Someone, and it's probably extremely fortunate that it isn't clear just who (Taylienth is a sweet-tempered gold and Tasyirth is just as well-known for his kind demeanor, but they are absolutely still parents), lets out a disbelieving, derisive laugh as one of the few remaining eggs loses nearly an entire half, end to end, and sends its occupant tumbling out of what's left in a rain of shards. It's not the less-than-dignified rolling ball resolving into an impressively-composed dragonet that got the laughter, although that spectacle was harmlessly amusing in itself; the derision, judging by the two or three pointing fingers and as many smirks, is all for the hatchling's coloration, because he's a creature of crackling petals turned the shade of warm weather's bitter end, brittle dried leaves, stems gone to prickled straw and drooping seed heads as seasons fade. He is the withered flowers brown, all else aside, and for that there's covetous interest from a reasonable number of candidates - many though not all of them boys - but it's the tall, blond nineteen-Turn-old handyman who stood twice without success at his home, Southern Barrier Weyr, before a Xanaduian blue took note of him and whisked him away, who careens out of the line as the hatchling approaches and is met halfway by his crooning lifemate, to the delighted trumpeting of his mother's blue and the cheers of his family from the ledges.