Work Text:
Was it possible for the clan to get too excited?
Well, the obvious answer is yes, but Ersoo reveled in everyone being happy. To her, excitement meant happiness, so when she returned to the clan with a rock in her maw, she had been expecting more than this.
Which is to say, no one was very excited at all.
Ersoo frowned, which made Pala frown. He bid her to put the rock down, then called the clan out from the dens. At the roar, they were quick to scramble out into the open. Roughly half the clan was there, which was enough for Ersoo. She grinned, and wagged her tail, and gestured to her rock.
The clan was mightily confused. Is this what they had been called for?
As much as everyone else was murmuring in confusion about being presented a rock, Chalcedony pushed through the crowd. She stared at the rock with excitment unbridled.
"Oh, Gramma, it's beautiful! May I get a closer look?"
Ersoo, pleasured that her work had been appreciated, nodded with perked ears and her tail still swishing. Chalcedony lifted it and made an odd noise to beckon Muscovite forward. Long whiskers cast across the ground before he walked forward, feeling his way towards the warmth of his mate. He bumps against her side and casts his whiskers up to feel the rock.
"This isn't a rock."
Ersoo wasn't surprised, but everyone else was quite confused, even more than before. Muscovite sniffed at the rock, and determined it was an egg.
And very, very close to hatching.
Now Ersoo received the excitement she had anticipated as everyone pushed forward, trying to see the egg. Chalcedony presses them back with her tail, huffing, then leaning down to show it to a few hatchlings and all the fae. Then she moved up in size, letting everyone see the egg. Then she gently placed it back on the ground, where Ersoo curled around it, warming it as the shell splintered from the dragon's wiggling inside.
Bits of rock and eggshell fell away. Muscovite was using his whiskers to clean away the hatching debris, the soft tendrils barely bothering the birth. After a few minutes, a little brown fae shook off some liquid and opened his bright brown eyes to look at everyone above him.
Right into Chalcedony's green eyes.
His frills fluttered in pleasure and a small squeak fell from a tiny mouth, the hatchling scrambling forward out of the remains of its shell as he charged towards Chalcedony. He was the color of sand, with paler wings, and his little legs didn't support his eager body very well. The fae kept falling over and getting tangled in his frills. Chalcedony couldn't stop herself from giggling as she scooped up the little fae.
"My, but aren't you a little hurricane? It's just as good, then, that you've made it into a Wind clan." The fae chirps and snuggles her nose. Muscovite whines softly and Chalcedony guides his whiskers to her face, showing him the fae. The Imperial and Guardian look odd sharing such a small hatchling, but the fae doesn't care at all. He nuzzles into the whiskers as well once he recognizes the same stony scent his egg held. Muscovite smiles when his whisker is nibbled. The fae's head is about as thick as the whisker, and it barely stings.
Ersoo stands and smiles at her granddaughter, already fawning over the hatchling that chose her. "Do you want to name him?" Her question is simple, but immediately sends Chalcedony into a fret.
"Oh, I wasn't prepared for a hatchling! Vit, what do we name him? Something strong, like, like, ohhh..." She furrows her eyeridges and slaps her tail against the ground. Naming things is hard. She didn't like it. Muscovite laughs, a deep sound, and presses his face next to hers.
"What colors is he?" A quick explaination of the fae's earthy hues brings the Imperial to a hum.
"You already called him a hurricane, and he is the color of earth. Perhaps Sandstorm? Ah, but that would be odd, would it not?" Muscovite acknowledged Zassinstav, who shrugged. It's not like he owned the name.
"No, he's a special little one. Not something in the common tongue. Oh! How about your native? The one you came here speaking?" Chalcedony's eyes were bright and happy, nudging Muscovite to convince him. The Imperial laughs again, and wishes he could see the smile he can feel.
"Alright, that's fine. Little one." Muscovite lays one of his shorter whiskers on the fae's head, snatching the hatchling's attention. A small chirp let Muscovite know he was listening.
"I think Simum, my language for SandStorm, would fit you just well. Do you approve of Simum?"
The fae perks his ears and fans his frills in recognition, then chirps. He clings to Muscovite's whisker and scampers across to sit on the Imperial's smiling face. The pair both express their happiness, her with a wagging tail inherited from her father, him with a deep thrum of his species. They both walk away with the hatchling, disregarding the world around them as they coo and adjust to their new baby.
Ersoo can't stop the grin on her face at the sight.