Music for the Mood!
The sound of clicking steps could be heard approaching the hatchery. Several hatchlings rested soundly, their talons curled upwards into their chests, tails wrapped tightly around each other to maintain warmth. They all seemed healthy and in good shape, aside from one…
As the clicking steps came to a stop, a brief figure stood, shadowed and straight, the dark beast wielded a large spiked Mohawk. Consisting of feathers protruding upwards, this style could be seen statically moving much like a tidal wave.
The figure hesitated as he scanned the nests.
This wasn't a typical egg count, no... This was something more sinister. After several cautious seconds, he'd climb the steps to the upper floor nests. As he passed each individual nest, he'd graze his taloned hands over the straw and wool which insulated the hatchlings, the talons coming within inches of their small innocent snouts. There was one specific nest he approached, and as the monster neared it, keeping to the shadows, it became apparent that the dark feathered figure was at a war with himself, as each step they took only provided a pained flinch, and a constant head jerk like motion to turn and leave.
But he kept going... Settling his yellow glowing eyes upon a specific grey scaled hatchling resting at a far corner, branding green feathers and a twisted disfigured foot.
It was none other than the son of Zzalangua, an outcast to the rest of their clutch. Ever since they hatched, Zzal was faced with mixed feelings. By law, he should've killed the child, given only the strongest and healthiest were permitted to survive. And yet, before his slitted gaze was the bane and embarrassment to his caste. There was no room for crippled warriors, and thus Szeale's purpose was vain.
...But the fathered lizard loved him, it was the reason Szeale was alive. A constant war between what Zzal was SUPPOSED to do, and what he wanted to do. He had to do it, he couldn't back away, else he'd consider himself a coward. COWARD! The thought of retreating, stepping down, or failure to act upon a task revolted him. He was no coward...
The dark figures talons suddenly extended, and he leaned forwards, baring his teeth...
But right at the last moment, before he could do the deed his civilization called for, the small hatchling shifted, and still maintaining it's asleep visage, it would reach up and grasp the air, as if fighting to grasp a place within this cruel Ailor world.
He withdrew, his eyes softening.
He was a coward.
Last edited:
