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!
12.Mar.12, 10:36 PM
It was a hot day for the middle of the season, with little more than a faint breeze to alleviate the strong sunlight. There wasn't so much as a puff of cloud in the sky to provide any hope of shade to come. Even the ocean looked hot, with Rukbat reflecting harshly off every ripple.
Breccan happened to have altogether too much time on her hands. She'd already stopped in at the Healing Hall and the Crafthall, looking for patients to treat or clothes to mend, but neither had proved fruitful. Her nerves about the upcoming Hatching had led her to mend clothing like no one had ever mended clothing before; she doubted anyone anywhere had so much as a threadbare patch left, much less a torn shirt. The Weyrfolk seemed to be in damnably good health as well, and after triple-checking a case of firehead that was on the mend, she'd been shooed out of the Hall and told to enjoy the weather.
Unfortunately, Breccan didn't do things like 'enjoy the weather.' She wanted some practical task to set her hands to, and had no idea where to find one, at least not without bugging someone in the Crafthall to teach her to do something. That wasn't what she wanted either. Right now, she doubted she could focus on learning something knew. She wanted to do something she already did well, so that she could do it quickly and easily, and keep both mind and hands occupied. Or, if not occupied, at least in that peaceful trancelike state a mindless task could grant her. For a few sevendays, she'd wanted to make the trip to the lake to the south, examine the plantlife there and document its differences. She doubted the man-made river had all varieties of water plants, even though it was well-established. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, it was made up. She stopped briefly in the hut reserved for Candidates, gathered her knapsack and the small leather pouches she used to take soil or live plant samples, threw in a woven cloth in case she got too wet wading around and didn't want to wait to dry, and a skin of water. That was all she'd need; she was soon off, her long strides swinging her southward.
The five-hour walk was significant, but she arrived around mid-day, pleasantly calmed by the gentle dissipation of excess energy the walking had afforded. She felt more at peace, but anticipatory, not in the least tired. The inviting blue glint of the massive lake made another decision for her; she quickly stripped to breast-binding and smallclothes, dropped her clothing on the sand, strode into the lake, and kicked off.
This was precisely what she had needed. The girl was Istan: she'd been swimming since she could walk. Her body's most familiar task relaxed her further, and she enjoyed cutting through the water with clean, strong strokes. She'd been swimming in the ocean lately, but she enjoyed the lake, which lacked the stress of moving against a current, or keeping an eye out for wayward riptides. She didn't swim with any particular destination in mind, but instead moved in a large, leisurely arch, pausing at the apex to float blissfully on her back for a few minutes, eyes closed against the sun. Her path carried her back towards the shore, and, energy spent for the moment, she stepped out, curling her toes in the hot sand, hands wringing water from the long tail of her hair. She ignored her knapsack for the moment, and its implied duty of collecting plants, retrieving only her water skin and enjoying a long swallow.
A long, flat rock offered itself, an opportunity too good to pass up. She was soon stretched out, propped up by her arms held stiff behind her, face upturned to the sun like a supplicant. She enjoyed the feeling of the water drying on her skin, the contrast between the heat of the sun and the lingering cool of the lake. Things felt good. She kept her mind resolutely quiet, not thinking of her future, of the possibilities, good and bad, of the imminent Hatching. Feeling good was too important just now.
Breccan happened to have altogether too much time on her hands. She'd already stopped in at the Healing Hall and the Crafthall, looking for patients to treat or clothes to mend, but neither had proved fruitful. Her nerves about the upcoming Hatching had led her to mend clothing like no one had ever mended clothing before; she doubted anyone anywhere had so much as a threadbare patch left, much less a torn shirt. The Weyrfolk seemed to be in damnably good health as well, and after triple-checking a case of firehead that was on the mend, she'd been shooed out of the Hall and told to enjoy the weather.
Unfortunately, Breccan didn't do things like 'enjoy the weather.' She wanted some practical task to set her hands to, and had no idea where to find one, at least not without bugging someone in the Crafthall to teach her to do something. That wasn't what she wanted either. Right now, she doubted she could focus on learning something knew. She wanted to do something she already did well, so that she could do it quickly and easily, and keep both mind and hands occupied. Or, if not occupied, at least in that peaceful trancelike state a mindless task could grant her. For a few sevendays, she'd wanted to make the trip to the lake to the south, examine the plantlife there and document its differences. She doubted the man-made river had all varieties of water plants, even though it was well-established. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, it was made up. She stopped briefly in the hut reserved for Candidates, gathered her knapsack and the small leather pouches she used to take soil or live plant samples, threw in a woven cloth in case she got too wet wading around and didn't want to wait to dry, and a skin of water. That was all she'd need; she was soon off, her long strides swinging her southward.
The five-hour walk was significant, but she arrived around mid-day, pleasantly calmed by the gentle dissipation of excess energy the walking had afforded. She felt more at peace, but anticipatory, not in the least tired. The inviting blue glint of the massive lake made another decision for her; she quickly stripped to breast-binding and smallclothes, dropped her clothing on the sand, strode into the lake, and kicked off.
This was precisely what she had needed. The girl was Istan: she'd been swimming since she could walk. Her body's most familiar task relaxed her further, and she enjoyed cutting through the water with clean, strong strokes. She'd been swimming in the ocean lately, but she enjoyed the lake, which lacked the stress of moving against a current, or keeping an eye out for wayward riptides. She didn't swim with any particular destination in mind, but instead moved in a large, leisurely arch, pausing at the apex to float blissfully on her back for a few minutes, eyes closed against the sun. Her path carried her back towards the shore, and, energy spent for the moment, she stepped out, curling her toes in the hot sand, hands wringing water from the long tail of her hair. She ignored her knapsack for the moment, and its implied duty of collecting plants, retrieving only her water skin and enjoying a long swallow.
A long, flat rock offered itself, an opportunity too good to pass up. She was soon stretched out, propped up by her arms held stiff behind her, face upturned to the sun like a supplicant. She enjoyed the feeling of the water drying on her skin, the contrast between the heat of the sun and the lingering cool of the lake. Things felt good. She kept her mind resolutely quiet, not thinking of her future, of the possibilities, good and bad, of the imminent Hatching. Feeling good was too important just now.
