ORIGIN

As they waited, Manticore flexed out his wings, testing Spinnaker's instructions. He swept his wings outward, then thrust them downward and back up. To his surprise, though he was sitting down, he could feel the lift; the downward pump of wings very nearly took him off his feet.

Before he could much think on this--and as he was staring contemplatively at his left wing, wondering about all this--Mossie returned.

Manticore flinched at the barrage of words--which ran together too much for him to quite comprehend. He hesitated before responding. He didn't quite know how to answer; and it wasn't a matter of politeness. The Valkhound had absolutely no idea that perhaps he should be polite and spare Mossie's feelings, so it wasn't that. He just didn't really know how to phrase himself.

"You are talking too fast," he complained, tail flicking. "I was asking if it is--if everyone is that fast! At talking!" His words were forced downward, into a near-growl, by his frustrated confusion; at length he shook his finned mane.

"I will try to find things then." For Mossie, of course.

Manticore pushed up, shaking himself a second time--this time, his entire body, like a wet dog--and then padded off. His claws clicked on the stone. It occurred to him that he ought to hide himself; it would be best to creep around in the shadows. Maybe his magic--the stuff that made fire--could make shadow, instead?

He paused to tug at the threads, thin tendrils of power that seemed to lead back toward his gemstone, but it felt as though he'd somehow pulled too hard. Instead of shadow there was a burst of black voidlight, and a pain like red-hot wires being yanked through the flesh of his body where his stone lay. With a yowl he sprang up and around, claws swiping at thin air; around him, shadows and voidlight twisted and flashed in chaotic, blinding display.

The Valkhound spun this way and that, snarling and flapping and lashing out at nothing, until the misfired spell faded--leaving him swathed in faint shadows of his own, but not hiding him in any way, nor hiding the way he stood tensed and panting, glaring all around him.

He hadn't quite gotten the hang of 'magic,' yet.

His gaze darted to Mossie.

"Yes," he blurted at once, though the pain in his voice and trembling of his flanks were both a distinct 'No.' The fins gracing the back of his skull beneath the horns--somewhere where otherwise, ears might have been--laid flat against his neck. "I was trying to hunt. I can try," he said again, fighting to find the right words. "For... your magic? My magic is... bad," he concluded.

And he wasn't wrong, though maybe he was right for the wrong reasons.

Guiltily, his four eyes slid to Spinnaker, who he hadn't meant to startle so. "Sorry," he said more quietly.

Slowly, Manticore--the eight-foot-tall, monstrous draconic sea-beast Valkhound--looked between the cormorant and the little cat.

And he felt... reassured. They were both being so supportive! It was kind, the way they explained what was happening, the way...

He wanted to kill it. "It" being a remarkably generic, non-specific concept that floated vaguely through his mind at that moment. Chaos, corruption--he wanted to reach out and rend this thing with his talons, to tear it up and spit it out and ignite it with fire.

But his black fire wasn't very reliable, was it? Mossie and Spinnaker, though, they were assuring him it was okay, and--

...Well, that brought him back around to the comforted sort of feeling.

For a moment, as Manticore kept looking back and forth between them (which probably looked a little stupid, really), the chaos that had formed him--that could have, should have made a monster of him--warred with his gratitude to the two tiny little...

Little...

"FRIENDS," he said suddenly, and loudly.

His tail twitched once, and he turned, staring determinedly off into the cave.

He started off, and he'd meant to again try to shadow himself with all this newfound friendship and confidence in some sort of miraculous recovery--the sort of story where someone finds themselves after just a few kind words reshape their worldview--and instead he flared ridiculously bright violet-blue.

He paused, and glanced back, remembering what they'd said two minutes ago. It was okay; he'd learn. He shunted down the urge to kill friendship (which was stupid, he couldn't do that anyway, it was an intangible concept) and blinked at the pair. "We can find... something... for Mossie to show us?" He looked forward again, then back.

Never mind that he was glowing, now, with near-blinding ultraviolet light. (And it did blind him, just a little.) At least it didn't hurt, this time, and--well, he sort of looked like a beacon, now. That was the poetic appearance one might have salvaged from his failing magic, at least.

Oh, and-... He looked forward again, trying to remember what he was meant to say when someone helped him as they just had. "Thank you." He shook himself, innate chaos irritated by all of this, but--"Are you coming?"

Manticore had no magic to test upon the mouse. Indeed, when he padded over, it was just to raise a massive paw and lightly prod the mouse atop its head with the bottom of his toes.

He then set his foot back down, sitting, and studied Mossie.

"What did you want to do to it?" he asked. His purpose for catching one (or trying to and failing repeatedly, rather) had been to give Mossie the chance to demonstrate whatever she'd wanted to, before.

"You wanted to show us something--right?" Or had he gotten lost somewhere?

He glanced to Spinnaker; to him, the bird so far was proving to be the smartest of them. Maybe the leader, if he chose to be. Maybe he had some idea of what this was all about.