Azibo whisked the knife clockwise around the crown of the egg, carefully removing layer after layer of tough, abyssal skin. The composition of Azuri eggs managed to both fascinate and annoy him. They emerge from their mother as a pale, white dot along with fifteen or so of its brothers and sisters. Their shell is soft and slimy, so nearby debris from decomposing fish or Azuri get stuck to it, eventually creating hundreds of layers of skin and bone and blood. Over time, this egg becomes stained by seawater, giving it its distinctly oceanic hue. And today, with only his two paws and an old barber's knife, Azibo would be doing what he has done for hundreds of days: circumventing nature's way.
His method was simple. Azibo would first slice off the first inch-and-a-half of skin and then carefully scrape the rest away. It wasn't perfect by any means. Azibo recalled days where egg after egg would have to be discarded because he lopped too much off the top. It wasn't the decapitated fetus that bothered him, but the fluid that cushioned it. When combined with the right amount of milk, sugar, and caffeine, this liquid created a coffee which rolled off the tongue and restored the voice. Blood tainted the flavor, so any eggs that were affected would have to be tossed.
The pond of sweat that accumulated on Azibo's face seemed ready to fall at any minute. For the past hour, he had been scraping away at a particularly large egg. The deeper the blade went, the slower his hand would move. Inch by inch, his hand would descend, gently swipe, and return like a cat approaching a dog-shaped scratching post. Right at the moment Azibo became sure that he had simply stopped moving, he saw it. The pearly white that glistened and rippled under the gentle light of the sun. Azibo let his shoulders drop.
Azibo wanted to whisper something to it, but instead let his grumbly voice drift random notes of sound towards it.
He set the blade aside on the worktable and scanned its form. The fetus jostled and curled from the heat, almost like it was asking to go back to sleep. Azibo's smile turned to a more focused frown, and he slid his smooth, chestnut brown claw down the interior grooves of the egg. Each inch was awarded a minute of concentration as he edged his way down to the final layer. When his claw inevitably reached the shell, he pierced it easily. He dared to allow another finger to enter the space, and delicately lifted the off-blue fetus out before dropping it into his paw. It almost disappeared in his palm.
A lance of light out of the corner of Azibo's eye brought him out of his focused stupor. It was almost noon. Azibo rose from his stool, keeping the back of his mind trained on the fetus. Looking around, the brewery didn't feel quite as empty as it was. The air held the scent of satisfaction, and the sun felt aloft above the quaint building. The empty workbenches which held all manner of tools, the small mountain of buckets that were stacked against the wall, and the three Azuri eggs which were lined up neatly on his desk melded into a single sensation of calm.
Azibo turned right, and proceeded up the stairs which divided the work area from the rest of the brewery. It still held many relics from its old life as a fish harvesting plant. The back wall and much of the floor space had been removed in exchange for an small, interior dock which could only house one-man fishing boats. Azibo quickly had to learn how to work with the ocean roaring in his ear and water lapping his feet. It was stressful, but that was a part of the fun.
this section talks about the big brewing drum in the middle of the brewery. right now, it's just looks like a gigantic basket top which Azibo is afraid to step on. don't spend too much time on this. Azibo exits a side entrance to a hidden beach.
the staircase is small, and made of a smooth stone. it follows a small walkway underneath a nearby cliffside to a hidden beach. on the way down, he states how the normal fate of Azuri fetuses is to end up at the bottom of a bucket, where it shrivel up into a blue speck. but on slower days, Azibo had his own ritual. there is the ocean on the right side of the walkway, blocked by rocks, and jutting spikes from the cliff. Azibo is constantly worried about slipping, but he never does.
//the sand hardens under the weight of his feet. the air feels clearer here, like tens of tiny reeds which dive into Azibo's lungs and steal