ORIGIN

you're not supposed to be here.

that refrain came over and over — an internal error she just couldn't shake. crossing the threshold from canis to the tunnel had felt like stepping into a staticky screen. damask shuddered at the aftershocks; pins and needles encroached on her nerves. if only she could have torn this foreboding in her teeth.

this had been a good idea once, and in all objectivity, it probably still was. she had made the journey to the room's western edge with bright eyes and the slightest spring in her step, confident in her rationale. the child was approaching two cycles of age — five days shy, to be precise. her eyes were finally beginning to look like they belonged in her skull; her frame had all but doubled since her emergence; and, most exciting, the muscles at her breast were very close to strong enough. auré had been teasing about flight lessons in her near future, and she could scarcely wait to feel the wind in her wings. the remainder of her coat was still fluffy with down, but that too would change soon. it was past time for her to venture beyond the bounds of her birthplace.

that was all before she saw the tunnel's grisly maw.

canis was called the room of bones for a reason, but damask had never seen anything quite so startling. entire skeletons sprawled and hung in grinning repose at the tunnel's entryway, decorated as warriors, poised at the ready to fend off all comers. keep out, they said. beware or begone. her instincts had screamed in her ears, begging her to turn tail and run.

but damask didn't trust instinct.

she clambered up on all fours, triple-checking each foothold before she dared to test her weight. the debris piled high in everything from crunching scree to blocks and prisms several times her size. cresting the wreckage, she noted that its crumbling line traveled across the tunnel's mouth, thin, yet solid. a gate, maybe, or a wall, she guessed. her descent was equally cautious, punctuated with periodic flaps to slow the fall from point to point. a cool breeze ruffled her feathers as she surveyed what lay ahead from stable vantage. it was a sort of canyon, carved in rippling red sandstone by the wind.

she looked to pinpoint exactly where she would land — and spotted a cluster of ... somethings, nestled in a crevice between the ruins and the wall. when she faced it, she found a curl of dark air, waving over a faint orange glow; its warm, heady scent drifted to her senses. oh? she picked up the pace in a diagonal route, talons slipping against the stone. in a few moments' time, she hit the floor and proceeded to her destination.

what she first noticed were teardrop tongues of light, dancing at the alcove's center. here, a flash of understanding: fire. her eyes rose with a flinch to the charred, skinned body of a rat, trussed and suspended just above the flames. she stretched up to the skewer, noting how shelves of rock held it aloft; but she was too small to reach, and heat lashed at her face. hopping back, she turned her attention to the objects nearby. soft material lay folded by the fire, and leaning against the wall was a long, smooth rod of wood — with a metal blade at its tip. like my stone. she twirled it gently in her claws. someone, or something, had crafted these items, like the equipment the skeletons wore; but unlike the entryway they defended, this place felt safe, snug, even ... homey. damask thought of her father's nest in the chambers and the mementos he kept there. was that what this was, a nest? she had to confess, she rather liked it. maybe the tunnel wasn't so terrible after all.

finally the child arrived at a leather bag. very interesting. she pawed the flap open, then crouched down and burrowed her way in, nosing at the contents and — delicately, now — beginning to draw them out one-by-one in her teeth.

damask absorbed herself in her work, as exacting an archaeologist as she was an explorer. every little curio surfaced from its confines with a gentle shuffle: stones of various sizes and shapes ... a sharp tool, flattened and beveled at the edge ... and one, two, three, four feathers, each another color. all she laid out in two tidy rows along the bag's leather flap. on to the next. as she closed the tips of her canines around it, interest sparked at the irregularities in its design. she hurried to extract it and lowered it to hold in her claws, handling with the utmost care. the object was a wooden figurine, fashioned after ... some sort of life form, or a fanciful idea of one. she ran the slender curve of a claw over the detail, her touch so light for fear of damage that it passed without a sound. a pause; unsettled pebbles clattered behind her, and she swiveled an ear — shortly followed by the rest of her — to the source.

"hey!"

that same chorus again: you're not supposed to be here.

a catlike chirp of alarm bubbled in her mouth. damask had maintained composure, even despite the volume of the shout — but it faltered on spotting the towering figure stalking towards her, along with the massive weapon he wielded. round-eyed and high-crested, she took a step back behind the satchel.

of course the nest belonged to someone. this much she had known without question. however, she had figured odds were low that this someone would return in the time it took for her to investigate. in that unlikely event, she hadn't expected them to move so quietly as to stay beneath her sensory radar, and she certainly had not accounted for them to rush her, armed and severalfold her size. already her focus was falling to the stone in her chest, prepared to entreaty it for aid in escape —

but the creature tossed his weapon aside, bending down to somewhat lessen his impossible height. much better. he spoke, more softly now: "hey, that's my stuff — um ..."

confusion, uncertainty, and dawning realization flowed in turn over the child's features. oh. his stuff. she appreciated the value of privacy when it came to bodily space and intellectual boundaries, for she held these dear herself; but material possession was another concept altogether. she had thought things were for sharing. auré never took offense to her looking at the jewelry in his nest, and without any other frame of reference, well — no excuses, kid. you're smarter than that. heat rose to her face as she set the wooden carving down on the bag, mindfully ensuring that it stood and faced its lawful proprietor.

"... shiioot, is this your house?"

shii-oot? is that a thing? no, definitely not a thing. damask grappled with an answer. her house. her home? as in, did she live there? she shook her head in a conservative no, hoping she'd correctly understood the idiosyncrasy of the question. what a character. charming, though.

her silvery gaze flicked up and down to appraise him. he was very — singular, unlike anything she had ever seen before. naturally all gembound were in ways, she knew that, but here the distinctions were abundant: the word special came to mind. he carried himself two-legged in perfect perpendicularity, with a full set of leather coverings and short blue fur that lengthened around his head; she noted also his tufted tail, snapping up in a jolt. what struck her most was his face, no snout, wide open, expressive enough to telegraph the subtlest nuances of emotion. his eyes enchanted her, one green, the other blue. she lingered there, unblinking. the sum of him was strong, clever, elegant — as statuesque as his craftsmanship. a work of art, brought to life.

there's plenty of people in the caves to talk to and learn from, auré had encouraged her. his advice was to seek other souls, hear them out — speak, if she could. i owe him this, at least. she swallowed the knot of anxiety tangling in her throat.

"i'm sorry." damask's voice was rapid and level, but a quiet downturn told true of her sincerity. without breaking eye contact, she tipped her head to indicate the figurine at her feet. "this is beautiful," she said, and pronounced: "ingenious."

as are you.

at first she thought the worry in the tall figure's expression was over his belongings, concerned for their integrity after a child's handling. then he looked back up at her, and she recognized that emotion for what it really was. guilt? "it's okay," he told her, scooting closer. damask hovered in place, still prepared to bolt at any time; but his upturned hands caught her attention, and she cocked her head to examine them. they were so cunning, so delicate. she flexed her wing-claws, painfully aware of the limited range of motion. they had some dexterity, yes, but nowhere near so much so as his. he spoke again, now in regards to her comment: "thank you," and one knee dropped to the floor. damask's eyes flicked briefly at it in appreciative acknowledgment; it brought him even further to her level, virtually as low as he could go without lying down altogether.

"i'm ... sorry for yelling."

she blinked. you are? a moment's hesitation, and then she nodded, a silent it's all right mirroring his own reassurance. this interaction is beginning to feel very cyclical. but he was so terribly gentle — the kindness in his face and his voice reminded her of her father, albeit in an unfamiliar, dissimilar package.

his bicolor gaze drifted over her features. "um ... you're pretty too?"

almost imperceptibly, the child reeled back, brows furrowed in abrupt discomfort. it's a compliment, just like the one you gave him. take it. but both his consideration and his conclusion made her want to squirm in her skin. she wasn't pretty, for one — she'd seen her ridiculous reflection, she knew that without a doubt — and if he was trying to make her feel better, it certainly wasn't working. even if it had been true ... she wasn't sure she wanted it to be. pretty. it burned like heresy in her ears.

she parted her lips, trying and failing to produce a response that wasn't i'm not. against all instinct, she listened to reason, closed her mouth, and nodded in thanks.

"i really didn't mean to scare you, i'm just around for a while if, um — if i disturbed you."

he'd extended a hand towards her, a sort of invitation. damask stared at it, intent and uncertain and taken aback all at the same time. what am i supposed to do with it? she had never even learned that this ritual existed, let alone read the steps. do i ... touch it? a nervy twinge dawned and died at the prospect. he had in effect asked her consent; that made it different. tentatively she stretched forward on her toes and bumped his hand with her nose before withdrawing, fluttering to offset the sudden shift in balance.

"i've never seen ..." — she paused, raising her gaze to the sandstone walls around them, then glancing in turn at the fire and the weapon, followed by the statuette, on which her focus settled at last; all accompanied with a slow sweep of her wing, and questions rattled off with speedy precision — "... anything like this. could you tell me about it? what you're doing, how you made it, what it's all for?"

wait. you forgot something. snapping the same wing to her chest, she added: "ah — my name is damask. damask vita, that is."

a deep laugh resonated from his belly, and damask started slightly, nervousness tugging at the corners of her lips — unsure whether the sound was one of mockery or genuine, wholehearted humor; but given, well ... everything she'd seen of him so far, the latter seemed far likelier. "it's art," he told her, addressing the wooden figurine alone. this was perfectly all right by her: if she wanted to understand one singular thing out of all the ones she'd indicated, it was this. she leaned into the statuette as a hand reached out to spin it towards her. art. the very word was profoundly fascinating, to say nothing of the concept it represented. cool, even! — though that particular thought invoked an immediate, retroactive twinge of embarrassment.

she took a closer look at the depiction itself, or rather what it depicted. "they're after people i know," its sculptor was saying. it was hard to think of this creature as a ... person at all. it — no, she corrected, they were absolutely alien to her, an uncanny collection of reptilian and insectoid traits. she couldn't picture them speaking, thinking, or even truly feeling; and somehow she got the impression they were much, much larger in life, many times more so than herself or even their portraitist's. evidently souls came in many more shapes than she'd expected — not just theirs, but his as well.

at the flash of movement around her company's waist, damask refocused on the process he described, the tool he pointed out (like my stone, again — !), and finally her claws. it all clicked together; when he explained it like that, this ... carving thing sounded so simple. a new kind of consideration flickered over the child's expression. she might not have his grip strength or fine motor skills, but she did have sharp edges, built-in knives, on a far smaller scale. that might give her its own sort of advantage: detailing, maybe? she wanted to take him up on this offer, felt her heart race with excitement at the idea — except that ... her impromptu teacher would be watching. he'd see if she messed it up. she worked her jaw, torn. damask was almost ready to deliver her decision, but then —

"i'm attikias — attik, if you wanna, by the way. who's ... is vita a family name?"

she tilted her head one way with his introduction, then the other with his question. attikias. it felt — appropriate, for him. a pointed rise, a consonant summit, and a soft, flowing slope. but his mystification about her surname, that mystified her. did others ... not have family names? a pause, and then she nodded. "from my father auré, and my ... grandfather, aza'zel. others too, i think," damask added hastily, shifting in discomfort at that second name. keep talking. "in canis. but about the — carving ..."

attikias didn't know everything, either. that changed her answer.

her silvery gaze dropped back to the figurine, intent without restraint this time as she sidled closer. by way of communication, she switched her muzzle to his fingers, his carving knife, and the claws at her very own wings: your idea, she meant. finally she met his eyes and bobbed her head, the movement so rapid and so eagerly vigorous as to flop her tufted ears. i'd like that very much.