This post is a bit delayed---but here are the pictures of the four new baby chicks that have hatched over the last week, and are now staying in my bedroom beside my bed in a brood box. All four cheep during the night, and during the day (rather loudly, I might add) when I'm not around. Each are getting a profound education on how to kill vampires, and vampire lore---you see, they really enjoyed the movie Lost Boys, and are getting into the TV show Angel, which I've recently begun watching. We've also watched True Lies, and are starting the Haunting in Connecticut. They also like science fiction, and are big fans of Firefly.
This is the eldest, his name is Esposito, and he is a game-bird mix, whose father is our little scarred, one-eyed white Frizzled Cochin
Pirate, whom roams the backyard.
Esposito is the brawn of the clutch, and is adamantly focusing on jumping out of the brooder, and even succeeded once yesterday evening.
Firefly is next; she is Esposito's sister (or brother, I can't tell for sure,) and is the most energetic of the lot. She has some interesting markings, and very dark "tear-streaks" down her face.
Sable is the third of the clutch. She is hatched from a black-colored, brown-egger, mixed-breed hen of our flock, and her father is unknown. She's the smallest of all the chicks, but already has large feathers coming in: all solid black so far. She is the most shy.
Then, last but not least, we have our newest baby, who hatched yesterday, and was actually due to hatch today! This little baby (whose gender is very hard to guess at) started piping Tuesday, a whole two days earlier than he was supposed to. There was another egg from our stock that was supposed to hatch yesterday, and we've seen no movement from it.
This little baby has some interesting markings that are similar to Firefly's, but of a different color. He is of mixed-breed origins on his mother's side for certain, and his father is unknown. He either shares Sable's mother, or was mothered by a Red Star (AKA, red sex-link) hen that roams our yard. I'm leaning towards Red Star.
His/her name is Doxa, though I toyed with naming him Angel after that TV show I mentioned above; I really like that show, partially because of the real vampire lore that it uses. No shiny vampires, for instance.
Here is Doxa:
He looks like he's wearing mascara.
~
The Marans eggs go into lock-down Saturday, and my fingers are crossed! I'm really hoping they're all okay. I know at least some of them are developing, because the temperature in the 'bator keeps rising! It has affected some of the eggs, and I have proof. The reason Doxa hatched early was because of the heightened temperature, which went from 100, to roughly 103 overnight, and wouldn't go down quickly. It's possible that the rise in temperature prevented the egg that was actually supposed to hatch from hatching, so I'm giving it more time before tossing it out.
I've firmly corrected the temperature now.
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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.
