Fic (scrap): Recruit

[jeriendhal]

Seven

He ran along the rock strewn shore, arm and legs pumping, torso lowered, tail high for balance, mouth wide, gulping in the sweet ocean air. The morning sun was at his back, and there was nothing ahead but the finish, a wide flat rock he and his crèche mates often gravitated to in their rare moments of unsupervised play. Behind him, well behind him, his crèche brothers tried to keep up. Tried, and failed.

He reached the finish, leaping upon the rock and turning to face his opponents, letting out a trumpet of triumph. “Victory!” he called out to them, as one by one they touched the rock in turn, gasping for breath.

“Sha, Oryon!” Harin, the closest among them to Oryon’s own gestation date, swallowed a breath. “You left the pack!”

Oryon laughed, and pulled his crèche mate up beside him. “I pulled ahead. One scouts, so the way is clear!”

Harin fell flat against the sun warmed rock, his tongue lolling, grey head frill flaring up in annoyance. “You always pull ahead. And we follow.”

“Run more swiftly and beside me, Harin. I missed your company.”

“Sha!” Harin’s frill dropped down, the argument forgotten already. “We should go back. The sun is risen. Morning meal will be soon.”

“True.” Oryon and Harin hopped down, to join the others for the slower jog back. Meals were not to be missed, else they would make Nutritionist cross. This time Oryon stuck with the pack, though he and Harin stayed at the head of it.

When they reached the habitat dome, they found Nutritionist, and worse Matron waiting for them at the entrance, the feathers rising from their smooth, pale scalps in agitation.

“Oryon Gisko, where have you and the others been?” Matron demanded.

“Fitness, Matron” Oryon declared, swallowing back a moment of apprehension. Fitness was a valid excuse for any number of rules skirting incidents in the crèche.

“We have the gymkata for fitness, Oryon,” Matron declared. “Why today of all days must you choose to run wild?”

“I believe some excuse may be made for youthful exuberance,” a deep, mellow voice said from the doorway. Matron and Nutritionist paled, as the tall, robed figure joined them. Oryon found himself dropping to one knee with the rest of his crèche mates, in reflexive honor of the god that walked among them. Following on his show of respect was the immediate thought, He’s even taller than in the holos.

The Varn, like all of his race, were tall. He was taller than even the two Galen teachers. His face angular, what could be seen of it, as his cloak covered everything past the two short horns on his head. Like Oryon his skin was green, though in a lighter shade, and lacking Oryon’s protective scales. His eyes were golden, with no discernable pupils, and appeared to be quirked in amusement.

“What is this troublemaker’s name, Matron?” he asked.

“Oryon Gisko,” Matron replied.

The Varn kneeled down beside him. “Well, Oryon Gisko, do you know who I am?”

“You are the Lord Gene Mage,” Oryon asked. He took a risk and looked directly at the Varn, figuring that if he was willing to kneel down to Oryon’s level, then Oryon was meant to be able to look him in the face.

“And do you know what I am?”

“Our Creator,” Oryon recited from memorized lessons. “Our Provider. Our God.”

“Very good,” the Gene Mage said, and Oryon felt his face flush with pride at his accomplishment.