04.Mar.13, 05:48 PM
Krypth had Flown, and soon enough that would mean a clutch on the Hatching Sands. For now this meant preparing the hatching area for the inevitable clutching, which was how Isscer found himself with a wooden rake in hand, tramping from the kitchens to the Hatching Circuit. It was morning, but already the humidity and heat were stifling; Isscer grumbled a curse as he went on his way, wishing for a day that wasn’t hot.
A clutch meant another opportunity for candidacy, and that thought was never far from Isscer’s mind. It lingered there, taking root, tormenting him as he dreamed of eggshells broken around his feet and no Impression--how each time brought an immense sense of relief. He was not sure he wanted to Impress, but was not stupid enough to withdraw his name from the lists of candidates. He had a number of Turns left yet before he could safely withdraw to the sidelines, busy himself with the grain output of the Weyr, and hope for a return North.
Isscer was one of the Stolen who had been at Katila Weyr the longest, and he had seen many of his fellow Stolen Impress. Once there was Impression, there was no leaving--where would a weyrling dragonpair go? It was better to not Impress and keep on practicing his Craft; there was security there, it was safe. Candidate classes were a formality, at least for Isscer. With work, there was escape, as well as a way to get the impending fear of a new clutch out of his mind.
The Hatching Sands were warm, and Isscer seemed to break out in even more of a sweat as he started at the back of the Hatching area, thinking it best to start at the back now before the noonday sun began to beat down. “Sharding heat!” He shook his head, irritated already, and began to angrily rake the sand back and forth. “I don’t see how this is helping,” he grumbled, casting a weary eye at the expanses of sand. “Do dragons really care if the sand is lumpy?”
A clutch meant another opportunity for candidacy, and that thought was never far from Isscer’s mind. It lingered there, taking root, tormenting him as he dreamed of eggshells broken around his feet and no Impression--how each time brought an immense sense of relief. He was not sure he wanted to Impress, but was not stupid enough to withdraw his name from the lists of candidates. He had a number of Turns left yet before he could safely withdraw to the sidelines, busy himself with the grain output of the Weyr, and hope for a return North.
Isscer was one of the Stolen who had been at Katila Weyr the longest, and he had seen many of his fellow Stolen Impress. Once there was Impression, there was no leaving--where would a weyrling dragonpair go? It was better to not Impress and keep on practicing his Craft; there was security there, it was safe. Candidate classes were a formality, at least for Isscer. With work, there was escape, as well as a way to get the impending fear of a new clutch out of his mind.
The Hatching Sands were warm, and Isscer seemed to break out in even more of a sweat as he started at the back of the Hatching area, thinking it best to start at the back now before the noonday sun began to beat down. “Sharding heat!” He shook his head, irritated already, and began to angrily rake the sand back and forth. “I don’t see how this is helping,” he grumbled, casting a weary eye at the expanses of sand. “Do dragons really care if the sand is lumpy?”