The stag stepped carefully, his head craned well back, branching antlers reaching high. It was just as well that those antlers were regrown; their silver tines glinted rather majestically, and the white-coated creature appeared composed and regal.

His appearance did not at all appear awed, or afraid, which was what he was. When Amras had spoken of this room, of its heat and its great storm, he'd been curious to see it. He had not imagined the raw power that tore through it, threatening to rip asunder anything that grew too close, or to lift it and fling it violently into the air, or dash it on the stone below.

Pride stepped closer to the edge of the Gorge, peering down into the trenches far below. He could see gnarled trees farther down, and the trickle of a stream. And any of this could make for a wonderful story. But what to incorporate, and how to tell it? He chewed his own lip lightly for a moment as he thought.

He had to craft a tale worthy of Mercurius. And for that, he needed time, and inspiration. He had to think of a story, and he had to weave together the words to make that story worth listening to. The white lion had had a way with it--with storytelling--and he'd wholly captured Pride's mind with it. The stag had never heard a story, before, and Mercy's had been astonishing to hear. The fantastical settings, the strange creatures, the tragedy and compelling emotion to their tales--and above all, the poetry with which Mercurius had told his story--had held Pride rapt.

He recalled, with perfect clarity, portions of Mercurius's flowing prose--and part of that returned to him now, as he peered down at the tear rent through the rock below.

"Across that earth is a scar, gnarled stone rising up like ribs from the land." A soft sigh of appreciation passed from the stag's nostrils, and he peered up, another passage running through his mind. "Teeth flashing in the weeping light of the moon." Together, those two lines had been some of his favorites--even though he wasn't quite sure what sort of gemstone a moon was. Moonstone, perhaps? Regardless, he'd found it beautiful, and he was inspired to create a story of his own.

But what? Why had he come here, to Amras' mentioned cave? Perhaps he'd hoped to find further inspiration, here--an idea, a muse to spark his mind flowing. Or perhaps he'd simply wished to see it, to travel and to see someplace new while his creativity worked at piecing something new together.

I wonder how this all came to be? he thought curiously to himself--and then tilted his head, a little. I suppose that is a premise for a story. How did this gorge come to be? For that matter, how did Monoceros come to be? --Or the universe, itself? Life? Consciousness?

This thought running through his mind, the white stag turned, and paced off along the edges of the canyon.