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The flamboyant, stubborn green, chin held high, surveyed the candidates critically, though it seemed she looked through most of them, dismissing them faintly the way you'd look through a room full of nearly identicial things, and somehow know which one was -yours-. Out of a room full full of people dressed the same, knowing the one you loved more than anything. She knew the one she was looking for, and headed toward them, pushing confidently through anyone that stood between her and the one she sought.
Not a female candidate, but a man.

Kypak? Her voice was strong, edged with a strong sense of hunger, but it's not the first thing out of her thoughts. You seem so sad. Did you think I wasn't coming? I'm sorry you had to wait. Can we have food?

Wisely, Okassis with-held his judgment on the poor (lucky?) soul that had Impressed the green. She was obviously going to be an interesting handful; hopefully, she'd chosen right in her new Bonded!

The sands were without any eggs. The humming, ever-present, seemed faded now. The Hatching seemed well and truly over. Okassis was contemplative. From where he stood with the front line of the boys, it was just a few steps to where the eggs had been; he stooped thoughtfully among the shards.

Nothing for him today. But he remembered the colors that were here, and what they'd brought - and this little shard by his foot here, bright-colored green with dashes of pink--

Okassis knew how to be subtle. Anyone watching him would have probably just seen a pathetic Candidate mourning his failings over the shards of the eggs. It didn't take him any effort at all to palm the sizable shard, brilliantly colored. Hiding it in a bit of his robe, he stood again, glancing around.

Time to get changed out of this stupid frock, he decided, happy for the excuse to escape from the heat.

Finally, it seemed time for the last two eggs to hatch. Out of one spilled a blue. In another decisive move it found its destined one, whom greeted it with all the joy of a new Weyrling. Finally, the last egg began to stir, spilling forth a green. About time! Still, Jaidev didn't have much hope for himself. He didn't think he'd manage to be auspicious enough to Impress the last dragonet of the day.

It wasn't about luck, though, was it? It was about something more. If everyone just Impressed because they showed up, looked good and followed protocol, then...Impressions would mean less, wouldn't they? It still didn't stop the boy from getting that sinking feeling when he thought of leaving the sands empty-handed again, though. At least the little green would help end the night with some beauty. He remembered how he had found her egg so dizzying and odd..but that little dragonet showed everyone, didn't she? Ah, but he was biased- the boy was so enamoured with dragons that they all looked beautiful to him.

But regardless, it seemed that things were not in his favor tonight. He could tell...even though she was heading in his direction, just the way the green looked at his group... he knew that she was looking past him, looking at another. Wai, heading in his direction? He moved out of the way as she moved as confidently as the last few towards hers, heart skipping a beat as he felt a wingtip brush him on the way by. No matter the size, all dragonets had claws and all claws hurt.

Of course, rejection stung sharp as any cut. There was just considerably less blood loss and fainting in mosts cases.

He clapped his hands for the last Impression, but his mind was elsewhere at the moment. Third time, it seemed, was not a charm for the boy. What would he do if he never Impressed? Oh, what a headache that line of thoughts gave him! It seemed the boy wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight. Still, despite his defeatism, a small voice inside couldn't help but think... Maybe next time.

Nelioa gave a small sigh as the last dragonet impressed to her new rider. It was all over. Suddenly she felt a little weak in the knees, all the excitment had drained her. Some good klah and some food from the hatching feast would set her right again.

One thing was for certain in Nelioa's mind. She had a purpose, and she was a little scared of that fact. She wanted this now more than she had wanted anything else in life. Always being care free and with no direction she had simply drifted along in the stream... now being here had caused ripples and she wanted to be the one to set her own corse.

One could say that it was good that the lithe girl had finally found some sort of direction in her life, but for nelioa it was terrifying. Just what would she do if she where never chosen? She wrang her hands together and exited the weyr bowl, her mind was drifting....

All feeling of numbness and automatic motions ─ pulling on the ceremonial white robe, tying on traditional sandals, moving out with groups of Candidates and observers alike ─ end as soon as Selden actually hits the hot sands, banished entirely as he gives an equally involuntary bow to the Queen. The sensation replacing them is not what one would expect, however It oozes none of the excitement-fueled anticipation. There's no hope. No longing. The emotion awakened in him doesn't really even deserve to be called positive; it's ill-suited to the joyous occasion of a Hatching.

It's more like an outsider walking in on a sacred ritual. A distinct feeling of displacement, like he shouldn't be here, without any of the adrenaline of a mysterious, clandestine adventure. The thrumming is a loud, unpleasant buzz in his ears, and the sands seem somehow hotter than they really are, as if the Weyr itself urges his departure. He meets it as he does most things he feels are trying to force him into something: with an obstinate frown and a defiant resolution. He left everything and traveled across half of Pern to be here, and by the shell, he's going to stand! Just this once.

But shards, nothing could reinforce his discontent like each cracking shell does. The intense wonder of Impression made is lost on him; every one is a stake driving a wound in his stubborn pride, magnifying his awkwardness and redoubling his annoyance with himself. Not even the small, beautiful dragonets and happy applause can sway him. Selden's place is in Telgar, at the Smithcrafthall, doing what he knows. He's good at it. He shouldn't be here! The excited, smiling atmosphere only seals it. He belongs here like a sailfish belongs in the middle of a Southern desert, and he feels like his presence here somehow dirties this foreign, monumental occasion.

And then, tumbling onto the sands, a bronze gathers his feet and stretches his wings. It would mean nothing to him ─ it's a dragonet, as all the others before it had been ─ but this one is different. And no, not just because he's bigger, or more deliberate than his clutchmates. It's not because he's so painfully careful and considerate, but because this one chose him.

Selden doesn't shy away when the newborn nears. He doesn't even dare to move, as though this might be some absurd, ridiculous dream, and his breathing might somehow shatter the fragile moment.

S'en mine, I am your Kanath. We will go far... but only if you feed me first.

The voice in his head ─ not his voice, but someone else's ─ jars him from his momentary stupor. The dam he built inside himself breaks, and a flood of emotion washes over him: a sense of completeness, contentment, belonging, and yes, hunger too. But perhaps most overwhelming of all is his strong feeling of undeserving disbelief. Why him? Why, out of all the boys standing alongside him, had this creature chosen him? There are none on the sands less grateful, and surely none less worthy to be here than he is. Why hadn't he chosen somebody else?

I am yours. You are mine. I know, the creature tells him. Selden ─ S'en, now ─ wonders how something so young can sound so certain.

Kanath is content to wait as he digests this Truth. He will; he knows that too. And when he does, maybe he will put an end to this terrible, consuming hunger. He is so awfully hungry…

Finally, S'en regards the dragonet. Really regards him; his dragonet. He allows himself a wholly inward smile. Yes, he's glad for it. For Kanath. His coming here had been very brash and entirely stupid, but now he wouldn't change it for all the world. The little bronze greets this acceptance with an affectionate rub against the young man's hand, and at last, together, they turn and make their way to the feeding tables.

Someone, somewhere, laughed in S'en's face today. And for once, he doesn't mind.

Quinnel plucked through the meat, picking out bit-size pieces for small Winath. Winath ate quickly, wanting to escape the crowded cavern, not giving Quinnel the luxury about being overly picky about what scraps she fed her newly bonded.

‘ Mine?’ Engrossed as she was in poking through the meat and holding it out for Winath, it took an actual nudge from the little Green to gain Quinnel’s attention. ‘ Mine? All my clutchmates have their mines. Can we leave now? Please?’

Clutching the strip of meat in one hand, Quinnel turned to verify this for herself. She saw that the Hatching was indeed over, but she also something else: the same ginger-haired boy she saw earlier, headed her way.

“ Westren?”

The boy jogged to her side, a grin she well remembered stretched across his freckled face. Winath shrunk back and looked up at Quinnel. ‘ Who’s that, Mine?’

“ Westren, my… clutchmate.”