Tristan had journeyed along the pathway until it brought him full-circle and he was walking along the clifftops above the desert yet again. During the time since his receiving of the egg from the ladies at Darkelf, Tristan had been hunting. He had been smoking the meat he had not eaten, for who knew when he would not be able to forage for food? That would leave not only him, but also the dragon, hungry. That would never do.
Also in the time during which he had been traveling, he had found drying gourds and employed them to carry water for him. After all, what good would food be without water? Dehydration is a terrible way to die, and he resolved that neither he nor the dragon would meet it.
Now, though, Tristan has reached the end of the trail. There is nowhere else to go but down, for he stands at the edge of the final cliff. There, rising in the distance, is another plateau, but it is far across the desert. There is little cover between here and there. And what could it be that awaits him there? What if certain Death lurks yonder?
His resolve hardens. If certain Death wishes to claim him, the Pale Rider will have to fight him. He has absolutely no clue as to why he would want to go towards the next plateau, but somehow he knows he must.
He decides to wait until nightfall, when the sands and cliff face will be cooler. No sense in broiling his hands off. Thus, beneath a tree, he lays himself and the black egg to sleep.
Tristan awakens to the long, dark fingeres of night stretching across the desert. Already much of the desert is covered in shadow. Tristan, who had little thought as to what he could do with the large dragon egg, finally realizes what he can do. He spends the time between now and the time the sun is officially set weaving a loose basket out of vines. It isn't very good, but it serves its purpose. He attatches other vines to it and slings it onto his back. He tests the weight, deems it good, and takes it off to begin tying the gourds to it and the packets of smoked meat as well.
Deeming this good, it is nearly midnight by the time he has finished. However, he knows that he must begin his trek, as little as he may wish to do so. Thus, he slings the newly-woven pack over his shoulders and approaches the cliff. It is a long fall to the first outcropping, but the nearest toe-hold is much closer.
Easing himself down on his arms, Tristan gets the sharpest insight that this is probably the stupidest way to travel. He should have rigged a rope, but it is too late now. His mind is made up, and there is no way around it.
Down the cliff, Tristan climbs. Slowly, so as not to hurt himself or throw his weight about too much, his feet search for toe-holds as his hands seek grips. He feels his strength leaving him more than once, and he begins to lose his grip on the stony cliff face.
However, he will not roll over and die quite so easilly. He glares through the sweat that is drenching his body, even in the cool breeze of the desert night, at the cliff. He groans in exertion and finds another toe-hold, extending his body until he can bunch it up again and find a hand-hold.
He can not find one. Glancing around hurridly, Tristan realizes that he is through. There is no way that he can find a hand-hold in this darkness. The moon is masked by the sheer enormity of the cliff, and the stars do nothing to help his eyesight. They simply mark the definition between solid and air.
Despairing, he throws himself backwards, hoping to find the strength to land smoothly on the outcropping he had seen from so far up. He falls, bracing himself for what he hopes will be a fairly gentle landing. He ought to know better.
He doesn't fall more than a meter when he comes to a landing. Knees bending to absorb the impact, Tristan laughs. There can't possibly be a more amusing thing that has happened to him in his life. The stress of the climb down rolling out of him, Tristan continues to laugh, the noise echoing from the cliff to the desert, ricocheting everywhere, flooding the desert with the sound of mirth.
When the echoes finally die, however, Tristan thinks he hears a peeping sound. Similar to the cry of a soon-to-be-hatched bird, the peeping intensifies. Tristan knows, instinctively, that the egg will be hatching soon. No point in delaying that thought.
He swings off his pack and takes the egg out of it. "There now," he croons. "Don't be frightened. I'm here to protect you."
There is a little chirrup and then a knocking from the inside of the egg. The egg jolts and hops in Tristan's firm grip. The peeping grows louder, and a hole begins to be punched through the egg.
The egg is dark, and so is the dragon within it. At first, Tristan thinks that perhaps the dragon might be a nightmare, for those are darker dragons. However, the moon suddenly decides to rear her milky face, and Tristan sees that this can not be the case.
The hatchling's beak is riddled with pinkish lines, and it peeps again, punching through its shell with enormous resolve. He squeaks and twists his head, knocking away the shell of the egg as if it were merely very old, very thin plaster. Then, half the egg is missing.
The hatchling is wet and sticky and makes no qualms of scrambling forth from the egg and clinging happilly to Tristan's shirt with his sharp claws. He croons happilly, and Tristan suddenly wonders just how it is that he knows the dragon is a male. The answer pops in his head as the hatchling continues to croon: He just does.
The sheer absurdity of that answer sets him off laughing, and the hatchling croons and pipes along, as if he is in on the joke. The hatchling clings tighter, and the moon shines a bit brighter on him. Tristan notices that the tracings of pink on his beak run everywhere on him.
The hatchling moves in just a way that Tristan can see the underside of its wings - they are gray with lighter pink swirled everywhere on them. Weird dragon. He had seen pictures of the various colors of dragons available at Darkelf, but he didn't quite recall a black and pink one. Smiling, he continues to stare at it.
The hatchling's gaze suddenly turns to the sky, for he just now notices the moon. His face lights up, and and he lets out a long, happy whistle. Suddenly, Tristan has an absolutely insane thought.
Could the dragon be a Nebula color? Deborah had mentioned the color as she was running him through the basics of the dragons, but she said that the color had never before been seen. Could the hatchling - his hatchling - be a nebula dragon?
Insane. No, Tristan decides. His eyes are probably just playing tricks on him.
However, the dragon does seem quite content just staring up into the sky, watching the sky, staring at the stars.
No. He's not a nebula. Stop trying to convince yourself that he is.
And so, Tristan begins arguing with himself as to what color the dragon is. That's when the little hatchling decided would be a good time to try to get a better look at the stars. It started crawling off his chest, towards the edge of the outcropping.
Suddenly, Tristan realizes what the hatchling is about to do. "NO!" he cries, and the dragon stops cold. Laughing nervously, he crawls on the outcropping and snags the hatchling firmly about the waist. "Stay here with me, won't you?" he asks, smiling and nodding.
The hatchling lets out a mildly annoyed chirp, but all-in-all agrees with a little nod of his head.
"Very good, then! We'll have to give you a name, now won't we?"
The hatchling nods again slowly. Can it be that he understands him, or does he simply like mimicking his motions?
"What shall we name you, eh?"
The hatchling lets out an ammused whistle-chirp before crooning and clicking lowly.
Tristan blinks. "I don't think I could pronounce that," he admits. "How about we call you Ralinoch? It means 'adventurer.'"
The hatchling snaps, quite literally, at him.
"Don't like that one, eh?"
The hatchling snaps again.
"Well, let's see... If you are a nebula, you'll have a good inkling for the stars. The stars hold many stories and secrets. You would be very wise. I can call you Zeroun, meaning 'wise.' Do you like that one?"
The hatchling lets out a happy chirrup and clings once more to Tristan's chest.
Tristan laughs. "I'm glad!" he exclaims. "I like it, too!"
As the two pass the night, Tristan realizes that there is, quite thankfully, a smallish cave behind them, adjacant to the outcropping of rock. Glad of this, he watches dawn arrive and then takes Zeroun with him and the pack and enters in. Luckilly, the only other creatures within are bats. The squeak with irritation, but they do nothing to harm the two as they set to sleep.
Three more similar nights of climbing down the cliff's face brought Tristan to the bottom. He and Zeroun slept the day away there, too. Now it is early evening, and Tristan wishes to cross the desert to the other cliff. He doesn't know if he can make it, but he certainly does hope that he can.
Zeroun has found himself latching onto the front of Tristan's shirt more and more, offering chirps of encouragement as they made their way down the cliff. Now, he does likewise, starting the crossing of the desert. Every now and again, he drops off, bouncing along after Tristan and fluttering his under-developed wings.
Tristan dares to hope that, for once, his journey will be peaceful. Then, the sand begins to shift beneath his feet. He snatches Zeroun up and places him in the pack on his back. Then, he begins to run, not really caring what it is that had started to shift the sand beneath him. He stumbles every now and again, and the sand shifts beneath his feet. Then, the thing is upon them.
Tristan feels his heart stop cold. A chill of fear rushes through him. He twists so he can face the beast and not crush Zeroun at the same time while drawing his sword. He avowed not to let Death take him unprepared, and he'll not annull that decision.
He stares down the monster. His eyes flick from its thick mane to its strong limbs to its long teeth and claws, and he wonders. What sort of gods are those that would do this to him!?
The answer comes not at all. Why should it? He is, after all, but a mortal.
Then, the beast's mighty claw makes a swipe towards him, and Tristan rolls away. Zeroun chitters angrilly from within the pack, but Tristan pays him no heed. He vaults to his feet and begins to run again.
Over the sand, through the dunes, across the desert, Tristan runs. This is insane. Why would so many things decide that he looks scrumptious? Who is the maniac twisting the strings of the mortal coil so that everything seems to happen to him? Better question: where is he, and can he be killed?
Then, he trips over a rock. Zeroun flies out of the pack and rolls, sputtering, across the sand. Tristan pulls himself to his feet, but the large, sand-dwelling monster is upon him again. And why not? Its legs are far longer than Tristan's!
The thing snarls and growls and stalks towards Zeroun. It sniffs the hatchling, who squawks in protest, and lets out a deep rumble that Tristan, for a moment, thinks to be laughter. Then, the thing opens its jaws and snaps them shut on Zeroun, scooping him up with the sand around him.
Tristan is not about to have this. He rushes forth, his sword held at the ready, and leaps up, slitting the giant beast's belly, gutting him. As the beast opens its mouth to scream, Tristan shouts above the din, "JUMP, ZEROUN!"
The beast's death scream is accompanied by a great profusion of blood being spewed forth from both its stomach and its mouth. Tristan is covered in gore and leaps out of the way as the thing comes crashing down on top of him. He sees Zeroun trying to flutter free of the sticky, sickeningly sweet-scented blood of the beast. Tristan picks him up and does his best to wipe the blood from the hatchling's face.
"There, there," Tristan breathes soothingly. "It's okay..."
Zeroun simply squawks with annoyance and Tristan picks up his pace to cross the desert, hoping to get near the other cliff come the morn.
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