ORIGIN

The foal wasn't meant to wander off.

He knew that, yet here he was--wandered off.

He'd not really intended to; it had happened, mostly, by accident. He'd been browsing the leaves and fruits, but finding them oddly unsatisfying; his stomach still growled, his body needing something else, something more. He didn't know what, though, and so he'd wandered farther and farther, until he'd found himself in an icy tunnel and then the urge to explore had taken him over.

The tunnel had been windy, and he'd found himself stumbling, eyes squinted against the onslaught; branch-like legs had creaked and staggered until at last he'd found his way into this place--into Pisces.

This place, too, was cold--not as cold as the tunnel, though; the water here was standing in pools rather than frozen into spikes and waves of ice. He found himself staring about him with wide eyes, now, lost in the crashing of the waterfall and the sparkling fish that darted through the pools, in the ridges at the far end of the cave, and in the thick green moss that lined the edges of the cave. To add to that, his fledgling magic showed him life everywhere--the waterfall was clean, but the pools were rife with little bits of light, to his eyes, and the warrens were thick with it.

Wicker paused, little tail switching, and tried to decide which way to go first. At length he chose the greenery--it reminded him most of home, of the familiar. I wonder if it's different from home? he thought, a little distractedly, as he picked his wood-like hooves up into an excited trot.

A moment later he was frolicking along the grasses, leaping and kicking, a ridiculously oversized foal having the time of his brief life.

With the 'white' everywhere in his mind--everywhere he danced and kicked, bar the jewel-like spray of water from the falls--Wicker found himself wondering what it was all about.

This 'white,' that was. The fuzz that lingered in his mind whenever he called upon his magic.

It was life, that much he knew--some kind of magic, some sort of living buzzing stuff that coated his world, unseen to others. But what was it for-? What did it do?

With the softest snort he pranced to a nearby little hill of moss, one with lichen gathered at its base. And there he snuffled among the greenery, ears flicking to and fro, one 'wooden' hoof pawing at the soil as he studied it again.

The fuzz rose in his mind again, the white film like static across the world before him, thick in the moss below.

"Hi," he tried, and pulled back, but the white stuff didn't answer. "Hello?" he tried again, and when it still didn't answer him, Wicker hopped back.

He pranced, trotting away with a shake of his head and short, bristly mane. "Is anybody out there?" he tried, impatient with the silence.

Wicker set off, his trot at first picking up into a bouncing glide, until he struck a patch of wet floor and stumbled. He flailed for a moment, comically skidding, and then slowed to a reasonable walk, ears flattened back. He made his way among the little pools, eyes bright with interest, his head dipping here and there as he examined them.

His magic flared outward again, and he found a pool with something stronger--and here he paused, coming to a halt at the water's edge. He stretched his neck downward again, the ropy tendons creaking, and his head turned slightly from side to side as he examined it.

And--being the ignorant child that he was--he again attempted to converse with the stuff. "Hello? Won't you talk to me?"

There was a glimmer of silver, a little fish shooting by in the shallow water, and Wicker quickly broke back into motion, pacing alongside the darting fish. "Hello? Wait--wait, hi?"

His dads and his mom talked, so why didn't any of these-?

At last, he decided to try something different.

Instead of just finding the white stuff, what if he could use the same magic to sort of... nudge it around? Part of his mind instinctively felt that it was possible. It was like his magic was an invisible hand, as well as eyes--that he could look for the buzz, the static overlay, and then push it here and there.

So he tried that, now: tried to take in a little, and then push it back out, toward the silver fish.

A moment later, Wicker was staggering back--his hindquarters nearly giving way beneath him, and his ears flattening once more--as he actually inhaled the stuff. Or--more accurately--drew it into himself.

He sneezed, flinching, and then stumbled back upright and looked down toward the fish.

Whatever he'd done, it seemed to have worked--the fish had slowed, turning more gradual, lethargic circles.

Wicker didn't know if he'd done something bad; he couldn't tell if this was some sort of sickness, or something unrelated to disease. He was too new to this to know. But now he was even more curious, and he pawed clumsily at the water, wooden hoof splashing at it. "Are you okay?" he demanded of the fish, but of course it didn't answer.

It took a few more minutes of wandering about and sniffing at things, but eventually Wicker began to feel... not so good, himself. It was more interesting than frightening, though it held elements of both, and he wondered if perhaps he'd made himself sick somehow.

Connecting bacteria with disease was beyond him, but he did wonder if maybe he'd put too much of the fuzzy stuff into himself. Too much life inside his own life couldn't be great--could it? It seemed sort of cool, to carry around a ton more life--like a gift, sort of, to the static stuff. To offer to be a host to new life seemed a great thing.

But he was feeling sore, already, and a little... off. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he made his way to another shallow pool nonetheless, and tried to cast off the extra 'friends' he'd picked up along the way.

It worked--at least he felt better, after a moment--and he turned back, wondering what would become of the little fish.

Wicker jolted at the sudden, tiny voice.

He'd been so enthralled with the idea of his own magic that he'd forgotten to keep an eye out for others--for danger, and so on--and the squeak had him leaping up and away with a clatter of wooden hooves.

He caught himself, blinking, and looked down; it took him a moment to actually spot Lior, so tiny was the hatchling. "-I am?" he blurted, first--he'd never thought of himself as 'giant,' before. And in the way of a child who'd never really had to consider 'empathy,' he had to go through the entire, slow logical process of wondering why Lior had thought someone might step on Wicker. He realized at last that Lior was so tiny that others might step on them, and--that was a horrifying thought. "Have you been stepped on?" he asked, alarmed. Wicker wondered about the whole 'getting trampled' thing, and whatever 'biting' that might entail.

"Who are you?" he added, another abrupt blurt void of social grace.

Wicker peered, a little confused as to what to do with the assurance that Lior wouldn't "hurt him." It seemed, on the surface, a joke--the hatchling was tiny. But--what if they were serious? What-

"Bigger?" he blurted, jolted from his thoughts. His mind raced to catch up, and he lifted one hoof, placing it back down again in some confusion. "Oh--yes! Not many! But my dad is very tall. He's a tree," Wicker explained. The bewilderment bled away as he spoke, replaced by enthusiasm. "I'm Wicker! What are you--Lior?" he asked; 'what are you' seemed a fairly normal question to him, by now. He peered at the little alligator, noting the scutes and all those tiny teeth they'd bared. His magic flickered out briefly, weakly, and he saw nothing particularly unusual about the other child.

"We can be friends. I'm special-?" he added, easygoing amiability shifting quickly back into confusion. I am??
Nobody'd told him that, before; it was news to him!