Soft, fading light split the shadows on what should have been a joyous place. Empty echoes rebounded from cavernous stone walls, as the soft, early evening breeze caressed burning sands that tested all who entered. The dark stone had a few niches for lights, candles and the like, though all were yet unlit, leaving the twilight to add to a gloomy, regretful air surround a small cluster of shapes at the rear of the carefully guarded cave. There were a few smaller lumps, scattered relatively close to a larger, more imposing shape that glowed faintly, the light striking rich tones in the hide of a rather large dragon. Bronze and cream picked up the sunlight well, despite the mourning in progress, offering a spark of light against an almost tangible depression hanging over the Weyr. The bulk of the bronze was crouched amidst a small clutch, the pitiful hope of the dragon kind, guarded round the clock by it's sire.
Closer now to hatching, and hard enough for touching, if Dysiiliouth could be begged to allow it, the eggs themselves painted a disturbing, almost nightmarish rainbow against the grey stone and the somewhat gaunt and dull hide of their father. There was no way to tell what lay within the abnormal clutch, as the normally pearlescent tones of the eggs had been warped by unknown forces into the strange mockery they carried. No egg was more than four yards from the massive bronze, who was almost always half-mantled over them. No golden egg shone out to mark a queen, making all who saw fear. Minath was dead, and there would be no more clutches, no more DRAGONS, unless, hidden inside the strangely marked eggs, lay a dormant, growing gold.
Unfortunately, Dysiiliouth refused to allow any entrance, except at the rarest of times, and neither he nor his rider would tolerate scientists poking and prodding. They could watch, but not touch. They weren't allowed in often, either, for the same reasons. V'ton backed his dragon fully, knowing well the zeal of the scientists, and in this case, honestly, he knew the risks to the eggs were too high. However, he did allow Carmen Lee within, and would speak to her and occasionally her team, with his dragon a watchful, constant presence. After the first month or so, they'd finally understood the "you can't touch" rule, when Dysiiliouth had roared, and actually snapped at a person. Having huge jaws closing in front of your face (about two feet away, mind, but still), that were big enough to swallow you whole, tended to put things into a more reasonable light.
Now, however, as another day drew to a close, V'ton strode among the eggs, touching each gently as if to reassure himself that they were, indeed, alright. His beloved Dysiiliouth had already carefully turned them all, and rumbled softly at them, since none knew how to mother the eggs, really-the bronze went on instinct, and something he called memory/not-memory. Perhaps a visceral remnant of the brief time when Varath had her clutch before her lingered yet. Pausing, V'ton glanced up at the tray of food left by a kind soul, and took it into worn, tanned hands, before moving to sit by his dragon. Leaning back into to warm hide, he sighed, softly. "Soon, Dys… it can't be that much longer." The bronze nodded his head, and stretched out to rest, imparting a need for his own food.
"Let me eat, then I'll go get something from the pens, I promise. Small enough you can eat it whole, so the eggs are alright." As the bronze rumbled his thanks, his rider ate slowly, listlessly, his mind and thoughts far, yet near, brushing over the clutch and recent, painful, events. On the outside, he was a bereft Weyrleader, who lost his recently made Weyrwoman and her queen, and had the duties he had once! Thought himself prepared for, only to see how much more work things became. He and his dragon alone had the duty of tending and guarding the clutch, fretting over the future, and it weighed heavily upon the young mans' slim shoulders.
Three turns had put some muscle on him, more than before at least, though he remained slim-and lately almost too much so. Still, care and sorrow had left defining lines along his face, making him seem to be older than a mere twenty three. A few new scars from Weyrling practice, and early life as a rider, laced lightly over his arms before vanishing into the gear he wore most days now; as a public figure, his wardrobe was still mostly his choice, especially when he fled to his escape, though somewhat by common sense. Heavy, sturdy tanned leather, sometimes dyed others not, for tunic and vest, and soft, light cottons for shirts were common. He still wore calf length supple boots of leather, reinforced with a heavier heel and better ankle support now that he rode a –flying- creature. Today he wasn't expecting anyone, and wore simple, soft earth colors, the natural tones of the hide, as he reclined and ate slowly.
Later, there would be time to mourn. Not now. At this moment, they both had duties that stood them apart from all, especially after…
No. Best not to think of that, again. Best to remember the eggs, their duty to the small clutch of 12, hardening slowly-enough now that hatching was soon if the old standards were correct. Touching soon, if they decided to, given the state of affairs. Was a normal, traditional approach best at this point? Or was it best to return to no one being allowed to touch the eggs, since they were in such a dangerous state, in general? With a sigh, V'ton slowly lowered the fork, barely eating again, and leaned closer to the softly rumbling dragon behind him. "Dysiiliouth…" font color=#FFC50DV'ton./font Somber, yet eloquent-they were each others' strength, in this, as they both turned their gazes to the eggs, lost in thought.