Post by Dreyco on Jul 20, 2008 19:25:03 GMT -8
Too many books.
The stars were out, the skies were clear, and my head remains buried in books.
Maybe he won’t notice, if only for a short while…
The sound of shuffling young feet across bare stone as a lone figure makes his way through the second story room to a balcony not to far from the desk he had been confined to. Moonlight glistened against mottled grey flesh, as two ice-blue reptilian eyes gazed up to the stars. A deep sigh is let loose, a smile tugging at the young one’s snout, an emotional response to the perfection of the night sky. The moon was full, the streets below where he stood illuminated in its glow, the bright-burning torches casting shadows throughout the district.
He wasn’t too tall, so he couldn’t see too far over the railing. At only five years of age, the youth was scrawny to say the least, and much to the dismay of his sire, who seemed to remind him of such details on a near-daily basis.
“Eat right and train hard, boy.” He would always tell him,”And you just might grow up to be as strong as your old man.”
Though like most young ones, he was wistful, distracted easily, and found more enjoyment with the small pleasures in life than his studies or training… also, to the disappointment of his father.
Father this, father that. It never struck him as odd that he had never known his mother, though such were the ways of the city and its culture; never important, never mattering. All that seemed to matter, and all that he was reminded of for that matter, was that he was a noble and that he had a higher place in the world. His mother only delivered him to that place. Nothing else mattered.
He glanced down at his garb: elegant silks, adorned with the seal of family and city, a visual to the thoughts of his heritage. They were uncomfortable, but he had to wear them, bringing him to sigh and a glance up to the moon Drinal.
But he looked up to the Iksar, he looked up to his parent, his idol. He knew that he had the rarest of opportunities within the city: being raised out of the hatching grounds, and by the parent that conceived him, this undoubtedly being a privilege granted by his blood. Though regardless, youth and judgment always conflicted with each other, a war that would never end, a battle between what he should be doing and the desires that every young one had.
All these thoughts and that blissful escape from responsibility was interrupted by a single phrase, “You didn’t finish, Dreyco.” The young one turned around, spotting his father now standing over the desk he had fled from, dressed in the same fineries, yet fit to his large size.
Dreyco bowed his little head nodding slightly, knowing that he was in trouble. But before he had any time to ponder what punishment might befall him, he gasps suddenly as he was hoisted by the rippled arms of his sire into the air and placed with an “oomph” in the seat again.
“You are not to leave this chair until it is done,” the elder frowned, “With my blood flowing through your veins, I want to see a single incantation complete and cast appropriately before the night’s end.”
With a long sigh the boy responded “Yes, father.”
The larger Iksar grinned, and pulled his cloak from his broad shoulders, folding it neatly with his large hands, and placing it away in a drawer nearby. This one was a mystic, a shaman by trade, and a daunting figure at that. Cloth-guarded chain mail protected a frame thick with slabs of meat and sinew, tailored especially for the Iksar’s gigantic size. Unlike his mottled-colored child, the scale-patterns upon this adult were like that of obsidian stone, black as night along most visible areas, midnight grey down his neck and under-belly. He was tall, intimidating, and probably rather frightening in appearance due to his strength and composure; though not to the young Dreyco, who saw only a parent, and a source of comfort and strength in the large one.
Sitting at his own desk not too far away, unfurling a rolled scroll, dabbing his quill, and getting to work. As a representative of the imperial court, the pile of parchment never seemed to get smaller, the load of work never easier. It wasn’t a discount to his sire, though at this age, if that was his destiny, Dreyco wasn’t looking forward to taking his father’s place, as was planned from his hatching.
“I don’t hear the quill scratching against that book…”
Startling out of his brief daydream, Dreyco scrambled for his quill, and began his work again, shrinking in his seat at the firm gaze of his sire who returned to his own parchment, speaking to the desk he sat at.
“It is necessary, my son, if you wish to live and prosper within this city.”
The young one knew this lesson, and he knew it well. His father didn’t need to remind him.
“Soon you will see, Dreyco. When I pass on there will be no support, no guidance, and no strength to be offered from another. Cabilis will consume you, and spit you out a bloody husk if you do not grow strong enough to fend for yourself.”
He once again bowed his head and nodded once, finding diligence in his work, his mind unable to help but think of the possibility of his father’s departure. He couldn’t fathom the thought of surviving alone. He couldn’t fathom living without the comfort that his sire provided. He had yet to learn life’s lessons. He had yet to experience that which would help him pass from this stage of youth. Deep down inside he would always wish that it would never occur; that father and son would always be together, side by side.
The stars were out, the skies were clear, and my head remains buried in books.
Maybe he won’t notice, if only for a short while…
The sound of shuffling young feet across bare stone as a lone figure makes his way through the second story room to a balcony not to far from the desk he had been confined to. Moonlight glistened against mottled grey flesh, as two ice-blue reptilian eyes gazed up to the stars. A deep sigh is let loose, a smile tugging at the young one’s snout, an emotional response to the perfection of the night sky. The moon was full, the streets below where he stood illuminated in its glow, the bright-burning torches casting shadows throughout the district.
He wasn’t too tall, so he couldn’t see too far over the railing. At only five years of age, the youth was scrawny to say the least, and much to the dismay of his sire, who seemed to remind him of such details on a near-daily basis.
“Eat right and train hard, boy.” He would always tell him,”And you just might grow up to be as strong as your old man.”
Though like most young ones, he was wistful, distracted easily, and found more enjoyment with the small pleasures in life than his studies or training… also, to the disappointment of his father.
Father this, father that. It never struck him as odd that he had never known his mother, though such were the ways of the city and its culture; never important, never mattering. All that seemed to matter, and all that he was reminded of for that matter, was that he was a noble and that he had a higher place in the world. His mother only delivered him to that place. Nothing else mattered.
He glanced down at his garb: elegant silks, adorned with the seal of family and city, a visual to the thoughts of his heritage. They were uncomfortable, but he had to wear them, bringing him to sigh and a glance up to the moon Drinal.
But he looked up to the Iksar, he looked up to his parent, his idol. He knew that he had the rarest of opportunities within the city: being raised out of the hatching grounds, and by the parent that conceived him, this undoubtedly being a privilege granted by his blood. Though regardless, youth and judgment always conflicted with each other, a war that would never end, a battle between what he should be doing and the desires that every young one had.
All these thoughts and that blissful escape from responsibility was interrupted by a single phrase, “You didn’t finish, Dreyco.” The young one turned around, spotting his father now standing over the desk he had fled from, dressed in the same fineries, yet fit to his large size.
Dreyco bowed his little head nodding slightly, knowing that he was in trouble. But before he had any time to ponder what punishment might befall him, he gasps suddenly as he was hoisted by the rippled arms of his sire into the air and placed with an “oomph” in the seat again.
“You are not to leave this chair until it is done,” the elder frowned, “With my blood flowing through your veins, I want to see a single incantation complete and cast appropriately before the night’s end.”
With a long sigh the boy responded “Yes, father.”
The larger Iksar grinned, and pulled his cloak from his broad shoulders, folding it neatly with his large hands, and placing it away in a drawer nearby. This one was a mystic, a shaman by trade, and a daunting figure at that. Cloth-guarded chain mail protected a frame thick with slabs of meat and sinew, tailored especially for the Iksar’s gigantic size. Unlike his mottled-colored child, the scale-patterns upon this adult were like that of obsidian stone, black as night along most visible areas, midnight grey down his neck and under-belly. He was tall, intimidating, and probably rather frightening in appearance due to his strength and composure; though not to the young Dreyco, who saw only a parent, and a source of comfort and strength in the large one.
Sitting at his own desk not too far away, unfurling a rolled scroll, dabbing his quill, and getting to work. As a representative of the imperial court, the pile of parchment never seemed to get smaller, the load of work never easier. It wasn’t a discount to his sire, though at this age, if that was his destiny, Dreyco wasn’t looking forward to taking his father’s place, as was planned from his hatching.
“I don’t hear the quill scratching against that book…”
Startling out of his brief daydream, Dreyco scrambled for his quill, and began his work again, shrinking in his seat at the firm gaze of his sire who returned to his own parchment, speaking to the desk he sat at.
“It is necessary, my son, if you wish to live and prosper within this city.”
The young one knew this lesson, and he knew it well. His father didn’t need to remind him.
“Soon you will see, Dreyco. When I pass on there will be no support, no guidance, and no strength to be offered from another. Cabilis will consume you, and spit you out a bloody husk if you do not grow strong enough to fend for yourself.”
He once again bowed his head and nodded once, finding diligence in his work, his mind unable to help but think of the possibility of his father’s departure. He couldn’t fathom the thought of surviving alone. He couldn’t fathom living without the comfort that his sire provided. He had yet to learn life’s lessons. He had yet to experience that which would help him pass from this stage of youth. Deep down inside he would always wish that it would never occur; that father and son would always be together, side by side.