Eggs Unsung V2.0 pt 2
Not you get all my egg-scrutiating puns again.
Oh, Cyrphon, you are so…so…you.
I rewrote a lot of this one last night, plus the next scene, and I guess I’m happy with it? I’ll probably polish it as I go, as with everything.
We remeet Dr. Saige, and he’s…not supposed to be a social commentary, yet he is. Oh well. At least he’s something.
Eggs Unsung pt 2 redux
The manor house blocked most of the light from the setting sun, blanketing the canyon in a cool green gloom. The air smelled of wet and moss when Cyrphon stepped out of the ground-car, stretching as he took in his surroundings. The river that had accompanied the road disappeared under the house, as best Cyrphon could tell, though not before flowing through several decorative pools and fountains. The yard was dark grey stones covered with vibrant green moss, cobbled paths of a lighter gray winding among them. It was peaceful, serene, if a bit faded and lichen-covered.
Movement caught the corner of his eye, and Cyrphon turned to see the front door opening at the top of the staircase. A man stepped out, dressed in a formal suit, an emitter in one hand, an aetherpad in the other, an earpiece tucked behind his ear, and a faint flickering glow from his glasses turning his upper face a pale green.
“Mr. Saffron, I will have to call you back later,” the man was saying, his words echoing back from the walls of the canyon. “This is important. It can wait a few minutes. Shortly.” He pulled out the earpiece, and stuffed it in a pocket along with his emitter, then carefully placed the aetherpad on the wide bannister of the stairs. The glasses remained in place, making his face glow eerily in the half-light. “You must be Cyrphon Greindiel.” The man held out his fist. “I am Edgar Saige, welcome to Crosshill Manor.”
Cyrphon knocked his own fist against it politely. “I have brought you the salt of my homeland.” He pulled out a soft white marble and held it for Edgar. It wasn’t actually from Cyrphon’s homeland, since he lived on an aetherstation, but it was close enough.
“And I offer you the salt of mi—” Edgar was interrupted by a sudden flash from his glasses. He sighed impatiently, and shoved them onto his forehead, where their light made his black hair shimmer green. “I offer you the salt of my home, for as long as you stay.” Dr. Saige offered a flat white oval.
Cyrphon gently picked it up, murmuring his thanks as he tucked it into a pocket.
“I hope that—” Dr. Saige began, but he was again interrupted by a flash from his glasses, this time also accompanied by a buzzing from the emitter in his pocket. Edgar’s expression became pained, but he pulled the emitter out of his pocket. “I’m terribly sorry, I had arranged things so I’d be free this evening, but it seems this is the day the ship ran out of salt.”
“Oh, of course,” Cyrphon agreed, though inwardly he was seething. He’d traveled across half the universe to meet with this man and sing his egg, and while, yes the opportunity was itself unrivaled, was a bit of common courtesy too much to ask? It wasn’t that hard to turn off an emitter.
Dr. Saige’s glasses started pulsing light, and he took a small step back. “I’m afraid I am desperately needed elsewhere right now. Dinner is in an hour, and in the meantime Mr. Tylor here can show you to your room to freshen up.” He gave Cyrphon one last grimace of a smile and all but ran back to where he’d left his aetherpad, fumbling with his emitter at the same time.
Mr. Tylor—the butler, by his attire—stepped forward with a courteous bow. “If you will follow me, Singer Cyrphon.”
He led Cyrphon up the stairs and into the house, which was as elegant inside as out. As they wound through the halls and up the stairs, Cyrphon could tell that they were approaching the newer potions of the manor, though even that seemed a relative term. The last flight of stairs put them level with the tops of the cliffs that formed the canyon, Cyrphon saw as they passed a window. There was still golden sunlight dappling the distant hills, and he wondered what the view must be on the other side of the manor.
Cyrphon’s room—rooms, actually, since there was a bathroom, and a small front room, as well as the bedroom—were paneled in wood, with a thick carpet and long curtain that hung over the windows, all of which deadened the acoustic effects in the room itself. Still, there was enough stone and salt in the halls to shame a mountain, so Cyrphon didn’t let it bother him. Instead he hummed quietly to himself and peeked out the window. His room was provided him with a lovely view of the dusky canyon below and faded gardens below, but not much beyond.
Shrugging, Cyrphon turned away from the window, stripping off layers of clothing as he headed into the bathroom for a shower. He paused in front of the mirror over the sink, studying the deep color of his skin, and the pale half-circle of the scar that covered his abdomen. He ran his fingers along the rainbow edge, feeling—or possibly just imagining—the tingle of aether as he did.
I should salt it. He usually did, after traveling, but his salt case was packed with his clothes, not with his toiletries, and there was no harm in leaving it until tonight.
Cyrphon showered and dressed himself, selecting a pair of soft mahogany leggings and a pale green short-robe, embroidered with darker green geometric patterns that he thought reflected the decorations of the manor. They were, at least, reminiscent of the appropriate time-period. Blending in with the furniture was never a good idea, but there was no harm in elegantly complementing the surroundings—and it should flatter Dr. Saige, assuming he looked up from his emitters long enough to notice.
Scoffing, Cyrphon picked up his own emitter and tucked it into a pocket, along with a twilleno, in case he had need to demonstrate his skill at dinner. Unlikely, but it had happened before.
Catching sight of himself again in the mirror, Cyrphon batted his eyes at his own reflection, admiring the symmetry of his face, the elegance of his eyelashes. His hair curled delicately, and his ears were tastefully lobeless. He was an artist’s dream, a poet’s muse, a photographer’s lure.
He was Cyrphon, the best egg-singer the universe would ever see, even if it had yet to understand that.
Cyrphon bestowed on himself one last dazzling smile, and made his way to dinner.
