No one could argue that egg-tending was difficult work. Gwillanth was exhausted by it; a special kind of exhaustion not earned by hard labor, a savory and difficult Fall, but rather by lack of sleep and lack of exercise. Pertemarth, and sometimes Igith or Yuakajth, brought her enough food at least. She was curled over a full belly now, in fact. Her eggs, a full and healthy clutch, were arrayed safely beside her, and Gwillanth could not help but shut her eyes for a moment.
She couldn’t sleep deeply; instinct kept her tied to her clutch’s growing minds, lest they become untethered and lost. But she still dreamed.
The stroke was exhilarating, the dragon rocketing into the air with one tremendous flap after another, the wind a solid thing under golden pinions. Her foreclaws clenched at the streaming wind, her neck bent and tail curled to aim her away, and the sprint continued. Gwillanth felt alive in the sky, surrounded by the deep blue of heaven and the pale browns of the earth. The wind was strong; she closed her eyes, unafraid of collision in the empty air, and felt her way across the breeze, muscles burning with over-work, hide chilled by the high cold. Eventually she stilled, and scudded like a dawn-tinged cloud with the wind supporting her, relaxed and happy.
Some movement or errant thought pierced the half-dream, and Gwillanth grumbled as she raised her head to look over her clutch once more.
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What emotions does this dream awaken in you? Do you wish to join your mother, or be her? It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last, that Gwillanth has a similar dream. Over time, does your reaction to it change? Is there anything this dream inspires you to do or say, either towards your mother or towards the distant companions you can’t quite yet reach?