The stone was a strange one: bright and ridiculous red leaning a tad toward orange or pink, and mottled in a pocked, chipped way that revealed its oddly organic nature.

It was also cracking.

A quiet shudder, a snap. A line began to erupt along the coral's length--but the stone lay in the mud of Cetus, wholly submerged in the water. The first crack allowed that foul swamp-water in, flooding the stone, displacing the fluid that had kept the child within growing and alive.

Oh fuck.

It was a hell of a first thought: but here he was, alive, existing, he was Corsair and oh fuck, oh fuck, he was drowning!

A scaly black foot struggled, kicked, and the coral snapped away; the hatchling tumbled out and bobbed to the surface: a scraggly fledgling with wide and terrified eyes. The hooked beak gaped, the bird gasping for air, the little wings batting at the water's surface.

Terror was not a good start to any life, but at least he wouldn't die, yet--probably, anyway. He was free, the coral laying abandoned beneath him, lingering only in a dirty glint at his keel. And there the fledgling floundered, struggling and bobbing at the surface of the Heart.

"H-" he started, the word coming freely to his mind but he was choking--"HELP!"

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-

There was a voice approaching--calling words he didn't know--and he struggled against the drowning waters. Terror still gripped him, a fear that seemed to swirl like the mist above. The stranger's approach both intensified that fear--what if it were enemy?--and brought him desperate hope--what if it were a saviour?

Any such hopes were dashed, though, when it began to hiss and squawk. The poor fledgling screamed, wordless and afraid, as the larger child drew closer. The words--intruder, thief, liar, robber--rang through Corsair's head, undoubtedly tucked away to be examined in confused horror later (should he survive this henious assault). But for now he was shoved, booted, thrown--bodily clear of the water in a horror-filled moment of spinning water, sky and fog--and then slamming tattered baby-feathers first into the mud.

Already weakened by his struggles, he fought to come upright. Wings battered the mud, legs pushing frantically in an attempt to escape his attacker. "HEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!" he managed again, a little bit of water spraying from his beak. And then a gasp, choking, as he tried to get to shore.

"Shi..." he started, interrupted by a gasp for air, as he pulled himself onto some semblance of land. It wasn't dry, it wasn't even solid, but it wasn't water. Skein had pretty much shoved him here, and he was sorely tempted to just lie and rest now--but the horrific monster was coming for him, searching for him.

The fledgling bird did his best to flop away. It wasn't a very dignified retreat. It certainly wasn't a speedy one. Shit, he was still thinking, again and again, red eyes wide with fear.

It was like the world was dimming, darkening even past the horrid black of swamp-water. He was pretty sure it was the essence of the marsh itself (of existence, as far as he were concerned--he knew nowhere near enough to differentiate individuals from the world) screaming at him. His heart hammered too-fast in his ears, his gasps ragged with swamp-water.

His wings found a final burst of energy, and as the screeching thing came up behind him he managed terrified first flight: crooked beats lifted him upward, tilting this way and that wildly before slamming him into a tree. But he landed on a branch, at least, and gripped this for all it was worth, clinging and pressing down and shivering.

Red eyes searched the darkness and fog in fear. What else is out there?! What is that?! Why does it hate me? What the fuck is a liar?! His mind reached for this, in his terror, and found the meaning, and he screamed down after a single ragged breath: "I'M-" -gasp- "NOT A LIAR?!"

Panting he clung to the tree, clueless as to what all this meant--and not wanting ANY part of it.

Well, this was terrifying.

The Monster of the Marsh (as Corsair's brain was happily horrifyingly describing it, now) was clambering up behind him, and his water-muddied eyes were catching frightened glimpses of the beast. Flashes of brown and mud, of claws and feathers, and some distant primeval part of his brain was screaming in horror at the feathers bit.

FEATHERS MEAN FLY, his brain warned him, though not so clearly and he wasn't quite sure what to DO about this.

"FUCK! FUCK! NO! FUCK OFF!" he screamed, in a bravery born of last-ditch desperation. He could try to get up higher, but he might fall--and if he fell (or tried to glide down to safety) there was a pretty good chance this monster'd be on him in a heartbeat. He'd be torn to shreds before he'd ever really lived-! (This was all instinct, mind you; Corsair knew nothing of what predators did to prey, just yet, but his animal brain was screaming warnings of DO NOT GET NEAR THE THING and so he wouldn't. If he could help it.)

He drove his beak down in fear, splintering pieces off the branch below him. It was, all else aside, a huge beak, and powerful jaws for something so small--jaws meant to crack shells the size of walnuts. He pressed against the trunk and bit at anything that got close, blindly: tree bark, twig, and--if Skein got into range--any part of the monster that drew near.

He trembled against the branch, meanwhile, panting. "FUCK-! OFF-! NO! FUCK FUCK FUCK!" he screamed, high-pitched and desperate.

This is it, his instincts screamed: all or nothing! We make our final stand here! He'd have to fight this monster, as it invaded his last sanctuary. Hurt it, drive it back, and finally secure his safety. He-

-saw its jaws and changed his plan immediately. They looked sharp and heavy and dangerous, and the mass of dirty feathers was coming at him with those jaws at its forefront. He turned, desperate, trying to clamber up a little higher. His only recourse was to drive it back without touching it, and he tried: intending to up his volume to immense levels. "FUUUUUUUUUUCK!" Corsair screamed, and, well, he went a little too hard. It wasn't even all that loud, really. He just ran himself out of breath.

And fainted, briefly.

The world swam dark, his air shoved out of his lungs, and he wavered for a moment on the tree trunk before toppling backward. Cetus flashed past and he landed on his back in the muck below, motionless--alive, of course, but slowly blinking back awake.

Lesson: don't scream out all your air when you're already low on oxygen.

"Fuck," he gently whispered, wings spread belly-up in the mud.

The monster, it seemed, hadn't found him. He woke up from a daze, mud-slicked--maybe his motionless unconsciousness, covered in goop, had saved him. Most likely Skein had thought that Corsair had fled--he wasn't sure, but he knew that he was alive, and the swamp was now silent bar the constant sounds of insects and... and whatever that horrific wailing was in the distant treetops.

Corsair didn't want to find out.

A flutter rose him up, and he turned, weakly looking around--but fear drove him, and he was soon hobbling as fast as he could in a completely random direction. He tried to stay quiet, and by all the luck, or gods, or whatever there was looking after him (maybe just his own effort), he managed to do so. A flutter and he'd lifted airborne, his weak barely-fledgling wings carrying him in slow hops and starts to blind safety.

He didn't know where to go--he didn't know what lay out there--he just wanted to be anywhere but this.