ORIGIN

Ever since waking up in this strange place, Ovid had been in a state of complete confusion. There had been a great cacophony with his arrival and subsequent hatching; a horde of beasts greeted him, with a few dangerous looking stone things picking away at his chrysalis. At the time the big baby hadn't understood. Now, having spent a couple of cycles on his own and having been forced to adapt, he wasn't too much better - except Ovid knew who he was, what the golems were, and that Cetus was his home. He did not want to leave his home, not for anything.

When the rains started, the young bull hadn't paid much attention. The water felt nice upon his hide at first. It grew colder as he got wetter, though. The mist afforded some secrecy from strangers but, with the rain, the mist seemed to dissipate more easily; so Ovid learned to dislike the rain, to not trust it. And the rain did not end. Cetus was being drenched, and all Ovid could think was, will it ever stop? He took to hiding out beneath the trees, to wandering the trenches until they became overburdened by water; eventually Ovid couldn't go anywhere without feeling chilled by the rain, or soggy and muddy.

So he lingered in the trenches - at least today - seeking nourishment. Weeds grew along the trench sides, while brambles and other plants worth foraging were netted throughout the forest; but with the amount of water sluicing through the trees, Ovid decided it didn't matter where he got his food. He dragged his snout through the gushing trench water, trying to grasp something of value, but resurfaced with only mud and grime dripping from his nose. A second attempt won him some soggy reeds, which he dolefully munched upon.

Ovid slurped the dripping plant clump in to his mouth and worked at it with his molars; it wasn't the tastiest of things he'd eaten thus far, nor the most satisfying, but it would do. He was reaching for another murky cluster of detritus floating on by when -- whump! -- something connected with his chest. His big ears pivoted forwards and he looked down (or as down as he could, since his head really couldn't bend that well). There was something clinging to him, and so Ovid was unsettled. This was made far worse when the thing spoke, and he felt a tremble of apprehension work through his spine.

"Other one?" He intoned with a lazy drawl, brow raising momentarily. He didn't like the way this little creature spoke. He didn't like the physical contact either, but as the creature was indeed quite small, he could tolerate it. All of the thing's effort seemed to be directed at clinging and not hurting, so Ovid permitted it.

"You are in Cetus." He answered next, with a small snort issued from his nose; the grunt was accompanied with a little spray of trench water, as it still dripped form his long face, and then a little wiggle of his snout. Water made him uncomfortable - which was odd for a moose, perhaps. "Tal'at.." It was an odd name, but one that Ovid tested all the same upon his tongue. "I am Ovid, keeper of Cetus." At least, that's how he liked to be known. So far he had been unable to do his self-proclaimed duty; Cetus had changed a lot since his hatching, and he did not like it.

The sensation of the Tal'at shifting against him, practically burrowing, wasn't entirely unpleasant. It was strange, and the strangeness was not lost upon Ovid; he shifted his weight a bit, displacing some water. The trench muck sloshed around his thick legs. The little creature's question was a good one - and Ovid had no real answer. He rumbled a thoughtful little noise, kind of like a grunt, and then settled in to a contemplative silence.

"This rain has been here long, but not always." Before, Cetus had been covered in darkness and in mist; then there was light, and Ovid had been frightened in to the thick of the swamp. The rain was the newest change, and the most unpleasant. He paused again to think, and to wander. Ovid pulled himself along through the deep trench, carefully plotting a course so that he'd reach the sloping edge where he had descended in to the mire; it was here he thought to stop, to observe.

To speak, evidently. "Perhaps it will end soon. Perhaps never." But it was unpleasant, and cold, even for the giant. It wasn't fair for Cetus to become so inhospitable to the smaller critters either. With a slight dip of his nose, Ovid addressed the Tal'at directly (although he still looked straight ahead, towards the mud banks of the tree line).

Ovid briefly closed his eyes. He focused upon the feeling of the creature upon his breast, listened to the little sounds of it breathing, and gradually there came a glow - a dull, gray shimmer - which took hold of the space between his ears. Almost like the top of his head was glimmering through the rain. The light shifted and dulled, dying out entirely, and as it did so there was a brief warming sensation upon the moose's broad chest. He hoped the water that dampened his body could at least be used for something. "Are you warmer?" If not, he could attempt a remedy - but Ovid wasn't practiced in his magic; he feared that his power would only injure, and that was wrong.