ORIGIN - [002: On Fares and Fairness]

Pages: 1 2

There is a certain unease that comes with something that looks living, should be living, and yet is not. The frozen caricature at the entrance stares down at him like he has done something oh so terrible, like he has caused one great upheaval of everything moral and decent, and the look is so familiar—so ingrained—that it is then that the pangolin knows for certain that it is not the first. It is a face only a living thing could make. Too many curves and edges. Too living, even in its unlife. “...Oh, dear. How do, old boy?” It stares on, unblinking. “Goodness, me. What a ghastly thing you are.”
He hopes it was not rude. It was not rude coming out of the mouth, really. It was only an observation. And what a broad observation to make, because whatever this thing was, or is, proves to be quite unlike anything the young gembound has ever seen before.
It was carved from the earth itself. That is a feat surely reserved for the living—taking such a thing and changing it irreparably. There was nothing one could do about such a sight but admire it, and admire it the pangolin did. Chipped stone and all, the thing stood so proudly atop its plinth that the bowl in its claws almost seemed like a—
Oh, what could he say for it? A treasure? But the pangolin did not know what treasure truly meant, either.
-–Like a treasure. Because it feels right. Because the meaning did not matter, not really. All that mattered was the protection, the stationary care. He did not know what having treasure felt like, but surely it felt like this.
Holding it outward. Here, it said. Here it is. Now, it is your turn.
Your turn. But he did not have much to give, except—
Except perhaps the last vestiges of its organic form. What better gift to give than a piece of you, repurposed? An unbeating heart in the cup of its hands. Giving back. Letting by. A respect. Now that was good manners.
Well! A fare is in order, he thinks! A fare for—
A fare for travel. A fare for respect, whatever it may be. Thank you, he says back to it. Thank you for your pity. “All is fare in love and war. That is what the people say, is it not? Heard it before, have you?.” He sniffles. “Ah, bother.”
And so, gently taking a rock in his tail, he brings it up and throws. It almost bounces off the smooth casing, yet another taunt, but it rattles around until it settles between one of its claws and the held urn. “Delightful. Delightful! May I pass?” It may be a tad boorish, but he says it as he walks away, tail dragging. “You have had your treasure! And my fare! My fair fare, say. Mind how you go, stranger!”
Like the tunnel, it does not respond, and for once the pangolin is not too offended at the gesture. He would not be too amenable himself if he was made of stone. No way to relieve itches. No way to talk. And that notion is scary enough to garner the most earnest of his condolences. And he does offer those condolences, his rickety voice echoing, but when the flat stone leads into towering engravings, that is when they run out.
Mosaics–beautiful, overlapping abstractions—are inscribed into every surface above him, and yes, these must be the stars he saw beneath his eyelids. They do exist! And they were horrifying.
Artificial. Made. The pangolin pales at this—they were made! Recondite shapes and colours fan out to form the quills and feathers and paws and crests and tails of beasts he cannot even hope to name, and sitting atop a perch of sweeping bone and sinew sits the most empyrean thing, a creature of wings and cloven hooves and those eyes---three uncanny abysses staring back—and there is a majesty there even then, in the simplicity, for the pangolin cannot imagine what pressure it would be, three eyes and nowhere to put them. And there were more—the twisting, many-legged forms of insectoid, bovine monstrosities with flaring nostrils and frightened eyes. The scratched and smudged things of scales and lumpy, spine-stretched skins. In every direction and then some sat beings that stitched every biological impossibility together and spat it back out. Nestled in crooks and crannies were things so simple and things so needlessly convoluted. Against the ragged canvas of Monoceros’ tunnel laid the good and bad and left and right. And encircling were the culminations, named and unnamed and horribly secretive and graciously honest. Above him, everything that has ever existed, and yet, should not have. Above him sits the firsts.
It is, likely, the scariest and yet most fascinating thing the pangolin has ever seen, and by the time he has made it a mere thirty feet into the tunnel, he is already waving himself about and flinching at how the whipping wind, from such places, sounds like their growls and brays and yelps. Because he may have manners, but he by no means a courageous thing. And so there the poor, meek, unseemly little pangolin sits, choking on his own tremors. There the poor, weak, unassuming, scared little pangolin stays.
For the firsts could not always be the firsts.
And he has come along.
He has come along.

ANALA
From a spark to a flame
[Image: ioaINSW.gif]

She wasn't sure why she was here, honestly. She'd spent a little too much time in the dampness of Pisces, and maybe she just needed some nice, dry warmth for a day before she was off to god knows where. She didn't know why she travelled to half the caves she travelled too, in truth. Polaris would just be better, considering how much more energized it made her feel when she was training.
Anala was a creature of company. A creature built for fighting and sparring, and one who very rarely stopped talking in recent days. She was beginning to loathe her usual alone time.
"Oh, you're barely a cycle old, aren't you?"
She stopped dead in her tracks as the pangolin came into view, much too small to have reached maturity. They didn't appear to be moving, either, and so she continued her approach more cautiously.
"Hello? Are you alright?"
She worried for a moment that she was speaking nonsense to a lesser, but her approach made clear the gemstone atop their head. It made them look delicious, not that she would make a meal out of something sickly... Or sentient. Was it shaking?
"I am no mother little one but please, you really should get up! Have you eaten?!"
She was picking up the pace now, gentle plodding turning into a full trot. She began to mumble to herself, full blown panic hidden in hushed tones of concern. She was not ready to be a mother yet!
"You can't be shaking because you're cold! Are you sick? Oh it could be sick! What do I do if you're sick?!"
She was eager to close the distance, remembering how helpless she was on her hatching day. If they came from Monoceros, had they even had a drink? How long had they been out of their chrysalis? Again, she was not ready to be a mother! Yet, her emotions betrayed her, always prone to swings that blinded others and made her dizzy with their intensity.

OOC Notes:

@Waffles

He did not know how long he sits there, mumbling obscenities and twitching quivering claws, but it was apparently long enough to hallucinate.
Another yipping came from the entrance, that horrible sound. For a moment he sits there rooted, which was a joke so long as he hated the earth, the dust—the dirtiness of it all. Voices are not voices here. Sometimes, it sounds like him. And other times, it sounds motherly.
Oh, not motherly, no. But a sibling to it. Only so motherly as the chrysalis was, his chrysalis, and he has reason to believe that his chrysalis does not trouble itself in things like care or love, as his neck is still awfully sore, and that, he imagines, is not what love feels like to anybody.
Another rumbling passes by, the undeniable mimicry of footsteps, and he lets it pass him. He has stopped flinching at the winds. And so! A nice discovery to make, that he is no longer cowardly and unseemly and—
[”Hello? Are you alright?”]
That was not the wind.
The wind comes from the other way. The wind—
The wind does not have paws.
”Oh, crumbs!” The pangolin startles enough that he rolls onto his tail, sending him backwards and up against the back of a great stag-headed body of fins, and then he is sent tumbling forward again, because it truly is monstrous but then he is closer to the Not-Wind and Not-Wind seems awfully big and those eyes surely wanted him between the spears of her own claws and oh, his were so blunt and round, they were practically hooves! In lieu of an articulate reply, his teeth chatter in new tremors, and it is most embarrassing—
[“I am no mother, little one, but please—you should really get up! Have you eaten?!”]
Even the wind was not so loud and abrasive.
Bad manners, old boy.
”I am no mother, either!” The pangolin says, falsely delighted. “We share it! We share that! Do you like sharing?” He knows that she is talking, saying something to him, but when his mouth runs, he fails to catch it. He has never been particularly fast, you see. “Do you share the tunnel? Is this your tunnel? I paid the fare at the entrance, at the—the statue, yes, I paid the statue with a part of it back. All’s fare in—”
He sniffles, and his body is quite displeased with this ramble of his. He was quite displeased with it, too.
“...That is what they say.” He shuffles backward, covering the lower half of his body with his plated tail, and for what could not be said for the illustrations could very well be said for the real thing. Such blinding fear, and for so much. Why must he be born in fear? He was not the first. “That is what they say, you know. That is what they say.” The—Not Wind—tilts her head and he yelps, burying his face into his tail that was not sharp enough, not at all! “Oh, I have just gotten here! I have already had the most terrible tumble! I have already been knocked and shoved and pushed, I do not want to be—” He sticks his snout up. “Whatever you do! You have a rock stuck in your chest and I rather hate rocks! Rocks and the dust that comes with them!”

ANALA
From a spark to a flame
[Image: ioaINSW.gif]

She watched the pangolin tumble, twice, and she skidded to a stop. Her muttering ceased as they moved, reassuring her that they at least weren't ill. Scared, maybe, but not sick! It was only natural to be anxious as a young gembound. It kept you safe.
"Of course you're no mother either!" She laughed heartily, barely avoiding a sneeze as the dust she had kicked up tickled her nose. She had just bathed, too. Darn. She shook some of it off as she listened to his rambles, patiently settling on her rear to hopefully help ease their nerves. There was still space between them, now, and she would leave it open.
"I do like to share, sometimes!" Did she? She enjoyed sharing a meal with Mirrikh, although she was still disappointed that she lost in their hunting competition. "It is not my tunnel, though. It is not anyone's, actually. The tunnels are free to roam between caves as you wish, no need for any fare!" She let out another laugh, a short and airy one this time, amused by the young one's misunderstanding. Did they think the carvings were alive? Ah, she missed being so young.
"Did they... speak to you?" She asked tentatively. She had heard of magic that could show a gembound the history of objects, or at least a moment of it. Was that what they meant? "What do they say?" She stopped herself from calling them little one again, which reminded her that they had not yet exchanged names. It was a bad habit of hers.
"You have a stone too, you know. Right on top of your head there!" She sat up only enough to gesture vaguely with a paw. "It's what gives you life, silly! And Magic! Do you want to see?" The knowledge had come to her as a cub through instinct, but she knew well that each gembound learned at their own pace. Clearly, given the pangolin's already vast vocabulary. Perhaps they had favoured words like Doru over physical prowess like her? "I am Anala, if you'd rather call me a name! What's yours? Have you decided yet?" Her wagging tail betrayed her excitement. Sharp, the gembound who attending her hatching, was unbothered at her emergence. She had never learned his name, come to think of it, and she was eager to make the pangolin's first day much more exciting. Did they eat meat? She guessed so, looking at his claws. Maybe she could teach them to hunt! What fun would that be?!

OOC Notes:

@Waffles

Of course she would laugh! Of course, because the wind has not laughed at him enough! Settling on her legs did not bring much more comfort, but it did bring an assurance that if he did not move, neither would she. So he freezes completely.
“So many rules! Oh, I just got here! Fare or no fare, what is the difference?” He sneezes roughly. “I am already so tired. It was quiet before I woke up. Now there is wind and not-wind and all sorts of crumby sounds. And the sounds aren’t even the ones I want to hear!” A paw slaps the ground, massively put-out. “I have tried speaking to them! I have tried speaking to the statues and the rocks and most everything else and they would not talk to me! And I say that is very rude!” But she is speaking. “Are there rules to that, too? What can and can’t speak? Why is it so confusing? I just got here!”
The pangolin—the poor, naive pangolin—did not yet realise he, too, had a gemstone, and looks rightfully horrified by the prospect. He nearly touches it, but draws his hand back like it will burn. “Oh, no! Think of the dust! I don’t much care for being given life if I don’t stop sneezing! Dust is not good for the nose, they say!” He scoots further back at the gesture—too close to a strike, that was. “And magic—magic, what does magic have to do with me? Magic is not meant for me! The pressure…”
And—and she said—not Not-Wind said—
[“I am Anala.”]
Like it was so simple!
[“What’s yours?”]
Like it was so easy!
Her answering, [“...Have you decided yet?”] is as much of a taunt as it was a question!
“Of course I’ve decided! Who do you take me for?! A—a simpleton?! No!” He dares a glance toward the etchings, back to the—the Anala---and then back to his unwholesome tail and blunt claws and tittering voice and—
What was his name?! Anala—Anala meant—
Anala had to mean something!
That is the point of the name, is it not? To label yourself something. Here I am, it says. This is what you’re getting yourself into.
What did he have?
Why would you name yourself something so early? Is it early? Is he early?
“My name is—” He did not do much! He did not have many features! And he could not take Anala because that is already taken, and it is rude to copy someone else!
He is a pangolin—the same way you intrinsically know blood is blood, but naming a pangolin Pangolin seems awfully redundant. He is a boy—for lack of a better term—but naming a boy Boy is, also, quite redundant. So what does he do?
He talks.
That is about it. That is all. Curtains closed, folks!
Mouthing off is about the only thing he feels he can do, and do right. It is something he knows like how birds know flight. It is not a taught thing. It is there, resting, hibernating. It is a need and a want and—pish posh. “My—my name is—”
Talk. Harp on, old boy! Rant and rave! Lose that thread! Waffle on!
So it must be—
“Waffle!” He does not realise he is yelling until he cowers under his own voice, blinking. “--s! Waffles! I am Waffles! That’s my name!”
Did that feel right?
Oh, not as much as the ’Dizzy Tunnel’ felt like the ’Dizzy Tunnel’. But it would have to work. Yes, it must.
“Yes,” He says again, more to himself. “Yes. I am Waffles. With an ‘S’ sound. Do you hear that? 'Sss!' Not one ‘S’ more, and not one ‘S’ less. Waffles. And you are not the wind! You are Anala!" He---Waffles---sniffs, displeased. "...That is correct, isn't it? Of course it is! I know my---I know my wits! I do!"
The wind feels much less like a voice now. Perhaps he was just lonesome. "...Don't you?"

@Anala

ANALA
From a spark to a flame
[Image: ioaINSW.gif]

What an amusing little creature, barely alive and yet so full of ideas about the world already. She wondered if she would have been the same, had she not slept in chrysalis for so long after her hatching.
"Breathe! Please, breathe. Just a little, won't you?" They were surely too small to have lungs at such a capacity and yet they did not stop, did not breathe, and she in turn could not get any word in edgewise until...
"Yes, Anala! And Waffles! A lovely name, I think!" She heaved a sigh, absolutely relieved at the momentary silence. Was this what it was like when she talked? They had so many questions for her to answer and yet gave her no time to answer them! It was of no bother to her, though; they were only a child. It was a breath of fresh air, she thought, to answer rather than ask. Her expression remained neutral, if not fond.
"Now that we've settled that!" She began, tucking her head into her neck to scratch an itch beneath her new harness. "Our stones don't make dust! Our stones do allow us to talk and cast spells though. Some choose not to, and that's fine! I prefer more physical skills, too. But that is how you know what can talk." She reassured them with a soft tone as best she could, like what she imagined she might one day use for a pup. She did not, however, tell them that some lesser gembounds might also have stones (albeit much smaller ones) but could not talk, in hopes of avoiding any more confusion. They would figure it out on their own, she hoped, but for now that knowledge would do. Besides, said lessers were uncommon!
"Here, you can look, I'll just... make some space, okay?" She did as she said, standing only to back up a few steps. But, what could she... hm. She found some splintered wood on the ground, a remnant of some past craft that had decayed over time, and she set a fire-hot paw atop it, letting it burn to ash. It was a weak cast, and it took some time to catch, but it did, eventually, burn. It hurt, this particular spell, but she hid the sting of the burn behind a gentle smile.
"This is mine, see? Not all magic is like this, but it will come to you in time, if you let it. It's what my name means, if you were curious. Fiery."

OOC Notes:

@Waffles

A lovely name. Anala—for it was only Anala—thought he had chosen a lovely name. That is a consolidation. Waffles did not know what he would do if he did not pick a suitable name! It feels like the worst kind of mistake to make.
And then there is talk and talk of gems, which spins him around again—though the notion that they didn’t produce dust was indeed no small relief. That much, he thinks, is owed. For what the pangolin knew of fairness—and what fairness was, which was a tasteful little—he thinks there should be an equal berth. Judiciousness should always be honoured! That much is deserved, I say! “I was going to take mine out! Now that you’ve mentioned such a thing, I can feel it on my head! It’s pressing down all horribly, it is! I wish it was on my chest, instead! But I suppose it lets me talk. I suppose for that I should thank it. But I won’t be happy, I won’t! I won’t be happy about it at all!”
He is halfway into a rant about the pickle about insulting the gem, for the gem was you, and self-love is important for a boy such as I, when Anala stands and then he’s back into his ball. For all his credit, he doesn’t completely hide, and instead peeks his face out from beneath his tail, because for all he was scared, sometimes fear is quite driving, and quite bothersome. And she was backing up.
She sets a paw upon the wood and it burns, burns bright and then black, and, no—-while the paintings did have the mystique of what may be called a star, this had the brightness. It was beautiful, and mortifying, and alive when she willed it. And that was—
“Dreadful,” He mutters, and then he catches himself. “Not your—whatever you did! It was not dreadful! It's just—it is quite brutish. And—” He sneezes. “What a smell.” A claw retracts out of his body to scratch at his face, itching that residue away. Maybe that was it, isn’t it? It was loud in its existence and quite crude but bright and—that was why she named herself Anala! That is why it means fiery! She is fiery!
Oh, how embarrassing. He called himself Waffles because he talks a lot.
But that is right, too, isn’t it? He does indeed.
“Did you know?” His voice is small, awfully meek. But he is meek, too. Perhaps he should have been named Meek, instead. “Did you know you would be fiery when you named yourself?”

@Anala

ANALA
From a spark to a flame
[Image: ioaINSW.gif]

Goodness the pangolin liked to think, and talk, and make her think! All the stuff she thought she just knew dawned on this hatchling like the idea of a wildfire in Eridanus! Would she had been so nervous as a pup if not for falling back into her chrysalis for so many cycles? She had missed out on so much.
"To remove your stone would be to die, Waffles." Her tone is serious, now. They had only been around a day or so and yet, here they were plotting their own demise. Was it so common to be born without preservation instinct these days? She did almost drown herself, to be fair. Hm. "You will grow into it, and it will be less heavy when you're grown, I promise."
She did not close the distance she had made, instead choosing to sit again further down the tunnel near her charred stick. She hoped he would come closer, away from whatever had scared him in Monoceros, but she would let him on his own time.
"You get used to it if it's part of you, I suppose. Like our stones. Names, too. Some name themselves after cycles, and others on their hatching day."
She huffed, taking a moment to choose her words carefully.
"For some, names come as easy as breathing, whether or not they know the name's meaning. Others choose them based on meaning. It was a mix of both for me, as I did not get the chance to name myself on my hatching day. I chrystalized not long after I first woke."
Her tone would be hard to read for the pangolin, as she did not have a true grasp on the feeling herself. She was ashamed, maybe even embarrassed, and almost... mourning. She did not know truly how long she had chrystalized, given how hard it was to tell time when one was sleeping. All she knew was that she went to sleep a pup and awoke full-grown with no one around.
"There is no shame in changing your name, either. I think yours suits you, but many have changed their names as they've grown. The caves are ever-changing, as are we." She wondered if it would help to tell him the names of others she had met, to show how vast the world was. Would that be too much? She had already overwhelmed the poor guy.

OOC Notes: I'm on the verge of sleep, I hope this reads well

@Waffles

“What an awful thing that sounds like, to die. Does it happen often? I imagine fairly so, if these troublesome stones don’t let up in their unshapely manners. Manners are important, I say. Manners are becoming!” And then he’s off in a flurry again. “I say you must always be cordial. Being impolite is quite the same as dying, if you speak of it so lowly. It cannot be good, no, it cannot be. Evil as anything. Like the paintings and fire and the wind and most everything else in this cave. These caves, you say. There are multiple, oh, crumbs…”
Waffles is only barely listening when she says her nonsense about the naming, and he has it in him to be only slightly and motfifyingly scandalised by the notion that he had time to choose! He could have thought of such a better name in that time! What dreadful circumstances!
He could have thought of a nicer name. Like Buttercup. The pangolin did not yet know what a buttercup was, nor that they existed, but it came to him and sounded much too nice not to be a word.
He could have thought of a scarier name. Could have taken his… shortcomings—which were more like blessings, depending on who you asked, and if you asked him, perhaps it was the best blessing one could have!---and drench them in the cold terror of a name, corner any poor fellow and announce his likeness from every rockface and cliff’s edge. Like Large and Terrorising Shadow Destroyer: Dream Merchant!
Oh, perhaps that is a bit too much.
Too much of a mouthful.
Though it does not pass him that his name was given on the pretences of having a mouthful. At all times. About all manner of things.
And then he realises that he his mouth has wandered, and though it is relieving for him, having a release of sorts, it was not good for the wolf, as she always looks awfully confused whenever he goes on his little ramblings. On his wafflings, rather, and then he feels smart again.
[“--crystallised not long after I woke up.”]
“I don’t know much of anything when it comes to that word. Crystallising. Quite the term. Is it technical? Is it the opposite? How do you know? There are so many rules. And I must follow them you see—manners are important.” The bumbling pangolin sniffs. “That is alright, though, I think.” He scoots a little closer, just the barest mark, to make himself seem bigger and therefore make his words seem… better? More agreeable? No matter. He is only so much of himself—he does not entirely know what he does until he does it. “I was in a crystal before. Right cruel thing, it was. Spat me out and sent me flying. Oh, I had never been so frightened before—though I don’t remember fear, or much of anything, existing before that, mind—-but I loved it. You have to, I reckon. You love it because you cannot love much else. I thought I would stay in there forever, even before I knew I could think. I did not know wind existed before I felt it. I did not know colour existed before I saw it. The crystal is home but it is a very small home. Not enough room, no. I miss it, even if I hate how properly it sent me---even if I know I would have to outgrow it. I would love a nap,” He blinks. Names are difficult. “...Anala. I would quite like a nap. I would quite like to nap like I had napped before I knew what napping was. It was warm. I remember that. It is home, but home cannot always be home, because if that were the case, I—that is to say, we—would not be here. You would still be in there. I would still be in there. And what a fine pickle that would be.” He straightens. “I mean to say, it is alright. Perhaps you just needed more sleep. I say, I didn’t think I was ready when I came. But my tail knows me better than my mind sometimes does. It knows how to grab and move and swing when my mind does not know how. It is a trade, see. It is a trade. Home knows you better than you think. Perhaps it knew you needed it when you didn’t. Otherwise, it would be cruel, and I’m sure only mine is so cruel. Perhaps home only wanted to love you a little longer."
Waffles huffs, and true to his word, a loose tail bats at the ground. Talking does him some good—it relaxes him. “Oh, but I’m afraid my name is quite right. I should not change it. Perhaps it makes sense that I am called Waffles. Look at what I’m doing!” There is a sound, a nervous tittering, that sounds only so much of a laugh as a scream sounds like laughter. “And what pressure it is, Anala. Names, and such. Change. I have not changed at all, not that I remember. But I already hold some proper reservations about it, I do! I would loathe to see my scales chip. Oh, what would become of me then?” The flat of a paw digs four soft craters into the small bed of gravel beneath him. “I do not like pain, nor what it looks like. Perhaps that is why I am so jealous of your crystal. Safety. It is not fair, I don’t think, that we wake up and are so scared all the time. Very unproductive! Very impolite, I say. I say it is just about the worst use of fear, really. So many other things to do with it. So many other places to take it."
He blinks two beady eyes, and they meet hers. “You can even yell it from rockfaces and cliffs-edge, I hear.”

@Anala

ANALA
From a spark to a flame
[Image: ioaINSW.gif]

"Not often." She offered some comfort before Waffles began to waffle again. It was a nice word, a fun word; waffle. They also liked to say crumbs a lot. Oh, crumbs, to be specific. She couldn't wipe the smile off her face if she tried.
"There are nicer ones!" She managed to cut in. "Less windy, less hot. Everyone likes Eridanus!" There was no time to offer more detail before the chatter started back up, but she would offer instructions if she were to be asked. It was only a cave and a tunnel away, through Orion and Tunnel I. Oh, he was still talking.

She let them continue for a while, thinking hard about how to answer their endless questions and even harder about their attempts to reassure her. Perhaps it was for a reason that she had fallen back asleep, cocooned safely inside her stone. Maybe she did need it, the extra time. She would have gotten into all kinds of trouble as a pup, that was for sure.
"They can be cruel." She agreed, the warmth of his words washing over her nerves like the cool waters of Pisces on her burnt paws. Healing. "But I think you are right, that they can be home too. They love as much as anything can love, in the way they protect." She was sure, so sure, that there was something else in his words this time, something she could not place but instead only enjoy before the feeling drifted away. She was also sure that the pangolin's tail was not the only tail that seemed to know better than one's mind. Hers was making dust angels.

"Let's be productive then, Waffles. Let's scream our fears away and get some food in our stomachs, how about that? I always nap better with a full belly, even without the crystal!" It would only be polite, as Waffles seemed so keen about, to offer to share a meal. There was no sense in curling up in a ball all day, not when there were so many caves to see and things to eat!
Maybe all they both needed was to get moving, past their unpleasant first days and on towards better ones.

OOC Notes:

@Waffles

Pages: 1 2