2024-06-29 - mesozoic.001

Grief. Grief is raw. It grabs the heartstrings and yanks, yoking the mind and soul to the full brunt of agony. It twists in the chest, ugly and taunt, pulling and curling, growing evermore taunt until the edges start to fray under stress. Everything erodes under grief - pride, ego, discipline - sanded away until all that is left is this ugly exposure of pain and sorrow.

It is not pretty. It is not romantic. It is visceral, stabbing, and slices straight to the bone. It flays the flesh and reveals naught but the truth of a frightened beast, vulnerable and fearful, cornered not by a predator, but by their own crushing emotion.

Seth grieves. As unknown voices keen in chorus and voice their pain to the heavens, so too do they. They cry at the top of their mind, one of thousands lost to the cacophony of misery that reverberates through the Weyr. Names are raised in memory as dragon and man mourn the finality of what was lost, and Seth too gives tribute, calling 'Pycgloith! Rocranth! Ghrebieth!' as if it might ease the burden of their heavy heart, as if those lost would hear from that nowhere-nothing place they have gone and call back in answer.

They cry and cry, expending all of their energy in the act of mourning, until their mindvoice has dulled to the barest whisper. Soon, these names will vanish from their memory. Seth knows this, and both hates their biological limitation for its interference, and wishes it would come sooner so they can stop feeling the soul-cutting agony of grief.

For now, all they can do is call out 'Pycgloith! Rocranth! Ghrebieth!' and fight to remember their names for as long as possible.