ORIGIN - As the Days Grow Shorter

Since returning home, he found himself simply sliding back into his old routine of sorting mushrooms and practicing playing with his little microbes There was nothing for him to perfect anymore, the virus he had concocted was working perfectly, he couldn't have asked for better results. IN his boredom, he had been mucking around with his recent acquisition of magic that let him manipulate the earth beneath their feet to be formed into glass shards. Focusing hard, he had been trying to create some form of glass mask, much like what Booker wore for his eyesight but something that could cover his scars.

It appeared fruitless though, as glass was see through anyway so it wasn't like he'd get any privacy from creating it. Scuffing at the clumps of crystal he had made, he turned and swept into the back of the cavern where his precious beast of Booker lay sleeping. Baratheon had protested vehemently to letting Louie take him into his small hovel but he had relented after much assurance from the numbat and the promise that if he wasn't allowed to do that then his friend would perish from the disease. Making sure not to disturb Baratheon, he tiptoed back home. It was warmer out of the cold winds and harshness of Monoceros and he had already lined his den with specific mosses that served to preserve his body heat and the fuzzy munchkin's.

One eye cast down at the numbat and he found himself not only grinding his lips but biting them. This pawn in his game of chess had been causing him trouble, emotional trouble more than anything but he hadn't been counting on the fact that this game would become so real so quickly. Torturing and bringing harm to others was what he lived for wasn't it? It wasn't like he had actually killed anyone... Right?. No. Booker wasn't to die or that would ruin everything anyway, and Louie couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. There were other things, but he had never been this close or intimate to another before and he brushed his nose over the bottle brush tail. Sure there was Magdalena but she had Nemesis as her den mate and he merely acted as a mentor. All his life, what little of it he had actually lived had been focused on himself. He was a one man act and there was nothing more to it. Born alone and die alone was something he took deeply to heart. They were rock people, they didn't have feelings, they didn't even exist as anything more than an embodiment of what was stuck on them, protruding for most but internal for some. Could be used as a perfect analogy for ones personality.

Paw running over the peridot on his throat, he wondered if Booker had yet had a chance to perceive the world as it were. Obviously, he was young, and he knew how a gemlings ignorance to the world was often their eventual downfall. Not having the sense of danger and understanding meant they made stupid mistakes. But his paw drifted up to where his eye had previously been before it had boiled out of its socket and he cut off his train of thought. Lowering it to the ground, he looked away from the slowly breathing man into the back of the cave where dust was gathering on his things. Was this all there was to life or would they eventually come upon this realization they were more than just the rocks on their body. Was his personality set to only be one of bitterness and hate as had been almost predetermined from his birth? Since that fateful day within Polaris would he always harbour distrust for others and praise the strong and gifted over the weak?

Being philosophical often drove him to thoughts of inadequacy. That even if he did become supreme ruler of Origin cave would it really be worth anything? How would being able to command and dictate the actions of others make his own self esteem and self worth flourish. Sighing once again, though this time in pain, confusion and only dark thoughts, he gently nuzzled the numbat awake, his scowl once again setting in place as his character began to show through all his deep internal feelings, "Get up." Wanting to make sure he was even still alive, he cast out his White Sense, it relayed back the feeling of the many bacteria particles that made up a living creature, the warmth of his body letting them grow and flourish and he determined that yes, his prisoner was still alive. Another sigh of relief.

ooc; tagging you as well as Matt, Briar just to make sure that whatever I've recounted here is fine as to why Louie/Booker would be alone together? ;^; if anything is wrong shoot me a message and I'd be happy to change it

@Baratheon @Booker

Booker floated in between the waking world and that of his dreams - or, well, nightmares, as the case currently stood. He hadn't dared speak to Baratheon about just what this mess had done to the numbat's fragile progress since the bloodbath of only a few weeks ago, but he felt adrift, lost, unanchored. The bond had been his crutch, and now that it was shrivelling, poisoned by the disease that wormed its way through the scribe's bloodstream, sapping his strength and leaving him helpless, he was truly back to square one.

The memories the Mother had returned to him remained, but any hope of remembering the rest was gone, evident by the now constant flames licking at the edges of his opalescent mindspace. The floors and walls, the space around the bond, everything was charred and scorched by the fire, shrouded by fog.

Whenever he dropped into sleep, the memories came - the ones from the fire, leaving behind the foal he'd sworn to protect, the one who wouldn't have even been in Polaris if Booker hadn't found him, like a mark of bad luck, a warning, an omen - and threatened to swallow him whole. The tiny Gembound twitched in his sleep, wanting to break free, chained in place by the flashback. Images darted about behind his eyes, fast at first, but slowing down, until finally Booker found himself back in Monoceros for the first time, staring at a broken Baratheon with his heart in his throat.

The image shifted to the rampage, of seeing Delphine torn open, Magdalena defending her, telling him who had done this, his reply to her lies, it had to be a lie, finding Diot, the battle - the memories blurred together, one long reel of guilt, of feeling like he brought pain wherever he went. Perhaps this was his penance, his punishment, his purgatory; perhaps he needed to see what it was like on the other side of all of that pain.

The numbat awoke slowly, remembering being moved only in hazy phantom touches, frowning at the feel of a nose touching his tail. Booker's ears picked up from his head, trying to tilt towards whatever was so close, and thus when the demand came, he jumped, eyelid shooting up in surprise. The sight of Louie set his fur bristling, and a heavy mix of confusion, shame, anger and understanding broiled in his gut. What the fox had rought onto his brother couldn't be forgiven, not now, but he'd been... kind. Too kind, and Booker kept on edge, waiting for the moment where it would be revealed as a trick, a ploy to get him complacent, to draw out this torment even longer.

He didn't even know what he wanted, at this point - to be let go? He would certainly die anyway, considering how far the paralysis had progressed. For Baratheon to be free? Could he, tied to Booker like he was? Again, the temptation to sever the bond prickled at the scribe's brain. Was it selfish, to want the bond to stay, if only so he could lean on it for support?

Blinking up at Louie, the numbat raised his intact eyebrow, sending the fox a rather nauseated smirk. "'m up, jeeze." A racking cough caught him by surprise, and the next words were softer, panted out between breaths. "What... where... are we?"

After what had happened at the Merry Men meeting, he wasn't feeling too flash to begin with and now everything felt pretty heavy on his back. Having roused the boy awake, he wasn't entirely sure why he had done it and he merely stared down with his disfigured face, his lips pressed into a firm line. Disorientated about where he was, he growled harshly, "Merry Men idiot. You were brought here with Baratheon after I had infected you." If he had to recap Booker's life up to this point he would be plum out of luck. Not entirely sure what numbats ate, as he had never seen one before, he hadn't bothered to collect him any food as that seemed a waste if he got the wrong thing.

"If you want to eat then get up. That was why I was doing it after all." That and he wanted company so he wouldn't let his thoughts become too dark. Too brooding on why they existed and all that. Feeling unusually queasy, he got up and moved away to where he had been staring and brushed aside all the dust that had covered his things. Not much of it was useful, rocks and fungus he had collected along with newly made glass bowls to keep small amounts of liquid in. Using his paw, he began to smear away the thick layer of dust. Each swipe and he found himself growing more enraged at himself as he slashed the dust and particles 'apart'. Everything was coming to head like that one pimple that you just couldn't seem to get rid of. A manic look crossed his face as glass began to smash as he became all too violent with his brisk movements and the fragments managed to scatter everywhere.

Not able to control himself, he was forced to stop as he pulled back with his paw embedded with small glass particles. Physically shaking, he did begin to think what it was all worth. There was no ending he could foresee that would actually mean anything. A legacy was worth nothing if there was no advancement on it. Besides, how could he leave behind a legacy in a world that didn't even know his name outside of Merry Men. They were his only legacy and they hated him now for a decision he felt would leave a legacy. Always he had kidded himself that he was the most powerful. But he was nothing if he couldn't take the life of another. He couldn't kill a gembound. He hadn't killed a gembound. He was worthless. A worthless lesser gembound that wasn't fit to eat the mud off the floor.

In order to prove himself, he would have to kill. Playing with the idea was at least three steps below actually doing it. All he needed to do was sack up and do it. Wheeling around, the remaining eye appeared wet, but in an instant he blinked it away and went to speak to the numbat. Words tried to form, but they became jarbled as he tried to speak them and he had to collect himself. Breathing deeply, he wasn't sure why he was feeling this way. All of the sudden the entire den felt too small and he flattened his ears. The walls were closing in on him, he could just feel it. Everything would collapse on top of him and it was because he wasn't doing what he was supposed to. Screeching, he cried, "I WILL DO IT DON'T RUSH ME."

@Booker

Booker stared for a moment, two, before raising an eyebrow, scoffing. "Y-yeah, I got that part," he muttered. It seemed the fox had taken him somewhere different, but he didn't seem too willing to tell. Just another way to disorient the numbat, Booker supposed. At the mention of food, however, the scribe lost his mocking expression, eye widening, stomach rumbling ominously. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten - a day? Two? Enough to make it feel like his guts were digesting themselves, that was sure. "Eat? R-really?" The tiny Gembound eyed Louie curiously, head tilting. It seemed odd, that his captor would offer him food now, only after they'd moved somewhere more secluded. Then again, if the fox wanted to kill him, he'd certainly be more direct than poisoning whatever he thought Booker ate.

"I could... go for food," he offered, hesitant, utterly baffled by Louie and the inner workings of his mind. One moment he was snapping, angry, resentful, the next, gentle and confused. It was messing with Booker's mind, how he read situations - he couldn't find a pattern, nothing to help him prepare for the next time the fox would spin out of control. The whole thing carried the same tense fear that dealing with a rampaging Baratheon - but there was no love lost, here. No; strange feelings aside, perhaps caused by his continued exposure to and control by Louie, Booker had no relationship to lose with Louie. He only stayed complacent because... well, because of his brother. If Baratheon was killed, or hurt, or forced to hurt others because Booker talked back, stepped out of line - it would be the end of them both.

The scribe watched, uneasy, as his captor turned, moving to the edges of the... den? Room? Hovel? To dust off whatever he found valuable, Booker supposed. In fact, glancing about the place, it reminded the numbat of his own Polaris home, in its prime, glowing gently with crystalline light. Lost in the memory, the sharp crash of glass breaking snapped him out of the daze, flinching back, fur puffing up unconsciously, tail on end. Peering up at the fox, Booker winced at the glint of glass shards stuck deep into his captor's pawpad. He almost wanted to feel happy, glad that Louie was feeling some modicum of pain, but he wasn't that petty. No, what flooded Booker was not cruel joy, nor empathy - it was fear. A hurt predator was an angry predator, and the numbat tensed, ears flat, gaze pinned to the fox.

When Louie wheeled about, Booker scooted back, squeaking, whiskers trembling. The fox appeared upset, but maybe that was the pain? He seemed to try to speak, but it came out slurred and gravelly, incomprehensible, and Booker breathed in deep, slowly leaning forward. This could be his chance, his chance to reason with his captor, to come to some sort of peaceful conclusion to this whole mess - but the screech caught him off guard, and the tiny Gembound startled backwards, eye widening, paws digging into the ground. "W-what?" The reply was small, shrill, and wavering. "D-do what? Please, please d-don't hurt me a-anymore," the scribe pleaded, pelt on end, the room spinning as adrenaline rushed in his veins. "I-I don't, I... y-your paw, yes, I-I could h-help," he rushed to add, pointing a trembling claw at the injured limb. Indeed, his tiny, deft paws might be able to remove the glass, but it was mostly a bartering method: safety, for the moment, for caretaking.

Panicked and in pain, confused and angry, he just glared Booker down with a sightless eye as his brain basically fritzed out. Not comfortable being within the closing walls, he shuffled towards the entrance before tripping over himself and his pots and landing on the ground beside Booker rather ungracefully. Attempting to remedy the situation with hallucinate would be an idiot move so instead he just lay where he had fallen, his paw bleeding gently at the small shards that had found there way into his pad. Realization sank in that he was actually hurt and he whimpered pitifully. Covered in dust, he sneezed, ears still laying flat as the walls would surely close in and crush him.

Booker began to speak shakily, he was entirely frightened of him and that gave him the energy to snort in amusement once before he went back to his thoughts of hopelessness. "Do it." It wasn't forceful, it was more a plea for help but he kept the sentence short and snappy to show he didn't want to fuck around. Paws outstretched in front of him so Booker could get to them easily, he spoke more to himself than the boy as he continued to battle with his feelings of self-hate and the stringent moral code that made up his base personality, "We are worth nothing. There is nothing to strive for other than greatness but what after that." What came after being king of Origin cave? It didn't mean anything. It was only a fleeting moment of glory.

Continuing to stare at the ground, he scowled, he hadn't really stopped scowling but his eye watered and he found himself taking shallow breaths. "Even if I was king, what does that mean. It means nothing. Everything means nothing. So by that, our lives are worth nothing. The lives of others are worth nothing. So I make myself something by erasing the nothing that other people are living." Almost inaudible, he sniffled as he let Booker work. "Doesn't make sense does it... But we are all nothings, nobodies." Babbling, he rest his head between his front paws and closed his one eye. Not too concerned over Booker as it wasn't like he was equipped with anything to kill him.

psychotic Louie rant, I get that it makes no sense but I don't know ;^; that's how Louie feels and I don't know how to put it into other words help

@Booker

Booker winced as Louie crashed towards him, the fox flopping down beside him like a deflated balloon. The scribe sucked in a breath, letting it out with an eery whistle - as it was wont to do, considering his lungs were taking a beating. "Doin' it," he rushed to mumble, scooting towards the offered paw nervously, finally reaching it only to pull the limb closer, ducking down to peer at the glass embedded within the fox's pawpad with his usual intensity when it came to such endeavors.

The tiny Gembound listened, long, rounded ears pitched forward, as he slowly worked a piece of the glass free, laying it beside himself and turning back to the next. There were at least twenty of the brittle, needle-sharp segments digging into the flesh, and the scribe set to work, holding off on speech to wait for the angry, defeated tirade spilling from Louie's mouth to be over.

Ever so slowly, the flood of words trickled to a stop, and the den was filled with only their breath and the soft clink of more blood-stained glass being added to Booker's pile. Minutes ticked by, until finally the scribe sighed, raising a paw and licking it before pressing it to a sluggishly bleeding wound. "That's a pretty bleak out-look ya got there," he offered, voice hushed and gentle.

The allusion to Louie having killed - or at least planning to kill - sent a sickly trickle of cold up the numbat's spine, but underneath it all ran a well of... not pity. No, this was too messy to be pity. Empathy, perhaps. When the fox let go of his megalomania, all Booker saw was a man whose life had spun wildly out of control. "I cain't tell ya what to think. But thinkin' like that... it ain't good, not for long. Might get ya through for a while, keep ya goin' outta spite. But after that, it'll start eatin' at ya. Make ya second-guess yerself." He sighed, pausing to pull another shard of glass free, stopping the immediate stream of blood with a freshly groomed paw.

"I... I dunno why ya did what ya did. But I know that thinkin' of yourself, of everyone, as havin' no purpose, you'll end up a shell." The words were soft and solemn, but Booker spoke them staring straight at the fox's closed eye. They were similar, in a way; he could imagine becoming someone like this, with these thoughts buzzing about his head. Perhaps if he'd been taken in by Magdalena that fateful day, he would've wasted away to a husk, questioning everything and everyone.

The numbat huffed, turning back to his work, pile slowly growing into a mound of glittering glass shards, weapons to something as small as himself. He didn't feel the need to escape, now, however. Now he only felt needed. "It's my fault my little brother, my daughter, and my son are dead." The words were cold, frank, pointed and purposeful. "But if I focused on that, well, I'da let ya kill me in Eridanus. Instead, I made my own purpose. To protect Baratheon..." A cough from overuse of his voice, and Booker glanced back to Louie, eyeing him with nothing but a kind of gentle understanding. "And to be useful. Be kind. To help. If there's anythin' in shortage in this world, it's mercy."