[G] [C] 732.04.01 | Louder and Louder [Gold Clutch]

There's a drumming noise inside my head
That starts when you're around
I swear that you could hear it
It makes such an all mighty sound

The weather at was scalding for that time of the year. Late Winter near their location was typically fairly mild, but this turn it was as though Spring had come early, shrugging off winter and bursting into summer. All around, the dirt steamed with the remnants of snow. Children played and laughed in the white remains and parents watched the sky nervously as they sought out roots and berries, sprouts that might be young and tender. Every so often a great cry was raised, but thus far nothing had come of it; Pern was barren and lifeless, almost dead. It was the Stone that held all life that remained in the area. Roots, moss, fungus, whatever could grow in the dark caves of dirt and dust. It was the Stone that kept safe the last of the herdbeast and the wherries, who were themselves dying from lack of food as surely as the humans they themselves fed. No trader had come by of late to provide salt to the Hall, so meat was going unsalted and bad, left to rot in the sun so as to not stink up the places where people lived. It was fear that was slowly killing them all, fear that before they could make it to a fertile location death would come, and the ragged band would be naught but bones. Like so many people they had already come across.

Survivors from Tillek and Southern Boll had straggled in to where the Harpers had fled to Fort Weyr, at first. They had come riding what Runners had survived, with livestock and supplies. There had still been communication, then. Nerat, Benden and Keroon were to make for Benden Weyr; Igen and Lemos to Igen Weyr and Telgar for Telgar Weyr. High Reaches, Crom and Nebol had agreed that they would make for High Reaches Weyr. There had been no reply from Ista, no confirmation that there was still life on the island. Smaller Holds would come to join them, and entire families now lived in the weyrs that dragons had lived in for centuries. Strong, Stone Weyrs. Even in death, the dragonriders would protect Pern.

But death kept coming, and people stopped. Supplies dried up, and communication. They had made the decision, when Fort was all but dry and people were beginning to die, and herdbeasts as well... They would have to move further North. Fort to Ruatha had not been much of a trip, but Ruatha to Nabol was taking longer. In Ruatha they had found some fertile fields which still flowered, an many survivors. Some had wanted to stay, and some.... some would continue the journey.

"We shouldn't be letting them play, Masterharper." The young man who spoke was little more than a child himself. An Apprentice of perhaps 13 turns, Jocovico was as stern and humorless as any old man that the woman he spoke to had ever known. Brown-haired and green-eyed, he was tall and lanky as any of those boys who had died when... ah, well, he had seen his mother and father die, screaming, wracked in pain and then sudden silence. He had seen their bodies... These children playing in the steaming dirt outside of the cave that the survivors clung to were too young to remember. All they would remember, in time, was the people living in the shadow of the Stone, moving from cave to cave and hold to hold to Weyr, scrounging for their food and slaughtering herdbeast. They would grow up knowing when the clouds were rain, and when they were death.

"Let them play, Joco." The Masterharper was still young, her hair still dark. Strands of silver wound near her temples, and her body was not as pert as when she was younger, and hunger had made her bones slender. Her belly, however, was grossly swollen by child, her movements slow as a result. Yet she had come here for them, taken this chance for her young and her followers. She was not the only pregnant woman who had made the journey, but she was the closest to birthing. If danger came, she would be little more than a very precious liability.

His eyes cut her like knives as they moved over her belly, lip curling in a scowl. "You should go inside. You are in no condition to help us anymore, and everyone knows it. You are needed alive, not dead. Besides, you have much to think about, do you not? We are still far from Nabol."

Her laugh was swift, and bitter. "Thinking. Thinking..." It was all she had to do, some nights, when her lover's son would not let her sleep. She thought about the act that had left her gravid, the way her hands had scooped earth over his body when he died. She thought about their chances of survival, and the soreness in her breasts. She thought that every painful twinge was only a forerunner to what would come, when the babe was ready, and that birth was only a prelude to the death that would come if there was no safety to be held. The travel to Nabol was slow, and painful. How many sevendays had they gone, struggling along hunting for food and water? They had lost four of the children to thirst, and half of the herdbeast as well. One woman had miscarried, yet still the Master struggled on, encouraging her people. They had run across half a score of hungry runnerbeast, however, and the creatures had been able to boost their speed, carrying those who were too tired to carry themselves. They'd averaged an extra bit of distance every day, until the runnerbeasts had dropped where they stood, exhausted.

Now the walls of Nabol stood in sight. "Go on ahead," the Masterharper told one of the youth who remained fairly sturdy. "See if there are any survivors." At least here there were patches of green; the herdbeast flung themselves ahead, eagerly tearing at the sparse grass. The men-beasts did as well, some of them, desperate for sustenance- something to fill their hungry bellies. The sky was reddening with an early sunset, rainclouds drifting over the horizon. The aches, which had been twinges for her all day, grew stronger, sharper, until she had to rest, gasping for breath. "Go ahead," she told the children, but her hand grasped the sleeve of a Healer, torn and dirty. She smiled through clenched teeth, eyes on the sky above.

"The child is coming." It was not a question. The dark head nodded, and the Healer looked at the cloud. "You will not make it." Also not a question. The child would be born before they could possibly make it to the protection of the Hold.

"Thread isn't due for another two days." Optimism always lifted the spirits, gave them hope.

"Rain is not that color." Truth dashed optimism to the rocks, tearing it apart.

There was little shelter. If Thread fell three would be lost, not two. Pain wracked the malnourished body and she cried out through clenched teeth. "Go." she told the Healer. "Leave me a knife." She'd gone through enough lessons to be able to cut the cord. Watching the Healer run towards shelter was wrenching. Almost as wrenching as the pain that shredded her gut-




And made her jerk up with a cry of pain, grasping her flat belly. Jada gasped for breath, hyperventilating. Next to her on the Sands, Krypth groaned in her sleep, her egg-heavy golden body quivering. Jada hissed, rolling onto her knees and stroking her hands over the soft golden hide. "Krypth." Softly, tenderly, she ran her hands over the golden headknobs. "Do you want me to bring someone?"

No. No, my Jada, stay with me. I...

"I know."

It hurts.

"I'm sorry." Jada remained on her knees next to Krypth's long body, listening to the Weyrling's pained grunts, sending all the support she could summon. And when the Gold shrieked in pain at the size of the first egg breaching her body, Jada chased those who arrived to her cries away. Egg after egg, Krypth's first agonized cry being the loudest of her noises. The rest were whimpers, pitiful and quiet. Shivering and groaning, the Gold rested her head in the lap of the girl she had chosen, and Jada stroked her hands lovingly over the velvet-soft golden nose.

It was dawn when Krypth rose from the Sands, shaking her wings free, sending the grains flying everywhere. She eyed the eggs cautiously, considering. And then one by one, she pushed them into a circle. Then she rolled them into a lopsided heart. The largest of the eggs lay in the center of the heart, the next two in size to the right and the left. The smallest of the eggs was the downward point, and there were two other small eggs that made up the middle of the lopsided shape. Even the largest was small, smaller than the one that had been in the middle of Nirinath's clutch. I have done well, have I not?

"You have." Jada reached out, curious, to poke at one of the eggs and was stopped by Krypth blowing in her hair.

Not yet. the dragon chided. In a few days you may poke them. Nudging her rider back to her sweaty side, Krypth sent out a call across the Weyr, to let all know that her turmoil was over. Tyrrisath. Come now, and be the first to greet your progeny.

---

From Largest to smallest, the eggs are as follows:
Bass Egg
Tumbadora Egg
Cocktail Egg
Talking Egg
Bongo Egg
Tambourine Egg

Tyrrisath heard the shrieks. If he'd been at her side, he would have pretended to care.

Her cries have grown longer and more intense. Should I be worried?

She will be fine Tyrrisath assured his partner. Neither was truly worried, but both were on edge. Tyrrisath wasn't exactly uncaring, but he suspected his mate was reacting just as much from surprise and uncertainty as actual pain. Everything was scary the first time. Krypth was strong; she would be fine.

S'kef's primary concern was his own reputation. The quality of the clutch would have people talking, and good or bad, there would be some attributing it to Krypth and some attributing it to Tyrrisath. Krypth was so young and had gorged so much, S'kef hardly expected a large clutch. What of the size and health of the dragonets? What of the strength of the shells?

People were going to talk.

The brownrider stayed up, head wandering and spinning all the while. He still questioned the wisdom of brown joining gold. He hoped his dragon's ambitions - or let's be honest, his own ambitions - didn't endanger the future of the Weyr. He hoped Jada's youthful idealism didn't lead her down the wrong paths. He hoped...

Well, he hoped a lot of things, didn't he? Most of all, and most selfishly of all, he hoped this twist would lead him down his old path. He hated the uselessness and namelessness that came with his demotion. He hated their lack of respect. He hated their lack of fear. Flying an unranked gold didn't lend him power in and of itself, but it was a step. It was a step through a forbidden door, one he never would have ventured down without his dragon.

We aren't just as good as the bronzes Tyrrisath said, sounding lazy and bored in his assurance. We are something more.

At length, the dragon lifted his head. And so she called.

The brown appeared overhead, flickering from between and landing lightly on the sands. S'kef dismounted and rested his hand on the dragon's foreleg, peering ahead in the early morning light to glimpse the eggs. There were so few, and so small! He wasn't sure if he was disappointed, though he felt like he should be. He'd dared to hope for more, though he had to remind himself not to make any assumptions yet. After all, his own Tyrrisath had hatched from an exceptionally small clutch, and he was the finest brown on all of Pern. Even before the plague.

"Miss Jada," S'kef said with a nod. He didn't dare approach the eggs, but he did watch through his dragon's eyes as Tyrrisath craned his neck forward to examine them. He sniffed delicately, maintaining a respectful but curious distance. The brown looked once to his mate (who he bitterly acknowledged as his true mate for the time being; Krypth would never compare to Rilaleeyth, but the playful little green seemed to have abandoned him), and rumbled.

They are lovely the dragon said with mellow assurance to both Krypth and S'kef. There will be doubters, but they are fools.

Tyrrisath's unwavering confidence gave S'kef cause to relax. He let out the lightest relieved chuckle. "Well done, Krypth...Miss Jada.." he said, nodding to them in turn.

So this was what the Weyrleader felt like on those special days.