ORIGIN

He waited until Orthoclase-Alpha was well out of sight--and then turned, snorting out the blood trickling from his nostrils. Backfiring magic was a bitch. But Pride wasted no time with self-pity, or even introspection. The moment Alpha was gone he had a realization.

He had only a few hours to prepare.

Hooves clattered over the rock as he raced to the Throne; and there, he skidded to a halt, flanks heaving. He felt the vague questioning from his familiar, and sent her an image at once, an urgent request. Mischief--I cannot be in two places at once. Find me deer, and quickly--you know the old one, the one with one broken antler? Find it. The thought was grim, his intentions an undercurrent that half-unsettled her before she mentally shrugged it off. Though words could not pass between them, emotions could, imagery could, and the arctic hare was bolting off in Pride's service moments later.

He turned his attention downward, to the rock under his hooves, at the base of the Throne.

I need to plan this. I need it to go perfectly. Pride had briefly, in the moments since Orthoclase's departure, considered his options, his potential approaches to meeting with the Overseer. He had to assume it to be powerful, strong enough to bend even Orthoclase-Alpha's will. Magic, he assumed. He had to decide between four possibilities, in his mind, ideas that had sprung up.

The first: to meet as himself. Calm, honest, earnest. Pros, in his mind: honesty was always good, and it was a non-confrontational approach. But the cons--those were notable. That he would likely not be taken seriously. Not make enough of an impact and then, if the Overseer refused him, mocked him, he'd have to escalate without warning. No; best to make an impression straight off.

The second: to come out swinging. Threats, bluffing, intimidation. He saw little chance for this, for while weaker Gembound might be impressed, something strong enough to overpower Alpha would not. And he was trying to avoid confrontation. And the drawbacks were too many. It would likely escalate to fighting, and he might lose, and that was not beneficial. Especially, he thought, if I die.

Pride touched his nose to the stone, silvery eyes slipping shut. He held the shape he wanted in his mind, the color of it, and he focused deeply.

The third option was actual trickery and ambush. Pride simply wasn't that type of Gembound, not without knowing whether this Overseer was truly a threat. It might start an actual war, the last thing he wanted to do.

And the fourth...

The fourth was to make an impression.

Pride concentrated-... and then grimaced, as nothing came.

He could feel Mischief racing, bolting along the tunnels formed by ruined, crumbled buildings that had toppled against one another in ages past and never been repaired.

Pride exhaled, slowly, and closed his eyes. Centered his mind. Calm, he told himself. He had hours to prepare, and then rest-... But on the other hand, he had only hours to prepare, and to rest. Urgency flickered through him.

Focus.

The stone began to grind, and rumble; and from it, a translucent blue-white gemstone rose glittering from the rock. Diamond--he'd been torn between blood red, and pristine pale. Apparently, this was what he was getting--good.

It was shaped like a goblet, but shallow-dished and massive, large enough for two or three Gembound to drink from simultaneously. Large enough for Orthoclase-Alpha.

He took a breath, and once it had finished forming, he gently nudged it into place, stamping down the loose rock around it.

He sent a loose query Mischief's way, though really, he already knew the answer; Did you find it yet? Her 'response' came indignant, and if it were words, it'd have been something like I JUST started looking!

Pride took another breath, trying to be patient, and looked up at the 'stars.'

Right. The goblet was here: now to fill it.

The stag closed his eyes, again; and again, he concentrated. Water--he needed water, and while he had never learned the magic to create water from nothing, he knew how to condense it from his environment. Or, rather, to let it condense itself.

Mist-? No, while easier, that wouldn't fill the goblet, shallow as it might have been.

Rain, then. He steeled himself, and hoped he had it in him.

It came lightly, a drizzle, as it so often seemed to here in Orion--but given enough time it would fill the goblet. He just had to be sure it was maintained for long enough. Meanwhile, there were two other things he wanted to do. A quick check at Mischief told him that the deer was still nowhere to be seen, though in fairness she'd only been gone mere moments.

His armor, then.

The white stag turned to the Throne, and stepped swiftly and delicately behind it, pausing to rotate his ears. No one was here; that was good.

Time, then, to suit up.

His diamond armor lay dusty against the rock. He hadn't worn it in weeks, and as he nudged it into the light rain, he watched pensively as it grew gradually cleaner, streaks of water wiping away the signs of disuse.

Pride was thinking, though, not of the armor but of the deer. He did not like killing Lessers; he'd done it out of necessity for a time, once, to feed a carnivore friend with a broken leg. But he had a reptutation he wished to form and as much as he hated to admit it, the life of even a Lesser deer, with whom he'd spent time in Eridanus at great length, was worth being sacrificed here.

You lived with them, protected them, his conscience spoke up at last, as if finally realizing what he had in mind; but you'll kill one, just to make an impression on someone-? Just kill this Overseer, instead. There's no need for an innocent to suffer. You're a defender-! But it was logic, not conscience, that answered the thought. I will not start a war--not yet. I need this to go perfectly to save other lives, and this is not my herd. Selfish-! Yes, but this Overseer will kill and eat meat anyway, and is it truly any kinder to kill something that is not a deer? Or is that itself arrogance-? His thoughts continued to war with themselves for a moment, until logic put its foot (or rather, hoof) down, and Pride silenced himself.

The main issue is not whether to do it. It's how. I can't have it decaying before he gets here, and I can't keep it here alive through any means that I can think of. Nothing that isn't terribly cruel, anyway.

He shook his head, and turned his attention to the armor, slowly growing clean. Along his link he could hear, or rather feel, surprise: Mischief had picked up the scent sooner than he'd expected.

Good-... Now, for his armor.

His mind was weary--he could admit that much. But nothing happened, at first, and he realized that he was staring dumbly at his armor with, indeed, nothing happening. Rain pattered down, plinking off the gemstone, slowly wetting his fur, and he grimaced.

Try again. And focus, this time, he told himself.

He took a deep breath.

It took a moment--the struggling of magicka against his weariness--and he grimaced, resolving to sleep as much as he could before evening fell. If he was forced to fight, he'd need to be somewhat refreshed, and he'd already exerted himself a great deal today.

Slowly, the armor raised itself up--first one panel, then the next, the diamond trembling a little as he struggled to fit it perfectly in place. Hooks looped, at last, through holes; and eventually all four pieces were in place against his damp fur.

Pride turned his attention to Mischief, and took a breath, feeling the dizziness briefly half-stagger him. I'm coming, he told her.

Two quick checks, then--a glance back at the bowl, firstly, told him that it was gradually filling with water. And a check at his nose--the nosebleed, at least, had stopped.

Thank goodness for small miracles.

Hooves clattered as he raced through Orion, the armor clinking against itself. The added weight was an irritant, and he reflected that perhaps he should've hunted before he put it on. But he didn't know how this would go, yet, and he didn't want to have to struggle to put it on before the Overseer arrived.

Mischief was up ahead, a pale and tiny shape in the dusty darkness, sitting up and sniffing around. Her ears rotated, and she fired a glance that was somehow both mischievious and serious back at her master. She had the scent--but she could not find the deer in the labyrinth of ruins.

Pride slowed to a trot as he came up alongside her, and at her insistence, half-knelt so that she could leap onto his back. He listened, himself, and sniffed, but there was nothing bar a faint and distant scent. He cast his magic out, instead, loathing having to overuse it so much but-... Time was of the essence, now.

Ahh-...

Ahead, a ways. I can see four. Low to the ground, and motionless. He didn't think they were dead--he thought it more likely that they were sheltering, perhaps from his own rainfall.

Quietly he moved forward. This wasn't his herd, and perhaps it was selfish of him to kill one of them, despite considering those in Eridanus friends. Just because these were strangers didn't make it all right, Lesser or no; but he was aiming for one beast in particular. He was going to kill--but he could be merciful about it, and one of them had seemed rather decrepit to him. Old, perhaps; he wasn't sure, but he'd see if he could find that one, at least.

When he came into sight of them they tensed, at first, two scrambling to their feet, and he cursed himself that they'd seen him before he saw them, despite his use of magic. They started to bolt, and he realized that he hadn't really... formulated a plan, yet.

He didn't know what to do, for a split second--two of the deer bolted at once, the other two tensing and staring at him, ears swept forward and eyes wide. For an instant, he had a choice: to let them go, to go back and meet the Overseer without this additional stain on his morality.

It was a brief, grim memory of the cringing Orthoclase-Alpha that settled his mind, and he reached out with his magic with the clumsiness born of surprise and urgency. The one deer--the broken-antlered one, a little thinner, a little more wiry--turned to leap and then froze, scrambling midair, as Pride's magic took it. It let out a single, terrified bleat, heart-wrenching; and then Pride brought it down to the side, hard enough to smack its head strongly against a stone building. There was a crack that turned his stomach, and the deer went limp.

He hoped he hadn't killed it-... But it was time to get it back to the Throne either way.

By the time he returned to the Throne, he was nearly exhausted.

His armor was on; the goblet-thing was formed and half-full, now, of water. He had the deer. He just had to-... sort it.

He couldn't let it die, not yet; if he did, it'd decay and its death would be wasted. Pride wasn't sure if that was better, or worse, than letting it suffer in fear--probably better, really... He would just have to hope that it remained unconscious. But he couldn't really think of any way to ensure that it did.

Pride's magic released the cave deer to drop at the foot of the Throne. It was already waking, struggling against his hold, and he wearily turned his mind to another solution.

Gemstone swept up from the ground; he aimed for its neck, a neat diamond collar, but what swept up was peridot, bright green and just generally ruining the aesthetic for which he'd aimed. It was irritating, that, but he had little room to complain about the little details (though, in fairness, details were intrinsic to this 'plan,' if one could call it that). It was not a neat collar with a chain, but a heavy block that simply pinned the deer, nearly encircling its neck.

Mischief hopped down and bounded off, pausing a distance away to turn and watch uncertainly. She rarely doubted Pride's actions, but right now she sensed his own worry and tiredness, his own discomfort with what he was doing--with what he thought he had to do. Others eat Lessers all the time, he told himself; you've hunted them yourself, for Aster.

Out of necessity, his conscience argued, And this one doesn't have to die. It's terrified.

He shook his head and plodded over, lowering himself to flop beside the deer. He had to sleep--there was no two ways about it; he'd exhausted himself throughout today. He had to be fresh-... fresher, anyway. Stay awake, please--and warn me when something comes. This he sent out to Mischief, who for once didn't respond with immediate, confident obedience; normally she was all on board with his plans, as he asked little of her and took care of her in turn. But this was... different, and she was unsettled as her master drifted off to sleep.