ORIGIN

Oliver woke in a jarring, confused manner when the stone that held him gave way in a sudden rush. He was spilled forth in the ejection of its contents, the thinning layers of stone finally collapsing, and he went from nothing--from comfortable darkness, from sleep--into gasping wakefulness, coughing, shivering and cold.

He hugged his forelimbs around himself as best he could, huddling, and turned to look around. What happened? he wondered, blinking. His gaze caught his chrysalis, then--the now-shattered remains of it--and he went still, staring.

Veins of purple and gold shimmered through the green-streaked black. His onyx--it'd taken on some of the--what was it? The Wishing Stone, he remembered, and now his waking mind began to churn into recognition. His gaze shot toward the stone: it was dormant, quiet, a small echo of the colors that had streaked his stone. My magic, he realized, and the memories came back to him in a rush.

He'd come to the stone, found it empty--dormant, asleep? Or--drained? And tried to help it. And his magic--it'd backfired.

Fear rose in him. Had he somehow taken on some of the... the rock? Had he become part Wishing Stone, somehow-? He hadn't truly understood the magic his father had passed on to him, and now-...

Now he remembered pain. He blanched, scrambling back a little, as though afraid of his chrysalis--and in a sense, he was. He remembered-... "My teeth," he breathed, blinking, and his birdlike forelimbs snapped up to feel frantically at his jaws. They were there, though--there were teeth in his jaw's sockets--and as he looked himself over he found everything where it should have been. Fur, feathers--it was all there.

My legs, though, he thought, staring for a moment. His hind legs were bigger--more muscled--proportionally. He pushed upright, tentative; he'd always been able to stand like this, like a bird. But now he felt... stronger, this way. It wasn't a lot, but it was a change, and he wondered why. As he stared down, too--settling his forefeet between his hind paws, comparing their new sizes--he noticed something else.

"My stone," he whispered, eyes widening in fear. In horror. That gift from his father--the one part of Black he had always carried--was... tainted. Its jet black, tinged with green, was like his chrysalis now marred through with shining bands of violet and gold. Afraid, he lifted both forelimbs--and tried, frantically, to wipe away the new colors with the birdlike toes of his other 'hand.'

They didn't come off.

They didn't come off.

What have I done!? he thought, terrified now, eyes shooting up to stare at the chrysalis.

And more memories--as if the rest weren't enough--now trickled in.

He'd been-... something else, in those moments before the stone had taken him. A--bird. He could be one again. He knew it, suddenly, instinctively. It'd hurt--like it had before--but he could do it. Was this the gift the stone had given him-? Maybe his backfiring magic--maybe he'd taken on some of its exhaustion, and in turn woken it up enough for it to grant his wish? But why a bird--and why had it hurt so much?

I had dreams, he remembered, suddenly. But even as his mind grasped for them, struggling to recall, he found them sifting away like sand through his talons. He remembered-... a flash of white. A--a burning stone, fleeting through a black place, a void full of sparks of similar burning white, but those had been distant, or tiny; this one had been immense. What did that mean? What did I see? He sat, dripping, shivering, pensive, and tried to remember.

He'd known, he was sure of it. He'd had--dreams about it. Visions-? He knew--he'd known what the comet was for. What it meant. He'd glimpsed--memories, or other scenes, or thoughts from a distant mind but he couldn't remember them, now. Only the faintest, farthest impressions.

"I wanted to help people," he whispered, still scratching absently at his own gemstone, eyes fixed upon his shattered chrysalis. That desire--deep, strong, a compulsion--rippled through his gut now, seizing in his chest. He had wanted to help others; he'd still have to, or none of this was worth--anything. That made sense, right?

-Still dripping, shaking, the bird-dog turned and looked wildly around Polaris. Wide eyes shot to every corner, searching, as if hoping to suddenly find someone in need of help. In need of any kind of help. Never mind food, water; those could come later; was there anyone here who needed him? That was his purpose, after all--self-given, Wishing Stone-reinforced: to be a Guardian, to help, to guide, wherever he could.

What was he, if he didn't look to that purpose first?

Oliver stumbled away from his stone, searching the dark, sending out his magic, even, to help him find someone he could aid.

"...Is there anybody out there?" he called, at last.

The voice in the distance was quiet, at best--nearly a whisper, even, and if Oliver's tufted ears hadn't already been straining for a voice--any voice--he might not have heard it at all.

The bird-dog scuffled forward, and his approach might have been alarming had he not been who he was, with the demeanor he always held: wide-eyed, submissive, his ears flattening across his chest and his hindquarters nearly touching the ground. He practically bowed as he came in sight of Vivilene and drew closer, his expression one of keening worry.

That sense that he'd always held, the desire to help others, had taken him over, had eclipsed all other thought, and it was almost desperation that drove him to crouch before her. His soft voice was gentle as ever, but the wet still clung to his feathers and his trembling had not yet ceased.

Strange, that he didn't seem to notice.

"Hello," he offered up, softly; "Thank you--hi." He hesitated, fumbling, and one surge of magicka later a sparkling banana had appeared in his clawed hands. "Thank you for--answering, I mean. I thought I was alone--I'm Oliver. Can I help you at all?" he blurted, blinking, and all else was lost behind that single odd, all-eclipsing hope. "Do you need anything? -At all?" He offered up the banana like a peace offering, almost desperate.

It was as though he was some form of servant, awakened to perform this duty and nothing more--yet he'd chosen it. Not that Vivilene was to know, of course.

"I like your light," he half-whispered, as if in afterthought.

A river? The river! There it was--something he could do!

Her skitter, her little flinch, didn't escape his notice and he did dip back a little, ears flattening back further. "I'm nice," he hastened to assure her, softly, and wondered what he'd done wrong. "Can I-? I can, I can--go to the river with you, thank you, um--do you know the way? It's this way," he added, turning in the water's direction.

He wanted to be helpful.

He wanted to be her guide, her guardian, whatever it was that Vivilene needed, and his eagerness to aid showed in every little movement. "Here," he added, hopefully, holding out a clawed 'hand' away from Vivilene, off toward the river. His own dim orb spiralled up and bobbed toward the water; apparently, he was using his magicka so that she wouldn't have to.

Then he began to crouch-walk along, half in front, yet pausing as if he wanted to circle back, like a dog herding sheep--but he didn't; he repressed that instinct (because Vivilene seemed a little nervous, and he didn't want to scare her!) and simply paused, looking hopefully back at her.

He wanted to ask her name--but he didn't; he didn't want to press. "Are you thirsty?" he asked, instead; was that why she wanted the river? "I could make water here?" So you don't have to walk, was the implication, though he didn't finish the thought aloud.