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Keralder, occasionally adjusting the hems of his gather best, eyed the feast with a narrowed, calculating gaze, his new partner almost locked to his side.

He looked forward to the food, the open celebration, but it was such a temporary affair that the token generosity extended to 'lesser' ranks made it hard to not curl his lip into a tooth barring sneer.

It felt like a funerary afair anyway, a forced march to celebrate the clutch that many, he suspected, would rather put out of mind.

He and Marloth however, would be making such a mark that it would burn like a brand.

She hissed, the weapon weight of her voice underscored by a soft hiss out loud, like a weapon being drawn.

She had become certain, as she learned more, that it was no coincidence her mother had been encouraged to clutch after struggling obviously with prior clutches.

There was more to it, she insisted. A pull of puppet strings on marionettes that did not know they danced at the whims of a greater power. Watch, she said, watch for the strings, follow them to the puppet masters.

So they were watching, because he trusted her, because they had seen the bore holes and rot in the gilded pillars of their world.

"Eat, drink and be merry because they smile and lie." He paraphrased, under his breath, scanning the crowd for some of the others. He debated if he should look for Zarike, apologize maybe for his harsh comments, but then dismissed the idea. Well intended or not, you didn't go punching open eggs. It might inspire future dim glows to to the same with far less happy results. Zarike could damn well apologize to the rest of them.

His cuts and scrapes were... well they were treated. Still sore, but he had deemed them not worth numb weed, even the couple that had needed a stitch or two. Others needed it more, like that Trader boy, who he could hardly imagine would do more than very gingerly find someplace to sit and nibble, even WITH Numb weed, and would surely need help dressing for a while.

The celebration was breathtaking, the bowl alit with glows and the just rising moons and he is oddly poetic at the moment. Brishen nibbled on a mushroom, thinking, back pressed against stone and viewing the glows reflected by the lake. Eight hatchings, five greens, two blues, a brown. Five passes between clutches. Thirty to eight.

He swallowed, reaching back and wrapped Hazmath in solid warmth. The blue rumbled back, bright and gleeful.

Brishen question back, slowly taking a bite of the white cake. He took a forkful of the white cake, chewing it slowly. This was good cake. The music was starting and lively and perhaps he could take the new Weyrlings for a dance.

Yevalee was tired. He pressed against Sleuth, the bulky green keeping close to his side to provide support for her rider as he walked into the feast. The blue tunic was large, borrowed, hanging off his frame, and laced up the front, pulling anything over his head was impossible at the moment. He was stiffed from shoulders to his hips. His wounds had been cleaned, stitched, and bandaged and the eight or so candle marks of sleep had helped. And the fluids.

He slowly choose food, light on meat, but he had found some succulent tender pieces, a good slice of cake, and a pile of veggies. He settled in a seat near the orchestra, listening to the music as he slowly ate.

Sleuth whispered, settling by her rider’s side. She wouldn’t leave her partner, not yet. Her Yevalee had been treated, but he had been injured and they had not helped before it had left her partner pale and weak. She reached back, carefully combing through memories and gave a soft displeased noise.

Yevalee replied tiredly, using the side of his fork to gently separate a polite bite of cake from the rest. He took a bite, chewing carefully.

Sleuth rest her head against Yevalee’s hip and watched the dancers spin and listening to the music. She replied, settling, she would not leave him, so gossip could come to them. In the mean time, though, she was going to keep him company and entertain.

C'tis

Well this would certainly go down in history as the fanciest hatching feast per capita guest of honours in history. He'd dressed up nicely regardless, it wasn't the hatchlings' fault their clutch was so pathetic after all and there were a couple in there with promise so he'd found his fancy white hose and the black doublet with a whisper of embroidery that flirted with looking like silver thread. He'd even polished up his boots and found Fang's leather battle armour.

C'tis helped himself to a trencher and filled it with roast meat, various, topped off with crackling and stuffing, figuring he might as well make the most of it while it was on offer. What was holding his attention right now however was not the delicious dinner, it was the conversation between G'vian and No'ko. He couldn't quite catch all of it from where he was standing but the snatches he was hearing were very interesting. Dissent in the ranks, the upper ranks no less! C'tis didn't consider himself a gossip monger but this was worth keeping an eye on.

T'gall, it seemed, was not going to have his parade rained upon. The dark-skinned man had pulled out all the stops and looked frankly stunning in a royal purple doublet with rich embroidery, gold thread of course. His light cape was purple too and trimmed with sumptuous spotted fur. This along with the fine white silk hose, supple leather boots to just above his knees, and the gold jewellery he dripped with and wore coiled into his dreadlocks positively screamed his standing in life. The young golden firelizard perched on his shoulders certainly didn't hurt matters either. If anything was troubling him it didn't show in his bright smiles or relaxed stance.

Sitting beside him was Venk, the candidatemaster somehow looking smaller than his companion despite standing a good hand taller than the Weyrleader did. Unlike T’gall, the gold rider was rather notably not wearing any of the fine things that his position granted him the right to; instead he wore a beautiful knee length tunic of white silk with intricate green embroidery at the hem and cuffs. With green hose too it seemed as though Venk was making a statement as much as T'gall was; solidarity with the young dragons - most of them green - and perhaps, just perhaps a hint that he did not mean to hold his current high title for very much longer.

The two of them had taken seats at one of the feast tables - and naturally, they had the most beautiful seats in the Weyr, those which usually sat at the High Table. The two high-backed chairs were carved with twining and twisting dragons that curled in on themselves and devoured their own tails.

Biran and his bodyguards were making a definite arrow through the crowd towards them, something that T’gall might have relished a little… but Venk might not.

===

“We’ve got eavesdroppers” No’ko interrupted, the wingleader casting a look in Aldrey’s direction, eyebrows raised questioningly. “I’m not broadcasting my business to the Weyr… we’ll talk about this later?”

G’vian frowned, following No’ko’s gaze for a moment. “Later? We should be talking about it now, No’ko - striking while the iron is hot. Don’t tell me you’re in favour of simply leaving that fool in charge until Hiraeth rises again, after what his brown did to the clutch? It’s just as well none of them were bronze or gold - can you imagine them passing on their infirmities?”

No’ko ran a hand over elaborately braided blonde hair nervously, then shook his head with a grin, beginning to back off. “Seriously, with all respect… this isn’t the time or the place. I’ve got to find O’ail - I promised her a dance” he bowed, then did his level best to disappear into the crowd.

Aldrey

Well, shells. He was clearly going to have to figure out a different system now... if he was already that known to the Heads of such diverse wings, it was a fair bet that the best information would be behind firmly locked lips... though to be honest... he rather thought they had surrendered quite a lot already, both intentionally and not.

...He really needed to tell M'ere.

T'gal and Venk were also making very clear statements, T'gal perhaps in SPITE of the current situation, Venk, he thought, perhaps because of it. T'gal, he could guess but wasn't sure, did not think anything that had gone wrong with the clutch had anything to do with Balith, whatever the rumors said, or if if he did, the idea was to create the opposite impression. It would become clear if he kept his ears open though, and then he'd have facts, not just opinions and theories, to piece things together with.

Venk's move would definitely look good, even if he hadn't intended it politically, Venk not being an especially political soul... it would be really... interesting to see how this played out.



feel it>


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Keralder

"Well thank you." It might not, or it might have, been meant as a compliment, but Keralder decided to take Rensoua's comment as one. "I suspect we're going to need to scare some sense into people from here on out." He noted. "...How about those two?" He asked, nodding to T'gal ad Venk. "You'd think T'gal rode gold and that he'd just clutched a hatching with ten perfect bronzes and a gold."

Arrogant b*****d, he meant, even if he was related to someone in lower caverns. All that gold he was wearing certainly didn't seem to have gone to trying to change their station.

“I wouldn’t mind some of that gold - or those braids” Rensoua said, a little enviously. Her scalp was still shorn nearly bare (she needed to run her razor over it again, with fuzz showing through), as it had been for turns. She could barely imagine having that sort of beautiful hair, or doing all that with it. “He certainly looks the part of the Weyrleader - though Venk’s no slouch. Do you think he’ll be stepping down? I shouldn't want my dragon to be put through that all over again"