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Date Posted: 13:33:24 02/22/05 Tue
Author: Telomm - [Brown]
Subject: Not Impression! NOT Impression!
In reply to: Clell 's message, ">_<" on 08:20:41 02/21/05 Mon

Telomm shrugs off Mikhal's compliment with a jittery laugh. He can easily hear the smile in the older boy's voice - the slightly moist and crinkled overtones to each soft word. But before he can reply, Manethenre cries out, and he whips to face her. Two shiverings hands cling to his walking stick as he stares blindly at Yimask's pale form, and the splintering orbs beside.

He loses sight of his egg, and groans, eyes frantically opening wider in the near-black. The staff is dropped as he rolls into a kneeling position on his good leg, leaning forward to try and find it. A darker shadow looms for just a second before his vision before a warm, wet mass collides with his gut. Telomm has precious little time to think as he grapples with the hatchling. His bad leg gets pinned underneath him as he fall back, grabbing at the wher, and he intakes a sharp gasp of pain. Yet despite the uncomfort, the boy refuses to let the little creature go. He may have lost track of his, but he wouldn't leave empty-handed! It wriggles and squawks against his chest, where Telomm clutches it firmly, laying out on his back. Its - his - hunger bludgeons at his mind and starts affecting his own stomach which begins to feel rather drained. For an instant he mistakes it for the wher's claws pushing into his midriff.

Light flares into the room for a fleeting instant, followed by voices that the boy can't comprehend until Yima bellows her instructions. He catches the sound of metal on rock, and the dull sloshing of thick, viscous liquid. Metallic scents hit him hard and he feels a bit dizzy. Struggling upright with the small wher clutched against his chest, he inches closer to the kettle and begins to whisper, frenzied. 'Come on, be good, I've got you,' he growls while clinging with one hand, the ridged back pressed against his own stomach. The free hand dips into the porridge, dodging Mikhal's own scrambling appendage, and scoops out a sloppy bunch toward the hatchling's snout. It is greedily devoured by snapping gums that try and get the fingers themselves. Telomm continues ladling the stuff into his brown's (his brown, or someone else's? the boy can't tell) hungry maw, sating the hunger handful by rank handful.

Fear pounds in the boy's breast as his fingers begin to scrape the bottom of the kettle. It was growing harder to retrieve the slurry for the creature, who squawked at the delays and smaller mouthfuls. Would there be enough? At least the wher's ferocity was less than before, settling into a grudging acceptance of Telomm's confining arm. And, at last, the little brown seems to be fully bloated, refusing the last scoop and heaving himself out of the boy's lap. He's not quite prepared for the sudden exertion of power and the hatchling manages to get away, only to sway over to the great, warm mass of the gold and curl up beside.

Telomm leans back onto his tailbone and winces at the stabbing pain from his useless leg. He wrenches it into the right position and blood surges back into it, sending waves of horrible pins-and-needles into the flesh. Gasping and groaning barely, the boy flumps onto his back, scrubbing his bloody hands down his sides to be freed of at least the remaining chunks. His young, tired mind returns from the purely automatic processes into idle thought as he rests, awake enough to perceive speech but too weary to remain upright. Only now does he realise his throat is incredibly sore - he'd been talking to the brown the entire time, in normal-to-loud tones.

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