ORIGIN

Rooting through the lichen and pursuing the underbrush on limbs still uncertain; the little beastie was. Toddling to and fro, Morn sampled the ferns with eager fingers and examined the plants whose names she did not know. To her, everything was but a sense (a hiss)! Already the opossum had begun to distinguish between the many sounds of the Maw of Mosses (though to her the cavern had no name, and nothing else existed beyond it). Pointed nose pressed to the leaves of a flower. On, it moved to the petals, brushing against the silken edges. Fingers followed, examining its edges and the delicate spans of it before - ears twitched. Dark eyes turned. What was that? The noise was unfamiliar; a sort of rustling. Similar to the noise from own self when it parted through the growths ...

Curiosity followed - as often it did - and Morn pattered softly after the sound; abandoning the flower that she had been so keen on identifying before. With tail dragging behind, it took her a good moment to cross the distance between her and - something. A something. For this something was standing before an anthill - the anthills that she herself had been avoiding (for the ants did bite and her hisses meant nothing to them). Higher, she raised herself. What was that? Head tilted. It was moving, but not in the same way that the flora shuddered beneath the cavernous ceiling.

Morn did the only thing that she could do; she puffed up (little ball of fur flaring and-) HISSSS! (For the concept of speech was lost on her yet and she had no recollection of friend, foe, or anything of the sort.) But this - this - was new. She must understand. A few tentative steps were taken toward the other. Not yet did she dare venture far from the undergrowth; but she was bold in her nativity nonetheless.