ORIGIN - the opening act |hatching|

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Masquerade

Oh—what's this? A new life is due to be brought to the caves; to wander the stone and leave their mark on this place.

This new life is curled up in a messy ball of feathers and yellowed down, which in turn is floating in amniotic fluid, all wrapped up within a black-white obsidian shell, which in turn is hanging precariously off of the cave wall of Canis. Once, it grew stable; a shard of snowflake obsidian grew with sudden magic, expanding and rounding out into a perfectly smooth eggshell, but now the weight of the neonate inside causes it to hang awkwardly from the wall, its rounded tip beginning to point towards the cave floor and the bones scattered below it.

All it needs is a small, little push...

...the gembound within shifts in its sleep, blissfully unaware of what is about to occur—blissfully unaware of anything at all, in fact, for it is fast asleep within a lack of consciousness.

And then it shifts just a little bit more, and the stone that once held it fast detaches from the stone wall with a sharp crack!, quickly followed by an equally sharp shattering of gemstone as gravity takes hold of the chrysalis and the unwary gembound within and throws both to the floor like an angry toddler.

The little bird's first rush of consciousness is abrupt, accompanied by the dusty smell of bones in their nose, a startled fluttering of feathers, and a flurry of coughing as their body struggles to get the last of the amniotic fluid out of their lungs.

Then, more flapping and fluttering and general disjointed movements as the bird struggles to right themselves, having fallen out of their now-shattered chrysalis back-first.

And then, a tiny peep!, a high chirp that bounces between the cave walls, accompanied by an instinctive pull of magicka. The sound splits; twinned by will, a copy of the chirp follows just behind the first, creating a strange, dual-chorused verse.

The bird seems encouraged by this; they chirp again, wings fluttering as they take a step forward, seemingly uncaring that this one does not duplicate like the first.

@Damask

@Masquerade !

the slender shape of damask — black and white, winged and feathered — shadowed toward the rim of canis. hers was the stride of a caged tiger, restless and expectant, near to pacing. every sudden stimulus met sharp eyes and pricked, tufted ears. the child was searching, for she had made a discovery some days ago, a secret all her own to nestle in her thoughts. it was time she followed up on it.

its image came at once to her call: a snowy shell affixed to the cave's northern wall. she might have considered it something special, but for her certainty that it was not a thing at all. its appearance differed significantly from her only point of reference; where this one was smooth, dark, and flawlessly ovoid, hers had flowered in sanguine, spiraling petals. she hadn't been exactly sure, at first. fastened high as it was, manual inspection was out of reach — a pang of yearning struck at her with the reminder that she wasn't yet strong enough to fly, though she would soon enough — and so she'd had to get creative. if she excelled at nothing else, she excelled at puzzles, and she had solved this one in a matter of minutes. new magic was kindling in her chest, sensorial and primordial. the two of them were getting to know each other still, but with its aid, she had seen what she sought: a tiny heartbeat in a cluster of tissue, a fetal form articulate in blood. the stone was a chrysalis. damask's hypothesis, tested and proven.

every landmark was a check down the list. she was nearing the site here, and she quickened her pace —

crrr-ack!

— only to stop dead in her tracks at the sound of shattering glass.

all of her face screwed tight in a cringe (breaking ribs and slamming rock and black black black) but she banished those visions with a forceful shake of the head. her approach was cautious now, for the commotion was close, more so than she'd thought. a flurry of coughing and flapping resounded ahead, very faint at this distance, but perceptible nonetheless to a bird of prey's hearing. then came an infinitesimal chirp — or rather two of them. they were simultaneous and exactly alike, uncanny, arcane. definitely not a lesser, then.

a sudden wave of anxiety washed over her. true, this was a newborn hatchling, but they were still another soul, and damask had yet to meet anyone but her father. would she have to speak? would her words fall short? if they did, surely a neonate wouldn't notice — right? (i would've, she conceded, but she was probably something of an outlier.) this would be a good ... test drive, maybe, dipping her toes into the shallow end of the sociable pool. she steeled herself and crept nearer, keeping low, concealing herself behind boulders and bones where she could. when the scuffling was some twenty feet away, she circled around its source and crouched behind a castle of skulls and something like vertebra — very careful not to touch them. hopefully her coloring would blend into the choppy lattice of bone over stone. she crouched down, peeked through the gaps, and suppressed a nervous ruffle of feathers, followed shortly by a soft gasp.

the creature before her was absolutely microscopic, little more than a sticky bundle of down. even she hadn't been so small; they might be the size of her head now, if that. another peep! bounced up from the neonate as they took a toddling step forward — their very first. damask couldn't help but feel a little charmed.

now, how to introduce myself ... ?

just the same as she had brought their existence to light: creatively.

damask inhaled deep and felt for the jasper at her core. a favor, she asked of it, and the stone thrummed in response, game for a challenge.

when she exhaled, her breath resounded in a twin set of high, fluting notes, as though sung by an a capella group of two — a perfect replica of the hatchling's illusion. this done, she settled back behind her cover, and as she awaited their reaction, the child allowed herself the slightest smile. impressed?

Masquerade

There is a moment where the little chick pauses, taking in nothing but silence, ruffling his feathers anxiously, beginning to look around inquisitively, as if searching for a companion. His body seems tense, worried—is there anyone around? his wide eyes seem to ask, but he doesn’t dare break the silence.

Something else does for him—an answering, musical call, his own voice reflected back at him, and suddenly he enters a flurry of excitement.

Someone else, someone else—his silent question is answered. He’s not alone!

Someone else just like him—someone else who made the same noise as him.

It’s wonderful to his little bird’s mind; there’s no thoughts of this new world he’s in, no self-awareness of who or what he is, only that there’s someone nearby, the first someone ever, and they must be—be… (the word ‘family’ escapes him) close to him! Like him! Same! Same!

He sees—just for a moment—a flicker of movement, a strange, partial collection of black and white feathers before they dip away and hide themselves among the bones again, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to sing once more, tilting his head ever so slightly upwards and giving another peeping chirp. There—is that?

He doesn’t know what it is, but he wants to see it, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to take his second step ever, another toddling, forwards movement, head tilting and feathers fluffing with excitement, and this is accompanied by his second attempt to use magic ever—albeit, only instinctively, another slight tug as he chirps at the unknown being once more.

No result, but he isn't expecting one anyways—he just keeps stumbling forwards, waddling on little talons as he moves. His gait is unsteady, swaying; good for one who's just hatched, but only barely.

He makes it all of three more steps before his foot catches a loose rock and he tumbles to the stone floor like a little puffball—feathers flaring and all as he ends up precariously on his side, little wings flapping in an attempt to right himself. He only succeeds in pushing himself around on the stone floor more, and here, another noise emerges from his beak—a note of distress, a chirping cry for help, high-pitched and scared. Help me!

@Damask

@Masquerade !

whilst the older child hesitated, the younger fell into a state of lonesome anxiety, evident in ruffled down and too-tense activity as they cast around the empty clearing — but in all of a few seconds, their distress went up in smoke, dispelled with nothing but a chirp in reply. damask bit back a further uphill tug at her lips as she bore witness to the chick's unfettered delight. out came a third cheep!, followed by a stumbling step.

... i made that happen.

something in damask softened — and yet another stiffened with self-consciousness. maybe she would draw out this game of hide-and-seek for just a little longer. let the kid win, but make them earn it. that'd be good for their confidence, yeah? she gave a pseudo-accidental scuffle of her talons, just in case her two-sided echo hadn't been enough to clue them in.

they stayed the course, and she nodded along in unseen encouragement, willing them onward. clumsy as they were, she respected their open defiance of gravity: they (he?) bore a striking resemblance to a puddle, walking on oversize toes that splayed flat on the floor. whatever sort of bird he would grow into, she knew it wouldn't be that of herself and her father; he was nearer to the passerine lessers she hunted, musical and benevolent.

she counted one, two, three steps, and then — ... ah, no. a loose pebble sat in his enterprising path. she drew in a sharp intake of breath, prepared to call out a warning, but her visions of disaster came too late; the newborn fell over and was soon reduced to a flailing heap of wings and feathers. she gritted her teeth, awash in memories of her own hatchling tumble. that hurt. the bruises hadn't healed for days. come on, you've got it, damask pushed, but he could only spin his little wheels and flounder sideways over the stone.

what do i do? what do i do? her weight shifted from foot to foot. think! she hadn't even cleared a cycle herself; she had enough on her unfinished shoulders without the burden of something like babysitting. had she been this helpless? no — she remembered that first day in vivid detail. her reflection had been (and still partly was) a disproportionate mess, but she had at least known how to handle herself. how was he supposed to survive like this? he would be eaten alive.

the chick burst out a pointed cry for help, and damask shrunk down, torn to the verge of paralysis. clearly he needed a bailout, but she didn't want to make it worse. for all she knew, the lightest touch would break his bones.

maybe ... maybe ...

she summoned up her magic again, heaving out a silent sigh of relief as she felt it respond. with that exhale came a stirring, swirling wind. like a maestro conducting an orchestra, she guided the spell with gentle, seamless curves of her head — uncomfortably smooth in comparison to her usual avian measures and increments. the gust slid softly beneath the neonate's side in an endeavor to turn him onto his feet; thereafter it would keep him afloat and nudge him forward, leading him the rest of the way towards her. picture an invisible child, helping a fallen friend at the playground. though damask directed it with the utmost precision, she could only hope she'd achieve the right balance: neither so weak as to leave him there, nor so strong as to bowl him over.

Masquerade

The wind itself swirls like a kind friend around the chick, feathers fluffing and one, tiny, underdeveloped wing spreading outwards instinctively to catch the breeze. He’s still far from flight, this newborn, even if such things as flight are lost on his childish mind, but a tiny coo comes from his mouth as this friend curls under his side and flips him upright.

A—word, comes to his mind, his very first. Friend.

And then it’s pushing him forwards, curling around him like an insistent cat and guiding his steps, and he nearly loses his balance and topples over at it, the word ‘balance’ not yet known to him, much less the concept—but he stumbles, righting himself, and takes a few more steps forward. His total, were anyone counting, (most likely the inquisitive little avian hiding among the bones) would be in the double digits by now—he takes one toddling step after another, guided by his invisible friend, and chirps again, calling out towards the movement he saw.

Friend! Friend!

His magicka speaks his first word, whispering behind his birdsong in a tiny, tiny voice, fitting of a bird like him. 'Friend!', it calls out in tune with his equally tiny chirp, as he continues his journey towards the pile of bones, head bobbing as he looks for what he has quickly deemed 'friend'.

@Damask

@Masquerade !

the wind did as it was told and sent the chick to his feet, staggering but upright without injury or complaint. damask relaxed, shivered slightly in gratitude, and she thought she felt her stone spark — the breeze, flare — in grudging reply. it seemed to her a living thing at times, independent of the mind that entreated it and the flesh that encased it: a whirling dagger, irritable and unpredictable with a will all its own. at least today it had chosen to cooperate. a soft, airy sound vibrated in the newborn's throat, unlike any she had ever heard, and she leaned in close to listen; it was almost an avian purr, captivating in the joy and curiosity it embodied. with the aid of her spell, he forged his way forward until her tally turned into a countdown. a whisper of magic chanted in harmony with his chirruping rhythm, drawing ever nearer.

"friend! friend! friend!"

damask blinked, startled. his first word, and it's — for me? a rush of blood flowed hot to her cheeks, not with flattery, but flustered uncertainty; the weight of her predicament was enough to make her shrink. his friend? she was not qualified for this, did not know the first thing about children despite being a child herself, and all of a sudden, this helpless little hatchling had imprinted on her? if that were so, her actions today had the power to stay with him forever, even shape the adult he became. what if she planted bad seeds, led him to insecurity or trauma or worse? and she couldn't have him following her everywhere — a long list of aspirations awaited her, so much more to learn and see and explore, pointedly without an altricial shadow at her back. the urge to sneak away and flee from the scene was almost overpowering, but — ...

he was alone: no father to guide him, no family to protect him, not even a body that could run, fly, or fight. no one, except (oh, no) her. how many souls were born like that, died like that? maybe he was only one among multitudes, but she had implicated herself now, and she would not be responsible for another heap of bones in this cave.

the chick rounded her cover in a scratch and patter of tiny nails. his wobbly silhouette appeared at her periphery, and damask hopped away — calling off the breeze, swallowing her apprehension and scrambling to conceal it with a dubious rendition of surprise. facing him, she allowed her crest to bristle and her eyes to widen. no affectation necessary for that: all it took was an inch of slack on her leash of self-control.

a long moment of paralytic hesitation passed, and finally her wings outspread in defeat. "you found me," she said — flatly, matter-of-factly, with a high note of astonishment that sounded exactly as forced as it was — but a current of anxiety trembled in her voice, hopefully too subtle for the hatchling to catch. it was the first she'd spoken in days.

Masquerade

The little gembound is hardly aware of Damask’s little internal struggle—in fact, it would be a surprise if it was aware of anything else, besides the bones in this cave, its still air, and the fact that the birdlike being in front of them, shuffling around and fluffing her feathers, is none other than—than a friend.

Their friend—the first one they’ve ever seen, and they have a certainty in their little bird heart that this one is special. The word ‘family’ doesn’t come to their mind, yet, but the concept certainly does; the thought that this one is connected to them, that she’s important, that she will love and take care of them and—

—she speaks, and although the meaning is lost on their little chick’s brain, her voice is enough to elicit a flurry of excitement from the little pigeon. A commotion of sorts; a fluttering, a flapping of wings, a cheep—and then another!, high and pure—and then they begin to rush forward on toddling feet, running as fast as they can towards her—

—and smacking right into one of her legs, bouncing off and stumbling backwards, thankfully (for Damask’s nerves, anyways) not falling over completely.

A second word comes to their mind. Soft.

She had felt soft when they touched her; they want to feel it more!

Their next foray into walking towards their newly-crowned (to them, anyways) big sister is slower, more methodical; if only because it isn’t a blind rush towards her, but instead a deliberate movement as the little bird takes one, two, three, four steps, takes a slightly bigger one to make their way onto her foot, and settles down there, leaning into the feathers of her leg.

They look up at their big sister and coo, feathers ruffling as they settle down into a sitting position, a little ball of feathers nestled right on their sister’s foot, unaware that she kind of needs a tiny little newly-hatched bird not sitting on said foot in order to walk.

Cheep!

A sound made up at her, communicating who knows what, a baby’s babble, and then they return to more cooing, clearly comfortable on this impromptu resting place.

@Damask

@Masquerade !

the moment the words left her mouth, damask crumbled beneath a torrent of regret; for the neonate was flapping and cheeping himself into a frenzy, and then charging ahead — this time in full force, headed straight for her. the speed of his incursion was greater than any she could've accounted for. in the span of an instant, he crashed headfirst into her leg. a twittering chirp of dismay fizzled up in her throat, both at the suddenness of the contact itself and at the recoil that sent him teetering back. at once she lunged forward to steady him, but against all odds, he managed to retain his balance without intervention; her muzzle stopped halfway there, hovered a moment, and slowly withdrew as she gave it a shake to stave away the tension.

now she was in trouble. how exactly was she meant to handle this? her jaws hung slightly ajar, eyes flicking up and to the side in rapid calculation. somehow she suspected that communication would be a challenge here. the hatchling needed food, water, a place to rest ... and she was not entirely certain as to how to provide any of these. transporting him would pose a serious challenge, as would feeding him, considering he probably ate insects, which would be difficult to catch without altogether destroying them. all right, let's take a moment and just ...

but she stopped in her cognitive tracks, for evidently the collision hadn't fazed him: he was headed her way once again, deadly purpose in his step. damask was frozen to the spot, watching him as she might watch an advancing predator, hoping against hope that if she stayed still enough, he would stop somewhere before they intersected.

naturally these hopes were in vain, and by the time he had dashed them, he was too close — the risk of harming or outright kicking him in dodging away, too real — for her to do anything about it; and somehow it came to pass that he rested cooing on her foot, excess hatchling spilling over, around, and between her toes as he settled.

"ah — !"

every shuffling movement was a pinch of static against her skin. a violent, squirming shudder coursed like lightning from her head to her tail, and then the child stood stiff as a board, staring aghast at the chick even as he cheeped happily up at her. her face was burning now, eyes wide, ears pinned back, lips tightened into a grimacing frown. abruptly she wanted to chew off her foot and leave it behind, wanted him off, wanted him away.

with shaky effort she reached at her stone, and its retort was equally weak, if extant nonetheless. the breeze whisked below at her call, coalescing into targeted pressure against the newborn's side — an endeavor to pick him up and push him gently away. from there she'd take a dancing step back and sweep her tail around her feet, erecting an emphatic wall of feathers to ward off her assailant.

but that was assuming he actually budged.

Masquerade

The little bird’s head tilts this way and that in worry as his friend seems to change their attitude, becoming—becoming an emotion he doesn’t have a name for. She just seems shaky and shuddery and not-good, and his next chirp seems subdued as he looks up at her.

A third word, now, language slowly trickling into his mind—okay?

She doesn’t seem… ok-ay. She doesn’t seem okay at all—and before the little fledgling can ponder this further, there is a invisible pushing sensation against his side, a near-silent breeze shifting bone dust on the cave’s floor as it lays light pressure on him and tries to convince him to move.

With a light, questioning chirp?, he does so, feathers ruffling as he scoots backwards, staring downwards at his invisible friend. What? What is it?

The wind, of course, gives no response; and by the time he glances back up at his other new friend she’s stepped away and curled her big, feathery tail around herself.

Another questioning chirp comes from his beak, as if he’s asking why she moved. He doesn’t understand her sensitivity to touch, her discomfort with his decision to settle atop her foot—he just understands that his friend moved away a little.

He doesn’t understand a lot of things; the stone is cool and she is big and towering and safe and good and the wind curls around him like a helpful friend but that’s all he knows…

...and then, suddenly, something new to know comes into his sight.

A moth; light and bone-white, flutters into his vision, past him in search of something, and Masquerade’s attention is held wholly by this new thing.

A—a thing! A thing!

He doesn’t know what the thing is but it’s moving and pretty and he wants to chase after it!

Small, oversized feet get him to a standing position as he tilts his head up and begins to chirp at the little thing, a bouncing gait ruffling his feathers and flapping his undersized wings as an impromptu chase begins, the friend behind him only the faintest thought in the back of his mind for the moment.

It’s a thing!

@Damask

@Masquerade !

the wind itself may not have been enough to move its target, but it was enough to persuade him, and he promptly complied. the second the pressure lifted from her foot, a lungful of long-restrained breath heaved out. slumping, damask stared hazily down at him — her nerves a little shaken up, but otherwise ameliorated.

what ... happened there? why did i ...

no. what mattered was that she had her space again. the chick looked up as he backed away, visibly confused. something changed in the child's expression: an appreciation, a recalibrating respect. for all his newborn whimsy and simplicity, he recognized what she'd asked of him, or at least what her magic had; he almost seemed more interested in that than he was in her. still, he had his sights on her now, and appraising his face for the first time, she noted the intricate shape that curved over it — a black mask exactly akin to his chrysalis. she might've considered it more of a helm, save for the elegant, swooping detail of it. he chirruped at her from beneath his stone, a note of inquiry in the sound.

how was she supposed to explain that reaction to him? she couldn't even explain it to herself, and it was anyone's guess as to whether and to what extent he understood language. a brief pause, and then she lifted her shoulders and half-spread her wings, grimacing as a pained, noncommittal noise squeezed from her throat. fortunately, the neonate's standards were no higher than expected, and shortly something else caught his eye.

she saw it just after he did: a pale flutter of movement, meandering past the two of them. ah, a moth — canis abounded with them. the hatchling was off in an instant, racing after the insect as quickly as his feet could carry him. damask huffed softly to herself as she watched, caught somewhere between amazement, amusement, and a strange sort of envy. chasing moths had never given her this joy, only made her feel very like the child she was; there was no pride in it, nothing to be gained but short-lived gratification — and yet he was absolutely captivated, and also absolutely distracted.

that gave her an opening.

a residual breeze trailed at his heels, and she willed it stronger with another thrumming spur of magic. ever obedient for the sake of its playmate, the gust forked around him and eddied up to whirl around his quarry, gently restraining it from flying too quickly. as the wind moved, it'd tickle at his sides, tempting him forward. from here she would keep the moth carefully in her thrall: just outside his reach, conservatively permitted to continue on its way, but slow enough and low enough to keep him interested.

a lingering look at him, and she turned slightly away, tiptoeing apart at an acute angle to his trajectory. he can't possibly go very far, damask reasoned; i'll keep an eye on him, steer him closer if he starts to stray. her attention fell down to the floor. rocks — she needed rocks. nose to the ground, she searched for pebbles of just the right size and gathered them in a hasty heap, soon to be arranged. this done, she seated herself and began plucking at her chest. white tufts of down came away in her teeth, then drifted to the floor — these she also pushed into a pile, so as to keep them from wandering off in the airflow.

still working, she spared a glance out the corner of her eye to check on the hatchling. hopefully her plan was a good one.

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