Sylvan Weyr

[obeah]

The Hatching had gone by in a blur. Most things hadn't even really registered to Habit. Maybe it was just that she had been asleep when the humming started, and had raced around as if in a dream, but it was really hard to believe that this was actually happening. The four waterskins she had looped around her shoulders--one for herself, three for any candidates who managed to get themselves dehydrated in the heat of the moment--didn't seem to have any weight at all. She wasn't even aware that she was propped up on crutches at the most visible time in her life. They were necessary in order for her to move quickly over the sand, and she was wholly devoted to her job.

The first-hatched looked practically asleep on the sands, but only for a moment. Habit held her breath as the Hatchling spread his wings. She knew from working under Alfas that they could be clumsy, and she didn't want any mauling to mar the Crimson's beautiful clutch. Dafnierth needed all the support from the weyr she could get. Hatchlings zipped by. Swath seemed okay, so Habit didn't move to bother Brienne.

The fight from the opal dragons was unexpected, but Esleren was competent, and Habit had a more life-threatening injury to deal with than the hatchling's. One of the male candidates standing in the front had managed to get a large shard lodged just below his eye, and she ran forward to tend to it. She entirely missed the death of the Mandarin Garnet, and only felt it as the keening began.

The keening shook her to the core, but she kept holding pressure. The grief broadcast around the Weyr from so many dragons, and especially Dafnierth, made even her good knee a little weak. But Habit kept watch over the sands, making sure nobody else would become a casualty. And then she spotted Eslie. Oh, Habit was going to have a field day disciplining Esleren later. She gritted her teeth. The other journeywoman hadn't really had the experience to keep herself from crying--or perhaps she'd had too much experience with loss, one or the other. Either way, she had completely disregarded rules of consent and personal safety in the process and she would get a talking-to. She handed off the boy's aftercare to a senior apprentice and stood, walking slightly unsteadily over the sand, toward the dragon and the girl.

She put a hand on Esleren's shoulder, thankfully the hand that wasn't a little bloodstained around the palm. "Collect yourself," she gestured with her head toward the shadows of the stands. If the girl wasn't ready to comply, she would follow it up with 'that wasn't a suggestion', but for now, the senior journeywoman was rapidly cleaning her hands with redwort. She reached into a pot of numbweed with a few red-stained fingers, attempting to quell the distress and pain the creature was currently being caused. "Rohit," she said, attempting to catch the candidate-turned-weyrling's gaze. "I'm Habit, senior journeywoman healer. May I attend to him?"

Habit, too, didn't exactly follow protocol and started to take up the direct pressure she had ordered Esleren away from, but it was his newly hatched dragon, for shard's sake. And it wasn't like anyone could get her into trouble for it. "I need you to bring some food to him," she told him, voice calm, though her hazel eyes were ardent and fierce. "You'll need to break it into tiny pieces and possibly mash it between your palms. He'll need help chewing. He's weak, but he will pull through." The wounds looked bad, but they were already clotting and had never been lethal in depth to begin with.

[Lyfling]

The hand on her shoulder finally pulled Esleren back to reality. "Collect yourself." Surprise flitted across her features but reasoning set in. Habit was right, per usual, and the young woman did as she was told. Her superior stepped in, leaving Essie with empty, ichor soaked hands and a feeling of a coming storm. She had done something wrong- what, she couldn't think of right now - but that's not what mattered. She needed to get cleaned up, gather her emotions, and care for any who needed her attentions. But what about the little one? Would he survive? Logic told her that he would indeed, especially in the able hands of Habit. But fear, oh that wicked emotion, fear whispered that he might not.

I did something wrong. That's why she won't let me care for him. I did something wrong. He's not gonna be okay. I did something wrong, wrong wrong wrong is he okay please let him be okay its wrong I am not good enough it's all wrong wrong wrong. The self-doubt crept in and her hands shook, straining to do something, anything.

A sudden dam ceased the flood of emotions. It was as if something suddenly switched on and practicality won out. In hind sight, it was probably the feeling of being useless that she could never stomach, eventually overcoming the case of emotions which had burst. At this point in time, it didn't matter what it was, just that she was back to a state of being useful. Her face carefully blank, she snatched more bandages and came to kneel again by the wounded creature. Pride threatened to be her undoing but the apology had to be given. "I am sorry, Rohit, for being so careless as to forget myself. May I care for your bondmate?" His reaction was what she judged her next move on, but the bandages were held up to Habit. She didn't make eye contact with the woman who was barely older than herself; they would have time enough to talk later.

[obeah]

Berlioz watched the sunlight-dappled green choose the girl next to her almost hungrily. Well. Technically speaking, it was Berlioz who was feeling hungry, and for that kind of devotion, though she supposed the camouflage-green dragon also was, only for meat. He let out a loud whistle, fingers in his mouth for the girl. Serinja, wasn't it? Anyone who had signed up to Stand was a good person in Berlioz's book. The instant that had finished, however, her eyes were back to the last hatchling, rapt with admiration. That blue looked so full of life! But it was so unlikely... he had already made his way over to the boy.

A sudden burst of anxiety gripped her. What if she was left Standing? She would probably have to face going home, learning what had really happened to her sister Lioza. She wouldn't be able to be nearly as brashly confident, and soon she might even start growing and develop into a proper woman and get married off! She shuddered. Men had never been her thing. However, the mix of keening and humming seemed to wash her clean of sorts, and she soon found herself almost giggling at the sight of the blue's bounding gait. So much for dragons being dignified creatures.

Then, the blue made an unhesitating turn toward the girls. She tugged at her single earring as it started to make a beeline straight for her. When she stepped to the side--surely he wanted someone behind her--the blue also stepped to the side, and a good bit more straightlacedly than his previous romp indicated. Berlioz's eyes widened.

What are you waiting for, Berlioz? His voice was demanding. Berlioz spent a few seconds just basking in the glow of that gorgeous voice, before realizing the bronze hadn't finished speaking. And he had known her name! Her real name! Her eyes widened further. They were starting to look like saucers at this point. Your Frostith has no time to stand around and stare, he is hungry and wants to learn how to fly now that he hatched! Suddenly, Berlioz was pierced through with the bronze's feelings--hunger, playfulness, sheer want for the world.

I can't fly if I'm hungry, the blue finished, a bit amused, although perhaps that was from Berlioz's response to extreme surprise. She took one last surreptitious check behind her. Perhaps there was some candidate called Birlios or something and Berlioz had had no idea. When she realized she was the only thing Frostith was paying any sort of attention to, however, the walls broke. She fell to her knees--not a particularly long fall--and stared into the blue's eyes. One set was intense liquid amber. One set whirled with the rainbow of Impression.

For an instant, Berlioz couldn't tell whether she was looking at Frostith or she was Frostith looking at her. She had never felt that kind of intense acceptance and pure reliance in her life, not even when she had been Searched, and it made her feel so alive. She could barely read, and Frostith didn't care. She was short, and Frostith didn't care. She found things funny that nobody else seemed to, and Frostith did too. If she wasn't in the world, it would matter--Frostith would never have been born either, not the same way.

"His name is Frostith," she managed to say, voice high and flute-like over the crowd. She continued to talk, though this time it was in a whisper, as she rose from her knees, which had been burned a bit by the sands. "And he is hungry as shards and shells, which isn't fun in the slightest. Let's go," she grinned, and Frostith strutted beside him, obviously play-acting. She looked down at the ice-patterned blue. "Now, you're not going to use my name, are you?" she asked him.

Why wouldn't I use your name, Berlioz-heart? he asked, face wild with delight. "Because I don't have just one. I use lots with lots of people, and only you know the real one." Frostith looked confused. Like what? "Well, Vudu thinks I'm Ava, and the Candidate Master thinks I'm Finger, and I think the kitchens people call me Eyespot, and--" That's very confusing, Berlioz-heart. I don't think I'm going to be able to remember all of those.