ORIGIN

He'd been separated from the zebra foal Oleander by another Vulture attack, and beyond that, the haze and heat of the Marsh. He was still trying to find her, of course, but he was going utterly the wrong way, though he didn't know it.

The cover that the Crucible offered seemed to him a likely landmark, and he was tottering up along the crevices, calling out. Wounds still lay open--if dried, at least, and beginning to heal--along his face and all along one shoulder.

"OLEANDER-?" he called, and stumbled against the rock. Upright, again, he came; knobbled knees and dainty hooves scuffed the stone and sent red dust in plumes around him. He struggled, his breath coming in pants. Perhaps it had been a mistake trying to climb up here. Something about the smoothness of the dry riverbed, the worn nature of the bits of wood and stone strewn here and there, bothered him in a way that his instincts would not leave alone.

"OLEANDER!" he cried, again, and paused; his mouth hung open, tiny tongue hanging out, his lips peeled back in a grimace as he panted for air. The whites of his eyes were a faint crescent, his little flanks heaving.

Ears pinned, head lowered, and--instinct driving him once again--he strove to make an impact, to draw attention to himself, and perhaps find Oleander.

The ground all around him trembled, faintly, the pebbles and dust atop it shaking and puffing. He stumbled and halted the magic, staring around him. I did that-? He had, he realized. But what could did it do? Oleander wasn't answering.

Was she okay..? Warrior felt grief strike him. What if she wasn't-?

The foal hesitated, staring at the ungodly creature that had just unfurled itself like some withered cluster of leaves from within the very rock.

Two steps back, wavering.

A snort of uncertainty.

A flick of his ears--this way, then that. As it lurched a few paces toward him, fear and ferocity gripped him both. He dipped his head, ears pinning, neck arching--and reared back, coming down with another flare of magicka. When his tiny hooves touched down, offering the rock only a slight scuffling and puff of dust, his magic slammed down harder. The ground again rattled, trembling, and as Warrior again tossed his head and snorted--fire in his eyes--the pebbles shook and rattled.

"No," he told the scorpion, sternly--and then, turning to call out, as if reminded--"OLEANDER?"

Learning life lessons in Hydra was a good thing. Warrior knew now to watch the skies, and beware the vultures. The sting and claws of the scorpion looked nasty, but perhaps it might have taught him more to be stung--to learn the effects, the damage it inflicted. But such lessons were difficult to survive.

The foal, already wounded, was perhaps lucky that this lesson didn't get so far. Instead he stood, facing down the scorpion, until their stare-off in the dusty heat began to make him more and more uncomfortable. More nervous. Hooves shifted on the rock, ears again flicking to and fro, and the belligerent defiance he'd shown moments ago faded.

Warrior turned, and--glancing back repeatedly to ensure the thing wasn't following--began to rapidly pick his way up the slope of the ravine. Behind him, his short tail flagged outward like a banner, not yet flowing with silky black but more a fuzzy stub.

Lanky legs took him higher and higher, and as if to ensure his own safety, to warn the scorpion not to follow him, he paused and leapt in place, bringing his magicka again down with him. With this last trembling and shaking of little stones, he turned and cantered farther into the shadows of the Crucible.

He could smell water, here--and cleaner stuff than he'd had in the Marsh; and somewhere close, the temptation of greenery drifted on the wind. Warrior wound his way at a quick trot among the boulders, weaving through the canyon until he came out at a new place. A sparkling creek ran past, where this gap opened into a wider canyon; greenery ran along its shores, and its walls provided at least a little shade, here and there.

This-... This could be a home.

He paused, ears flicking, staring out at the water and the grass, but he could see nothing. No danger. No movement, even, bar the gentle shifting of water and grass. "Oleander-?" he called, hesitant now, but when nothing answered him, he made his way to the brook.

Moments later he was engrossed in drinking, and then in grazing along the water's edge, his sweaty hide flicking the flies away.

He drank his fill, and then began to browse the river's edges. His gait was slow, meandering, his nostrils taking in the captivating scents of grass and brush; purely by chance had he found the only real source of edible foliage in Hydra.

Dainty foal-hooves carried him farther, so that he almost didn't hear the soft step of the camel calf some distance behind.

His head came up, ears pricking to identify the quiet shuffling he'd thought he'd heard--and as he spotted her, he froze. Fear trickled through him, and he stared, for a moment, at the creature that seemed to be doing the same thing that he was doing--was it dangerous..? Was it another like the vulture--something that would attack him, tear at his flesh--or was it like Oleander, a child, lost-?

"H-Hello-?" he called out, at last, hesitantly.

He stared, for a moment, at the camel with tattered blades of grass half-hanging from her jaws.

"...What?" he said, at last, without the slightest idea of what the thing had said.

This one not attacking, at least. But the relief was muddied into nervousness by his confusion. Was this some foreign language-? Was it a trick...?

When it did not respond, he decided to play it cautious, and simply left, skirting down the river and away.