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“It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it,” M’ska agreed pleasantly. Descanth wasn’t moving. Neither were C’ross and Merceth. For the moment, it appeared that the brownrider was only willing to fire on dangerous anomalies, not on harmless pink dragons.

“And... oh look. The pink has Impressed. Are you going to order him culled?” M’ska’s gaze was challenging, expectant. He wanted to see what M’onk would do. How far was he willing to carry this ‘freaks’ business? Far enough to inspire an open mutiny against him?

Over the years----especially the last year-----Taavi felt that he'd come to understand V'tyai pretty well. In the Lexicon of Vittese, leaning his forehead on Taavi's shoulder was... well, it was practically the V'tyai equivalent of breaking down. The Bluerider just really, really needed a freaking hug. Luckily, Taavi had no shame about showing affection in public. Out of respect for the Bluerider's prickly pride, he kept the hug short. Just a quick squeeze and it was over, but, somehow, it still felt like it kept going on in Taavi's heart.

It would have been a happy moment, if it hadn't been brought on by the killing of a hatchling.

Oops and then Stella was talking, pointedly reminding V'tyai of 'hey, remember the hatchling that was your charge and just died?' Taavi tightened his grip on Vit's hand. Stella was blunt; she didn't mean it like that. She just was and said things like they were. He shrugged a bit, uncertain how to answer. “Dragons aren't whers,” was eventually the one he went with.

Whers were culled when it was obvious they were too dangerous. Dragons just... couldn't be, apparently.

And that was the precise moment at which Merceth completely lost it.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like any of it. The big brown and his rider had received their own share of harassment over the turns – apparently bronzes didn’t like being challenged by a nonshiny ‘freak’ who was nonetheless large enough to hold his own. Color, to his eyes, shouldn’t matter. But it mattered to M’onk, and M’onk was the Law, and the Law mattered to C’ross. It was enough to keep him, if not silent, then at least leashed under C’ross’ iron self-control.

But when Berath bespoke C’ross with words like murderer, that iron will broke. Just for a moment. And that moment was long enough for Merceth to scream his blind rage.

The physical part – the howling roar that tore its way out of the brown’s throat – that was for everyone to hear. The mental part – the wave of indignation, of how dare you, how ******** dare you, the overwhelming possessive fury that some upstart of a green who thought herself a gold would dare invade his rider’s mind unwelcomed – that was directed at Bereck and Berath alone. Merceth tensed himself as if to lunge at Berath, wanting nothing more than to pin her throat to the sands until she surrendered...

...But C’ross would permit no such thing. He clamped down on his dragon’s rage as quickly as it had come. Merceth squalled and hissed and coiled at his side like a feline snared in a trap, but did not spring. His voice terse and level, but clear enough to carry, he spoke up. “You’re welcome to your opinion.”

And that was that. Cold and dismissive.

Faranth, he would be drinking himself into oblivion tonight until he forgot the feel of those words in his head.

He bared his teeth not for the first time this day. The feeling of Taavetti's arm on him lingered, the pressure on his hand kept him grounded. She wasn't a dragonrider, she didn't know. There were no reasons wherhandlers should know.

"No," He hissed, acid in his voice and a warm palm pressed to his. "Dragons hatch. They may maul and end lives because they are desperate to find the other half of their souls. That happens. They either Impress or they between on their own. It is unthinkable that he would shoot it. Don't look so happy or I will end you. Right now. Taavetti here be damned."

He would have said more, would have wanted to. But Berath spoke and anything even slightly resembling relaxation left him. V'tyai went rigid, his eyes wide. "No," he whispered, head jerking to stare at Taavetti first in horror, and he jerked around to stare at the huge green dragon. "She didn't just - shaff."

Oh dear, Ogbanuth murmured. He turned his mind to Berath, voice a low hum. My dear healer friend, it is probably most prudent to not do that. I would advise you to stand down.

Stella

Stella smile dropped, eyes hardening slightly. "Sorry if it displeases you Candidate master V'tyai." Was she pleased the little thing had died. No. Would she enjoy the challenges and shift in power that was brewing. Ooh, yes she would. She froze, eyes widening as the voice flowed and hissed, sharp, deep and angry. "What are they doing? Are you all trying to get him to kill himself for likely following M'onk's orders?" She questioned, tone low and growly and pushed past them.

Shard and shells, this wasn't what any of them needed. "Of all things, during a hatching." Stella was angry but not at C'ross, or the other dragon riders for making it worse. She was pissed at M'onk. None of this was right, it was clear and he was in charge, he gave orders. They did not need to traumatize the candidates anymore then needed.

Leaving the men behind, she continued to the stands, ignoring the angry greens blocking her way. She felt her wher in her head, the green not understanding everything but reacting to her anger with warmth, protection, and a promise to tear something to shreds. Stella huffed, pulsing restraint and love back to Stelask and eyed the greens.

The short woman calmly took a stance between both the dragons and C'ross on the sands, hands on her hips and frowned, radiating anger. "Are we trying to traumatize the candidates even more then the spectacle with Kaelyandra?" She asked clearly, pointy leaving out the death of the little grey to get everyone to focus on something else. The un-hatched eggs and the candidates on the sands.

M'onk chuckled.

"Not yet." His eyes followed the pink, the way it cuddled right up to Canoake. Immediate death didn't have to follow, not yet, but maybe some day. He sighed when Descanth decided to start...everything, and the old man barely shook his head. The smile stayed on his face, tighter than before, but never the less present. "See what your green started? Now the healer's green is getting agitated."

And then, without any fuss at all, the Winter Visitor egg split in half, spilling a pale, unmistakably green shape onto the Sands.



The Chickadee green peeped softly to herself, getting unsteadily to her feet and surveying the mess before her. With eyes that whirled concerned yellows and greys, she passed her eyes over the Sands. There were much larger greens than she over to one side, along with an enormous dragon that thrashed and twisted and lashed his tail. Chickadee peeped again, softer this time, and shook her head in a gesture that was equal parts human dismay and "get this wet stuff off me." And then she started walking forward, making slow progress as she stopped to check on the still-unhatched eggs.

Preening Princess, halfway out of her shell, got an encouraging nuzzle, and then Chickadee was off again, moving toward the Candidates now. Goodness, her siblings had already caused quite a stir, hadn't they? She skirted a wide arc around M'onk and M'ska, though. Something didn't seem right, there.

[Malta]

Focusing on helping the masterhealer with Ralvyn until the stretcher could arrive only did so much.

Dragons had pushed their voices into her head before. That part didn't freak her out quite as much, really.
Brakiheth had done it. She'd been NICE. Comforting. (especially compared to her rider)
And Ogbanuth calling the candidates to the sands... He had been nice too.
And the dragon that had impressed to her friend, asking if he would be allright? Also nice.

So Malta wasn't prepared for the WAVES of intense ANGER coming off of Berath, the coldly, hotly purely determined anger in her words.
She was even less prepared for the blast of Merceth's anger and indignant hot HOT indignation.

It was too much.

She was already mere crumbs away from a breakdown. The emotional overload hit the already upset girl like a train wreck, she reeled back as if physically struck and curled up into a trembling ball on the sands.
"Nomorenomorenomore..." she wimpered, eyes closed, her thoughts a whirling mess, her hands pressed to her ears even though that did nothing, nothing at all.
No more of this... why...

[Berath]

She didn't pull her gaze away from Merceth but she did send a wave of love over to Sturnuth. On top of that, dealing with M'onk was a whole different kettle of fish then dealing with C'ross but she wasn't going to trouble Sturnuth with that.

With that promised she turned her mind to Ogbanuth.

*************

[Hirmal & Haliath]

...?



With her confusion about Sturnuth's reply privately cleared up between just herself and her rider she huffed out a slight breath and shook her head. Taking a chunk of meat in her jaws and prompting Hiemal to pick some up she turned away and trotted over to Zenaith.

she informed the larger hatchling as she came to a halt beside her. Rather than dropping the meat in the sand she held it out towards the yellow so that she could take it. she added.

Hiemal stood behind her holding two further chunks of meat, inspecting to gory scene with his lips pursed into a thin line. The red-haired healer had a bloody hand-print on his face, how very unsavoury.