Fal’thor was becoming desperate. Six hundred years had passed since he had assumed the responsibility of Speaker for his Clan, and there was still no sign of another to take his place. Every time a mother laid her eggs, he would visit her, scarcely allowing himself to breathe, unable to contain his hope as he stared down at the eggs, milling over them, using the Sight to glimpse the potential, that silvery aura around the egg that would indicate success and the end of his long wait…

…but six hundred years had gone by, and there was no sign of another. Fal’thor sighed and flopped back on the icy snow that made up his bed. He was beginning to lose all hope that another would ever come along. He had scoured the history books, had asked all other clans at least once, had even left their own clan’s small but very comfortable village and had made the journey to where the oldest of their kind dwell, and had continued to receive the same response – never had it been so long since a Speaker was born. He feared that their clan would soon lose contact with all the others, and would be cut off from the world, in loneliness and the unknown, just like the clan of the Machesri, the clan that was much talked of, especially as of late.

His heart raced as imagined images of these mysterious dragons filled his thoughts. How could dragons allow themselves to be cut of from all others of their kind for so long? How could it be that they continued to live their lives without even attempting to contact the other clans? Could it be they had forgotten all the old ways and were becoming…domesticated? He shuddered at the thought. Bishen were free spirits, and the thought of living a life of servitude and captivity chilled him down to his very bones, a difficult feat since he lived in the land of ice and snow. Ever since he had received word from the Hirgyae clan that one of their Elder Kind had happened upon the Machesri, living with humans, no less, his thoughts had been consumed with these dragons. He shook his head slightly, and moved across the small room to where the large, glowing crystalline entity, his companion from birth, resided.

“Falak thel,” he murmured, curling his long, serpentine tail about the orb, and closed his eyes. The familiar tingling sensation took over his system as he felt his mind, the tunnel between his life and countless others, opening to the world. It began as it always did, with a faint rushing sound and the feeling of vertigo associated with zooming forward at an unearthly speed, and then came the colors, the flashes of purple and blue and orange and red that spun about him in curlicues and zigzags, assaulting all senses as he raced forward through space and time, his powerful mind reaching out to the Clan of the Rose nearly halfway across the globe.

There was a faint murmur of sound as his mind made contact, and then there he was, in the Meeting Place, a cave of light and sound, the walls sparkling black and silver, the large fountain in the middle of the circular arena spouting a large, circular, mirror-like appendage from its depths. His astral self slithered across the smooth, polished obsidian floor toward the fountain, the air around him ringing with chimes and the tinkling of jewel-bells. As he approached the Speaking Disc, he heard a voice, soft and pleasant.

“Fal’thor, it is good to see you again.” He looked up, dipping his icy blue head and lowering his eyes in respect as he saw the speaker through the disc.

“Good morrow, Ailthea,” he murmured in response, flicking his eyes upward to rest on the other dragon’s face. She stared back at him through glowing, ruby-like eyes, her luminous crimson skin rippling beautifully as they observed each other through the disc. It was like a mirror, this disc, a rift in space that allowed their astrally projected selves to come together in this meeting place, a realm in the dimension of telepathic communication. All Bishen, of course, had the capability of mind-speak, but it was rare that one possessed the means to find the Meeting Place, especially when one wanted to Meet with beings from across great distances.

Ailthea smiled gently at her Antarctic companion, recognizing the distress clearly visible in his eyes. “There are still no potentials then,” she offers, stating the fact with some delicacy yet without ceremony.

Fal’thor lowered his eyes yet again, willing his desperation under control. “I worry, Ailthea,” he says, not without embarrassment. “I cannot leave my clan to the same fate as the Machesri. I will not allow them to be cut off from the others. It is much too dangerous, and is both hurtful and disturbing when one is used to the constant communication and is suddenly deprived of such.” He trailed off, his reference to his abruptly ended communication with the Clan of Ocean Fire coming to mind.

Ailthea recognized the expression of self-pity, and cleared her throat quietly to regain his attention. “It will merely take time, Fal’thor,” she tried to reassure him. “I realize long have you waited, and we are not immortal after all, even though we Speakers are often granted unusually long life, but you will find your pupil, and soon. I can feel it. Selar too has felt it,” she added, making reference to her clan’s Seer.

Fal’thor lifted his head and stared at his friend. “Selar knows this?” he asked, a bit incredulous. “He has seen the Speaker, for my clan?”

Ailthea cursed herself internally. Best not to get Fal’thor’s hopes up immediately, not until there was certainty. “He has seen silver on the horizon,” she replied, being deliberately vague. “Good tidings do await you in the near future. The silver is strong, the swirls of black faint. Your wait will end.”

“But when?” Fal’thor was practically bouncing, he was so delighted by this news.

“That is unknown,” Ailthea told him soothingly. “You know perfectly well that time molds for no one.”

Fal’thor lowered his eyes, embarrassed. “I am sorry,” he replied. “I merely thought, as Selar is elder to our own Seer, that perhaps…”

Ailthea smiled gently, wishing her astral self could offer some physical form of comfort. “No apology needed,” she replied gently. “Be patient. Your spirit will be lifted, and you will once again feel the lightness of your youth.”

The two dragons bowed to each other once before moving away from the Disc. Fal’thor returned to himself with a jolt, his astral self thrown violently back into his body, and he blinked several times, trying to rid himself of the dull heaviness that always accompanied his Speaking. The astral projection was, of course, lacking all the limitations and rules of corporeal existence, and as such, returning to one’s body was always a bit of a shock. However, this time, the heaviness was alleviated, some of the burden on his heart lifted by Ailthea’s news. He slithered from his cave of ice and plunged into the water, making for the Great Hall. He had news to share.