Relieved on his cargo and escort, the Commander awaits the Keeper in the presenting chambers. The room is circular, dim with a soft yellow glow focusing in the center. The lighting suited any skin tone and was meant to camouflage blemishes. While this tactic wasn't effective in the entire process of choosing, a candidate's chances did increase slightly if she possessed pleasing features.
The screeching of two females fighting could be heard somewhere close by, muted by the walls. While male adolescents fought with the simple intent on proving superiority over another; females did so to inflict facial and genital damage, lessening the chances of being picked if the wounds were severe. Listening with mild interest born of boredom, the Wraith soon hears the guttural bark of an Overseer to break up the squabble.
He knew well the repercussions of frequently picking fights within a breeding facility. While his knowledge was more than likely out dated by quite a number of centuries, the likely punishment would still be isolation and a cropping. Females took great pride in their manes, and thusly had it taken from them in circumstances where a fight was not called for.
Whispering. Turning his head, the Wraith watches the door across the room hiss open. Unable to see clearly because of the light, he is forced wait until the figure comes closer, for the mind of the other is well walled. The figure belongs to a female, he knew, the soft, lingering perfume of her was brought with the rush of air from the open door.
"I apologize for the wait, Commander, but the younglings had to be prepped under such short notice," the female says, still closed from him, still out of his vision range; just a gray outline of a head, shoulders and long arms engulfed in black.
"It is of no inconvenience to me."
"You will know that the females our Brood Mother is allowing to be presented have not all completed their training."
The Commander inclines his head, knowing in full that the facility was still recovering from a recent loss.
"It happened a month before. I'm sure you noticed the damage," the escort says, sweeping his arm to accentuate the repairing wall; its flesh pink still, glittering, and wet. "The Commander was not of any clan allied with us."
"How many were taken?" The Commander asks, placing his hand over the puffy lip of the hole.
"Four mature females, seventeen younglings and," the Wraith pauses, frowning at the semi-translucent membrane. "Five of our mature males awaiting stations left with them willingly."
"I, and my Hive are very grateful of her generosity."
Finally gracing the light, the female steps forward and says: "We know your reputation, Commander. I do not wish to see a female leave my care and be treated like nothing more than a fertile figurehead."
Standing before him, eye level and so brilliantly green; the Keeper's heavy lashes curtain her mottled green-gold irises. Hair, which so typically fell free and lustrous, was matted into thick ropes. They let her scent linger, heavy around her head in a pheromone a wreath.
A quick narrowing of her eyes and he feels her mind invade his. The tentacle fingers probe his psyche, seeking answers for what he can never be trusted to answer her verbally. It wraps his mind in cool liquid, tunneling his vision until she is satisfied with what she finds within. The liquid ebbs, allowing his mind to un-fog and his thoughts to sort themselves back into their proper place; hidden away from any potential eavesdroppers.
The Keeper backs, giving the Commander space to compose himself, and in turn, inclines her head. Movement behind her shapely form is the only indication that is given of approval as seven adolescent females enter the room. Each stops within the light, arm's length apart, oldest to youngest.
Shriiiak-tsk-tsk-tsk.
The eldest of the candidates parts from the line, striding forward with her shoulders pulled back so far she appears near comical. Unable to suppress the chuckle, the Commander shakes his head, dismissing the female before she can come to stand before him.
"How dare you?" the dismissed hisses, her teeth flashing.
"Silence!" the voice echoes through the room, blasting within the mind of the now cowering dismissed.
It takes a firm hand when dealing with adolescent females, and the Keeper soon puts the female in her place. Long naked fingers tangle in the intricate curling coils piled on the others head, yanking back until the neck is exposed. "You are no Queen yet, hatchling, and will not speak out of turn before your elders."
With a shove, the shamed Wraith falls to her hands and knees. Just above the Commander's well worn boots, she glares at the scratched leather with quivering lips and indignant growls.
"Go to your Overseer before you shame yourself further, the others need to have their turn and our guest cannot be kept waiting," the Keeper says evenly.
Without the need to interfere, the Commander glances at the retreating back of the young Wraith as she rises and leaves the room. Her intermediate mind radiates her emotions to all in the undulating bubble of her psychic range. When the second potential begins to approach him does he return his attention to her; scrutinizing her poised gait.
On the tips of her toes she seems to walk, an improvement though for one younger and presumably less trained. She comes to settle before him, barely able to reach his mid chest. Her features were long though rounded with youth and framed with rich black hair, which lay in lazy waves, just barely swinging past her jaw.
A fighter, he knew, but she has something that catches his interest. The harsh yellow of her sharp gaze meets his and there it is gone, erasing his assumption immediately. No, this one would never allow him to retain his position once she grew old enough to assert herself. Those hawk eyes narrow when she is dismissed, but she makes no fuss in her leaving, keeping her composure well.
She will make a formidable Queen when her time comes.
The third, fourth and fifth come and go, finding a fatal fault in each that would no doubt jeopardize his position or hers. It was not to say they would not make fine Queens, but for the job held on his Hive, the qualifications sought were vastly different. To foolishly jeopardize a female for the sake of his crew's comforts would not sit well with the Alliance, or his conscience.
Stepping forward, the sixth and second youngest just barely out of puberty comes to stand before him. A female not of the Brood Mother's line, more than likely birthed here by a rival to form a tentative tie with the original founding clan. Tall for her stage of development, she manages to crest his shoulder with a head full of mousy brown hair. The youngling's Overseer had set it behind her shoulders in a falsely heavy multiple strand braid.
A willowy figure indicates she has gone through life with little confrontation thus far. Her wrists were delicate, ending in large, long fingered hands. Small breasts and lacking the curves of adulthood, the Commander weighs the chance he would be required to take if he chose one so young. Guards would need to be posted, guards that required screening to ensure they would not give in to their own temptations, endangering the youngling before she was not a policy enforced on the hive.
However, her mind is still underdeveloped, fresh and malleable.
The final candidate chitters, clicking her tongue in boredom. That one, perhaps having only experienced her first heat cycle would not find security. Far too curious and defiant at that stage, without heavy security (which the Wraith could not afford at the moment) the youngling would be dead within a week.
Aar!ik.
Bowing her head, the last hatchling leaves the room; more interested in playing than politics.
"I will have her belongings transported to your cruiser," the Keeper says as the door closes behind the vanishing back of the youngest.