ORIGIN

It wasn't often he strayed away from White, but whenever he did, it seemed the cow had a penchant for attracting trouble. He swore, she was just behind him - and then bam! It was just him. Him, the darkness, and the howl of Monoceros' tornado.

The lights had dimmed slightly in the onset of night hours, leading him to feel drowsy as per his natural sleep cycle. Unfortunately, all his wandering had led him to this cave - and now he felt too tired to turn around and trudge all the way back to some other, less noisy room. Maybe he could get away with sleeping here. Sure, all that noise was going to be a pain in the rear, but... if he was tired enough...

The cow stood and flicked his tail indecisively. Warm violet eyes skipped through the cliff faces and ledges in search of a safe hidey hole away from that ghastly wind. There, against one wall, he spotted a shallow inlet. He would have to stay at least somewhat visible if he hoped for White to find him, assuming she would come looking for him, but maybe he could sleep ass-out so that his head would be protected from the noise. Yeah. That sounded like a fabulous idea. It wasn't like there were any huge threats here. That he knew of. Those dirty Merrymen were gone. And he was big enough now that any hungry carnivores would have to second guess messing with him. He snorted, pleased with his decision, and strode toward the small aperture in the wall.

Caravaggio paused at the entrance and cocked his head, his curved horns pointing decisively into the darkness. He didn't like darkness so much. He scuffed his hoof, flaring his nostrils with another huff, and then stepped inside. It made his velveteen skin feel cold and clammy, but he would have suffered through it for the shelter. The silence.

Only it wasn't silent.

His ear twitched at the sound of a quiet chittering above his head. Caravaggio lifted his eyes just in time to see the roof of the small den churn and swell - and then a flock of bats erupted from their dozing blanket, screeching as they swarmed him. And with them came the rancid stench of sickness.

Caravaggio bugled with alarm, stumbling over his own feet as he attempted to flee the cave. Bats poured out all around him, some going so far as to attempt to nip or claw at him. He felt their tiny sharp bits prickling on his shoulders and back. The cow tossed his head in a feeble attempt to dispel them, but only managed to evade the bats after running a fair distance back to the entrance of the room. Once he no longer felt their meager assaults, he whirled around, wide-eyed, and watched the cloud undulate as the plague-infested bats took to the air above.

For a thing with wings, White sure did hate heights.

She had no idea how long she had been up on the ledge above Monoceros for. She'd spent the last while sitting around and making shinies for a less-than-sociable dragon, which was a lot more exhausting than one might imagine.

She would have left, if she had the confidence to try and fly down. It was hard enough trying to get up there and she didn't want to consider the consequences of getting a half-grown dragon angry by leaving.


So, instead, the hybrid napped. Caravaggio would, in her mind, be fine. And she could see about trying to drag some of the armour that Dread gave her towards him, to see if he could use any of it. She certainly couldn't-- and a particularly rusty chestplate made for, quite frankly, an awful pillow.

White had only just begun to drift off when shrieking, plague-ridden bats fluttered into the room below. With a groan, she picked herself back up and spent a moment stretching out her legs before she approached the ledge, looking down with bleary eyes.

It was dark, but the dim light showed the outline of a sea of bats shrieking into the air. Some idiot gembound must have startled them, because they seemed to be swarming something below. Angrily.

White's eyes half-shut as she watched a white shape pull away from the swarm. Wait. That was her idiot gembound.

"Uhhh," she offered magnificently to whoever was listening, not bothering to check if Dread was even still on his ledge. The hybrid hesitated, before she dove off the edge, pearly-white wings spreading as she glided unevenly down to the floor below.

She was careful not to go near the bats, in fear of getting herself hurt as well, so she stuck near the wall and landed with a low thump and a clatter of nails and talons.

Looking briefly from left to right (and up and down, just to be sure), White turned and moved off towards Caravaggio. "Did you get hurt?" She asked with some concern, voice quiet. "Where have you been?"

Dread peered at the distant lowing, and lifted his head from his blade-edged tail as White crept to the edge of the platform. He could hear the distant rush of bats, but barely, the sound of the storm mostly drowning them out. When his "guest" spread her wings and dropped out of sight, the dragon was quick to lurch to his feet, to crawl rapidly to the ledge's lip to peer down after her.

He could see her dropping, wings fanned, and he could tell that she was aiming for a fat, white... thing, off toward one wall. It looked muscled and heavy, and a brief half-hearted flicker of hunger had him wondering if it were edible. Caravaggio was, however, several times the young dragon's size and so he turned his attention instead on the bats, leaping from the high platform himself. The good thing about his newly-chosen den--among all the other lovely things that made Monoceros near-perfect for a dragon--was that it granted him an excellent vantage point.

The bats were thus clearly visible, flocking away in a black rush. His wings spread with a loud "whumph," leathery skin between the finger-bones catching the air and guiding him, his ridged spines ruddering him down toward them. He'd already found them to be sensitive to sound, and he let out a horrifically loud screeching roar--high-pitched, with his young age--as he dove.

The black dragon's maw snapped open, his magicka welling up, the heat flaring in his gut and chest and pouring up through his throat to emerge in a flickering flame that torched outward. He'd aimed to engulf a good number of the bats, but as he beat his wings to regain air, he could see that only two had fallen--and he immediately lost one of them. The other he followed down in a spiral, snapping its half-charred body in his jaws after inspecting it for a long moment--tilting his head to and fro to stare at it with each eye in turn.

A few moments later he plodded over to White, depositing the dead, half-burnt bat vaguely near the pair. With a disinterested, slightly wary glance at Caravaggio, he spoke.

"Not baby," he declared, shifting his ember eyes back to White. He seemed to be... reporting in, and uninclined to be particularly meddlesome. But apparently, he'd discovered something very important about the bat.

His bones quaked. He could feel their tiny little claws on his back, still. Caravaggio twisted his head, fretfully examining his hide to ensure that no bats were still flocking around him. Oh, he didn't like the feeling of that at all. It made him all tingly. It made his nerves jump and his stomach toss uncomfortably. He felt... dirty. He felt ugly. He subconsciously started to lean his maw toward his spine to groom himself, his skin twitching as if subconsciously trying to throw off whatever had landed on him.

Before he could begin, tongue still sticking out of his lips, he caught sight of a white creature elegantly descending the cliff face nearby. Caravaggio stiffened, only to recognize the lovely white creature, and felt a wave of relief wash over him. The cow suffered a long sigh and trotted toward her, eyelids fluttering melodramatically. "Oh, my dear White, I'm afraid the only thing wounded here is my pride," he balked. "I had no idea that attractive little crevasse would be brimming with such vermin. I was merely seeking a place to rest, to wait for you..."

Of course, that didn't explain how he had gotten separated from her in the first place. Caravaggio neglected to mention it. Mostly because he didn't know - he hadn't been paying attention.

Mid-step, he froze - another bat-like creature had erupted from the high ledge, taking to the air. Caravaggio prickled with discomfort, noting it was larger than the other bats. And then when it spouted fire, he all but leaped out of his skin, gawking wordlessly as the lanky reptile followed one of its fallen prey. Caravaggio stared as the creature plucked the bat from the ground and trotted toward them, leaving it on the ground - a scorched, drooling body, reeking of pestilence and char.

Only once it spoke did Caravaggio finally release the breath he held in his lungs, stamping his hooves nervously. "WHAT. IN ASTRAEA'S NAME. IS THAT."

The question was directed to White, but the cow had failed to take his eyes off the little dragon.

It was hideous.

And had talked to her.

The hybrid slowly sat herself down as Caravaggio relayed a dramatic speech, head slowly tilting. "The bats?" She asked a little quizzically, turning to peer after the swarm, though the flashes of black leather and deep-bass whumphing told her that it was probably nothing she wanted to actually see.

"I think they were just scared," White said as she pushed herself up again, sniffing briefly over Caravaggio, checking for injuries. "I mean, they--"

She was promptly interrupted by Dread landing with a thump, blinking. She yelped a bit, jumping as he dropped the dead bat. It looked like a normal bat, but it smelled.. bad. Not like burn-bad, but 'there-might-be-something-genuinely-wrong-with-this-bat'-bad. With a grimace, she moved forward and tentatively sniffed at the charred corpse.

It stank. The scent of disease hit the roof of her mouth like a truck and she recoiled with a disgusted snort, lifting one paw to her nose. "No, it- it's a bat," she said, burying her snout into her own feathers. "Baby bats are small."

She turned her head back to Caravaggio, answering. "That's Hot, or Fire. He's not good at speaking and I think he meant that his name was Fire. He likes shiny things and he makes food." That should just about explain everything, yes, no further questions would need to be asked at all. Well-- except one, perhaps. "He's nice?"

With that, she turned her gaze to the dead bat again, grimacing. "What's wrong with it?" White asked. "It smells bad-- don't eat it."

Dread sniffed over the corpse, and then, with a faintly disgusted hiss--now catching the odor of disease over that of charred fur and flesh--he swiped the dead bat away. The body tumbled over the stony floor.

Otherwise he continued to remain at what might be seen as a polite distance, seeing no reason to crowd the stranger. He looked around, fins erecting along his neck and throat as he scanned the air with interest for more bats, having promptly forgotten that they might all stink, or having not realized it. Unbeknownst to him, the plague infesting the bat had already slipped into his draconic body, its potent strain preparing to replicate and sicken him, perhaps kill. He had no way of being aware of this, however. Instead he settled himself quietly on his haunches to let White speak, only commenting when she got to his name.

"HOT," he agreed with a reptilian hiss, turning to peer at her, eyes bright and spines on end. He gave a sharp grunt of some kind, a sort of grumbling gurgling second hiss, like an alligator's bellow--then glanced at Caravaggio.

The young dragon stared transfixed at the bovine's stone, glowing so beautifully beneath his breastbone. Perfect, shining, shimmering, glimmering...

Shiny.

His eyes crinkled with slight disgust as she spoke of the bats, suggesting they had merely been afraid. Would fearful little animals attack him so viciously, though? He could still feel them prickling on his skin. His hide twitched uncomfortably. Caravaggio raised his heavy head to peer up at the vast open space above their heads, where the bats had begun to settle on perches above them, shuffling their wings and squeaking aggravatedly at one another. Sickly refuse occasionally dropped from the flock, making his stomach turn. Ugh. Repulsive.

Caravaggio peered back down at the dragon and White as his companion explained the bat to the dragon. His head tilted, regarding the dragon, who White had named 'Fire' - 'Hot'? The dragon seemed to agree with that one. And he couldn't speak well, either. Pitiful. That would explain the subpar name, then.

Nice?

"Seems rather dreadful to me," the cow commented idly, rolling his shoulders. But what did he know? This place was crawling with nasty little creatures; no wonder he never spent much time here.

His interest returned to the bat. Curiosity would have pulled him closer, but Caravaggio remained firmly rooted to the ground where he was. "I don't believe they were afraid. They attacked me," he stated indignantly. "I could feel their little teeth and claws."

Then, his eyes widened with a flash of terror. "Do you think they could have gotten me sick? Can you check?"

The hybrid grimaced as an adolescent dragon shrieked 'HOT' directly into her face, though she was quick to shake it off, watching Caravaggio instead. He didn't seem to approve of what she was saying-- but he rarely seemed to approve of many things.

"That's not very nice," she said quietly in response to Caravaggio, a little sadly. She pushed herself up and shifted as she saw Dread staring holes into the cow's chest, half-afraid he might try to rip it out of Caravaggio's chest, she planted her paw over a small stone.

As the little rock began to shimmer white-gold, she shoved it subtly towards Dread, looking back to Caravaggio with some concern. "Maybe they thought you'd hurt them?" She suggested with a frown, pacing forward to sniff cautiously at the cow.

"I don't know," she replied. "Do you feel sick?" Though she was fairly sure she already knew the answer-- given that Gio had just been attacked and was in the presence of something he described as 'dreadful,' he would probably feel ill either way.

She sat herself down, absently grooming the bovine's shoulder. Maybe there was someone she could bring him to-- Dread too, maybe, he had been eating the bats as well --but who, she had no idea. There weren't a whole lot of healers in the Caves.

"Do you know anyone who would be able to tell?" White eventually asked.

As Caravaggio talked, Dread heard merely a distant lowing at the back of his mind. Moo, moo, moo. None of it registered to him; his eyes were fixated on the beautiful, shiny gemstone at the young bull's chest. As he leaned forward, his jaws just starting to part (and it was unclear whether this was to speak, or to try and eat the stone), another glimmer caught his eye.

For an instant he glanced down to see what it was--oh! White had created another shiny for him. It glowed golden-white, and he quickly reached out with the top talon of his folded wing.

He dragged it toward him, and settled down to stare at it, wings folded neatly along his back and tail slowly waving behind him. For now, like a child happily distracted by a toy whilst his mother spoke to a family friend, the young black dragon simply lay there.

In time he would bring it to his hoard: but for now, he wanted to wait here, to listen. He wasn't sure who--or what--Caravaggio was, but he had already decided that listening to the pair of white creatures was more interesting than laying alone upon his ledge.

The cow raised his head, peering down his broad snout at the dragon. He felt a little unnerved at the way the dragon was eying him up. Like he wanted to eat him. If that dragon was any bigger, Caravaggio would have felt a little scared, even - but as it was, Caravaggio was still probably like three times bigger than him. And if he was fast enough, he could probably crush the dragon with his hoof. ...Not that he wanted to. He didn't even want to touch the dragon.

His ears swished on his head at the sadness in White's voice, and he felt a prickle of shame for having caused such a feeling in her. Caravaggio frowned, averting his eyes. Okay. He felt kinda bad. "I apologize," he relented, warm amethyst eyes turning back to his companion with the hope of redemption.

He watched her bauble the stone and nudge it to the dragon, which seemed to occupy him as they turned their attention back to the bats.

"Me? I wouldn't hurt a fly," Caravaggio tutted. Those bats probably weren't smart enough to know that, though. Did he look very threatening? Maybe with those grand horns of his... He shook his head at her question. "Would I be able to feel it?"

His skin twitched again when White began to groom him - but it was more reflex than anything. She was just about the only Gembound he'd let touch him, and he was grateful for her gentle touch.

"No... Perhaps we should seek out someone with the magic to clear my system," He suggested. He had heard of Gembounds who could do that. Gembounds who could flush a body with health and rid it of its toxins. "In fact, I feel we should leave this cursed room behind entirely. It is rife with filth. Maybe your father will know someone."