ORIGIN

all right, he seems to be doing okay. damask returned to her task, tucking her chin to nip off the rest of the down she needed. it wasn't much of a sacrifice; her powdery coat was beginning to shed, and the project wouldn't require too much of it. at length she shook out her plumage. that should be enough. with all the materials collected, she moved now to the pebbles. one by one she lifted them; arranged them into a semicircle, some six inches in diameter, left partway open; and stacked them, largest to smallest from bottom to top, until she had a wall of stone half as high. and now, the finishing touch: a layer of down feathers at the bottom, evenly spread with a sweep of her foot. all told, a minute or two passed in quick, efficient architecture before she drew back to survey her handiwork.

it wasn't a trap, exactly. certainly not a cage. it was a ... habitat. yes, that's it.

she swiveled her head to pinpoint the chick. his pattering steps had already told her he hadn't gone too far, and sight confirmed it. presently he was chasing after his quarry with a high-pitched giggle in his throat, always a step behind. as she observed, a preternatural force seemed to nudge at the moth, countering hers to push it his way. the insect promptly bounced off his face and toppled him to the floor. the newborn gave a chirp of surprise, followed by one of apparent injustice. damask shook her head in wonder.

allowing her breeze to evaporate, she stepped over to the scene (taking care, of course, to lift her feet clear of the bundle of defeat in her path). the moth hovered dizzily in place, not yet recovered from the collision. perfect; it still had a role to play. angling herself such that the chick's view was obscured, damask reached out to snatch at the little winged thing, grasping gently at its thorax — only to feel a slight crunch of its exoskeleton in her teeth. it was too fragile. it wouldn't survive the damage. ah ... a slight cringe flattened her ears and narrowed her eyes. it's just a lesser, it's just a lesser. they only live a cycle or two anyway. it's fine.

she'd just sort of — play it off.

the child faced her newer counterpart and dropped the dying insect at his feet. it trembled feebly, twitched once, and went still. "a bone moth," she said by way of explanation, apologetic strain in her voice. talking was hard enough without having to cover up casualties and dumb herself down. oh, also. she cleared her throat and pressed a set of claws to her chest. "and, damask." is that what you call an introduction? "— that's me." ... you need practice, kid.

she was in way over her head.

damask raised her eyes from the neonate to canis beyond, a brittle breath offered in exchange for a spell — not a shift of pressure this time, but the same she'd employed to confirm the presence of life in the now-broken chrysalis. a hive of heartbeats pulsed into being before her, past the chick's tiny rabbit-thump: mostly mice, rats, a flock of birds. very few larger than that. her focus flicked back and forth, searching. the further she looked, the harder the bodies drummed in her ears, and she blinked away the beginnings of a headache. where was ... ? there, a ways off; much too far for her to take her toddling tagalong, but manageable with the plan she'd concocted.

the child waved her muzzle emphatically toward the stone-and-feather enclosure: this way, follow me. hoping he'd shadow her (or at least take the bait), damask picked up the moth and led the way at a slow, careful pace. periodically she stopped and glanced behind her, tail swishing from side to side. if he didn't cooperate, she could move him herself — but she'd very much prefer not to.

out came a sound from the chick's open beak. another chirp, she assumed; what else could it be? smiling thinly, damask looked ahead and lifted a foot to set the course ... except — that wasn't a chirp. it was the beginning of something like speech. a consonant and a vowel. brow furrowed, she glanced back down at him and mirrored the squint behind his mask. there it was again, a stuttering echo of that first attempt. next, a prolonged one, drawn out on the a sound. what ... ?

and then, with a dawning sense of dread, she realized what would come next, a disaster she was too late to stop: her own name, garbled and abbreviated into bisyllabic babbling.

a flush warmed her cheeks — not just at the embarrassment of hearing it that way, infantile and broken, but at what it meant. she shook her head, rapidly and emphatically: no! wrong! incorrect! all damask had done was witness his emergence, play around just a little. that did not merit her name as his first word. of all the others he could have chosen to mimic ... was he imprinting on her? what did he take her for — some kind of parent? maybe not, but the very idea of it brought on a swell of nausea. that wasn't who she was.

damask swallowed, gestured, and led him away, stringing him along with the moth in her mouth. even at top speed, the hatchling could only manage a few inches per step, and impatience itched at her feathers, made her crest prickle. let's go, let's go, she implored with her eyes — but, not too long later, they arrived at the enclosure. she baited him around to the spot she'd left open, a spare stack of pebbles set neatly beside it.

now to just ... make him go in. shouldn't be too hard, right? plenty of feathers to nestle into. lots more appealing than a set of bare avian toes. she ghosted a few flicks with her muzzle, as if to push him inside without the push, and then — (ah! don't forget!) — set the lifeless moth on top of the opposite wall. that seemed to do it. with the chick settled safely inside, she nosed the remaining stones into place. there. child contained.

from here, she moved back and took a moment to observe. he seemed stable enough, yeah? even with the magic he'd used to nudge at the moth, it would take an awful lot of energy before he broke free. a prod at her stone found it unwilling, but — damask wouldn't give him that kind of time, even without a boost of wind to quicken her step.

"stay," she pronounced, looking the neonate dead in the eye. be back soon, okay?

and with that, she pivoted around and took off in her father's direction. already a shade of relief eased away her tension, even as she picked up the pace, bounding and weaving (if, occasionally, stumbling) through the stretch of canis between here and there.

auré would know what to do.