Blinking, Zaratii looks around, turning and seeing the other hatching eggs. Many colors, a mongrel clutch. She hisses in annoyance.

"You seem to have pulled me from my rightful nest and don't even have the decency to learn to speak with me," the wyrmling growls in Draconic, "I ought to just kill and feed on you, and sort things out from there." Then, considering the other wyrmlings, she reaches for her natural gifts, the gift of tongues. Just a few straightforward concepts to communicate: "Where. Why. Food."

There. Simplicity in communication. Even savages should be able to get the gist.