View source for Logs:'Twas the Night Before hatching...

{{ Log
| who = Ceawlin
| where = High Reaches Weyr
| what = Ceawlin finds himself at a crossroads in the final days before the Hatching, where the night holds more questions than answers.
| when = Day 1, Month 4, Turn 31
| gamedate = 2013.03.15
| quote = I've got this.
| weather = 
| categories = Vignette
| mentions = 
| ooc = 
| icons = ceawlin_light_dark.jpg
| log = ... And all through the barracks, not a creature was stirring.  Except Ceawlin, that is.

 

Snores permeate the air with a soft throbbing that eerily echoes the humming that will occur -- not that he's experienced such things, but it is what he ''supposes'' it will be like -- and pushes the harper from the relative comfort of his cot.  Stealthy feet steal through the barracks, still sporting his small clothes, which he doesn't bother to address.  Only the addition of hastily put-on shoes interrupts this stealthy leave-taking from the barracks.  Once freed, the harper makes his way down the familiar path from Barracks to Galleries where he finds himself suffering from the cloistering heat and staring down at the golds and their eggs nestled in the sands.

 

''Really seeing.''

 

Fumbling with a thrice-folded scrap of hide that was nestled between the waistband of his unmentionables and the warmth of freshly-bathed skin, he tugs it free.  It's crumpled; the hide soft as if read many times in the last few days.  Tearing cold blue gaze away from the Hatching Sands, Ceawlin glances down at the scrap of hide.  He doesn't need to open it to see the letters burned into the hide.  They unfold in his mind's eye much like the first time when he received this missive mere days ago.  The directive.

 

''It's more than a game.''

 

Ceawlin's fingers rub the well-worn hide, gaze once more latching onto the Clutch on the sands.  What-ifs swim through his thoughts; not the what-ifs of a boy excited by the prospect of Standing for a clutch that could start hatching any second now, but of a boy who's balancing the actions for one against the directive of another.  Yet, even though the thought of ''Impression'' had not really entered his mind until this moment, it's also something that hovers near in his thoughts.  Of anyone, he's intimately aware of the Harper songs and stories that involve dragonriders, and it's hard to not be seduced by such tales of glory.  Impression, though, is more than being noble -- noble, he is not -- but it comes with a certain power.  Certain expectation.

 

Hands clench; hide crumples, caving to the strength of lean fingers.

 

Swimming through his vision, Ceawlin's remembrance of the hide's directive obscures the golds down below.  What fancies of Impression there might have been are quelled by the reality that he finds himself in, blown away like ashes in his kingdom of rust.

 

''Remember who you answer to.  Remember the plan, should the impossible occur.''

 

The boy turns away and slips back into the shadows.  Somewhere along the way, he tosses the scrap of hide into the hearth, watching it burn.

 

''I've got this'', comes the internal mantra of assurances, fortifying the insecurities that comes of how deep the game he plays.   ''I've got this.''

 

"Besides," Ceawlin whispers to himself, just outside the barracks, "What's the likelihood I'll Impress?"  Very little, and that would work just fine for a harper who can't see beyond his craft loyalties and duties.

 

The night shadows settle where they will when Ceawlin finds his cot again, though it'll be a long while before sleep comes.





}}


<comments />