I wrote this quite a long time ago for role-play.
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Tatiana munched ardently among the wide, bushy fields of dandelions; the whole hillside was painted yellow by the stout springtime denizens, and though she'd been grazing for hours, she'd barely made a dent in the impressive expanse.
Nearby, Conner calmly looked into the distance, his dark eyes reflecting the wild, untamed moors, flooded with searing sunshine, that his antecedents had roamed for centuries. As a dedicated mustang, Conner knew the stooping ravines, small, unguided rivers, and distant mountains like his own four hooves; but like many bachelors, he'd become somewhat attached to his little home land, where Tatiana then grazed. From the corner of her liquid eyes, she could pick out the ancient willow tree about a mile to the north, its long, spindly arms floating in the stifling breeze, outlined by white light that burned her corneas. She blinked, and went back to her grazing.
Conner followed her quietly as she walked in slow, rotating loops across the hillside, chewing contentedly on mouthfuls of yellow dandelion, and pasty green leaves, but after an incessant spell of him doing this, she became increasingly aware of his attention, even stomping a hindfoot at him when he accompanied her in a brisk trot down the slope, which served nothing but to wear her further, for the sun was hostile and burning.
Huffing disgracefully, she shot him a sharp look and growled, “don't you have anything better to do?” Tatiana wasn't in the best mood---she was anxious about her impending meeting with Korther, and irritated about the sweltering heat.
Conner watched her levelly, then rumbled in his deep, drawn-out voice, “no-pe.” He exhaled slowly, a spark of black fire in his calm, unmoved eyes.
“Go away.”
“Why?”
“I'm trying to eat.”
“You're doing a wonderful job of it, really, I'm surprised all that cramming of those flowers in your mouth hasn't snuffed out that tongue of yours yet.”
“That won't happen,” she responded brashly, turning away.
“I was just beginning to fret so,” he sighed,, increasing his pace as she trotted a few meters away. He followed her all the way, then paused to take a long, silent drink from a small pool at the base of the shadowy hillside that they'd crossed over. It had probably originated from melted snow, and was guarded by harsh white wildflowers and fluffy splotches of thick-bladed grass. Tatiana loitered among the white flowers, biting away peckish bits here and there, her ears flopping back and forth to catch the distant wail of a curlew. Conner swished his tail to dispel a few beady flies from his flank, his dark, dappled buckskin pelt relaxing under the cool shade of the hill; compared to the relentless sunlight, it was a pleasant change.
“In truth,” he summed up after a while, breaking the quiet, “I'm a bit bored.”
“So go chase your own tail, mutt,” Tatiana replied roughly; the black robin's feather imprisoned in her silvery mane floated briefly as she shook her head.
“You know wild dogs don't do that,” Conner was a bit sidetracked by her words, “and I'm no pet.”
“I believe it. Scram, pooch.”
“I was wondering if you would tell me a story.”
“What?” her uneven mane fell over dark, creamy eyes as she canted her head to stare at him, “why?”
“I already said.”
“I wasn't paying attention,” she growled, and Conner responded patiently, “I'm bored, and have head that you're supposed to be a good story-teller. So, tell a story. Sing, dance, predict the future---whatever.” He got down on his knees, and flopped out on his side, enjoying the texture of the thick, cool grass, chilled by the morning masquerade of ravine shadows. “We've got a long time until nightfall.”
“I thought I was going to meet Korther by myself this time?”
“Si, well, I would have followed you anyways.”
Tatiana said nothing about that. She believed him.
“Fine,” she snapped, though her mind was already whirling with possible tales. Conner, much as she hated to admit it, was a great listener: he paid so much attention already! And it'd been a while since she'd told a proper story.
No way was she dancing though.
“Okay, so this one's called the Dream Carrier,” Tatiana began, putting the pieces together in her head as she settled down facing Conner in the cool grass.
“I've heard it before,” Conner rumbled instantly, noticing absently how the shadows cast from the slope defined Tatiana's sleek features; her angular face, proud muzzle, and attractive eyes---which were certainly not exempt of flame.
Tatiana had just been about to say something else when Conner interrupted, and the words died on her teeth. “No you haven't!” she hissed sharply, exasperated, nearly scolding. “I just made this one up! How would you know about it?”
“I'm a psychic.”
“Prove it,” she dared dangerously.
“Nevermind,” he coughed, smiling subtly. “Continue.”
“Thank you....” Tatiana drifted off as she thought about the tale,; when she spoke about it, her eyes grew misty and her voice reverent as she handed out the words like they were precious jewels, always kept close to her heart.
“It was fitting that the Dream Carrier was to be born when everybody was sleeping; when the sky was the color of a crow's feathers, and tasted of winter wind. White snow---ashy like burnt papers---floated in soft circles from the cardboard clouds, and fell to sleep on the ground, settling in sojourn blankets and piles. The whole world seemed peaceful, and silent. It was dormant and dark.
The Dream Carrier wasn't like the humans that slumbered in the ghost town, nor like the squirrels in the gutters, or the stray cats and hounds that scavenged on the streets. The Dream Carrier was a bird. A small sparrow, to be percise, with bold black stripes on his face, and powerful tawny feathers. His name was Dreu, and he hatched from a tiny speckled egg that had been sitting alone in a long-abandoned nest for the whole summer, fall and winter so forth---due to hatch that previous spring with his nest-mates. Dreu never had, and his family flew south when the clouds---pregnant with snow---came, and his mother, with her clean beak and bright eyes, accepted sadly that the egg was a dud---”
“---A dude? He was, right? Some mothering instinct...”
“Conner! I'm trying to tell the story! A dud! A dud! A rotten egg, whatever!”
The stallion tactfully kept a straight face as the young black mare went on, smoldering, “so his mother flew with the rest of the flock, and her mate. They eventually forgot about the egg, after all, duds---yes, duds---were laid into healthy clutches all the time. An elder-bird told Marcia, who was of course Dreu's nest-mother, that she was lucky the egg didn't explode and ruin the whole nest back in the spring, and that she should have been stronger and thrown it out long ago.
“The south was warm and abundant with bugs to catch and eat---but farther north, where Dreu was hatched, it was cold, and the ground barren of worms, and the bushes scant of berries and insects. There was nothing to eat, but Dreu didn't starve. Instead he flew---without ever being taught---into the gray skies, letting the wind whisper and the snow fall unhindered by his small form. He wasn't a normal bird, in fact, he wasn't even alive. Born a spirit, a phantom, Dreu could see into the minds of anybody sleeping. He could drink in their thoughts and dreams, and gnaw on their consciousness, tasting the creative, and very different, lights of their souls---”
“---Okay, I'm going to ask permission this time,” Conner interjected hurriedly, knowing his voice would evoke another fierce glare from her---and his prediction wasn't wrong. She nodded after a moment with a weary sigh, and he said, “I would hate to live in that town if I was a human---having a bird 'gnaw' on my conscious sounds painful. They don't even have teeth.”
Tatiana was very quiet for a long moment while what Conner said sunk in, then she spoke in an even determinedly-controlled voice, “are you finished now?”
“Yes, chiquita.”
“Alright. So, discovering his power, Dreu started to sneak into the houses, through the chimneys, which smothered his sandy feathers a sooty black, and sat on the humans' bedsides. He'd stare at them, his little needle-feet making three-toed prints on their soft sheets, and would listen. He could hear them breath, and their heartbeats—then he'd close his own eyes, and fall into their dreams. He reached out with his consciousness, to touch the sparkling bubbles of their minds, and would see as an outsider---what they thought, felt, and imagined. He breathed it all in, and thrived off it. He saw and learned so many things, some amazing, and some frightening. Names, places, emotions---everything. It made him feel special (and he was), but it also made him feel mischievous, and greedy.... All these forbidden secrets, talents, and great ideas, locked away from other humans. He began to plot how to mix them all up, how to create something similar to havoc---why? Because of his surging greed and hunger; the more belief and emotion and heart the humans put into these dreams, the stronger he would grow....” Tatiana stopped blankly, and Conner watched her, waiting for her to gather her thoughts, and when she didn't speak, he rumbled, “so this bird's going to make the mind less secure.”
“Yes, but---” Tatiana stared into the distance, her eyes slowly clearing as she lost focus on the story.
“But what?”
“I'm not sure.”
“I bet I know how this story ends,” Conner said smugly, eyes glittering; totally content and at ease. He was sprawled on his side now---nearly on his back.
“Oh yeah, psychic, how?”
“I don't want to spoil it for you,” he gruffed.
“How can you spoil it for me? I made it up!”
“Exactly. I don't think you know how the ending goes yet.” He tilted his head to look at her, “do you, chiquita?”
Tatiana didn't bother even answering that one.
He was right.
The first three eggs I put in my incubator (just a refresher: they are mutt eggs from our stock) are going into lock-down tomorrow, which means that I will stop turning them so the chicks inside can position themselves and get ready for hatching...which is three days after the initial lock-down! Finally, some action! I'm quite pleased, even more so because today---after taking apart the turner, and putting it back together---I figured out that my automatic egg-turner works without all the racks in it. That means I can take some out, and leave room for the eggs in lock-down which cannot be turned, BUT the turner can keep turning the other mutt eggs, the remaining duck egg, the Marans eggs, and so forth. This is good news, because now my Mom won't have to hand-turn all the eggs while I am gone, which is bad both for the person designated to turning the eggs (it can be tricky) and for the actual eggs, because by opening the bator you release precious heat and humidity, and thus jeopardize the eggs.
So, the egg-turner has been reassembled so it is missing three racks, leaving plenty of space for the three eggs that will be going into lock-down tomorrow. Soon, I am going to be setting up a brooder with all its proper faculties, just in case a chick hatches whilst I'm at my cousin's sleepover on Friday, which is when the “green-marked” eggs are due. I've already got a baby brooder box ready, and two working brood lights; I just need to get a waterer, feeder, and some bedding, and then we'll be set!
I actually almost adopted a baby chick from the new game-hen Momma. I went out to check on them this morning, and give them more feed, and found that one of the babies (apparently a little pullet,) was being picked on! One side of her face around the eye was red, and slightly inflamed, and she was sopping wet and being completely ignored by her mother, which is unusual all the way around. Typically, game birds make fantastic mothers. So anyway, I brought the bantling inside to dry, and babied her for a good couple of hours while I did my school and read a book called Jane Eyre, which is required by my literature.
(I finished it, by the way.)
She dried off and perked up, and so then with many regrets I took the little girl back to her mother to see if the hen would take her back. She did, of course, but I kept close watch for a little while---checking on them meticulously---to make sure the little chick was getting covered during the rain, and wasn't getting picked on. So far, everything seems fine! I'm not sure what was going on earlier, but the baby has been re-accepted, and things look okay.
All other chickens are looking well, but still aren't laying worth a dang; this includes any eaten eggs, because I haven't been able to find any evidence of cracked, gnawed upon, swallowed, or otherwise devoured eggs in the past two days. There is just nothing out there.
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It is a crisp dawn. The timorous white sun of autumn peeks over distant fells, glistening off the dampened moors, and deep swampy ravines where purple thickets of bracken and heather abide. The air is clear, and sweet, scoring cool passages on your lungs as it enters and exits with each refreshing breath. A faint wind whistles quietly between shackled clusters of peasant homes, tousling lines of laundry, and whisking beneath the running feet of young children as they dart buoyantly between shadowy alleyways.
One of these children is a small boy with a pale mop of hair, and expressive green eyes which are now cast in a dubious shade as he ducks and hides behind a discarded crate, laying in wait for his advisory who trots inconspicuously past the alleyway.
With one palm on the ground in the scattered hay grains and cold dirt, he leans around the corner of the wooden box, a loose gray cotton shirt hanging over white shoulders that are thin as a clothes-hanger. Seeing nobody in sight, he exhales gratefully, letting slow to his rapidly beating heart.
But the game continues, and he ducks further into the protection of the lonely crate in attempt to stay hidden as a curious beam of sunlight reaches down the alleyway with pilfering fingers. The sun is now glossy and floating higher in the misty sky. Soon it will be time to run home and get ready for school which won't let out until late, leaving little more time to romp and play.
This boy's name is Filbert. He's the eldest child of a family of four. His younger sister is a happy, angelic presence with long golden hair that holds much more beauty than his washed-out cap of straw. Her face is round, with a delicate chin and smallish nose that pokes like a budding flower between defined, leafy hazel eyes. They say she looks like their mother, much like Filbert takes after their father, who is a traveling merchant, and is rarely home....
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