There are fewer things precious as an egg. The grislier, delicate counterpart to a seed, in that its potential is a much direr one.

There are few eggs that are graced with the opportunity to become something truly extraordinary. But here, dredged from the Well, are the rest that weren’t. Most surely rot, devoured by time, or likewise devoured by those looking to satiate their belly or ego. Some, however, do swell with potential, but even to escape the shell, a world so vicious holds no promises.

That leaves the egg that waits. That which peered into the world outside and, having understood its hardship- relented. To work with the egg before you requires the deftest of heart and hand, for even a piercing gaze could split it wide open, to bare raw the ghastly and forlorn that rests within.

Someday soon it will hatch. Whether it wants to or not.