ORIGIN

Black was recovering, albeit not well. It still ached when he limped from place to place; the wounds in his flesh were still scabbing over.

The tending given to him by the bird and the lioness had eased the pain, somewhat, and certainly made the healing process faster; Makyna's cleaning of his wounds had likely prevented otherwise-certain infection. Still, the dragonfire wounds burned from time to time, and he simply felt, overall, tired.

He and Fisher had remained relatively close to Polaris. This was for a number of reasons, but primary in Black's own mind was, well, egg-sitting. He was picking his way now over the broken rubble of Polaris's cave floor, sniffing along in search of--ahh, there it was. Just past that shallow bowl that Raheerah had torn from the rock in his struggles lay a white gem, iridescent and glimmering: a tiny moonstone chrysalis.

When Black had "planted" it, it had been utterly miniscule: only a portion of a crow's talon. Now it had swelled to perhaps the size of a chicken's egg--ridiculously fast, given the time frame--and he found himself drawn back to it, time and time again.

His primary objectives were to protect Fisher, and to follow--no, to keep tabs on--the buzzing of Nemean. Aquarian had told him not to pursue--he had to remember that, now.

But secondary to these, he now had a third: to protect this egg, as well. He slid down to his chest, nosing it gently, ears pricked up--but as always, it didn't move. The mastiff laid his head on his paws, watching the crystalline lights of Polaris dance over its surface.

It was beautiful, he thought, with a gentle sigh through his nose. And it was an odd feeling: he knew that the tiny bit of rock had been vaguely alive, when he'd pressed his paw over it. But he also knew that he'd felt his own life force surge into it, and felt it spring into true being only then.

Whatever was in this stone, it was part of him--the white, to his black; the shimmering light to his void-swallowed darkness.

He was fascinated. As much as he did look after Fisher, nosing him over and constantly licking his wounds, still he returned to the chrysalis--and watched it.

He marveled that it half him, though he remembered now and again that the crow had given him her stone to begin with; would it be a crow, then, within? Whatever the case, he would wait, and watch, and guard the stone, until at last it hatched.

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"Fallah," the dog said, quickly standing at hearing her voice. He padded over, tail immediately wagging, and snuffled over her in greeting. After a brief lick to her head he turned, sitting beside the stone--but his attention seemed to be on her, and not the egg. Perhaps it hadn't occurred to him to explain it.

"How are you? Are you recovering? Are you still wounded?"

His eyes worked over her body, looking for wounds, for blood, for scars. His face was one both of joy at seeing his friend, and concern over his condition, and it was easier to read than the simplest of picture books.

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Black peered up at Fallah, tilting his head so that his pendulous ears hang rather humorously.

"I am wounded. I believe I will recover. The stone--a creature of light left it. Yet she was black. The dog has placed magic into it. Perhaps life. It grows; I will guard it." He paused, briefly, then added, "I know not what is inside."

He shuffled to curl around the stone, simply lying there--his wounds were still visible, some still open, though most appeared clean. His eyes raised to the Spire, and he tilted his head once more before nodding it at the Spire's towering pale blue crystals in the distance.

"Do you know what the stone is for?" he asked.

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The dog gazed off at the Spire, contemplating Fallah's words. The idea that the cave itself was a vast living thing, a Gembound on its own, was interesting to him; could it be a creature of rock? Could the caves be its organs, the tunnels, its veins? Perhaps this gem was its heart?

He looked to Fallah again, and tilted his head.

"Perhaps it is. I do not know, but it is a thing to contemplate." For a moment he was silent again, eyeing her.

"Do your wounds require tending?" he tried, unsure if Fallah saying she was all right equalled healed. He doubted it, not this fast. "I can help to clean them, if needed. And no--the thing in the stone was not destroyed; she merely broke it off, and then left."

He was silent again, before adding a curious question, head tilting slightly to one side.

"What is your purpose?"

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The black dog first nodded, agreeing to the cleansing; then he listened, silent, as Fallah spoke. He contemplated each of her words carefully, weighing their meaning. He strung them together and wove them into coherent thought, and then disassembled them again, pondering over them, considering them from every angle.

Was it chance? Or was it fate? Was there such a thing?

Why was he linked to them, to Fisher? That was an easy answer: because he had chosen to be. He had first continued on his own, and then sought Fisher, sought Mau, Fallah. It had partly been coincidence, but the caves could not be all that large.

As to his purpose... That had been it. To seek the buzzing; to protect the others. To find Nemean; to protect Fisher. He had been warned that Nemean would seek to trick them all again, and the thought ran randomly through his mind now. Perhaps Fallah had not found her purpose. Or perhaps she had none, or had not chosen one. Was his preordained? He had assumed so, but what if he had chosen it?

But then... what was one, without purpose? Everything one did was purpose. To sleep, rest; to eat, to drink. To aid others, to learn. All was purpose. And he--he had been awoken for a reason. He felt it--he felt the way it clawed at him, at his blackness--his darkness, as Fallah said. It pulled it from him. He had seen glimpses of it, in the cave. Had seen memories of inkshadow creatures gibbering as they carved the images on the tunnel walls. Had seen the lashing of void as it cackled and cheered on the throne of Orion, swelling and spilling into the caves.

It called to him. He was not an emotional being like Fallah who sought meaning and simply to survive. But how could he describe this...?

He lifted his head from his paws, gazing down at the lynx that lay just beyond, and spoke--as always--simply, if perhaps unhelpfully.

"I am purpose," he said.

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