ORIGIN

He'd heard the throbbing, hissing whispers of the dark. They called to him--as ridiculous as it might sound, to explain it in mere words; but he was beckoned and he obeyed. He did not just obey. He embraced it. He was Void: he knew this, had known it from hatching, had been named and given a purpose at once, as carrier of Shadow, as guardian of the caves. But Senka had said--had she not?--that his darkness was not the void, not hers, and this--this tasted right.

He'd come, drawn by the promises, driven by the visions. Orion flashed and paled, and for a moment Black saw not the dim, star-glittered cave, but sharp-edged beasts battling in the air, blood spraying across those painted stars. There is no starlight, here, he thought to himself; but there are truths beneath the false.

The black dog slipped into shadows, and they rose up around him. He vanished, then, into the ruins, and he hunted; and a quiet cry, and then another some moments later, announced the success of his hunt.

One, he ate: a meal, and he had not eaten in two days. He would find water, before returning to the altar.

And the other, he laid down, and he waited, watching. In minutes, it had begun to dissolve: and he waited, still.

When nothing but black oil lay puddled on the ground, Black--driven by the promises of the lurking whispers--ate it. It was disgusting: it burned his mouth, and burned down through his veins, and he nearly retched it up then and there.

He shook himself, and grimaced; and then he turned, and lurched into a trot, leaving nothing but a smear of oil behind.

Another one.

The Black Dog returned, again, to the same place: the rat-stench ruins of crumbled and scorched stone. Disgust rose in him--followed closely by surprise; he never felt this way. Why now-? And contemplation.

And realization; he was awakening.

It will need to be controlled, he mused, even as he thrust, haunches surging and shoving, into a narrow passage after a mouse.

It escaped him, and Black growled and left it, roaming for nearly an hour amongst the rocks.

He found a small nest of rats--four or five; and they fought, fiercely at first, until he'd managed to drag out and shake one to death. This he ate, almost completely. And the rest he left, and watched; and when it had rotted to nothing but black, Black--driven by the ravenous promises whispering through his mind--ate that, too.

And then... back to the Dark Altar. Back to striving to understand.

Controlled. It will need to be controlled. Controlled. Need to be controlled.

Another day. Another hunt through dark rubble and silky whispers.

Paws padded in a manner that might have been listless, lifeless, were it not for the dutiful attention in the black hound's face. Blue eyes lifted toward Senka's home. He would not go there; he would not ask her of the dark. He did not know if she would welcome him. It did not matter.

He pushed into a narrow alley, and the shadows swarmed over him, swathing him, cradling him in their embrace. Beckoning him, as did the flashing visions in the corner of his eyes. A great beast swept out, soundless, all spines and leering grin, tearing into another and they vanished, there, beyond the sight of the next corner.

Black did not change his gait; he padded onward, quiet, accepting these visions as wisdom granted to him. He paid attention to them, but he did not think about them overmuch, bar to ponder them in quiet silence near the altar later on. For now, he hunted.

He was part of the darkness itself, stepping out and taking a large rat as it raced past, some few minutes later. Teeth crunched in flesh and bone; a shake and it was mercifully dead. The black dog ate his fill, and then waited, as was now his habit: and when it was done, when it had fallen to black goop, he again forced himself to eat some of what remained.

And turned, to go back once more to the Dark Altar and the promises that awaited him there.

Another day, another hunt: and here the Black Dog was, slinking through the ruins. His mind now ran black with streaks of oily vision, promises of something more, of knowledge in the darkness. The wars he saw were wisdom, and he waited patiently for comprehension.

Shadows cloaked him, through his magic, so that the rat never saw him coming: a silent pounce, the briefest scuffle and shake, and it was dead.

Food, first: fresh meat, sating his hunger. Its pitch black fur was swiftly parted, the life leaving its fierce red eyes.

And when that was done... the oil. Foul, yet now he consumed it almost eagerly, determination driving him.

But the visions-... They drove him to chaos, urges swearing him to destruction. That he had to fight: control was of utmost importance. If he lost himself to this magic, he would learn nothing from it. He had to embrace it, to join with it, to become one with it... not succumb to it.

He would return to the Dark Altar, then, and he would meditate on this.

This, though he did not know it yet, would be the last time in a long time that Black left the comfort and safety... such as they were... of The Hole.

He hunted swiftly, no longer easygoing and patient, despite the meditation, but rather, itching to get back. He was still careful with his kill--it was still a quick shake--but this time he ate no meat.

This time he stood back, skin twitching as if burdened by flies, and then, when the corpse had fallen into goo, he consumed it.

And then he was gone from Orion, a swift trot breaking into a run, his desire to return--to go back to the Dark Altar, to see it, to listen to it, to learn from it--nearly overpowering.

He had not eaten, or drank, in twenty-four hours; and he wouldn't begin to do so again any time soon.