Indeed someone will.

Someone finds the little baby jet girl. Someone notifies a member of the dragon council, and the dragon council immediately begins calling around to ask if anyone has recently misplaced a striped jet egg. Since this is a shockingly rude question, one must assume that this misplaced egg was the cause of something fairly catastrophic.

(Someone deposits the little baby jet girl in a safe place. There is a little baby silver boy there, too. He is curious about this newcomer. Is she huggable? Let's find out.)

When she gets the call from the council, she turns pale and snaps out an indignant denial before hanging up abruptly. Then she collapses in her room again. (Everyone will know, how can she show her face to her friends? Her family? She can't possibly tell.)

Her husband thinks through the implications of such a question being asked, and calls back. As long as they understand this is private.

(The baby jet girl is also curious! But shy. Curious from a distance. She will squeak in surprise when hugs appear, but once hugged she is quite cuddly.)

The husband's line representative assures him that of course no one is going to gossip about this. That would be unthinkable. However, the council most certainly needs to know about any jet striped eggs that may have gone missing recently.

(The baby silver boy is satisfied with the outcome of his experiment. Cuddly science: best kind.)

Well. He surely doesn't know where someone might have come by such an egg, but he might know of a man who offers to... handle such problems. By a complete coincidence, of course. He can provide a description, but not much else.

(The baby jet girl seems to consider hugs a sort of burrowing game. She will be wriggling herself into a tiny lump underneath the baby silver. Burrow burrow nestle.)

The line representative relays this information back to the council. There is a short delay, and then a barrage of questions which the line rep is moderately apologetic about relaying.

(The baby silver boy is slightly confused about being burrowed under, but adjusts eventually. Cozy!)

He spends the delay bringing his wife water and assuring her it will all be taken care of. She halfheartedly snaps at him that that's what he said last time, wasn't it, then sinks back into a sort of panicked lethargy. They'll know.

He then answers what questions he can. Very few, it turns out; he assumed the man was associated with the shren house, and didn't much care to ask questions.

(Very cozy! And comfy. The baby jet girl will be snoozing here now. Until she runs out of air, at which point she will un-squirm enough to stick her nose out. Aaaaaair.)

The dragon council has no more questions.

Piro relays the results to Avar, and Avar teleports to the spot on the bottom of the world where Koridaar is watching the children so he can pass the information on to her.

Koridaar is deeply unimpressed with these people, but doesn't feel the need to say so.

"We're going to need a place to stay," she says instead. "I'm fairly sure the house we have now isn't suitable."

"...no, it isn't," he agrees. "Not if we're... well." He sighs. "Yes. We'll need to move."

She looks down at the cuddling babies. The jet girl's nose is just barely visible under the silver boy's wing.

"Can you imagine a creature more thoroughly rejected?" she murmurs. "I don't..."

"...Koridaar..."

"I don't want to be the next person to discard her," says Koridaar. "I know this probably isn't the best time to ask you to make this sort of decision, but it's the only time we have, isn't it? Either we bring her home with us, when we find a home to go to... or we don't. I would like to bring her home."

"I'll find us somewhere to move to," says Avar. "And you can bring the girl along. And - I don't know." He looks down at the children and shakes his head. "When I have time to think, I'll think about it."

"That's fair," she says. "Good luck."

A suitably isolated house in a Leraal-speaking country turns out to be hard to acquire on such short notice. Somewhat against his better judgment, Avar goes to Piro for help.

"Don't tell me you're keeping it," says Piro. "Did that girl talk you into this? Your wife has many admirable qualities, but she's not a dragon, Avar. She doesn't understand. You should know better than to listen to her."

"What interesting assumptions you make," Avar says quietly. "Leave her out of it. I, a dragon, am continuing to raise my own son just as I meant to yesterday, except that now in order to do that I must move to the middle of nowhere on short notice, which I can do either with or without your help. Choose one. That is your only input into this decision."

Piro growls. "Go on just as you planned, will you? Does that include attaching my name to the little defective? I won't have it."

"And just how do you plan to stop me? Unless you would like to revoke my line name, that is. I would, of course, cooperate."

"Are you that determined to throw yourself away on this—? Fine," says Piro. "If we can agree on a line edict. I propose 'don't touch shrens'."

"I was going to suggest 'no teleportation', to get it over with as soon as possible, but on reflection I think I like yours better," says Avar. "Gets right to the heart of the matter. Goodbye, Father. I'll tell you my new address when I register it as a shren hazard."

He teleports back to his wife.

"...Avar?"

"I asked Father for a little help finding a new place. He declined," says Avar.

Perhaps he should be accepting his son and possible new daughter out of some nobler motivation than spite, but spite is available and he's not above using it.

He pats his dozing son. (And there goes his line name.) It's no different, really. You wouldn't know it to look at him. Nothing in his nature as a person has changed. Avar can't quite fool himself into thinking the baby is no different from before, but it is straightforwardly true that he is still the same baby, and still Avar's son.

"Yes, and what else happened?"

"I repudiated my line name. Or you might say he revoked it. It was a unified act of mutual antagonism."

"Oh."

"Back to the real estate market with me, then."

He gives his wife a quick kiss and teleports away.

By the end of the day, he has a house in rural Esmaar, outrageously small by Esmaarlan standards, consequently not outrageously large for their little family. Piro has been notified. Piro has complained. Piro has been ignored.

Everything is... fine. Is it? Well. No, not really. But it will be.

The tiny jet girl is blissfully unaware of any and all drama. She's perfectly content to curl up on soft surfaces and nap, or cuddle up to whoever is nearby and has proven Cuddle Friendly. And of course she continues to view hugs as invitations to burrow. Her indignant squeaks when she realizes that some offending limb or another has fallen asleep are commonplace.

She likes the new house just fine. She doesn't require very much space; she's mostly on her favorite cushion. If tiny silver baby is interested, she will share. (Reluctantly.)

The tiny silver baby takes to curling up next to her favourite cushion and tucking his head under her neck or wing or other available extremity. Maybe the burrowing instincts were contagious.

They adopt the jet girl.

A month passes. The children's naming ceremonies come and go, one after the other. The boy becomes Mialavar, and the girl becomes Emrakorid.

The next twenty years are going to be... difficult. But they'll manage.

Emra does not object to being burrowed under, at least not at first. But after some time, when Mial next goes to tuck himself under her wing, she draws it back with a whimper. "Hurts," she explains.

"Yeah," says Mial, plopping his head on a corner of her cushion instead. "Me too."

"Want't t'stop," she slurs in a sleepy voice.

"Yeah," sighs Mial. (The way Mom and Dad act around this subject has not been very hope-affirming.)

"They say it will?" Emra says, sounding uncertain. "Just. Want."

"Not for a really long time. I don't wanna wait a really long time. I want it to be better now," says Mial.

"Me too. But I think we just hafta wait." She nudges despondently at her cushion, unwilling to move more. "Worst. Thing. Ow!"

"Bleh," Mial agrees emphatically.

She sighs. "Don't wanna think about it." She considers. "Think we can get Mom to tell us a story?"

Mial perks up. "I bet! Let's go find her!"

Emra looks sadly at her cushion. "I have to move," she whines, but she drags herself up. "Let's go."

Mial nudges her encouragingly with his little nose and gambols off in search of Mom, looking back frequently to check that Emra is keeping up.

Emra squeaks when nudged but follows along readily enough; the inertia was only in the getting up.

Stories happen. As the pain gets worse and it gets harder for the children to move, stories happen more frequently. Emra rarely admits to a preference, but seems to lean strongly towards fantasies and fairy tales with happy endings. Even ones with dragon protagonists.