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Description
Why was I born here? Why couldn't I choose where I wanted to go?

Tashin shoveled the coal into the furnace, the heat causing his skin to sweat till he was soaked. He brought his clawed hand to his face, wiping his brow. The feathers around his neck was slick and sticky, his back felt heavy with the weight of his wings. He was slouched over, shoveling pile after pile of coals into the flames, so the forbidden city above him could function properly.
He looked up. Through the machinery and pipes holding Soguin secure, he saw a patch of blue. That sliver of sky kept him going through these long hot days in the Underground.

Why are you so far away, sky? Why do my wings feel so heavy when they should lift me up in the air with the breeze cooling my face, with nothing but clouds as companions? I want to soar, I want to be rid of this place, of these people; this hot furnace, my old friends.

He brought his thoughts away from those he called friends. He didn't want to admit it, but his mind was numb. He didn't feel, he didn't care. He was dying anyway. It was obvious. His friend didn't notice. His friend didn't care.

No… Krael would care if he knew. He would see the bags under my eyes, my thin frame, the ribs under my tattered shirt. He would see if only someone showed him. He's like a lost dog. Going from one person to the next, asking them 'Are you my master?' He needs that one person who will say, 'No, but I can take you to him.' If he's not led, he'll turn feral, attack those who forgot him, those who left him in the streets.

Tashin's body was suddenly wracked with coughs. He dropped the shovel, covering his mouth as he hacked and hacked, bent over with exhaustion. Soon the coughing stopped, leaving his body feeling empty. He was bent over, wanting to give up, to give in, to die here in this cursed factory. He slowly straightened up. He looked up at the sky.

Why can't I reach you? Why do people closer to you forget how precious you are? Why do they always look to the ground, look to their own pockets, look to find that which is lost, when you are always there?

He looked down. He stared at his dirty hands, his filthy clothes, his tattered feathers. He bent down and picked up the shovel and dragged it over to the pile of coal. He stabbed it in then brought it up, filled with the black rocks. He thrust the coals into the burning inferno, sparks flying, devouring the fuel. He dug the shovel back into the pile of coal, and repeated it, again and again.

This is my lot in life. You're too good for me.

Description
Why was I born here? Why couldn't I choose where I wanted to go?

Tashin shoveled the coal into the furnace, the heat causing his skin to sweat till he was soaked. He brought his clawed hand to his face, wiping his brow. The feathers around his neck was slick and sticky, his back felt heavy with the weight of his wings. He was slouched over, shoveling pile after pile of coals into the flames, so the forbidden city above him could function properly.
He looked up. Through the machinery and pipes holding Soguin secure, he saw a patch of blue. That sliver of sky kept him going through these long hot days in the Underground.

Why are you so far away, sky? Why do my wings feel so heavy when they should lift me up in the air with the breeze cooling my face, with nothing but clouds as companions? I want to soar, I want to be rid of this place, of these people; this hot furnace, my old friends.

He brought his thoughts away from those he called friends. He didn't want to admit it, but his mind was numb. He didn't feel, he didn't care. He was dying anyway. It was obvious. His friend didn't notice. His friend didn't care.

No… Krael would care if he knew. He would see the bags under my eyes, my thin frame, the ribs under my tattered shirt. He would see if only someone showed him. He's like a lost dog. Going from one person to the next, asking them 'Are you my master?' He needs that one person who will say, 'No, but I can take you to him.' If he's not led, he'll turn feral, attack those who forgot him, those who left him in the streets.

Tashin's body was suddenly wracked with coughs. He dropped the shovel, covering his mouth as he hacked and hacked, bent over with exhaustion. Soon the coughing stopped, leaving his body feeling empty. He was bent over, wanting to give up, to give in, to die here in this cursed factory. He slowly straightened up. He looked up at the sky.

Why can't I reach you? Why do people closer to you forget how precious you are? Why do they always look to the ground, look to their own pockets, look to find that which is lost, when you are always there?

He looked down. He stared at his dirty hands, his filthy clothes, his tattered feathers. He bent down and picked up the shovel and dragged it over to the pile of coal. He stabbed it in then brought it up, filled with the black rocks. He thrust the coals into the burning inferno, sparks flying, devouring the fuel. He dug the shovel back into the pile of coal, and repeated it, again and again.

This is my lot in life. You're too good for me.