ORIGIN

Once there was a story about falling, of dreaming, of taking and keeping - his story, once. He never wanted to be a devil, and yet that was what he had become before the end; the story was corrupted, but it wasn't over yet.

He had the memory of laughter in his head, but the distinct understanding that he didn't know what laughter was, not really. Not yet. He wasn't awake to laugh - there was no space here, in the stone. Wedged as he was. Twisted and confined. It was so tight he couldn't take a breath; the air was stale, had been stale, would always taste like the dust of the caves. But how did he know of the caves? The walls of his prison had formed days ago, an empty husk. And as he formed next, brewed and boiled, formed by the magicka imbibed through the stone, the memories drifted through his very essence.

Long arms reached up, out, flailing and stretching, nearly smacking the nearby face. Big dark eyes slid open, blinked, and then narrowed with a pained scrutiny towards the blurry light of the stones surrounding them both. Two eyes, many teeth. Big, big, there was something big below, The little creature rolled forwards, reaching for the claws with outstretched arms. When the creature managed to grasp the claws with its four-fingered hands - yes, the claws, the claws were so big, were they his? Were they real? Figments, fragments, and the thoughts drifted through him like a breath.

Jealousy; he could taste it on his tongue, it twisted his gut, but it was familiar. A long dark form shifted inside, behind the shell of the chrysalis, as if reacting to the ghost of a thought. Jealousy and the three eyed beast, a friend perhaps? And the teeth again, the claws, the warmth of fur, but the sensations didn't end. Yes, the jealousy was rooted within him too deeply. The creature stirred once more, and came to rest.

That boy, with his trinkets and stones. Hungry for the magic in the world - his world, it would have been - could still be.
Would be. But it wasn't time yet, his body wasn't ready.

The caves, they were different, as if preparing. Smoke filled the air and drifted between the rooms, seeping in to the stone; but it did not touch him. It did not reach him, but he could feel the heat as if it scorched him - no, he couldn't, that was impossible. The magicka, was it alive? The caves - he could sense their burning, hear their screaming through the walls, as the magicka poured through him.

He wakes, almost. Struggling against his own mind, kicking with his body - but legs would not move. Arms moved, hands clenched, unclenched, scraping against the walls of the shell around him. Frustration, anger, rage -- he boiled, pure vitriol, but it was not time; oh how he ached to be alive. The caves were waiting, they were wailing and he was growing impatient.

And there was pressure - his body buckled to it, crushed by a great weight -

A hairline fracture creased through the center of the stone carapace, and then another; it was as if the chrysalis itself was alive, pulsing, breathing. Then, it rested. There was a moment of stagnation, and the caves seemed to sit in shock of that which was coming - perhaps it was true, what the creature thought in its dreaming state, that the cave system had been heavy in preparation for its arrival - then there was another shock to the shell, a splintering sound and a drop, as a chunk of the stone gave way. It was not enough to free the beast. In fact, there is a spark, a flare of magicka where the stone has come undone, as if the energy giving the creature life was angry. As if even the chrysalis knew not to set this beast free.

Her magic reached out to him, and he could feel it. Like the tickle at the back of your throat when the weather changes. Not quite sickness, but not quite right either - and a pulse forced its way through the stone. Bevy's magic is cut off, left to fizzle out and die before any real answer can be granted. The spell was successful but, maybe it was Bevy's lack of true desire and intention that caused it to cease?

Or maybe the life within the stone was able to counter it, somehow.

The subtle shift of colors within the stone appeared to cease, as if overwhelmed by the darkness inside. While Bevy was sitting in wait, terrified and alone, the stillness of Pisces reached out to her - and to the creature in its shell. For a minute or so there is nothing. No sound, no light emanating from the strange stone heart, nothing.

And then a muffled thump, the sound of claws against a plate of glass. A shard of stone broke free and crumbled, followed by another, and then a fissure seemed to open up across the surface - dropping away and leaving a gap.

The darkness inside the chrysalis seemed unreal; and there was a shifting inside of it, like the shadows themselves wished to flee for their own safety. A drip of shadow drifted out of the shell and on to the cave floor, only to return itself - a foot? a hand? the claws catch the stone and grate upon it, and tendrils of stone peel away.

The hand returns and grasps the rock, sinks curved claws in to it without issue; the beast tugs, but something catches against the shell and the creature must fall back, temporarily defeated - but not long. Rage, so familiar and so tantalizing, erupts within the core of the beast. It feels a familiar pulse from its heart - then the creature forces its way out of the chasm of the chrysalis, ignoring the pain in its shoulders as they catch upon the stone this time, tearing itself out with a crunch, and the creature screams with too many voices --

The sound curdles the air. It is like a scream, high in pitch and volume, and a second voice, like a sharp intake of breath. The creature stumbles and flails, unsure on its feet, and collides with the ground - its shoulders sagging, its long hands tearing in to the ground and forming fists, the dirt collecting with every subtle movement. He manages to make his way out from Bevy's little hollow, hitting the dirt just outside. The beast inhales slowly, steadily, and tries to ease the rage from its heart - the pain, it is sharp, and it wakes him from the stupor of half-death; this is when the creature becomes aware. Not just of its pain, but of the strangeness of it all.

Yes, he could remember the arms and the legs. He could remember the teeth, the squeezing of his bones - it wasn't the same as this. He moves his shoulders, shrugs almost, and feels no pain at all - but then another motion, and the pain is there, and he is screaming, grinding his face against the dirt to muffle the sound of his many voices. Something braces him against the ground and with a shuffle - stupefied - the creature rises upon its long legs, holding himself up with two - three? four arms - but the longer he sat the more it hurt, the more he wanted to cry out. The creature sets its monkey-grin in to a grimace to stop a strangled cry, staggering one step, then another.

He has too many arms. Too many limbs - this was wrong - he was wrong - why did it hurt so much?

The beast roared, his dark eyes shining like great pits of deep ink, and he stood up. One long arm holds his body upright, the other sags against his chest, and the broken secondary arms - they simply sit there uselessly. He turns his head and stares in to the dark of the caves, but sees nothing. He takes another breath, reaches up with one arm and then the other, and grabs at one of the sagging, useless limbs.

Without another sound, the beast pulls. The crack of bone resounds through the caves, and blood - blood finally begins to soak through the dark feather-like hair that grows across his skin. Chunks of flesh are pulled free and thrown to the ground. It hurts, of course it hurts, but soon enough the trauma overwhelms him - there is adrenaline pulsing through him like magic, and his rage is turned outward with the full intent to rend, to correct, to fix this mistake of nature; one wing is destroyed to near completion, and the beast falls backwards atop it, dizzy from the blood loss and not at all coherent.

He will be unmade, he decides. Unmade and redone, again, again, again, for this was not right. This - he - all of it was wrong.

The beast was so absorbed in its own agony that it did not see Bevy. Did not know that it had a witness - a mother - and continued to seeth.