ORIGIN

The distant sounds of hooves on soft earth grew louder as Booker and Khloros reached the end of Tunnel N, the corridor opening out into the cavern that made up Polaris. As soon as the soft lights of his home, the numbat relaxed, falling into an easy trot at his traveling companion's side. "Follow me!" In his haste, Book seemed to take for granted the foal's ability to keep up with him, and stopped every so often to make sure he hadn't lost his friend. After a few minutes of this stop-and-go travel, they reached what at first looked like any other part of the cave wall. Cold stone was offset by the warm glow of bioluminescent fungi and energy-boosting crystals, and with a glance back at Khloros and a grin, Booker waved at him to follow as he rushed at the wall.

At first, it appeared that he'd disappeared - but close inspection would reveal that the wall had a large crack, possibly from some sort of tremor or earthquake, that was almost completely hidden by the shadows that played in the corners of the numbat's home. On the other side of the wall, the opening easily large enough to fit a newborn foal, Booker sat, eagerly awaiting his chance to show Khloros what they'd been traveling for. Inside of the alcove, the glowing fungi multiplied, making the small room appear to be under a sea of stars, much like Orion. Moss had been collected over the time since Booker hatched, spread out over the floor to make it spongy and comforting. Some of the naturally-glowing crystals dotted the walls, and Book patted one of them, looping the shiny eye-piece he'd found in Orion around it happily. Turning, he tried to usher Khloros in, washing his whiskers as he finally relaxed fully. "C'mon, Khlor! There's a bunch of moss for you to sleep on," he promised, "and there's somethin' in the air, makes ya more comfy. Like... extra energy. I think it comes from the crystals," he mused, although, of course, this was patently untrue in reality.

Khloros blinked, and broke into a weak gallop, hoofbeats pattering a sharp staccato on the rock.

"Help, wait." His legs wobbled weakly, and he stumbled, but he did not fall. In fact, he was just beginning to enjoy the sensation of running when--suddenly--Booker vanished.

Khloros stopped dead, blinking wide and glowing eyes.

"B-Booker...?"

Slower, now, he walked forward, head low. He was worried, nervous--had the rock eaten Booker?! Stalking more like a predator than prey, tense, he approached the dark gap in the stone.

Long, slender foal's head peeked around the corner, ears pricking up, and Khloros found himself staring into a tiny wonderland. With an excited nicker he frolicked in, leaping twice and then stopping, looking around with awe. The lights! The glowing! His own eyes were like two more balls of glowing moss, or mushrooms, and he looked at Booker in amazement. The darkness, with all its tiny stars of moss glowing like a sheet of stars?! It was like a tiny little paradise, and he loved it.

"It's--... beautiful."

Khloros jumped around the tiny room once or twice, then flopped and rolled around in the moss, exulting in just how GREAT Booker's room was. He didn't even speak, anymore--he just let out a soft squeal of joy.

THIS. WAS. AMAZING!

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BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

While Khloros entered his home, Booker got comfortable, climbing up to his own sleeping place. A thicket of moss, almost seeming to be woven together, lay on the top of a bushel of flat, wide-capped mushrooms, each separate top acting as a step up to the highest fungi. Sitting on his bed, the numbat grinned, watching as his friend explored his home. The foal's words made him squeak, nodding sagely, the effect broken by his giggling at the horse's squeal. "I knew you'd like it! You can stay as long as you want," he promised, clapping his hands together.

"Book-er hasn't had visitors before," the young Gembound offered nervously, tail twitching. He brightened after a moment, bouncing in place. "But now that we're home you can meet Bara and Mag-da and every-one! I'm sure some-one can help with where you're hurt, and maybe even with your friends." Frowning, the numbat peered apologetically up at the foal. "But I dunno who exactly... but there's gotta be a bunch'a Gems who'd help!" He thought, and thought, and thought some more, before sighing and falling backwards onto his mushroom bed's cap.

"Or we could do whatever you wanna do," he offered sheepishly.

Khloros rolled upright, peering at Booker and offering a soft snuffle of agreement. He began to nibble on what little there was in the way of grasses, careful not to hurt the moss or the mushrooms.

"Okay. Nap and then... find people? To help?" he asked, softly.

He blinked large and innocent eyes at Booker, then flopped down on his bony side with a contented sigh, ribs pressing up toward the roof through his dull black hide. He snuffled toward the numbat.

"I can rest here, right...?" Khloros looked at Booker, then closed his eyes, seeming quite happy to be able to rest. He'd been walking since he'd first hatched, and he was a tired little thing, wanting rest and food--and water, later, if he could get it. He closed his eyes again, probably drifting off to sleep for awhile, deeply and abruptly, as young things tend to do.

Booker now had a diseased young horse foal quietly snoring on his bed of moss.

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BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

A nap sounded wonderful, and Booker found his own eyes slipping shut, sleepily nodding along to the foal's words. The question made him sit up a bit, nodding slowly with a yawn. "Yes, yes. Khlor-os will rest here," he murmured, getting up on all fours only to turn in a few lazy circles, laying down in a tightly-curled ball.

With Khloros' snores a background white noise the numbat had never experienced, along with the comforting feel and smell of his own bed, Booker quickly dropped off to sleep along with the horse. Soon enough, his own soft, wheezy snores joined the foal's. Above the pair, the bioluminescent fungi twinkled and pulsed with light, casting soft shadows below.

Khloros slept for a good many hours, and once he woke--groggy and parched, his mouth sticky and dry--he found that Booker was still asleep.

He was gone for perhaps an hour, maybe a little more; he'd heard the rushing of the river, and wanting to go and drink without waking his new friend, he toddled off. He wasn't really sure how to react when a strange creature approached him, telling him that he was different, better than others. He'd not been sure about anything in his life but this, this--for the first time--had brought him inner conflict.

The black foal found himself hurrying back toward Booker's little den, shaking his mane, worry filling him. He had many questions, but first--he didn't want to wake his friend.

With a soft clatter of hooves Khloros trotted back into Booker's little cave-home, folding his legs up to lay on the moss beside him, peering at Booker. His mind raced.

Why am I different? Why would I be better? ...Will Booker's friends be able to help with that, too?

Worry filling his young little mind, he simply lay there, watching and waiting.

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BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

The feeling of eyes on his coat made Booker grumble in his sleep, waking slowly and groggily scratching at his working eye. With a yawn, the numbat stumbled up onto his feet, tail swishing about as he tried to find his balance. Turning to look off of his elevated sleeping platform, he blinked at Khloros, vision blurrier than normal. He huffed, trotting down spongy, fungal steps to grab at the shiny he'd found in Orion, holding it up to his eye with a satisfied hum.

He frowned at the foal, worry etched into his face. "Did you have a night-mare, Khlor? I get those some-times," he offered softly, fighting off another yawn, voice sleepy as he wrapped the monocle's chain around his waist and secured it with a tiny knot of the metal. Satisfied, Booker sat down near the foal's hooves, peering up at him through the glass of his treasure. "Your coat isn't hurtin', is it?" He eyed his friend's wounds, worried as ever about their appearance.

Khloros peered at Booker, blinking. He then swivelled his head to look over the oozing patches on his dark coat.

"No? Doesn't hurt," he replied softly. And it didn't, not really--it tingled, and it was more sensitive to being smacked against rocks and things, but for the most part the plague that he harbored caused him no harm. Though...

"If you touch it, it might make you sick, though," he added quietly.

Khloros looked down as Booker trotted down by his hooves, peering up at him with the monocle.

"There was someone outside. Said I was different," Khloros said quietly. Then, pondering, he added--"What's a nightmare?"

Were they going to find Booker's friends, now? Did he want to ask them to help? ...Why was it that Khloros needed help, again?

He shook his head slightly, snorting; he couldn't remember. Maybe it'd been to help with his magic. Oh, well--he trusted the numbat, and wherever Booker ended up taking him, he was sure it was for the best.

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BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

Booker huffed sceptically at his friend's insistence that the numerous oozing pustules and open sores littering his coat didn't hurt, but didn't say anything. After all, if Khloros was hurting, he'd say something eventually. At the mention of sickness, the numbat hummed, shuffling closer to peer at the foal's coat quizzically. "Maybe your friends have something to do with these," he murmured. "They came from inside you, yes?" The spark of scientific curiosity lit, it took Book a moment to refocus on his companion's words, and once he did, he frowned.

Someone outside? Just how long had he slept? Disquieted that he hadn't heard his friend coming or going, Booker tapped at his monocle, pensive. "Different? Well, we're all different," he said, voice even with certainty. "Just look at me n' you! We're different on the surface," he said, patting at Khloros' hoof, "but in-side we're the same. All of us, even the mush-rooms and your friends," he added, nodding to himself. "Why did the some-one say you were different?" The curiosity ate at him, but the craving to answer anything thrown his way won out, and he switched tracks to the topic of nightmares.

"Night-mares are like... bad things you think when you sleep," Booker explained, ears twitching. "Like some-times, when I'm asleep, I think of not being able to see the mush-rooms any-more." The confession was accompanied by a shudder. "They're no good. Better for you not to know them first-hand."

The numbat crept a bit closer, ending up with his chin resting on Khloros' ankle, tail tucked under his tiny front feet.

Khloros opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, listening.

Booker was crawling toward him, as he spoke, tapping his hoof--then leaning on his ankle, indeed resting on it and peering up. The little foal suddenly felt something new--a brief surge of protective instinct. He was the young one, and he subconsciously knew he was the one to be protected; yet Booker, so tiny down at his feet and so earnest peering up at him, made him realize that he'd fight to guard him.

...Though he had no idea how to fight.

He forced his mind back to the present, back to listening what it was that Booker was telling him.

"...Oh. So the things you see at night. Nightmare. Not true...?" Obviously Booker could see mushrooms. So maybe he was seeing things when asleep, that weren't true?

His own first nap had been dreamless, and so the foal had very little concept of what a dream, or a nightmare, even was. Booker had also mentioned his disease. Khloros thought this over, leaning down to briefly nibble at the numbat's head, an affectionate little gesture, before replying.

"Maybe my friends in me make the skin-goo?" he agreed, hesitantly. "They will help me, and I will never be alone," he added. This he said with some confidence. At his birth--even before--he had known they were all around him. His magic even hinted at some form of collective sentience; not that the bacteria had spoken to him, not exactly, but perhaps he was a host, a reservoir, and they would keep him alive and protect him so long as he kept them safe, in return. He felt like they'd chosen him, for some reason.

Maybe that's what Rafael had meant...?

"The... peryton," he started again, hesitating once more, "at the river. Rafael. Said... we are different. Many lions. Many birds. Only one him, only one me. Said I'm not a normal horse and... am better." Something about this rubbed him the wrong way, and that troubled him. He was young, impressionable, and if an adult (or even older adolescent) stated something as fact, he didn't know they could possibly be wrong.

But it doesn't feel right.

Looking down at Booker, the thought struck him again. He wasn't better than Booker. Was he?

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BRING OUT YOUR DEAD