Kyriatis itches, and frets.


The fourth month of the fourteenth turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date 21 Jun 2018 23:00



Scratch. Scratch. Itch.

Her skin is raw.


Kyriatis dreams.

She was already having vivid and uncomfortable dreams, and now, with her nose and cheek and one hand burning and itching, it seems to be getting worse. She has to assume that it's just her head doing funny things, and not a symptom of the sap that has caused the reaction… but she can't be sure.

She dreams about a dragonet that meets her gaze and says, « No. » and then goes between.

She dreams about Betty growing and growing and growing and suddenly taking off people's fingers… and then eating them whole.

Mostly, she dreams about things she can't quite place: terrors that don't coalesce into meaningful imagery.

Some part of her is afraid she's going insane.

The rest of her is afraid that this is going to continue until the hatching, until she knows what happens next, one way or another.

It makes for some sleepless nights.

She hates living in the barracks. It's not the barracks themselves that are the real problem, though: it's the fact that they open into the weyrling barracks, and that there's no way to escape seeing Rhiscorath's weyrlings on a daily basis.

It's not that (most of them) are cruel or mean or anything, but it's still hard walking past them.

Hard, when you remember the look on their face the moment they Impressed, and want that, more than anything.

Hard, when they have that thing you want.

Hard, when they know that they have the thing you want.

She just wishes this whole thing were over.

Scratch. Scratch. Itch.

Her skin is raw.

She hasn't been to touch the eggs, yet. She's almost not sure if she wants to. There was an egg last time, one she fell for. She was so sure, sure enough that she was nervous, not sure if she wanted to be right or not.

It hatched bronze.

She doesn't want that agony again. She doesn't want to spend the hatching waiting and hoping for one egg in particular.

She doesn't want to hope for anything, for fear of being disappointed.

She hates the smell of numbweed. It pervades her dreams, too, and then her thoughts: the whole world smells of it.

It relieves the physical itching, but it makes her thoughts itch instead. Her brain.

Is there no such thing as numbweed for the brain?

Fellis, she supposes, but it's not as if she's going to try that.

Candidacy sucks. The garden has betrayed her.

Kyriatis counts the days.

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