Eggs

this is a very old sketch i found floating around my computer. I wish i could have draw something newer, with my cast i cant manage it. Thankfully my art program has a vectoring tool, so outlining the sketch wasn't too hard left handed XD

This is a very old character of mine. I've had her for many many years now. She's basically me if I was tossed into Pern ^^ Reane and her Green(and once a Gold) Aleketh

Kitaro Weyr
Cry Wolf
Black Sands Weyr
Avelia Weyr
Dracadia
Third Interval Tales
By Tooth and Claw Dragons
Present Darkness
My Lips are Sealed
Viorel Weyr
Legacy
Tennar Weyr
Minute Chances
Firewhiskey and Coke
Pern in Peril

Points
15

He thinks back, sometimes, on the grand dreams he had as a Candidate, and he shakes his head at the naivety.

First it was the prospect of Impression that he gnawed on like a well-worried bone, wishing he could somehow crack it open and suck out the marrow. He imagined a shimmering, perfect bond, a hallowed relief from all struggles and self-doubts that came from flawless accord with another sentient being.

He didn’t think to imagine the shared pain—the piercing hollowness following his kindred gone between, the dizzying disappointment of failed flights, the choking wave of firestone ash, the searing fire of Threadscore…he was twice as bruised and battered at the end of every Fall, worn by his injuries as well as Zuorth’s.

He had been woefully blind to the loss of control, the inability to separate himself from the brown dragon’s every urge. He felt the hot, heavy hunger bubbling in his gut. He felt the tremor of rage every time the silver rain hissed across the sky. And most of all he felt the all-consuming, terrifying lust that coursed through Zuorth’s veins—his veins—each time the dragon took wing after a female. He’d not been prepared for the tiny, trapped portion of his mind that remained aware, even appalled, as they satisfied their animalistic need. No lecture could ready a man for having his body seized by someone else’s madness. Words could do nothing the ease the shame, not in a simple Holdbred boy from Crom. And worst of all, there wasn’t a sharding thing that could be done about the guilt, because even that oh-so-perfect Impression bond could not help Zuorth understand or cope with his rider’s self-recriminations.

He hadn’t realized quite how immense it would be, sharing the space in his soul with another. It was inevitable, inescapable. There was nowhere K’tor could go that Zuorth could not, would not follow, not even death. Even in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind, where the man tried to hide the basest parts of himself, Zuorth shed a fierce light. The light illuminated that which should never see the light of day, and unlike K’tor, the brown dragon did not shy from dredging up those sordid pieces.

He remembers the moment his life was rent asunder. Everything is etched onto his memory, from the stifling heat of the Sands to the irritating trickle of sweat down his back and the loose thread from his self-stitched robe scratching at his neck. He remembers nearly all the eggs in pieces and the slow, sinking feeling of disappointment roiling in his stomach and then—second to last—one of the larger eggs in the back of the clutch gave way with a groaning crack. A few of the more desperate boys who remained surged forward despite the Candidate Master’s warning, but Kanutor didn’t move. There was never the merest hint of doubt, not after he saw the glistening wet, awkward body of his destiny. The moment those whirling red orbs met his gaze, all of those future tribulations burned away in the heavenly fire of Impression; his soul was scorched bare and clean. When he settled back into himself, he was no longer one whole, and yet he was more whole than he’d ever been. It would take him turns to truly meld into the bond, to feel its ins and outs, but on that day, all he felt was rapture.

Once Impression had come, the next thing he saw through his rose-colored lenses was flight. He dreamt of effortless acrobatics, of tireless tricks and swooping maneuvers that made the Hold lasses squeal with delight.

Naturally, he underestimated the trials. He didn’t plan for the hours and hours of endless, boring drills, flying over the same monotonous path patrol after patrol. He disregarded the reality of sore muscles, chafed skin, and very uncomfortable bruises when Zuorth had to stop unexpectedly. He wasn’t ready for the cracked hide and wrenched wings and strained ligaments from overflying. He didn’t fully appreciate just how much concentration it took to coordinate Zuorth’s movements, to grasp the image of a place in precisely the right amount of detail lest he doom himself and his mount to between forever.

And of course, like all the lads whose mind danced with the dragons, he dreamed of Threadfall. He dreamed of leading the wing to glorious victory, flaming and sweeping and decimating the scourge of Pern without a second thought. They fought with grace and ease and escaped injury through sheer prowess, returning to the Weyr as shining heroes.

He would soon learn that it was less prowess and more luck, instinct, and simple reactivity. Of course it took skill, but it took turns for that to develop even in the quickest of aerial fighters. Burns and scores and bruises marred every Fall, even the ones when the sudden death of a fellow didn’t chill him to his core. In all his shining visions, he forgot the sweat that stung his eyes and exhaustion that poured lead in his limbs and dulled his wits. He never considered fumbled stone or ill-timed blinks that sent them skipping back to the Weyr with various parts on fire. And he certainly never envisioned losing himself in a wineskin after a particularly bad fall, drinking himself into a stupor to drown out the keens for the dead.

The days of Thread are behind him now. He doesn’t feel particularly glad as his watery eyes roam over Zuorth’s greying hide. Old scars interrupt the once-rich chocolate skin, jagged badges that testify to long turns of work and suffering. He traces one on the dragon’s left flank, and the brown twitches in his sleep.

K’tor stands, ignoring the shards of pain that lance up his legs. If he didn’t know better, he’d say his near-deaf ears could hear his hip grinds as he moves, pressing heavily against the bulk of Zuorth until he finds his feet. A few wheezes escape him due to the exertion, and those devolve into a nasty, wet cough. Zuorth stirs.

Easy, dear one, K’tor murmurs inside their bond. But his words summon the brown to wakefulness, and one by one, the lids slide open to reveal that beloved rainbow regard.

Shall we fly today, K’tor? Zuorth’s voice, unlike his rider’s, has only grown richer with age, and it rings with all the excitement of a Weyrling despite the dragon’s bleached muzzle and greening joints. He flexes his wings, testing their stiffness.

Yes, I think we shall, my friend. One last, long flight.

In turns past, it would have taken less time than a jump between for K’tor to don his leathers and arrange his straps. His arthritic fingers tremble now, and he mutters a few curses despite serene waves of patience emanating from Zuorth. At long last, the deed is done, and they are ready. The brown heaves himself from his resting place on the inner ledge and shuffles out into the sun, followed slowly by his rider.

Mounting is its own special torture for both of them, now, but neither complains. Once he’s settled securely between Zuorth’s neck ridges, some of the angry twinges of his protesting body subside, and he feels the brown’s muscles bunch beneath him. The dragon falls a long way before his struggling wings carry them aloft again, but no one could fault the steady, powerful beats. They rise up and up, high above the Weyr to where the air is thin and K’tor struggles to catch a breath. Zuorth settles into a long, slow glide.

This is not, K’tor knows, precisely the life he expected when he was a lonely, white-clad boy living on nothing but hopes and wishes. He has endured more strife than he’d imagined, but there was one thing each and every dream had gotten right: when the dragons keened as they would tonight, ringing out in tribute to the passing of a life, it would not be K’tor alone they heralded. It would be K’tor and Zuorth, the only being who knew the whole of him—from best to worse—and bore every bit of it, always, without a moment’s hesitation.

That, K’tor thought, as they descended in Rukbat’s glow, was the universal truth of a dragonman, the only one that mattered.

The last day was the 23rd Red, and yes you are allowed to enter multiple Contests. This thread is now closed, however. Please do not post further. I will post all the winners at one time.