Clay
Eaganon was not happy with how the piece was coming out. Smooshing the malformed pot with his palms, he spun it back down into a rounded lump and pumped his leg to give the turntable more speed. Thump, thump, thump, thump. He pushed into the spinning lump with the edges of his thumbs, coaxing a thick rim upwards. Carefully, Eaganon brought the sides of the pot up further and further, maintaining a gentle inward curve, the clay taking on a vaguely bell shape. With his fingers curled slightly, he began to flare the top outward, gently, gently. The wide cone of the flare grew to quickly, and one side sagged, catching the side of his hand. As the side of the pot collapsed on itself, Eaganon breathed out calmly, maintaining a steady, even stream of breath. Dampening his hands, he curled them around the malformed clay and brought it back down to a lump.
How often it was that something so close to being complete, something so close to being beautiful, was ruined by over ambition. Eaganon had known better than to bring the flare out so far, but to have done so successfully would have been so appealing to the eye. Each pot that he turned was like a tiny dream, a small vision of glory. Every lump of clay that he pushed his hands into was a vessel of potential, and who was he to give it anything less than the form that it so longed for? That it quietly demanded of him?
Thump, thump, thump, thump. Clay began to climb upward again under Eaganon's fingers. Perhaps he hadn't been ready to form the shape he saw in his mind's eye. While he had been making pots for over a decade, he didn't sit at the wheel as often as he once had. There were too many other responsibilities that demanded his attentions now, and a part of him longed for the simplicity of being an apprentice potter once more. He shook his head gently, there were too many other things to look after now. People depended on him now, he needed to make sure they had enough to eat and clothing enough to stay warm. Eaganon's shoulders slumped at that thought, as if he could physically feel the weight of his responsibility pressing down on them. The motion brought his hands further apart than he had intended, and once again the pot caught on his hand and was pulled around into a distorted mess. Chiding himself softly, he returned the clay once more to a formless lump.
As he wet his hands once again and wrapped them around the clay, Eaganon wondered if perhaps the clay simply wasn't ready to be shaped. He had spent a reasonable amount of time mixing the it, making sure that the individual components of it had been fully integrated. Closing his eyes, he went over the processes again in his mind's eye. Carefully measuring out each part of the old recipe, adding just enough water, working the mixture with his hands until he had felt that the clay had reached the right consistency and texture. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Eaganon opened his eyes as he brought the table back up to speed and fixed them on the lump. No, all the parts were there, and the clay was as ready to be shaped as he could ever hope it would be. Thumbs descended once more into the spinning medium. It was a poor potter that blamed his clay, especially when it had been prepared so thoroughly.
The gentle curve of the bell shape was forming once more. Eaganon, was sure to leave the sides a bit thicker this time. Working with more focus now, he felt the shape of his true inner thoughts forming in his mind. It wasn't over ambition, it wasn't the clay. His doubt was the part of the process, and it was causing it to fail. He wasn't sure that he could properly bring the flare of the pot out without sending the whole thing to ruin. His fingers were among the best ever trained, his life was full of lessons of wisdom from the great many that had come before him. What was there to doubt? The clay wouldn't fail him, the laborious preparations he had competed had ensured that it was the least likely part to cause an issue. Everything was in it's place, everything was ready, he simply had to execute. With steady hands, Eaganon brought the flare out of the lip of the pot and pulled his hands away, allowing the turntable to slowly spin to a halt. The edges of the flare drooped slightly, evenly, all the way around, just as he had known it would. Straightening himself on the stool he surveyed his work. Indeed, this was his finest pot to date, the pinnacle of his ambition for this small glory buried in a lump of clay.
The flap of his tent opened, and Gorthonax ducked inside, his chiseled features solemn as he knelt in front Eaganon beside the turntable bearing the finished pot. Gorthonax took a deep breath before speaking. “My king, preparations are complete. The hosts are standing by and awaiting your command.” Eaganon nodded and gestured for Gorthonax to stand. As he did so, Gorthonax held his open palm against his own breastplate. “It has been a great honor, following you these last four years. With this last battle, may we find ourselves at the foremost of all nations.” Eaganon smiled , drew himself up from his stool and spoke. “Gorthonax. It has been an honor for me as well. No other king could claim to have generals so willing or a host of armies so well prepared. All the pieces in the place. There is no doubt that we shall succeed in our purpose." Gorthonax bowed to Eaganon, and together they left the tent, the pot still standing proudly on the table, undeformed.