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!
16.Mar.12, 05:54 PM
Breccan squinted, less from a need to see and more from concentration. Her clothes-mending chore had served to teach her just how much she didn't know, and with too much time on her hands, she'd set about remedying that. She'd bullied a former Weaver into teaching her the rudiments, and had spent slavish hours before one of the looms in the Crafthall, producing laughable lengths of cloth, too loose and ready to unravel with little more provocation than a dirty look. Despite being a deeply impatient person, Breccan found it easy to lose herself in the repetitive practice, and that simplified things. Sometimes she was just too much to deal with, even for her.
She felt that life was spiraling about her, rather hopelessly. Somehow, she was not an intrinsic part of Katila, nor particularly important to anyone here. Talian, perhaps, would notice her absence, and Lymsleia as well. She'd never followed up on her request of Echlerov to see his vines, and hadn't made any particularly close ties with Par'a or Indivara. Shiriva she'd simply never seen again, at least not yet. Could it be that in all her time here she had met fewer people than she had fingers on her two hands? It didn't seem possible, and yet it was. The rest were practically faceless in her mind, a meaningless assortment of facts assembled for some reason she could no longer remember. Faranth. She hadn't even managed to find a bed-partner. If that wasn't a serious failure in a hive of people who supposedly indulged in wild orgies every sevenday, she didn't know what was. Instead of addressing these problems, she taught herself to weave. What idiocy was that?
Whatever it was, it had set its claws in deep. Abruptly, she stood up from her loom, leaving a half-decent scrap of cloth unfinished. Without a word, she strode firmly out of the Craft Hall, shoulders back, head up, features an unreadable mess of emotions. She made straight for the sea, removed all but her breast band and undergarments as soon as her feet touched sand, and dove in.
Nothing but swimming had ever truly been able to calm her. She spent her useless energy in savage motion, striking out for the deeps beyond the breakers, then cutting parallel to shore, seeking only to transmit anxiety into momentum. It worked; her mind went blank, preoccupied with the need to coordinate all four limbs, half-exhausted already from her violent expenditure. After a measureless time, she bobbed upright, a dragon soaring overhead setting off the same clamor of thoughts she'd been trying to escape. A sick sense of resignation settled, hard and heavy, in her belly, and then she realized that not all of the clamor was in her head. Someone was yelling her name. Straining to see over the waves, she caught sight of a figure on the beach, waving their arms dramatically. Breccan's sigh was disgusted. Did they really think she would drown herself out here, even Istan-born? Or did they think this was a ploy for the sort of escape she'd heard Talian had tried? That idea did not appeal to her. Istans knew what drowning meant, what it was like. If she chose to take herself away, it would be far quieter than sinking, lungs aching, ears bursting with pressure, eyes turned up to the flashing light reflecting on the other side of her new inconstant ceiling.
Another sound made it clear that she was wrong, so wrong. Humming.
Breccan swam back towards shore with a desperation she didn't know how to analyze, straining her limbs to their utmost so soon after she'd freely abused them. Now she poured reserves of energy out, bearing her back to shore with mouth open, gasping, stumbling out of the surf. Somehow she found it in her to run, and run she did, to the hut she shared with the other Candidates. Another girl was just leaving as she entered, looking like terror had pushed her clean out of her own mind. That was reassuring. She must not be as late as she thought. Her Robes were hanging neatly, as always, and she hauled them over her body, unmindful of the way sand and salt dragged at her skin. Then it was out again, in her tired lope, and to the Sands.
When she arrived, in the dim light and heat, she hardly had any recollection of how she'd gotten there. Her hair was already drying, curling in the warmth; the feeling of salt drying to her skin reminded her that she'd had no opportunity to rinse off properly. By the time these hours passed, she'd be quite uncomfortable. That she accepted with a stoicism she wished she could apply to the rest of the goings-on around her. She was not the last to arrive, but she felt isolated nonetheless, standing between a pair of strangers and staring blankly at the rocking Eggs. Her eyes fluttered instinctively to the Empty Rooms and Cool Facades shells, then resolutely away. They had rejected her, after all. If any dragonling was going to come for her today, she was quite confident it wouldn't come from there.
The waiting passed quickly, with that fluid inconstancy of time, and then a shell burst, a dragon sitting alone on the Sands. It was not what she expected. Somehow she'd pictured the adult dragons miniaturized, not this under-developed creature, all gawky limbs and faceted eyes that seemed too big for its narrow face. It kept making odd sounds, scrambling in the dirt, and then lurched alarmingly towards a boy. Breccan half-raised her hands, prepared to clap for the first Impression, then began to lower them, only to raise them once more as a girl darted to the awkward thing, Oruth. Breccan watched the pair move towards the glows, and was surprised to see a green hide beneath all the muck; weren't first-hatched dragons supposed to set the tone of the Clutch? Perhaps it was good news that Oruth was healthy and had chosen, but she'd heard people proclaiming their preference for a Bronze to be first-hatched. What did Green mean?
Another had spilled out of its egg, struggling to find its feet in the dark and the uncertain footing of the sand. It took a very long time, it seemed, for it to make its way towards the Candidates farther down the line, a few of which she recognized from the little mixer Echlerov had organized. This one seemed surer of itself than Oruth had, nosing at a few of the white-robed figures. No startling rainbow had burst through its eyes yet, though.
Traitorously, her eyes moved to the two Eggs she'd Touched. What would be inside those? Would they even know her as one who had touched them before their birth? She thought it unlikely, more like sentiment than reality, but you never knew, did you? You never knew.
She felt that life was spiraling about her, rather hopelessly. Somehow, she was not an intrinsic part of Katila, nor particularly important to anyone here. Talian, perhaps, would notice her absence, and Lymsleia as well. She'd never followed up on her request of Echlerov to see his vines, and hadn't made any particularly close ties with Par'a or Indivara. Shiriva she'd simply never seen again, at least not yet. Could it be that in all her time here she had met fewer people than she had fingers on her two hands? It didn't seem possible, and yet it was. The rest were practically faceless in her mind, a meaningless assortment of facts assembled for some reason she could no longer remember. Faranth. She hadn't even managed to find a bed-partner. If that wasn't a serious failure in a hive of people who supposedly indulged in wild orgies every sevenday, she didn't know what was. Instead of addressing these problems, she taught herself to weave. What idiocy was that?
Whatever it was, it had set its claws in deep. Abruptly, she stood up from her loom, leaving a half-decent scrap of cloth unfinished. Without a word, she strode firmly out of the Craft Hall, shoulders back, head up, features an unreadable mess of emotions. She made straight for the sea, removed all but her breast band and undergarments as soon as her feet touched sand, and dove in.
Nothing but swimming had ever truly been able to calm her. She spent her useless energy in savage motion, striking out for the deeps beyond the breakers, then cutting parallel to shore, seeking only to transmit anxiety into momentum. It worked; her mind went blank, preoccupied with the need to coordinate all four limbs, half-exhausted already from her violent expenditure. After a measureless time, she bobbed upright, a dragon soaring overhead setting off the same clamor of thoughts she'd been trying to escape. A sick sense of resignation settled, hard and heavy, in her belly, and then she realized that not all of the clamor was in her head. Someone was yelling her name. Straining to see over the waves, she caught sight of a figure on the beach, waving their arms dramatically. Breccan's sigh was disgusted. Did they really think she would drown herself out here, even Istan-born? Or did they think this was a ploy for the sort of escape she'd heard Talian had tried? That idea did not appeal to her. Istans knew what drowning meant, what it was like. If she chose to take herself away, it would be far quieter than sinking, lungs aching, ears bursting with pressure, eyes turned up to the flashing light reflecting on the other side of her new inconstant ceiling.
Another sound made it clear that she was wrong, so wrong. Humming.
Breccan swam back towards shore with a desperation she didn't know how to analyze, straining her limbs to their utmost so soon after she'd freely abused them. Now she poured reserves of energy out, bearing her back to shore with mouth open, gasping, stumbling out of the surf. Somehow she found it in her to run, and run she did, to the hut she shared with the other Candidates. Another girl was just leaving as she entered, looking like terror had pushed her clean out of her own mind. That was reassuring. She must not be as late as she thought. Her Robes were hanging neatly, as always, and she hauled them over her body, unmindful of the way sand and salt dragged at her skin. Then it was out again, in her tired lope, and to the Sands.
When she arrived, in the dim light and heat, she hardly had any recollection of how she'd gotten there. Her hair was already drying, curling in the warmth; the feeling of salt drying to her skin reminded her that she'd had no opportunity to rinse off properly. By the time these hours passed, she'd be quite uncomfortable. That she accepted with a stoicism she wished she could apply to the rest of the goings-on around her. She was not the last to arrive, but she felt isolated nonetheless, standing between a pair of strangers and staring blankly at the rocking Eggs. Her eyes fluttered instinctively to the Empty Rooms and Cool Facades shells, then resolutely away. They had rejected her, after all. If any dragonling was going to come for her today, she was quite confident it wouldn't come from there.
The waiting passed quickly, with that fluid inconstancy of time, and then a shell burst, a dragon sitting alone on the Sands. It was not what she expected. Somehow she'd pictured the adult dragons miniaturized, not this under-developed creature, all gawky limbs and faceted eyes that seemed too big for its narrow face. It kept making odd sounds, scrambling in the dirt, and then lurched alarmingly towards a boy. Breccan half-raised her hands, prepared to clap for the first Impression, then began to lower them, only to raise them once more as a girl darted to the awkward thing, Oruth. Breccan watched the pair move towards the glows, and was surprised to see a green hide beneath all the muck; weren't first-hatched dragons supposed to set the tone of the Clutch? Perhaps it was good news that Oruth was healthy and had chosen, but she'd heard people proclaiming their preference for a Bronze to be first-hatched. What did Green mean?
Another had spilled out of its egg, struggling to find its feet in the dark and the uncertain footing of the sand. It took a very long time, it seemed, for it to make its way towards the Candidates farther down the line, a few of which she recognized from the little mixer Echlerov had organized. This one seemed surer of itself than Oruth had, nosing at a few of the white-robed figures. No startling rainbow had burst through its eyes yet, though.
Traitorously, her eyes moved to the two Eggs she'd Touched. What would be inside those? Would they even know her as one who had touched them before their birth? She thought it unlikely, more like sentiment than reality, but you never knew, did you? You never knew.
