ORIGIN

Loose stones shifted underfoot as the tiny hatchling crept toward the water's edge.

Something burned within his belly. He wasn't sure what it was, but it ached and it was unpleasant. This cave--bar a few predators who would eat him as soon as look at him--seemed empty. Cold. The newborn dragon had no idea what to do--what he was meant to do. His thoughts were animalistic and simple: he knew that the shimmer of sparkling sunlight over the waters brought him contentment, but that the darkness beneath brought him fear.

Staying out in the open, too--alone and small as he knew himself to be--brought him fear. After his encounter with the massive serpent--for whom he checked every shadowed corner, and of whom he thought whenever the burn wounds and fresh punctures ached--he was afraid, cautious. So the darkened corners, too, brought him fear, and he didn't know where to go. Were he a natural beast, perhaps he'd have had parents looking after him, siblings to spar with--but he wasn't. He'd fallen out of a rock in the wall, and he was utterly alone.

Now, avoiding both the dark recesses of Fornax and its wider areas, he'd settled to perching between two boulders and quietly watching the reflections of light dancing over water. Its refracted lines, in turn, illuminated the little dragon's leathery hide in shifting shimmers, sometimes briefly flashing over his ember-colored eyes and making them seem to glow. Tiny horns shone in the faint light from above, and his leathery wings looked all the darker as a result.

As he sat, and watched the water, he noticed something shimmer beneath the surface. It was small, and brief, a silvery glimmer in the darkness below. Dread froze, then slowly crept back a few inches, fearful; but the thing came again, and he saw that it was very small indeed.

There was another, and another, and soon he had crept forward again and was watching in rapt fascination. They were a dozen tiny silvery things, flitting to and fro beneath the black. He didn't know what a fish was--nor that they were feeding just below the surface--but, curious, he eventually moved right to the water's edge to peer down.

His tiny horned snout touched the surface, and for a moment he was shocked by its cold and wet, scrambling back a few paces--and the silver things vanished at the movement. He waited, frozen, but nothing else happened--the cold wet didn't erupt upward and chase him, and nothing lurched from the darkness to suck him down.

Dread leaned forward again, again cautiously touching the water--and this time instinct took him, and quietly, he began to drink.

He thought of them, at first--when they returned--as friends, in a sense. He wasn't a particularly sentimental creature, nor would he ever be, but the fish were his first and only companions.

For a time he simply sat, having drunk his fill, at the water's edge--staring down at them with, again, a wholly fascinated gaze. Their little flicks, the flashes of light that played over their silver bodies--it kept his attention in a way that was instinctive to him. Like a cat--like any predator--the tiny lithe movements of prey drew him.

It went from "friends" to something darker and more intense quickly. He had urges--urges to leap in among them, to splash, to grab one. He wasn't sure what he intended to do after that--he didn't think, not in the normal sense. He was newborn, and alone, and instinct alone drove him.

His first attempt was, in a word, catastrophic. He plunged suddenly, abruptly, pouncing catlike with both wing-arms--but he lost his balance from the shore, tumbling into the cold dark, terror flooding him as the icy waters closed over his head. Frantically batting his winged limbs, finding that they only weighed him down, he turned back--only to find that the shore, with its loose stones and steep incline, was nearly impossible to regain.

It was only with the adrenaline born of panic that he managed to half-jump, half-claw his way back up, wide-eyed and squeaking in fear.

Behind him, the fish had fled.

The hatchling made his way quickly away, shivering cold, from the water. He did so in leaps and bounds, the pebbles shifting underfoot and leaving him stumbling; he shook the water from his scales, licking droplets from his lips.

A half-baleful, half-afraid glance over his shoulder toward the water, and then he picked his way further onto the island.

The water wasn't even as icy as he'd thought--it was almost warm, really, in retrospect--but the shock of it had terrified him. He tilted his head skyward, blinking toward the distant pinpricks of light high above, and then looked around. There were patches where it hit the ground--and instinctively he moved into one, spreading his wings and spreading his neck out forward, basking. It felt good. Warm. Dry.

Quiet, he lay there for quite some time, merely drying himself and warming. He'd found, very quickly, that he hated water. The burning in his stomach had only gotten worse, too.

What was a tiny dragon to do?

Exhausted by the stress of the day, he slowly drifted off, ember eyes slipping shut. When he again woke, the distant pinpricks of light and the orbs of the cave had dimmed, leaving him in near-dark--and in cold. He shook himself again, but now he was dry, and looked around.

The darkness brought with it a new fear, and he drew his wings in close against his body, huddled silent; his former fear of what might lurk in the dark was now... everywhere. Trembling, tiny and alone in the dark, he hunkered down.

Nothing happened.

He waited, silent and afraid; and still, nothing happened.

An hour or more passed with the hatchling huddled in silence, and at length, the quiet flick-splash of something small at the water's edge drew his curiosity. Slowly, catlike, he crept all the way back--and now the warmth of the water was welcome, or at least the warmth of remaining by its side.

He'd been laying there for quite some time when the silver flashes--much dimmer in the low light--again caught his eye. Quiet, he lifted his tiny reptilian head from where it had been resting on his wing-limbs, and peered.

Something drew him to them, and the same something told him that the burning in his belly might be sated if only he could snag one. But how? He certainly didn't want to fall in again. The terror of that memory was fresh in his mind, and even his sharp and gnawing hunger could not compare.

He felt a roil in his gut, and felt the flutter of magic. Instinctively he retched a little, as if trying to burp up extra air--but no belch came. Instead a shimmering flash of super-heated air burst from his tiny jaws--there then gone, in a blink--and sent him skittering back a few startled paces.

What had that been?!

With a quiet, gurgling hiss, high-pitched, the little dragon crept backward a few paces.

Could he do that again..?

He scurred back a pace.

Squeaked.

Took a breath, and another, inhaling deeply, feeling a tiny tingle in his gut at the fluctuating magic within his body.

...Turned... and eyed the fish in the water below.

Ember eyes glittering with interest, he raised his tiny wing-arms, and flapped them, exhaling sharply toward the silver shapes below. The shimmering-hot air billowed down, impacting the water with a searing hiss. The fish were frantic--they splashed and scattered, a few left flicking their tails weakly near the surface, stunned.

Dread stared down, tiny eyes bright, then quickly scurred to the shore. He couldn't just dive in again, no--he didn't want to once again be lost floundering in the water, drowning in the dark. Carefully, Dread edged to the shoreline.

There were three fish--three left behind, stunned, flailing and swimming erratic, sharp circles as they struggled, trying and failing to find the way away from the sudden burst of heat. He'd have to be very, very cautious, and try to snag one up.

Luckily for him, his activities hadn't drawn the attention of anything larger; a tiny creature focused on loud hunting was easy prey.

The dragonling peered over the three fish, and his gaze locked on the closest, the center one. With a sharp downward lunge, he aimed to snap the silver-thing up in his jaws.

Water roiled around his head for a brief instant, and he felt something wriggling and strongly muscular in his tiny, thorn-fanged jaws; as he tried to pull back it thrashed, and it was strong enough and he was small enough that he quickly fell in a second time.

Instinct kept his little mouth locked firmly shut but again panic struck him as he felt water engulf him entirely; this time his thrashing and flailing as he tried to retake shore had the added trouble of carrying a heavy prey creature in his jaws.

But determined ferocity kept his wriggling prey captured--if barely; as he scrambled back up onto the loose wet stones, it nearly thrashed its way free. A quick readjustment and stronger bite and he had it on shore, and--once more driven by instinct--the hatchling dragged the fish farther away from the water.

He set it down and clawed at it, thrashing it and slapping it against the stones until at last it went still. It was scaly and cold, with a strange taste--he'd never tasted anything, let alone fish--and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. But again, instinct drove him, and he tore at the weakly-twitching creature until it began to bleed.

This taste, he knew: the taste of blood, and flesh, an ancestral memory that drove the burning hunger in his belly to a roaring pitch. He tore pieces away and lifted his head back, gulping them down bit by bit, feeling that fire gradually diminish. Pieces, and bone, and fin--and soon the entire thing was gone, and the dragon was left sniffing and licking over the blood-spattered rock, looking for more.

When at length there were no more food-tasting smears left to eat, Dread looked around. He was wet again, and a little cold, and it was still dark.

Quiet, he picked his way back over the rock to the crevice in which he'd been hatched, using his wing-arms to crawl back up. Once safely nestled in its close darkness, he shut his eyes--feeling content for the first time since his hatching--and quickly fell asleep.

When he again opened his fire-colored eyes, Dread found the cave bright once more. Quiet and content he lay and he listened; he could hear only the gentle sound of water lapping at the shore.

Gradual, cautious, he crawled his way within sight of the lip of the crevice, and peered out. The ground, with its damp, loose stones, lay empty. Flashes of shimmering light danced over the dark water. Beyond, in the distance--far over the vast distances of the lake--he could see the shifting green of vegetation.

Danger. He knew instinctively that larger predators might lurk there--big things in the ferns and vines.

Still, nothing was visible here, not for now, and the hatchling crawled to the edge and half-hung out. He scanned left and right, up and down, but upon still seeing nothing, he spread his wing-arms and leapt, gliding down to land in a little tumble among the loose stones.

Some part of him wanted to go further, however. To glide further. To glide up. He turned, and hopped up toward his little niche in the wall again; he scrambled up, and then glided down once more.

What fun this was! He loved the sense of air billowing up, supporting his thin, leathery wings, loved the feeling of the skin spreading as it caught air, of his finger-bones reaching and guiding him.

With the oblivious playfulness of youth, the baby dragon--alone in the vast area--began to race to and fro on the loose rocks. He moved with the clumsiness of the very young, often stumbling, falling on his side, or skidding a bit too far, but he quickly began to gain better control over his movements. With a quiet squeak he clambered up into his niche again--and higher, and leapt, beating his tiny wings as he glided.

He didn't go up, though--he didn't even glide that well, instead tumbling partly to one side, skidding into the stone. He squeaked, and pulled himself upright, shaking himself. He then looked around; he was relatively well-fed from last night, and hydrated. He was rested. He needed, for now, for nothing; yet he found himself looking for something to do, something with which to occupy himself.

As it turned out, the thing to distract him was his own tail.

He'd never really noticed it before--he was only a few days old, after all--and now he did. It was trailing along behind him, neatly-balanced in the air, stiff and flexible; the spear-like tip looked black and shiny.

He began to leap in a clumsy circle, pouncing for it, his winged forelimbs nearly dropping him a few times. When abruptly he caught it in his teeth, he let out a pained little shriek and immediately let go--his tail was hard as rock, and sharp!

He danced quickly away, as if trying to escape it, then fled a few steps, the taste of blood painful in his mouth. He turned and stared as the offending limb gave chase, and fled farther, and faster, racing for the safety of his cave niche.

He realized that he felt pain in two places--his mouth, and his--well, tail. Something about it ached, made his head ache and made his stomach turn. Once he'd scrabbled into the dark safety of his own little den, he turned and sat on the thick base of his tail and stared at the pointy bit.

Cautious, he nosed over it, ignoring the few drops of blood that trickled and fell from his jaws, where he'd cut himself with its blade. It still hurt, and he quickly found which were the sharp bits, and which weren't. Carefully, slowly, he lowered himself over it, protecting the bit that throbbed with pain, hunched over his own tail. He rested his chin on it and closed his eyes, squeaking a soft sound of pain into the darkness.

He couldn't let his tail get hurt--and he couldn't bite it.

Two important lessons learned.

Dread spent some of the morning lying lazily at the mouth of his safe little niche, watching the insects fly by. They drew his interest, and as the fire in his belly again began to burn at him, his hunger.

Eventually, he raised himself up and stretched, yawning his tiny needle-fanged mouth wide; he batted his wings as best he could in the narrow space, and then launched outward with a scrabbling leap of his hind limbs. Razor-tipped tail ruddered behind him for balance, and he glided for one of the insects as it passed.

The first, he missed. And the second, and the third. Each time, he clambered back up to the niche and waited for them to return--they seemed to come and go in numbers over the water. He wasn't impatient, nor did he get frustrated; he just kept trying, each time his snapping jaws missing barely--or quite a lot--as the mosquitoes and dragonflies and other, more alien things zipped just out of reach.

When at last his teeth snapped shut over a crunchy, gooey bug, satisfaction thrilled through him. His third eyelids flicked back and he gulped the thing down, silencing its buzzing and sating the burning in his stomach, for now.

He kept on for awhile after, though--just because he had little better to do--practicing his gliding, and his snagging of various insects. Soon enough, he'd be able to keep himself well-fed--though he'd outgrow bugs relatively quickly, at least.

When he tired himself out, he rested. When he grew thirsty, he glided down to drink. Then he went back to gliding from the cave walls and snatching bugs on the wing.

Instinct still had him flapping his wings--oversized, billowing things that carried his tiny, lizard-like body along between them. Gaining altitude was difficult, at first, but he soon found that by beating his little, muscled forelimbs, he could hold his place in the air for just a moment--he could hover.

It started off by gliding just a moment longer, but soon he could rise from the glide to snatch a dragonfly that tried to evade him skyward.

It was a bobbing, inefficient flight, for now--barely able to hold his place in the air for a few moments--but it was enough. Though he was clumsy, he began to learn how to move a wing just right to shift direction, to drop, to rise. The muscles were still weak and underdeveloped, and it hardly helped him much for now, but it meant he could escape a ground-predator at the very least... providing he began somewhere he could glide. He hasn't yet managed, nor even thought to try, lifting off from the ground. Instead, if he wanted to fly, he'd clamber up the cave walls and leap, spreading leathery little wings and catching Fornax's warm air.

For the first time, instead of afraid, he felt powerful.

Strong.

He was on the wing, and the only other things around were the bugs, that he could see. He was the predator, now.

...If very, very small.

His forelimbs trembled with weariness after only a few moments of flight, each time, and the final time he landed before resting, he spread them, beat them, and let out his first, tiny roar.

"SQUEAK!"