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+---- Thread: This Temporary Life [Solo] (/showthread.php?tid=1412)
This Temporary Life [Solo] - S'cer - 24.Mar.13
The firelizard egg V’zire had given Isscer sat in a bowl of warm sand on top of the chest at the end of his bed. Clothing was strewn across Isscer’s bed, a needle and thread in hand as he methodically worked his way through darning minor rips and tears. It would cost too much to have a tailor repair his clothing at the rate that Isscer damaged it, and Isscer was anything but a big spender. He had come to the Weyr with essentially nothing, so whatever clothing he had gained over the years was prized and carefully mended.
Despite what others might have thought about him, Isscer did care about a variety of things. He was obsessive about maintaining his grain records, from what seeds he had planted to measuring the height every sevenday of the plants as they grew. He cared about things, and despite all evidence to the contrary he wasn't a robot.
He hated Katila, and everything it represented. The horrible plague, his Stealing, losing his home; those were things he would never forgive any of them for. Tsuen was to blame for using her dragon to her advantage, but so were the other ranking riders. D’ren, despite his appearances as a benevolent leader, had always struck Isscer as being cowed by Tsuen; he was not exempt from Isscer’s loathing, though that wasn't to say Isscer wished him dead.
Isscer was unhappy, but he wasn't keen on making it any easier on himself. He could have given in long ago; been more like Aparicus and simply moved on with his life. But Isscer was stubborn and he was willful--he didn't want to move on because that would be the same as condoning his Stealing. What the leadership had done was wrong, and even if others couldn't see it, Isscer could.
Sharding dragonriders! A stab of pain, a yelp, and Isscer scowled at his wounded hand. Sighing, he set his mending aside; apparently it wasn't safe to work with needles in the middle of musing about his past. The upcoming Hatching had Isscer all worked up, and even if he didn't fully acknowledge it he knew it way deep down. Everything was just so unfair, and some days he felt like giving up--it would be so much easier.
In the midst of the accident and subsequent moving around, Isscer didn't notice that the firelizard egg had begun to tremble. It had sat where it was for over a sevenday and hadn't moved once; Isscer had given up on looking at it, figuring that it was a dud but not wanting to get rid of it just yet. A bit of sand spilled over the side of the bowl, and Isscer’s brow furrowed, eyes moving to the egg.
Fractures split the egg shell in numerous places, and Isscer shifted on the bed, leaning down over the end to get closer. A tiny snout was poking through, and Isscer felt his heart leap to his throat. It wasn't a dud after all! He sat back and fumbled for the remains of his lunch, clutching the nearly whole meatroll as he leaned back in to inspect the hatchling.
The hatchling’s head was through, and he was pushing at the sides of the eggshell with both front paws. With one last push, enough of the eggshell crumbled that he was able to emerge from it, damp with fluid and eyes whirling red.
“Oh, Faranath. You're a brown,” Isscer mumbled to himself, half in awe of the tiny thing and half unable to believe his luck. The hatchling’s annoyed, hungry creel put an end to his study of it and Isscer broke off a piece of his meatroll, offering it to the tiny brown. The hatchling pounced on the scrap, devouring it with a pleased sound, and Isscer steadily fed him more pieces until most of it was gone.
Only when the brown was sated and tired did Isscer dare to pick it up. It was so small that it fit neatly in his cupped palm, and the sudden projection of satisfaction that echoed through his mind frightened him. He very nearly dropped the hatching onto the bed, but somehow managed to keep hold of it. Was this what Impression felt like, just on a much larger and intense scale?
The thought terrified Isscer to his very core, but the baby that sat in his palm was so very small that he knew he couldn't just get rid of it. “I’ll have to think of a name for you,” he said, but the brown didn't move beyond a flick of his too-long tail and opening a faceted eye. “You... you look like an Edik. Something masculine--you’re a brown, after all, not a green.”
The firelizard chirped once, as if to affirm his acceptance of the name, and then the brown spread his wings and glided down to the bed. Edik methodically made a makeshift nest of Isscer’s tunic, curling up in the wad of fabric.
Isscer shook his head and moved to remove the needle from where it was stuck in the fabric near the collar, tying off the excess thread. It didn't look like this tunic was going to be mended after all!