Egg Stealer of Grief
This legend is only spoken of among the Elders in dark places. Away from the ears of the young. All bear knowledge of the egg stealer, the newling hunter, Winged Mothers are warned to be wary of the unseen.
Parents shower the bundled egg with snow. No form, no prints. One is awake while the other sleeps. Bringing Winged newling in the ecosphere is long and hard work. Placement of protection symbols shrouds the nest. One wrong move and the sound of ice cracking will echo in the cave. Some hide their nests in the darkness of their caves; others sit their eggs at the mouth of their caves, hoping the moon will bless their child’s arrival.
None of it matters; the egg stealer comes with no prints, no sound, no protection received, and under the watchful, tired eyes of the parents.
The Elders speak not of what plagues them presently but of an unnamed past. Most of the elderly among them were mere newling then. The memories they hold are fears of others who have gone to the Pale Soul Stream. None have a name or an image.
She was an older dragon thought never to bear an egg. A miracle, an egg gifted by Nature, she loved the newling from the initial touch of the frosted shell. She was a doting Winged Mother, always shifting, always touching. Her songs filled the Winged Dragon Mountain every dark cycle. They say she feared blinking, for it might vanish in those swift moments of blindness.
Voices whispered exhaustion and age. The shell was thin, too fragile for the rough tough of scale.
The dark cycle came; song swept the mountain. Then a scream only a mother can express ripped the song from the air. Many went to her aid and found her standing with the egg, its liquid spilling onto the cave floor. Her eyes wild with desperation, she screamed a plea.
“Help me,” she held her dead egg to the closet dragon, who recoiled not from her but from the sight of an ill-formed, tiny arm which slipped from the egg. The dragon had an egg of her own, and she raced to it for fear of finding it broken.
What happened after this is unclear. The grieving mother fled the mountain and was never seen again. Ransacked caves and smashed eggs would occur when parents were careless. Vigilance and rituals swarmed the Clan, and the violence halted. The unending cries of grief within the mountain cease, but not the ones beyond. The wind carried the wails of a mother’s unbridled sorrow. On fringed dark cycles, the cries grew loudest, and the Water Dragons would join their mournful song with her cries.
If you believe the whispers of the Elders, those cries stopped on the eve of the death of her child. The next dark cycle, a storm more furious than the Winged Dragons had ever seen before, came down from the north storm corridor and ravaged their island. In the chaos, eggs disappeared. Throughout the season, eggs disappear here and there, but when the storm returns, numerous vanish, and grief grips the mountain once more.
As the seasons passed, the Winged Dragons carved ice into memory.
To remind all:
Beware the storm.
Beware the silence.
Beware the unseen.
Guard with vigilance...
For this newling is all you are blessed with.
Parents shower the bundled egg with snow. No form, no prints. One is awake while the other sleeps. Bringing Winged newling in the ecosphere is long and hard work. Placement of protection symbols shrouds the nest. One wrong move and the sound of ice cracking will echo in the cave. Some hide their nests in the darkness of their caves; others sit their eggs at the mouth of their caves, hoping the moon will bless their child’s arrival.
None of it matters; the egg stealer comes with no prints, no sound, no protection received, and under the watchful, tired eyes of the parents.
The Elders speak not of what plagues them presently but of an unnamed past. Most of the elderly among them were mere newling then. The memories they hold are fears of others who have gone to the Pale Soul Stream. None have a name or an image.
She was an older dragon thought never to bear an egg. A miracle, an egg gifted by Nature, she loved the newling from the initial touch of the frosted shell. She was a doting Winged Mother, always shifting, always touching. Her songs filled the Winged Dragon Mountain every dark cycle. They say she feared blinking, for it might vanish in those swift moments of blindness.
Voices whispered exhaustion and age. The shell was thin, too fragile for the rough tough of scale.
The dark cycle came; song swept the mountain. Then a scream only a mother can express ripped the song from the air. Many went to her aid and found her standing with the egg, its liquid spilling onto the cave floor. Her eyes wild with desperation, she screamed a plea.
“Help me,” she held her dead egg to the closet dragon, who recoiled not from her but from the sight of an ill-formed, tiny arm which slipped from the egg. The dragon had an egg of her own, and she raced to it for fear of finding it broken.
What happened after this is unclear. The grieving mother fled the mountain and was never seen again. Ransacked caves and smashed eggs would occur when parents were careless. Vigilance and rituals swarmed the Clan, and the violence halted. The unending cries of grief within the mountain cease, but not the ones beyond. The wind carried the wails of a mother’s unbridled sorrow. On fringed dark cycles, the cries grew loudest, and the Water Dragons would join their mournful song with her cries.
If you believe the whispers of the Elders, those cries stopped on the eve of the death of her child. The next dark cycle, a storm more furious than the Winged Dragons had ever seen before, came down from the north storm corridor and ravaged their island. In the chaos, eggs disappeared. Throughout the season, eggs disappear here and there, but when the storm returns, numerous vanish, and grief grips the mountain once more.
As the seasons passed, the Winged Dragons carved ice into memory.
To remind all:
Beware the storm.
Beware the silence.
Beware the unseen.
Guard with vigilance...
For this newling is all you are blessed with.
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