ORIGIN

Yet again, he found that he was bitterly reminiscing of the halycon days of youth. A time when he simply knew only Beast because he was the sharp-toothed monster lurking within the shadowed reverie. Even after—21 cycles, was it? He had stopped counting in the lull—all this time, he still found ichorous threads manifesting at mere whim. Fervently, he tried to cast his light out, a familiar warmth to dispel the darkness lurking in his breast. It barely flew from the pole, fireline lazily bobbing in the wind as it was thrown. Nonetheless, it was something. In age, he still hadn't improved in casting his gentle glow. How could he, without his gracious teacher? Mercurius felt the magicka drain about his paws, wasted as it dissipated into the woodwork. He traced only its eager search for its source, the Spire. Then, it faded entirely.

Leaving him cold, tired, alone.

Mercurius sighed, laconically eying the matrices of the starlit vault's gates. Without keeping its bastards from swarming, it managed to stay pristine as ever. Only a modicum of dust had settled within its eloquent curves. Seeking residence in nooks and crannies invisible to the naked eye. Almost as if it had only been a few cycles since he last found a will and a way to Orion. The stars and the garden threatened him. He did not want to find himself with celestial lights in his eyes or plants placing chaste kisses at his hocks. Yet, here he stood, fondling the fine line between the sheer cliff and jagged precipices looming below. It paralyzed him, leaving him a porcelain statue with shoulders drawn up and paw outstretched. Was it too early?

The reverie, deathly pools of nothing but acrid-smelling pitch, was choking him. He forgot to breathe, lungs suffocating beneath the spindly fingers of the past rushing to meet him. A welcome deviation from the reminisence—something real, he realized—broke the tar pits. They melted into frigid waters, snapping him awake in momentous seconds. Mercurius turned abruptly, neck protesting softly in the swift motion. Eyes caught like a deer in hea—no, not that. Eyebrows quirked for a moment, he put his hovering paw down gently. Adjusting himself to face the stranger, an ear flicked amicably. "Hello," fellow Sharp-tooth, he would've demanded he say, "a wanderer, Mercurius, I suppose." One would think they'd be far more confident in his name. It was unfamiliar to him. Not derogatory. In a vote of confidence, he tried to muster his glow once more.

"How about you?" Plopping down onto sore haunches, he hissed a soft sigh at the current of pain shooting upwards. His tail flicked awkwardly into place, wrapped tightly about his pristine white paws for the briefest moment. It relaxed into a lazy loop, barely grazing sheathed claws. Cycles after her, he still found storytelling to be a distraction from the troubles of simply existing. Eyes traced the jacinth stone adorning his shoulder, a pauldron in the shape of the familiar Spire. "I can see the age on your stone," he murmured softly, "what's your story?" It wasn't often he found the original few generations, plentiful as they had been. The caves had a funny way of making them disappear. Almost as if they swallowed them where they stood without retribution. It was the best he could do to assauge the rising loneliness he felt without 'ancient' folk to commiserate with.

With a flick of the metaphorical wrist, his glowing aura was sustained. No need to let himself go dim, not like her. Visibly, he relaxed, confidence quelling the insecurity in his voice to come. "Zevruu," he offered gently, murmuring the name to remember it. He's been forgetting names and faces lately. Perhaps it was that lack of stimulation and interaction striking yet again. He had yet to see anyone familiar, he demurred. It had been too long since then.

The uncertainty in the serval's voice as he told his story told it all. Ashamed of the normalcy he had led. "I'm certain it's far more eventful than you're saying it is," Mercurius mumured offhandedly—a name in the stranger's story stuck out. A pinprick of light against the black. "Do you remember the stag?" In that time—by the Spire was he shaking—he hadn't seen any others like him (save for Bartos and his children.) Nothing but a festering nest of bastards seeking to dull the fangs of others unlike them. Thinking about it made him nauseous, but he absolutely had to know. He had had long enough to lick those wounds and let them scar over. Knowledge—for the stories—was more important. How far had the reign stretched? Was he dead? He hadn't been around to see him burn.

Bile rose in his throat.

Mercurius should have found affirmation in those hushed words. Hehad been dead and gone or stranger had stayed far from Orion. Instead, he found subtle anxiety clawing up his ribcage, writhing beneath his skin. It took him a moment to realize if was his heart, beating out of rhythm, out of time. Pounding against its cage. Crying out to be free. "It's alright—rather, it's best if you didn't remember a stag," he murmured through the din in his chest. Trying to quell his rapidly beating heart, he focused on the light.

Unfortunately, the caves would not have it.

Abruptly, the glow receded. Dazzling light cut sharply, a sickening crack! resounding from twin peaks. Unsheathed claws reached up for his head, grazing the white-hot surface briefly. It was as he drew his paws down and found them only slightly shadowed at he edged fearfully towards one of the lightbulbs on the wall. "S-sorry," he almost whinnied. He tried to still his rapidly beating heart. It was a resounding not-success.

At first, the light had been subtle, a lantern conjured seemingly out of nothingness. It only brightened a little with more effort, but Mercurius could not be happier to find another denizen of the light. He couldn't be more afraid—not only could they create light, but they could take it away. Even knowing this, Mercurius fervently clung to the orb, following it as it ebbed about. "Thank you," he murmured, reaching out to the orb to pull it closer to himself. Then, with a sigh, he admitted to his fault, "I'm terrified of the darkness—I usually wouldn't tell a stranger this."

He took a moment, recuperating his magicka. He just had to focus more and improve. Improvement came with honed focus. But for now, for this miniscule gift, he'd have to make an offer. Mercurius lifted his head from the little firefly, gazing into golden eyes. "Would you like to hear a story? It's a gift, however pathetic it is, in return for giving me light."