ORIGIN

Zoisite had returned from Pegasus with freshly pruned vines from the farmed gourds, long tangles of naturally formed rope. There was an intention to use them to get more lights set up through Draco, but the hard part would be preserving them. Magic would work well enough in small bursts, but the sheer length that Zoisite had tangled around its jaws and clutched in a couple of talons would require a lot more energy than she would be able to do in one sitting.

This was a project that needed to be done, however. While their baubles did a fair job of providing light to what otherwise was a dreary cave that it called home, they were scattered and rather disorganized.

What Zoisite wanted to do was root the vines here, and use them as a source to grow more vines with its magicka. The plant didn't necessarily need to survive long term; it could always be preserved in parts when it began to die. The Zoisite was doubtful that it would produce fruit, which was for the best. It would only attract rot-flies.

The purpose of the roots, however, was to mark pathing. Perhaps it was mostly for their benefit, having eyes that more easily scanned the ground than anything above the horizon, but it would also help the cavern feel more lived in. Actual spaces could be marked out, and paths could weave through the homes that had been made for its family.

... There were other things that lingered in the back of Zoisite's mind. Zoey was preoccupied with the thoughts of new hatchlings coming all too soon. That was why it worked steadily, putting its attention into something actionable.

For now, it stood nearby the entrance to Draco, near the Aperture that breathed in since with the Zoisite's own shallow, hushed breath. It set down the vines, and clawed a deep trench through the hard packed earth with two sets of talons. The earth was one thing, and de-tangling the vines was another.

Mandibles delicately gripped the bundle as talons tugged and pulled. This was more difficult than it had expected, as the vines snagged on each other and threatened to snap under the strain of Zoisite's grip. The last thing it wanted was to damage them... With a huff, it halfheartedly forced the vines into the trenches. It was messy-- not at all what they had envisioned. Vines lay in a disorganized mound, only partially embedded into the earth.

If Zoisite was naturally inclined to plant magic, perhaps this would be easier. They could try to make the vines spread, but that would be taxing... They took a deep breath. Maybe they should eat something first, or... The Zoisite stood over their work, staring down at the vines like a statue.

The voice did not immediately illicit a reaction from the Zoisite, who looked the part of a badly decorated tree, not even so much as swaying in the scant wind that swirled by the Aperture. It seemed to take a few moments for the Zoisite to even so much as process that something had been said to it, but internally, the reaction was much more visceral:

Who is that? -- One of the Forge. -- Have I talked to them before? Are they dangerous? -- We are. -- Then... -- Then...? -- Then... Be polite. It's alright. They're family. -- If only because of a technicality. Draconua... -- They just want to talk.

A minute passes, awkwardly, before the Zoisite rotates its head, craning its neck to tilt its face sideways to get a look at Rue. They recognize the tall, inky fox, but struggle to place a name to the face. A feeling of shame settled deep in its chest, but when they part their mandibles to speak, their tone is soft despite the harsh clicks and natural hiss to their voice.

"The vines want to tangle because that's how they grow, so they can spread but still be secure roots for the plants. It makes this difficult," it explains calmly.

Despite the shame, the Zoisite is practical: "... What is your designation?"

"V-Zoisite-One," the Zoisite answered with a click-clack of its jaws. The name sounds clumsy coming from its mandibles, too long and hissing when its jaws are made for sharp clicks rather than vibrations. Part of it recoiled from the designation, returning to slumber. This is normal. Natural.

The Zoisite slowly raised a limb, flexing talons to tug at the tangled vines. It cut through a piece, and pulled free a strand that, as it laid the scrap of plant flat in the trench, is about half as long as the Kornerupine. It raised its gaze to meet Rue's, and blinked once, twice.

"I'm making a path," it half-explained. "This marks the path." Tilting its head downward, it focused for a single moment. That was all it took to spark the magic in its stone, and travel down into the vine: which immediately began to glow a faint, luminous green. Not enough to be distracting or even to light the area around it, but simply to function as a clear, obvious marker.

"... What do you think?" The Zoisite didn't care in the exact moment, though-- it knew that it might care later, when it was feeling more...

... feeling less like a machine, a drone, doing its task. More like... The Zoey.

The Zoisite grunted in reply to Rue's answer. "I don't see well," it agreed. "I want to make Draco better for the Forge." Though rough terrain provided less difficulty to its massive talons and segmented form, it had to crane its neck to survey its surroundings.

The comment about burning the plants did not get a rise out of it, nor any flutter of concerns. It would be more work if the Kornerupine were to turn it to ash, but that was a good point. A more permanent, less flammable, marking might be more efficient. Especially with the likes of Draconua around.

Its head tilted to one side, studying the fox-beast, marred by oil. "You have that magic," it commented. "Like..." Draconua, lingered on its tongue. "The Sentinel." It had not spoken to the Sentinel often, much less more than a greeting in passing, but it seemed a... more respectful comparison.

"Does it hurt?" The Zoisite asked, uncertain why the question had sprung to its thoughts apropos of nothing.