Someone left a flit egg for Finn. Who?


It is dawn of the last day of the seventh month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Igen Weyr, Reika Encampment

OOC Date




Caravan Grounds

Deep grooves in the hard packed earth criss-cross a large patch of denuded ground, bearing mute testament to the caravans that frequent this area. Despite the midden holes set back a ways from the main center of traffic, the air is sweet, redolent with the sagebrush that forms a loose perimeter around the flattened expanse. In what is as close to its center as the vague boundaries suggest, a stone ringed fire pit has been dug and surrounded with the odd log or two, ash overflowing from its darkly blackened core.

Pre-dawn has lightened gaps in small shuttered windows, the pale-blue glow a limning the wagon interior with dim light. Morning song drifts in on a breeze, already warm, bringing avian voices raise to greet the sun, the quiet shiftings of beasts and the low murmur of talk over breakfast. Finn's been awake for a while. Ever an early-riser, today it doesn't help that Kalfor has been sawing logs like drunk woodcrafter for the past candlemark. It's a miracle that Finn can even hear the soft sounds from outside the wagon.

After a long, shuddering stretch that tenses every muscle and cracks half his bones, Finn sits up, swinging feet down to wriggle toes on the woven runner tacked to the floor. He leans down to finger bit that's come up and leans over to snag a hide and add 'Tack runner' to his to-do list. He snorts, Onari'd probably make something else entire out of that work item. A yawn cracks the young smith's jaws, precipitating another bone-cracking stretch. He blinks, relaxing with pleasant, groggy ease and smacks, scratching at his ribs.

Dressing enough to satisfy decency -underpants, overpants- Finn snags the rest of his clothes and effects then quietly slips out of the wagon and into the blue-grey morning. Hopping the last step down, bare feet tamping into the dirt, he straightens and tips his head back, closing eyes and breathing deeply of the crisp desert air, brisk from the night's coolth and scented with woodsmoke from early cook fires. A wide smile slips into place and he opens his eyes exhaling, "Mmmmm."

A short while later finds the sun painting the sky golden pink and a dressed Finn returning from breakfast, humming to himself as he begins to unlock, unlimber and otherwise unfold the cleverly stowable bits that make up his portable workshop. The forge itself is left in place, a short bollard of stacked stone surrounding a metal enclosure to hold the coals. "Mornin' Garf," Finn rumbles to the camp canine who keeps an eye on the forge. He fishes a bundle from his satchel -breakfast for Garf- and pauses, "Whatcha got there?" The canine, barely sociable, leers at Finn, lip twitching a warning.

MINE. Not To Touch.

Finn brows furrow, "Oi. Drop it." Grudgingly, the dog gives over and backs a step. It's a massive bone with strips of meat still left on it (and a copious coating of drool). He narrows eyes at Garf, who only has eyes for the bone.

Bone. Bone. Bone. Bone. Finn. Bone. Bone.

"C'mere, you," he laughs, scratching at the dog's ears and unhooks him from the tether.

Finn. Bone?

"Still want this?" Finn carefully unwinds the bundle and reveals a mess of chicken parts. "Good stuff today, lookit: gizzards, backbone. Mmmmm." A look of purest dilema crinkles the canine's forehead, amber eyes rolling from bone to meat and back. "Whuff," says Garf, tensing to bounce lightly in place. Finn shakes his head, grinning, and picks up the bone, standing smoothly before chucking the forearm long femur off as far as he can. There's frantic scrabbling and only a cloud of dust to signal that Garf had ever been. Finn sets the chicken bits out for Garf's inevitable return and the devouration of chicken bounty.

The smith scowls to himself, "Where'd that bone come from?" Something isn't right. He turns a full circle, peering. Heat. There's heat at the forge. Lifting the cover off, the smith's eyes widen in surprise, then alarm, then anger and back to surprise tinged with wonder. The cover set in its cradle, allows Finn to study the egg someone has nestled in a bowl of sand set on banked coals. "What in the world…?" He straightens to peer around, as if he'd spot someone lurking nearby. There! No… he spins. There! Hmm. Tucked into the sand, propped against the egg, a scrap of folded parchment. Written on it: 'I heard you like eggs in the morning. Enjoy.' No signature. He squints at the script. Neat. Probably a girl. Not Onari, dur. Hmmm… There was that curvy Tlatoani at the Dustbowl. She had a gold and would have eggs. Mmmm… Hmmm. HMMM! Who was it!? "I do like eggs."

Curiosity overwhelms the unease of someone having violated the sanctity of his forge and he goes back to study the egg. Overwhelms? Not comepletely. More like… sits alongside. The egg is hard when he touches it. Ticking quietly when he taps a nail against the mottled shell, dark and bright, black and brown and bronze.

Folk had flits around the wagontrain, useful little critters, so Finn is more than passingly familiar with the hatching process. What boy dreaming of dragons wasn't fascinated by firelizards? A turns-ago incident had turned a young man's broody resentment into an aversion to firelizards which had, over the turns, fallen away into simple ambivalence. "It wasn't even my fault," Finn lifts his head to look around and see if anyone had caught that outburst, a wide grin slipping onto his face.

But, here, now… a secret egg? The boyhood fascination is rekindled, his stomach a little fluttery. Mystery. Setting up for the day's work, Finn keeps a weather eye on the egg AND out for folks who might be keeping an eye on him. Today's work chiefly involves polishing some test pieces for weyrling straps, so he's happy to let the egg sit atop his forge as he — tick. Tick. Hop.

"Food!" Stuff! AND THINGS! Finn tries to move in every direction at once, successfully staying frozen in place. "Food!" Things! Chicken parts! Chicken parts! He ransacks the dog's breakfast, "Sorry Garf," and brings them over to the forge. Cross-contamination? Who cares!? Cracks craze the surface of the little egg, bits falling away as the creature inside struggles to emerge. "Oh, aren't you a pretty thing?" Finn is entranced at the slim white-gold body that eventually wins free.

She warbles, blinking at the sudden brightness, sweet and charming and … demanding. "OH! Food!" Finn obligingly hands over morsels, rapidly devoured. A fizzy moment of vertigo and he's tugged by the so so sad hungry crooning of the little queen. "Awww… here," the smith grins and feeds the little queen until, uttering a satisfied little grunt, she curls into a tight ball to snooze on the warm sand of her bowl.

Finn washes his hands -chicken guts!- before carefully removing the egg shards and gently cleaning what he can of the egg's cushioning residue from the delicate curled body. Tiny soft buzzing snores continue uninterrupted as he works, a dopey smile on scruffy features. He rubs the tiny snout and head and jaw with gentle strokes of a single callused finger. Pausing throughout the day to feed and admire the little critter, Finn can't shake that he should be able to figure out who'd left the egg for him. Maybe she would reveal herself?

In the meantime, "What'll I name you?"

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