ORIGIN

Somewhere along Pegasus' winding river, a chrysalis shatters.

Let us note that the placement of said chrysalis could have been more unfortunate, but it could have also been less: for little over a cycle, the citrine has been growing smack in the middle of the river's waters, current splashing against the base and rubbing the stone smooth.

If there would be a single word most fitting for Flintlocke to know as they hatched, it would be: fuck! They don't of course, being about a minute old, but the thought is there in their wide eyes and messy, wet fur.

Their little paws splash frantically at the water; raw instinct takes over and they claw against the current, eyes locking on to the nearest riverbank. The mud is slippery and unpleasant, but they manage to haul themself out easily enough, and then they're sitting on the warm grass, panting with exertion.

It's cold. Pegasus' lighting is pleasantly warm, but there's a breeze running through the cavern and it's cold against their wet fur and they don't like it. Tiny and shivering, their eyes flick around for any sign of shelter.

There, nearby: a hole in the hill. There is also a door in the hill, propped open, but they don't think too much of that. There is a hole in the hill and they know the breeze can't get in through solid dirt and they're cold!

And wet. Still dripping, they haul themself to their paws and start walking; a walk that quickly turns into a jog, then a sprint, each bristled fur on end telling the world how unhappy they are with this situation.

There are plants inside. And lights, hanging from the ceiling: pretty, shiny lights that catch the new-hatched Gembound's eye for a moment, wondering something without words… but they aren't warm light, unlike the light outside, and it doesn't help.

Rapidly becoming more and more frustrated and upset with the situation, they nose around for a few moments, exploring the house: there are rows of wood mounted on the walls that Flintlocke's mind instinctively calls 'shelves', there is a table in the center of the room, there are more plants, plants everywhere, but there's nothing warm! There's nothing dry! And they're cold, and they're wet, and they're new and they don't know why they woke up in the wet, cold, unhappy river!

And it's all just too much.

Overwhelmed with the situation, Flintlocke sits down, wraps their tail around their legs, and begins to cry.

There are others in the house?

There are others in the house. Flintlocke's vision is tear-stained and blurred, but dimly they register one very, very big figure, and a smaller one that—looks like them, almost, if someone took them and tilted them up by ninety degrees.

At the sight of someone moving over and trying to interact with them, at the sound of his voice, they're suffused with the sudden urge to stop crying. They swallow hard and their eyes narrow but they just—they can't. They can't stop. They don't want to be crying anymore. They want to feel better. But it's hard to, when they are still cold and wet and they just don't understand why they hatched in the river! Why were their first few moments awake so bad?

The smaller one speaks, now. His voice is softer, and he seems to be talking to the larger one, asking about a… cloak?

Said cloak is far, far bigger than them; of course it is, to fit on such a creature as Banshy. But more than that—more than that, it is soft, and dry, and warm. They hardly try to stop him; they don't even register he's putting the cloak on them until he's doing it, distracted as they are in their distress, and by the time it's swaddled around them they are much too warm to protest.

Slowly, their waterfall of tears condense to just a trickle. Awkwardly, they wipe a paw at their face, sniffling. When they're satisfied that they are significantly less tear-stained than they just were a moment ago, they busy themself with getting comfy, one last lingering shiver running through them before they take the hem of the cloak gently in their teeth and turn around and around, spiraling the cloak tight around them like a very slow whirlpool.

They're still a little wet, but not as much as they were. And the cloak is very warm; warmer, now that they've twirled it around themself.

There are still others in the house, though. This is a thought that registers to them much more firmly, now. With clearer, less teary eyes, they shuffle around a little in the vast swathe of fabric that is Banshy's cloak and look up at Forgraves.

His eyes are very green. The stone at his throat is very green, too, but they know they can't touch that from here. He's just too tall.

They frown a little in thought, tilting their head this way and that. Slowly, in the same way a cat does when it sees an unfamiliar new thing, Flintlocke reaches out and gently, gently taps him on the foot.

A whisper of something. They're too young to understand, to really even know what magic is much less the magic that's carried in their stone, but they hear the faint sound of dripping water, get the half-impression of someone who looks like him but also like them looking into water considerably nicer than the river they hatched in.

He is like them, though, or was, and somehow that settles warm comfort into their chest. When Flintlocke looks up at Forgraves this time, there is an expression of utter trust in their eyes.

If the cloak is warm, then Forgraves' paw-hands are even warmer. They don't protest as he holds their face at all; there's no injury, there, not even a scratch, but his hands do feel very nice against the fluff of his cheek. They can't help but lean in, wide eyes watching him back. There's a contentment in there, in that. In being held.

Forgraves isn't looking back at Banshy. Flintlocke isn't either, but their ears are still pricked; listening for the slightest sound in this new environment, as first they take in the sounds of the names Forgraves and Banshy... and then, ears perking up and eyes widening, the word Flint, resonating strangely with them.

Is that them? Clearly not, because they hear the sound of footsteps and out of the corner of their eye Banshy goes over and retrieves a little something from the 'counter' to, presumably, light the 'firepit'. Still, it sparks a little bit of recognition, and for a moment they're almost lost in thought.

Almost, until Banshy catches his hand on the stone. There's an ungainly sort of squawk from him, and for a moment Flintlocke's fur fluffs in alarm at the new and unfamiliar sound.

Curiosity over what he's doing and if they, too, can do it wins out in the end, though. Reluctantly Flintlocke pulls their face from Forgraves' hands and wiggles out of the mass of fabric cloaking them, tail already wagging again. With a few quick steps they bound over, rearing up briefly on their hind legs to take their namesake stone from his hands and between their teeth.

Banshy was hitting the stone against something. This must mean that to light the fire, they have to catch the stone against something, too, right? Like—

—this?

...nope. It's to be expected from a little fox trying to maneuver the stone with only their mouth instead of useful hands. The stone makes a satisfying sort of sound when they hit it against the nearest piece of wood, but that's about it.

At least they're helping?

Banshy's laughing.

Their eyes narrow at them, at this sound; at the way Forgraves chides them, and yet they continue to laugh, snickering the whole way at the little fox with the flint in their mouth.

For the first time, Flintlocke feels... defiance. They haven't lit the fire, but a little spark of spite grows in their chest, eyes narrowing further at the laughing Banshy.

There's only one thing to do in a situation like this.

They stick their tongue out at him. Doing this means the flint falls out of their mouth, and they're quickly distracted by the loss of it, looking around in the dirt for a few moments before they find it and pick it up again, tail thumping at the ground in determination.

They'd get it this time. They'd show him! They'd light the fire better than Banshy ever could!

With Forgraves' soft encouragement behind them (and a pat between the ears that gets their tail wagging despite it all), they angle the rock a little differently in their mouth and aim for something that isn't the wood this time.

The stone jars hard against the rock of the fireplace. They have it at a weird angle in their mouth, and it's kind of sharp. Sharper than expected in their eager recklessness, clearly, because the next thing Forgraves and Banshy see is the sight of the little fox dropping the stone and crying out.

"It cut me!" Their first words spoken without thought—because of course they knew words, they just didn't want to use them! They don't think about that now, though; they're thinking about the sharp pain along the roof of their mouth, and the gross taste of iron filling it, and once more there are tears beading in their eyes.