ORIGIN

Warrior awoke only gradually, the black stone that shrouded his large body both cradling and trapping him. A sharp kick brought him out, once he'd woken; the stone had thinned, and crumbled, so that he shook it off quickly enough.

Large eyes glanced back toward Canis.

The room of bones. The room of mad Gembound who came, and fought, and died. Warrior wanted nothing to do with any of that; he wanted home. The diamond shard still lay where he'd dropped it, as he'd fallen, and he picked this up in his teeth. Sympathy for the massive ice worm--as brutal as it had been--still stuck with him; and even now, with Hydra back (he saw) to boiling heat and light, he didn't want to leave the single sparkling piece behind.

Warrior stretched, and looked over the other remaining chrysalids; most were shattered, by now. He didn't know which belonged to Quentin, or Mirage; he'd have to check if they were home, back in the Crucible, and if they weren't, he could come back here now and then to see if they needed help in getting home.

For now he set out at a slow trot, easygoing and idle, eyes searching the salt flats. It was only after a few moments' travel that he realized, abruptly, that his color was off: what he could see, out of the corner of his wide peripheral vision, showed him a white coat now streaking with sand.

Warrior paused, turning to peer quizzically at himself.

A sleep had caused this..? His formerly beautiful, almost flame-dappled coat was now a ghostly white, pale against the sand; but it blended in, he supposed, fairly well against the flats.

...Strange. He'd miss his former colors, but survival was more important. He just wondered why he'd been bleached, like bones--I'm not actually dead, am I? Caves, I hope not.

The horse broke back into a trot, noting as he did that the sun burnt his nose a little worse, but that the rest of him seemed to tolerate it better; his skin beneath the white fur was still dark, and the lighter color helped, a little, against the sun. His legs, formerly an inky black, had often been almost too hot to tolerate; the grey seemed far cooler.

That was good, at least.

As he travelled, his mind drifted back to the Trial. The last thing he remembered, before he'd lost consciousness. He remembered the driving snow, the bitter cold. The fog, and the massive worm. The streaks of blood-...

...Warrior stumbled, nostrils flaring, eyes widening at the memory. It had not been... pleasant.

He hoped he'd never see its like again.

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He wound his way to the edge of the dunes, feeling the heat baking down on him already; but he was built for this. Built for it, and he missed it. Being in snow for a week or so as the cave was prepped for the Trial, and then asleep for so long-... No, he was finally home, and the heat, the light, were fine by him.

Warrior cast out his senses, as he moved, seeking the familiar heartbeat glow of the sand worms to the left, out in the Dunes. He needed to stay clear of those; undoubtedly they were now waking up, or long-awoken, depending on how long he'd slept.

One... two, three... he counted, panting through his nostrils and around the stone shard in his mouth, as the flickering images of their heartbeats gradually rose in his mind. Good--he could avoid those, then, and make his way safely back to the relative shelter of the Crucible.

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As the long, hot minutes crawled past, the horse first sped up--eager to be out of the heat--and then slowed, made weary by it. He could feel sweat rising on his coat, feel the baking waves of pure hot shimmering around ears and nostrils that tried, and failed, to disperse it.

Magicka flickered up again, and what little moisture lay in the air he drew back into himself. Some of the sweat, perhaps, and whatever Hydra offered; it kept him well-enough hydrated that the dizziness that briefly threatened, at least, receded.

Hoofbeats took him up at last onto solid stone, and he wound his way into the canyons, wary as he went.

He was tempted, at first, to call out--to look for Quentin, or Mirage, to check on them. But a glance skyward reminded him: the Eyehooks would be awake again, and the last thing he wanted was to draw their attention. So, instead, he kept to sandier spots to muffle his hoofbeats, watching warily for spiders and scorpions as he went--winding his way up toward the den he'd last seen his friends in, before the winter mess.

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Nostrils flared, and he dropped his head to peer into the old den. Rock falls during the trial had damaged much of the ravine, so that Warrior couldn't even be certain he was in the right place; but regardless, it was empty.

The wrong spot? he wondered, as he kicked back into motion; Or maybe Quentin actually didn't come back. He mentioned something about going out, talking to others, right-? I'll have to go back and forth, see if he ends up at the entrance at some point. The Bone Cave. Scary, he remembered, shuddering despite the heat; or maybe he just hasn't woken up yet.

He made his way to the water's edge, eyeing up and down the sparkling expanse of river that trickled through the canyon, and set down the sparkling shard of diamond. He drank, deeply, closing his eyes for just that moment's bliss.

That done he turned, and--after nudging the stone safely under an overhang--set about grazing. He briefly reached out his magicka, again, hoping to take some energy from the ground below his hooves, as well, but nothing came of that; instead he grazed, munching the softer foliage along the water's edge, feeling the welcome sensation of cool weight and nutrients filling his belly.

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His next stop was the place where the Ice Worm had fallen.

The canyon here was cracked, the Crucible itself damaged by the massive worm's death throes, the walls crumbled into towering rock-falls of boulders. It was hard to pick his way through, but he did so, grimly looking over the destruction.

The diamond was again clenched in his teeth, and he wondered where the rest of it had gone; he could see no remaining shards, but then, perhaps they were just covered, already, by dust and time. The sudden worrying thought struck him--how long had he been asleep..? What if it had been years? What if Quentin was dead, by now, or-...

Fear flickered through him, and grief, at this--he hoped it wasn't true. There was no real way to be sure, though; and nothing he could do. He'd have to just look for his friends, and hope. And what about Oleander..? he thought, suddenly, his eyes lingering on the last place he'd seen her, or as close as he could guess to it. She'd ignored him--completely--a selfish, oblivious demeanor to her.

Sorrow flickered through him, again. He'd cared for her--really, genuinely worried for her--and she'd forgotten his very existence. He'd even saved her life, he was sure, more than once during the Trial, and she'd-...

She didn't even say goodbye. Where was she now..? Gone, he guessed; just like the rest. Left Hydra to whatever bizarre lives they led in the place of bones and death beyond.

Warrior turned away.

A dark streak caught his eye, and he went to it; he lowered his head, nostrils flaring, and took scent.

Blood. And not too old, either--and the paler streaks, that was blood too, from the Ice Worm. Dried, now, sunk past the snow to linger on the rock. So it hasn't been that long, he realized, with relief.

Warrior turned, lurching into a slow trot, threading his way along the canyon. Again he reached out his senses, aiming to keep himself safe. But he was looking for something else: the cave with the strange sigils, and pillars. The place they'd found the knife.

Up above he could sense, flickering into his magic-driven vision, the red pulses of the Eyehooks up above. Most seemed to be resting; one or two had taken flight, and were circling. Warrior slipped into cover, for a moment, just before one passed visibly overhead, its massive body arcing over the narrow gap between the canyon walls. His magic had alerted him; and now he moved back into sight, travelling farther along the ravine.

...The cave didn't seem to be here.

Troubled, the white horse turned, going back the way he'd come: but no, there was no sign of it.

That's-... bizarre, he thought, puzzlement on his face. And he turned back, then, the way he'd come.

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He had a couple things left to do. First, he wanted to find a safe place to rest. He deemed the rocky hollows outside Quentin's old den--or where he thought the den was--to be best. He could watch for them, there--Quentin or Mirage both--and stay somewhat in shelter, at least. There was shade, and cover, though he'd need to watch for Spire spiders or lurking scorpions.

Warrior made his way back along the narrow ravine, pausing again to set down the diamond, drink and graze. He felt physically good, now: well-fed, rested, quite hydrated. Hydra was kind, he thought, to those who knew it well--or at least, it was far deadlier to those who did not.

Another quick glance up for the Eyehooks, and he turned, seeking out any sign of better shelter. Eventually, he found it; a slight overhang, half-shrouded with bushes, right at the water's edge. It wasn't a great spot, by any means--and in a flash flood, he'd be hard-pressed to escape in time, but that was the same anywhere, here. The cover, though, would hide him well enough from the Eyehooks above (though he lamented, now, his white coat; red had always kept him hidden, before). And the proximity of the water would, he hoped, keep the worst of the bugs at bay.

Warrior set the diamond shard down, here, and then lowered himself onto knees and hocks, lying beside it. For a time he simply lay there, looking out upriver, and then down, content with the quiet buzz of flies and the trickle of the water, the cooler air rushing over its surface against the oppressive heat.

He nearly drifted off to sleep, like this--and resting through the heat of the day was never a bad idea; but his eyes fell again upon the diamond shard.

Pity again stirred in him.

The beast--the poor, dumb, brute of a beast--had been unnaturally raised to such size, he was sure. Half-starved and tormented, and loosed upon the unsuspecting Gembound here. The gong's call had driven it near to madness, and then it had been slowly, gruesomely slaughtered: stabbed and rended, burned and slashed, until at last the poor beast had died.

"You deserved better, and I'm sorry. You deserved a life," he told the stone, quietly, and reached out his nose to touch it. He wished it had had that chance.

What happened was nothing spectacular; it was the barest flicker of magicka, hardly magic at all. He felt it, but he wasn't sure what it meant--not until the diamond began to swell, hardening and latching itself to the rocky ground beneath.

Warrior's eyes widened, as he realized.

"Did I just bring you back to life..?" he breathed, his eyes widening. Through nothing but a wish-? Through magic..?

Awe, gratitude... and fear--what if it grew, and swelled, and was a hundred feet long and trapped here, slowly dying; or what if it was mad, again? What if he'd created another monstrous beast that would hunt and kill?

He fretted, for a moment--for an hour, and then two. But there was nothing he could do, now, but hope that it wasn't so; and in the end he covered the chrysalis carefully with growing grass, nudging it into hiding, and went to sleep close beside it.

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