“Our eggs are failing us,” she was saying, her pattern paler, wrinkled. Yet she held so much power. She tapped her status stick twice on the floor of the auditorium. “Our children are dying. We must make a decision.”
A Matriarch of the Eggs then. A metsa-sa. For her to speak meant that the issue was indeed dire. Indeed I recognized her now. H’rakak metsa-sa, who oversaw the hatching of the clutch where I came from. She was a kind metsa, gentle and spoke only when she wanted to.
“The Y’awel has drained our resources. The sands are losing their heat. Our mothers will suffer because their children will not hatch! Our children, our future generations, will die!” H’rakak metsa-sa said. Her voice was thin now, but everyone listened. The silence was deafening. Nobody dared breathe.