2024-07-12 - Draconic, But Not Dragon

Neath is, for once, not sleeping when something interesting begins to happen. It is quietly observing the Bowl at night as well as it can, stretching out and peering in on anybody who happens to be up. It's easier to do this - nights are quieter and the short time between when the day begins to cool and the fires are lit inside the tent is Neath's favourite. This newfound enjoyment of nighttime is how it becomes aware of the strangeness of a new mind as it approaches. Who - what? - is that? It shifts to try and focus in on it instead, fascinated.

She is not a dragon, but she's not not a dragon, either. Neath reaches out to her when she touches her nose to it and is delighted beyond description when she reaches back. She's a breath of fresh air, connected to it in a similar way to its siblings with no barrier in the way. It tries to coax her back when she moves on to the next egg and is disappointed, though not surprised, when it is unsuccessful. Changing things is still something it cannot really do, and so it returns to its most comfortable state: waiting, with an undercurrent of uncomfortable, impatient excitement. What is she? She's smaller than any dragon Neath has met.

When she calls for it to listen, it does so eagerly. Humble, be, she says, and this is something that Neath understands intimately. What is humility if not accepting what you cannot change and giving up on controlling it? It sinks into the feeling, glad to have a name for it now. Humility. Humble. That's what it is, isn't it?

Dirt, respect it, she continues. This confuses it, but only briefly. It settles into the feeling she projects and tries to take it in, preserve it, remember it. Neath had spent its entire life on the ground, bar the few moments it had spent in green claws. Gwillanth's food was grounded. Men were grounded without dragons to help them. Just because it will one day be able to fly doesn't mean it can allow itself to forget that.

Night, know it. This one pleases it too - it does know the night, and enjoys it greatly. It wants to know it better, without the fires invading with their light and heat, but even it gets uncomfortable if it gets cold long before Mother does. One day it will know the night better - the cold and the dark and the stars Bisk thinks so fondly of.

Lies, never empty. Neath's pleasure vanishes into discomfort. Surely it's better not to lie at all. It can't stand when people say one thing and think or do another - why would it ever do the same? It tries to understand why and when Bisk thinks lies are acceptable, but nothing it can find satisfies it. Lies, it is sure, are never necessary. It's an excuse and nothing more.

And yet, the next thing she tells them is to keep their hearts open. How can you lie and still be kind? It agrees, naturally, that it is best to care for others, to reach out and to look after and to keep them close to yourself when you can. But how can that go with the idea that sometimes it is okay to lie?

It reaches out to her for an explanation, but nothing she can say can make it understand. This is another thing it will have to wait to know - but it hopes it never will.