Visiting the Maternity Ward
It's Tariday, Bernfleur 04 11:52:09 1019. The full moon isn't up. The tide is low and ebbing. Fair weather clouds sail across the blue sky, propelled by light breezes from the west. It's warm in the sun, cool in the shade, and the air is clear and dry.
W02: Mictlan
Ga'Elian comes flying into view riding his griffon above the southern treeline. As the pair touch down on the lush, springy ground, the griffon emits a couple of soft chirps. The rider dismounts and offers a reverent bow toward the Sacred Flame, then quietly strides toward the nest of the shaman most familiar to him, Un'eth the Ebon-scaled.
The nest referenced is where it has always been, as is the aforementioned shaman. There is a notable change in both, however. Specifically, both are much lower than previous. The mound is not so anymore, most of the material having been cleared so that nearly all of the leathery-shelled trio are exposed. Un'eth is splayed prone on the ground immediately adjacent, head resting in the loose material that remains and snout inches from the three.
Ga'Elian approaches gingerly, so as not to disturb, but upon seeing the sitution, speaks out clearly, "Peace on your nest, Un'eth. I wasn't sure whether your young were yet introduced to the breath of Ea or the rays of Daeus's radiance. Are you well?" <draconic>
Un'eth's tail lightly thumps the ground between her toeclaws. "They have not yet emerged, but soon..." Snout and eyes never leave the three. "I heard scratching." Her tailtip, now that thumping is complete, flicks as the remainder of it sways.
Ga'Elian grins. "Well, then I daresay it won't be long now. Out of curiosity, are the hatchling names of the Sith'makar the same as the names by which adults are called?"
"Ssa. A name given is one used," Un'eth explains. "One may later earn or choose a new name... but hatchlings are not given names. They will receive these when they are yearlings."
Ga'Elian nods with a smirk, "Once they have had a chance to reveal a bit of their personalities, perhaps?
Among my tribe, the names given at birth are regarded as something of an invocation or benediction expressing the parents' and the community's good wishes for newborn.
For example, in the tongue of my people, Eli is our name for the Father of Daylight, the Bright One whose glory outshines all others in the heavens above Ea. It is because I was born on his auspicious day, Midsummer's, that I bore the name Elian throughout my youth, and selected the prefix, Ga, upon my coming-of-age to indicate my choice to range far and wide, preserving the Wilds. So my name as a child essentially translated to "Gift of Daeus," but now means, "Warden, Gift of Daeus."
It may seem like I was destined to choose Eli as my divine patron, but like the majority of my tribe, Niessa holds that place for me, although, I have dedicated much of my learning to combatting demonkind, an effort largely championed by the faithful of Eli, such as Svarshan."
Un'eth snorts lightly. "My brother does enjoy the battle against fiends," she agrees with mild amusement. She studies the eggs a moment longer, as if the snort might spur them into sudden visible action. When it does not, she slowly rises up to her haunches and turns to face him. "For the naming, no. They receive names upon the following year as they have earned the right by their survival. In Am'shere, more hatchlings are lost than are named."
Ga'Elian shakes his head in serious contemplation. "May all of yours survive and grow to enrich your community and bring honor to your nest. Perhaps in Mictlan they will fare better than in the jungles of Am'shere. The Sildanyar rarely experience the death of the very young, but what concerns our people lately is that as the decades pass, ever fewer are born at all, it seems."
Un'eth dips her snout. "That is my hope, but I cannot guard them from all threats. Here, maybe they will prosper, but the jungles will always call to them. It is in The Blood."
Ga'Elian remarks, "It is good to heed the yearnings of one's Blood. The mighty oak must rely upon its roots for the strength to weather every storm and to bring forth its acorns in abundance. We all have our place in the circles of Ea." He pauses for a moment's thought, before continuing with a dry smirk, "Even Rune, I suppose has roots somewhere, despite its wandering into the Mists, then to the Icewall, and now to just across the Redridges from Alexandria. I don't know. Maybe Rune is the exception that proves the rule."