Sep. 21st, 2012

sythyry: (sythyry-doomed)

Mirrored from Sythyry.

This being read for Tllith of Yirien, Princess of Septoulny Swamp, «Language»-mage. This being written by Cleiestis of Gemgaru. Layer of six fertilized eggs is she. Priestess of the third florescence is she, mistress of seven spells and three visible and four invisible potencies. Wife of Tomolrouc is she, who is the assistant administrator of flying insects to the Hoouthgala district. The hope from here is that you are in a state of delighted, and that three happinesses and four contentments are on you.

Form of Reproduction — better than anyone says!

The dish — An ancient opal spun to a bowl. In it were hatched — myself, my mother, my mother’s father. The spell upon it — a comfortable warmth without rasps or tickles.

The sand — from the shores of Seas of Tsurmah. Hatched in that sand — Tomolrouc, his mother, his mother’s mother. The washing — in holy acid and then thrice in pure river water.

The chamber — the basement of our house. Wrapped in old stone. Eleven couatls are in the home, and forty spidersen. The eggs — never without a watcher and guardian. (The need thereof — purely ceremonial. Once thrice in eight centuries have eggs been offended. But of a month of time, ten-twelfths have I spent with my eggs.)

The clutch — six eggs! The number — smaller than most clutches, larger than some. The speaking-to-friends — “My clutch, it is small, some space, I leave for you.” The mollification — success? Only one woman in three or four is ever allowed to lay eggs, or the world would be all asquirm with couatls. My friends — deserve to lay as much as I. The luck — mine, this time. The others of my friends who may lay — not many. Their rejoicing — mixed with envy. I do not blame them. I did that too.

The wait for the hatching — seven years. Not an easy wait!

BUT! The scent — upon the eggs! Burnt stench, broken bird-shells roasted, broiled fish with foul spices, live mammal-sweat, pungency! Whence comes this scent, when the eggs are guarded every moment? No sight can be seen of the scent-bearer, no sound has been heard thereof! The doors of the house, the doors of the basement — these doors are closed, they are of heavy stone. The couatl coiled on the eggs in their sand and opal — myself! Yet — the scent touches the eggs, it comes without a source, it lingers.

And this morning the sand has been stirred, as if by heavy fingers, moving secretly on eggs covered by my wings.

Withal — I apprehend, I fear, I fret, I cast such spells as might protect!

sythyry: (sythyry-doomed)

Mirrored from Sythyry.

This being read for Tllith of Yirien, Princess of Septoulny Swamp, «Language»-mage. This being written by Cleiestis of Gemgaru. Layer of six fertilized eggs is she. Priestess of the third florescence is she, mistress of seven spells and three visible and four invisible potencies. Wife of Tomolrouc is she, who is the assistant administrator of flying insects to the Hoouthgala district. The hope from here is that you are in a state of delighted, and that three happinesses and four contentments are on you.

Form of Reproduction — better than anyone says!

The dish — An ancient opal spun to a bowl. In it were hatched — myself, my mother, my mother’s father. The spell upon it — a comfortable warmth without rasps or tickles.

The sand — from the shores of Seas of Tsurmah. Hatched in that sand — Tomolrouc, his mother, his mother’s mother. The washing — in holy acid and then thrice in pure river water.

The chamber — the basement of our house. Wrapped in old stone. Eleven couatls are in the home, and forty spidersen. The eggs — never without a watcher and guardian. (The need thereof — purely ceremonial. Once thrice in eight centuries have eggs been offended. But of a month of time, ten-twelfths have I spent with my eggs.)

The clutch — six eggs! The number — smaller than most clutches, larger than some. The speaking-to-friends — “My clutch, it is small, some space, I leave for you.” The mollification — success? Only one woman in three or four is ever allowed to lay eggs, or the world would be all asquirm with couatls. My friends — deserve to lay as much as I. The luck — mine, this time. The others of my friends who may lay — not many. Their rejoicing — mixed with envy. I do not blame them. I did that too.

The wait for the hatching — seven years. Not an easy wait!

BUT! The scent — upon the eggs! Burnt stench, broken bird-shells roasted, broiled fish with foul spices, live mammal-sweat, pungency! Whence comes this scent, when the eggs are guarded every moment? No sight can be seen of the scent-bearer, no sound has been heard thereof! The doors of the house, the doors of the basement — these doors are closed, they are of heavy stone. The couatl coiled on the eggs in their sand and opal — myself! Yet — the scent touches the eggs, it comes without a source, it lingers.

And this morning the sand has been stirred, as if by heavy fingers, moving secretly on eggs covered by my wings.

Withal — I apprehend, I fear, I fret, I cast such spells as might protect!

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