What their mind first caught on was a lack that felt all the more for being not-a-thing. The valkhound in its oilstone chrysalis tipped over the
precipice to awareness— and suddenly there was an all consuming awareness of how there was not—
Not, what? There was something they were aware of, but it was not—
Whatever they were now knowing, it lacked. This all that they were aware was not…
Well, it simply was
not, they decided to sum it up as. Sum it as, for it was an incomplete understanding, but they had not any closer to completing it just for knowing it as incomplete.
—Oh, that was…
Incomplete, they repeated in their mind. What they were aware of now felt not— Because it felt incomplete. It was not the whole. It was not what it could be. Yet- How could it be what it could be?
Focusing on what was not present had not helped them find it, so they focused on what they could.
It was— Tight. Dark. Wet.
The words came to them, the concepts only half-attached, but they delighted in this partial knowing they gained instinctively just through deliberately observing themself.
Did the incomplete of it all have anything to do with those three words? They weren’t entirely sure, the concepts so half-formed as to be more confusing than helpful.
Physical discomfort had them instinctively try to shift, instincts to move and resettle their body to find comfort- But they could not, not really , because it was tight—
And- it could be something other than tight, then? Instincts to move meant movement should
be, yes?
Thinking was slow going, even if it was better than not thinking. Acting, being— That was where they learned.
The answer was to not think, but feel, then?
And they felt physical discomfort, felt the urge to move— And they no longer dwelled on the why, the how, the what. They acted, shifting and stretching their body, movements growing harsher as their emotions fueled their movements.
The first crack was small, quiet.
It was one piece, one piece of not-dark, but they made more, until the darkness had all shattered away, leaving behind a bird wet with chrysalis fluids amongst the shards of oilstone. It was quick and yet not. It was done, and yet— It had just begun.
Though damp like a baby chick, the large bird was no child— Not as true children might be defined. The bird lacked experience, but that was already something it was fixing. It was physically grown in a way that was tall, and it delighted in this realization.
Because being tall allowed it to
see.
And their sight and therefore attention was caught by one that was large, but not necessarily tall, still somewhat damp in the same way they were, maybe a bit less so. Did that make the plated being— theirs, somehow? They felt connected.
The plated being was— Fighting? No— That felt wrong.
More like not-fighting. They had heard words as the tight space cracked, hadn’t they?
Spar, that was the not-fighting fighting, yes. Practice for strong. They crooned instinctive delight of that, practice to gain experience and be more— The idea of it all resonated with them.
(What they called a croon was a rumbling noise with a hint of trill. It was akin to bird crooning as much as a monstrous tiger being able to purr might be akin to housecat purring)
The plated-one was practicing to become more of what they were. They, too, would practice to be more of what they themself were— By watching and listening, first, learning through the experiences that comes with observing.
They were not the same as the plated-one, but the two of them were connected. So even if they did not become in the same way, knowing how the other could become was good. They would know, learn by being, existing,
experiencing.
@V-Onyx-Three
@Ophiuchus
(OOC: now hatched near you: an audience valkbird lurking intensely)
