The belicose swashbuckler was uncharecteristicly quite while the rest of his group celebrated.  He saluted the fallen dragon, flicked her blood from his blade, and slid it back into it's sheath.  That was normal enough, but afterwards--rather than crow, boast, or steal a kiss--he stood quietly, regaurding the fallen wyrm.  After a moment he drew his tagger from his belt and fiddled with it contemplativly.<br/><br/>Now he broke abruptly into motion.  Moving too the dragon's abdomen, he began too feel around, trying to get an idea of the location of the egg and it's depth in her body.  Carefuly, he pried a few scales loose and worked too slash open the dead mother 'til he could get to her egg.