrying and layering from within the room, and Daymar bustled out like a dust storm across the wind-swept bowl; offering him another smile, Sebol slipped inside the room to find his own robes. He had been permitted to keep them from the last Hatching, though only if he had promised to tend to them himself—not that they would be missed: There was only one other man in the Weyr who would fit them. When he had tried them on a sevenday ago, he’d been surprised to find an inch had grown on him over the course of the turn, but with the work that Saia had taught him—sewing and mending—he’d been able to loosen them across his shoulders and add length to the bottom and sleeves.

There was no time to dawdle as Daymar had shown, and though his thoughts were spinning as if lost at sea, there was part of him that remained incredibly calm—going through the motions. Slicking sweat and filth from his body with a clean wet rag, and then drying: The crowning glory was the robe. Pure as the first morning snow, and a symbol of his preparation—all of their preparation—to offer themselves as Candidates to a new life. Sebolaren spared only one moment to pinch the fabric between his fingers before he turned to fetch Daymar. The trip to the Grounds would be bothersome in their sandals, the slushy snowmix would chill their feet and be uncomfortable, but the heat of the Sands would burn away the memory of the trip, and it had to be taken regardless of their usual cold dress. The boy was waiting at the very cusp of the exit to the Bowl, his long spindly fingers were wringing each other fit to snap the quill-fingers in half, and his abject terror had turned to something far more—real. ”You are not going to die in the snow, there’s hardly any of it left—no, you won’t lose your feet walk—no, the Sands are hot you’ll—no—Daymar, Daymar.”

Try as he might the man could not see the logic in a quick walk across the Bowl through the snow wearing sandals, his feet would obviously freeze and fall off and then no dragon would take him, or worse they’d maul him and eat him because everyone knew they ate them, like whers. It was horrifying. Sebolaren was quietly considering the best method for carrying the boy across his shoulder when a powerful gust of wind heralded the arrival of a dragon. He turned, wholly expecting to find Xiro’el, and instead came face-to-muscled forearm with a lovely Purple, his rider calling down to them jovially. It was W’al, and just in time no less, though Sebolaren suspected the man had a reason to invest time into the Candidates at this crucial moment in their lives—an hour from now or so and they might well belong to him for a turn and a half. It took both Purplerider and ex-Herder to lift the pale nearly-faint figure of Daymar up onto that shoulder, but when it was all said and done even Sebol was situated there between two firm neckridges for the first time since he’d been Searched.

Which was fitting, and appreciated. The powerful bulk beneath him shifted as wingshoulders swept forward timed with the powerful leap from Pern, and they were airborne: Even if Sebolaren Impressed today, he would not feel this freedom again for nine months—less time than he’d spent waiting, but enough to yearn for it. The view from across those rustling expanses of wingsail compelled him to lean far over that broad neck, taking in the look of those white forms who had not found a ride as they filed in onto the Sands below. It was a short-lived experience; a simple hop from the Barracks to the Grounds a-dragonback, and soon both he and Daymar were stepping through that gaping entrance mouth and onto the hot Sands where the eggs had hardened for five sevendays. Where he had spent every night since Couineth had laid her burden to rest, up there on the Stands dreaming, and hoping. Daymar seemed less inclined to step forward toward the Gold than he, but he nudged him on doggedly until they were there—positioned at the very front of the rows of males, at the very corner closest to the girls so his room-mate could gain courage from his sister. Giving the Golden Queen the bow she deserved, and hoping Daymar would follow suit—though unsurprised when that svelte frame disappeared beneath his own—Sebol turned his attentions elsewhere. This was a good position for the Hatching.

Not to mention so Sebolaren could keep his eyes on the proceedings. Curiously, his eyes swept up to the Stands for a cursory glance as they filled—he did not expect to see his Father here, but perhaps the Steward would come for his children: That, above anything, was what the ex-Herder had intended with his letter. They had gotten much more than a Father out of those beautiful letters set to parchment, but it had been for the best, hadn’t it? He found Reylia and offered her a bright smile, though he wasn’t certain she had seen it. This time, unlike last time, he knew all of them—even if the knowing simply came from their Candidate lessons, the emotions he had vested in this adventure were far vaster than he had felt as a nervous young man experiencing a new life.

Now, after so long, he wanted this life, and he had fought to keep it—fought to keep his secret—fought to earn the respect, and trust, of his friends. Again his eyes swept the ledges where his friends would be, Tideturners, and they were there—dragons fanned in bright colours (some perhaps with more strapping and others with less). There, to see him, to hope with him. To each he offered the brightest smile, and then his attentions were fully given to the Queen as she sat on the sands, her brightly hued form still protecting the precious eggs she had brooded over for so many sevenday, and carried for sevendays more than that. They were there, beneath her, full of promise, and life, and—if he dared hope—his dragon.