ORIGIN

Recently, the painted dog had begun to break out of whatever shell he had been trapped in for the last two cycles. He felt stronger and more confident, even if he didn't nesecarily look it - in fact he still looked gangly and awkward.

He was already an avid hunter; he'd occasionally preen in the praise his mother would give him when he gets back from catching a 'family' meal, but hunting wasn't what he wanted to do all the time. He wanted to be good at things, things other people could do.

Usui said he created a gemstone - which sat in Giggle's mushroom garden. Which, speaking of, she was good at too. Mushroom growing. There were gembounds who could absorb energy from others, or spit lightning at, but what could he do?

For a time, he thought he had no gem. He was told that, 'your gem is your source of life,' but he had none. No visible gem, at least. Somewhere deep in his chest, he thought, was his. He wasn't sure what exactly it was doing in there but it was there nonetheless.

He shifted, standing in the circuts. He half-shut his eyes, and began to concentrate. It was quickly broken - his ears, mouth and feet began to burn. When he took note, he realised that his feet, among other things, were on fire.

He flailed in pain, briefly, before the fire died out. He stared at his singed toes with a frown and sat down to begin licking the wounds.

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After a break, Bones stood once more. His paws were still tender, but that was okay. He did something and that was progress, but as he began to step forward he winced and sighed. Shaking dust off his fur he began to very slowly walk forward.

Every step was a new agony that surged up his legs. His mouth felt dry and burnt up. He wasn't sure what to do now, but food definitely sounded good. As the painted dog hobbled along to the wall, he pricked his ears up.

He was able to hear the skittering of rat-feet. He slowed down even more, concentrating on the hunt, now. He knew he'd have to be careful, or the rats would easily outrun him.


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Carefully, the dog began to track a rat-scent. There were many, but he was able to pick out a particularly fresh one. It led him to a crack in the wall, where most of the rats lived when they were trying to hide.

He lurked for a moment, outside the crack, and waited. The second he saw a rat's head approach the exit, he lunged.

He barely caught it, almost literally by the skin of the rat's nose. He dragged it out and pressed a seared paw against it's body, biting down hard on it's neck. He'd gotten used to killing this way now, after one too many complains of 'Bones, it's still moving!' and 'That's not the proper way to eat, Bones!' or that he was 'ruining dinner for everyone!'

Surely there was no proper way to eat prey. As he picked up the rat and trotted off, he almost forgot about the pain in his feet as the scent of tangy blood pricked his tongue and the scent of fresh-kill lingered in his nostrils. He picked a place in the circuts and settled down to eat.



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