There's a slight lull in the hatching as the cloudy jade green and her Healer girl are led to food and oil; Sherna's midway through passing along the waterskin someone among the leadership had the forethought to bring to the sands when that lull ends, and lucky for the candidate coordinator (not to mention her weyrleader's boots), she only nearly drops the skin for her sudden, startled laughter at the hatchling who ended it. "Looks like a Baker came up with him," Z'ran crows in pleased amusement, and it's true - the newest Xanaduian brown is shaded very closely indeed to some sort of Bakercraft experiment with burnt sugar and fine syrup poured over pastries, all rich coloration and ripple-glistening variation.

"Laugh all you want, Sherna dear," Eelie drawls in a not-quite-exaggerated lilt, "but there, there he goes--ah, I think he's someone in his sights--" this is also true, all of it, as the caramel sauce brown has gotten to his feet and wobbled off to relative starboard; it's the boy briefly considered and then passed over by the last flower bronze, the Xanadu weyrbred son of a longtime hunter and equally longtime crecheworker, who finds himself with an elatedly-crooning dragon wrapped around his ankles.