Hello loves! While I haven't been writing, I have been working on updating some issues that have been hanging around on the layout! The Character change box is now at the bottom of the page, beside the up/down arrows! Green and Gold dragon flight dates have been shifted to the bottom of the page, where the (useless!) discord widget was located. Where the dragon flights were in the header, is now replaced by a Monthly Event box! This will be updated at the start of each month, with a fun mini-event you can take part in, if you want to! Thistle!
10.Apr.13, 11:06 PM
There were some things Isscer had learned from being Stolen. Oh, he knew well enough that he couldn’t trust anyone at Katila--there were too many people that hated the Northerners, and his broken nose was a reminder of the simmering tensions between the Stolen and the Weyrfolk. Isscer firmly believed in keeping his head down and staying far from the watchful eye of the upper ranks--it was safer all the way around, any way he looked at it.
The tension in the crowd was so thick Isscer felt like he could feel it. He already felt unsettled by the fact that S’kef was executing a bronzerider--it was something unprecedented, something terrible. Isscer felt nauseous, sweating through his clean tunic, eyes riveted to the scene. Edik, steadfastly perched on Isscer’s left shoulder, took in the scene from his vantage point. He was a quiet creature, but Isscer could even sense his distress at everything--even the firelizards knew this was going to be horrible to witness.
“Shard it,” Isscer grumbled, glaring at the man who had shifted in front of him. His view was obstructed, and even if he knew it was going to be bad, there was some sort of morbid fascination with witnessing the execution. He had half a mind to inform the man that he was being rather rude, but before he got the chance the man was shouting about murderers!
Isscer frowned, eyes darting to the front of the crowd. S’kef looked straight in their direction, and Isscer felt the bile beginning to creep up the back of his throat. But he recognized that voice, and as he stared at the back of the man’s head, it all became slightly clearer.
“A’liran?” He reached out to touch the greenrider on the shoulder, but hesitated. He didn’t want to damage his healing nose any further. “A’liran,” Isscer repeated, slightly more forceful in tone, before he dared to prod the greenrider’s shoulder. While Isscer had no great affinity for greenriders, his opinion of them having been tainted by the one who had Stolen him, A’liran was quite unlike any greenrider he had ever met. He felt sorry for the Northerners, and that alone meant that Isscer felt obligated to help him--the less fortunate had to stick together, after all.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Isscer lowered his voice enough so only A’liran could hear, scowling darkly at him. “What good do you think that’s going to do, you sharding idiot?” He shook his head in disgust. “You certainly aren’t doing me any good if you die--who else in this place would care about people like me?” It was, perhaps, a round-about way of pointing out how stupid--how futile, really--it was to try to save T’shiro now. What was done was done; the mob had to have some kind of closure after the Weyr had been turned upside down to try to track down the assassin. It didn’t matter who the culprit was to Isscer as long as he was as far removed from everything as he could possibly be.
“Please, A’liran. Don’t start something you know you can’t win--S’kef’s the Weyrleader now.” Isscer wasn’t above pleading if it was required, and a hint of desperation had crept into his words before he had even realized it. “Don’t do something stupid.”
The tension in the crowd was so thick Isscer felt like he could feel it. He already felt unsettled by the fact that S’kef was executing a bronzerider--it was something unprecedented, something terrible. Isscer felt nauseous, sweating through his clean tunic, eyes riveted to the scene. Edik, steadfastly perched on Isscer’s left shoulder, took in the scene from his vantage point. He was a quiet creature, but Isscer could even sense his distress at everything--even the firelizards knew this was going to be horrible to witness.
“Shard it,” Isscer grumbled, glaring at the man who had shifted in front of him. His view was obstructed, and even if he knew it was going to be bad, there was some sort of morbid fascination with witnessing the execution. He had half a mind to inform the man that he was being rather rude, but before he got the chance the man was shouting about murderers!
Isscer frowned, eyes darting to the front of the crowd. S’kef looked straight in their direction, and Isscer felt the bile beginning to creep up the back of his throat. But he recognized that voice, and as he stared at the back of the man’s head, it all became slightly clearer.
“A’liran?” He reached out to touch the greenrider on the shoulder, but hesitated. He didn’t want to damage his healing nose any further. “A’liran,” Isscer repeated, slightly more forceful in tone, before he dared to prod the greenrider’s shoulder. While Isscer had no great affinity for greenriders, his opinion of them having been tainted by the one who had Stolen him, A’liran was quite unlike any greenrider he had ever met. He felt sorry for the Northerners, and that alone meant that Isscer felt obligated to help him--the less fortunate had to stick together, after all.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Isscer lowered his voice enough so only A’liran could hear, scowling darkly at him. “What good do you think that’s going to do, you sharding idiot?” He shook his head in disgust. “You certainly aren’t doing me any good if you die--who else in this place would care about people like me?” It was, perhaps, a round-about way of pointing out how stupid--how futile, really--it was to try to save T’shiro now. What was done was done; the mob had to have some kind of closure after the Weyr had been turned upside down to try to track down the assassin. It didn’t matter who the culprit was to Isscer as long as he was as far removed from everything as he could possibly be.
“Please, A’liran. Don’t start something you know you can’t win--S’kef’s the Weyrleader now.” Isscer wasn’t above pleading if it was required, and a hint of desperation had crept into his words before he had even realized it. “Don’t do something stupid.”
