ORIGIN

The red glow grew ever darker the longer it sustained around his horns and eye- and eye socket, blaring bright candy red like fire now, static crackling across his fur with the force of it. He didn't stop moving. He swerved side to side, pacing like a caged tiger, leaving a trail of blood and as Azazel spoke, it only served to boil his blood hotter.

What had she done before the fight? What had she done before Kerberos had so brutally murdered her? She'd made a horrible sound. That wasn't her, though. The voice hadn't been any of the Bevy birds he'd met. This had been a new voice, a new personality. A new Bevy.

But they were dead now, and that didn't matter, did it? The only thing that mattered now was the pain. The pain, oh, how it charred his bones and twisted his skin, marring muscle and clenching teeth, like acid through his veins. He'd not realize its true source, the strain of his constant casting, that ever present glaring gleam across his pelt.

A new shape moved in the murky vision of the feral cat, and this set off an unfortunate chain reaction. Fury blind, Carcino panicked. That glow flared up again, but this time, black static danced wildly through its blinding light...

...and a split second later, deep crimson shards of quartz shot from the ground in random locations, like spikes that cracked the stone ground apart with their eruption. As the spikes launched up as high as three or four feet in places, the red and black effects spread through the floor like veins, ebbing and flaring in places where the shards shot up. He screamed as he cast, the pain hot like white fire in his chest, his skull.

"MY BEVY IS DEAD BECAUSE OF THAT THING! SHE DID NOTHING TO DESERVE THAT! SHE WAS INNOCENT! SHE WAS PERFECT!" He was bleeding from the mouth, nose and good eye now. A trickle even seeped from inside of his intact ear, staining the gray fur there. Atop his skull, his horns gleaming brighter in splintered lines- he was quite literally about to fall apart at the seams. It would appear as if nothing could end the fury, though with the rage mounting, his body covered in an increasingly darker red glow, he hardly even looked like he'd ever been that happy cat who'd left that morning with his family in tow, for what should've been a fabulously happy occasion.

Now he was desolate, fury embodied in the form of a cat, heart as shattered as his vision, as his precious Bevy's stone. Where was the point in calming down? He hurt too much for that.