The stone that lay beneath clustered moss, in among roots and rocks and slicked with drops of dew, was unusual. It was striated--banded with greys, and darker greys, and browns, so that in places it appeared to be the striped rock of a canyon. And in others, it looked like the cataract-fogged center of a blinded eye.

The surface of the stone exposed to air had grown thin, over the last few weeks. Almost paper-thin, in places. Hours passed, the lights dimming, then rising up again, the mists clearing and then returning. Rain was pattering down, dampening the jungle, when the stone at last gave way. There was a crack--dull, but resonant, audible from some distance away and easily-recognizable for what it was.

The creature that tumbled forth, half-conscious already, was wet through in seconds. It was darkly-feathered with fuzzy down, and had a large, grey, hooked beak. Its eyes opened as it stumbled, talons gripping and inadvertently tearing at the moss beneath, scraping over roots. One of those eyes was a shade of brown so dark that it looked black, particularly in this rainy light. The other was pale, as fogged as the cataract-gloss of the stone behind it; a small section of that very stone had replaced the bird's eye, in development.

The vulture looked around, his mind--never having experienced anything at all, before--trying to make sense of everything at once. Of sensation--the wet beneath his feet, the cool air, the dripping rain. The strong rustling of the foliage, the pattering of rain, the petrichor odor--it was all overwhelming. And the concept of sensation, at once--here was a new creature, one with no sense of self, rapidly trying to assimilate the idea that it was alive.

It did what most young beings in its state might do--it opened that thick-hooked beak, and let out a low-pitched, but loud, frightened croak of fear. Its own noises frightened it, and it quickly fell silent, huddling down soaked and confused in the rain.

Nothing came. No one came.

The rain continued, for a time. The vulture chick remained huddled beneath the ferns, looking around, quietly observing his world. He could see an insect, struggling to cling to a leaf as it moved, before tumbling down with a tiny spray of raindrops. He saw light shifting down, dim and grey, with the mist. He could see, too, when he looked closely around him, the shattered remnants of his own chrysalis.

He shook himself, thinking.

When I think, I move. So I must control this body? It is mine. And I came from here--this stone. Was I born from it? Is this where all life comes from, like that bug? Are these plants alive? Did something create me, or was this spontaneous?

His words, perhaps, weren't quite so complex--but the concepts were there, and were indeed complicated, with far-reaching consequences to their potential answers. And, too, they raised many, many more questions.

_______________

When the rain stopped, the vulture ventured out at last. He found the bug on its back, legs slowly waving, silent in its trapped hell. He leaned down, inspecting it.

Why couldn't it turn over..?

Its body was black, legs long and angular. He could eat it--he was tempted to--but he held back with a self-control perhaps startling for one so young. At length, he flipped it--a quick nudge of his hooked beak--and watched it scramble up, and begin to crawl away. And he watched, satisfied that he had helped.

He could eat that thing--but perhaps he'd try to find ones that were already dead, instead.

Quiet, he waddled further into Eridanus, ever-attentive, and curious.

The vulture waddled along, his not-quite-formed feathers unable to sustain him in flight had the thought even occurred to him to attempt it. Instead he was stuck on foot, pushing his way through rain-drenched foliage and plodding talon-first through cold puddles. He was soon shivering, this unpleasant new feeling of cold not a kind one.

I'd like to find someplace warm, he reflected, though the thoughts, had he attempted to actually put words to them, would have been more like "want warm." His vocabulary couldn't support his thoughts, quite yet.

Eventually, Doctor emerged along a slope. He peered down a mossy trail along which rainwater still trickled; ferns bobbed as drops from the trees above struck them. The vuture peered up, blinking his single eye; high overhead the leaves shifted, at a pace which seemed somehow otherworldly.

Rapt, he watched, for a time, until the cold brought him back to the present; he looked back down, again, and began to pace his way down the incline. Talons gripped the moss, and his legs trembled just a little from the effort.

He felt a little bit of fear at the steepness of the slope--but somehow he hoped that being lower down might be warmer, somehow. He relaxed quite quickly--he found that his legs were strong, his body lightweight, and it was little trouble for his strongly-taloned feet to pick his way along the moss and the roots without any risk of tumbling. By the time he reached the bottom, he was a little warmer--if only from the effort of the climb.

It was an hour or more before he found the snake. It was lying in the wet, half-submerged in mud, its belly white to the sky and the forefront of its length loosely coiled. The tail was extended out behind it, the jaws slightly open, and blood lightly smeared its scales here and there.

Doc approached, wary at first, instinct warning him that this shape was not a good one--but the snake did not move, and the same instinct then told him of food. He waddled over, prodding it with a talon, then inspecting it over closely.

It didn't look, somehow, like enough blood to cause a death. Yet he could see the small bites, here and there, where a rat had gotten it--though he didn't know that; he only saw holes, and blood, and motionlessness.

Is this like the trees? I don't know if they're alive or not. Or was it like me, alive, moving, but not anymore? If not, why? Critical thinking, but he had no way of finding an answer. He planted a foot onto it, talons gripping it firmly in place, and with his hooked beak he tore into it. He was hungry, instinct drove him, and soon enough he'd gulped the snake down nearly whole.

That was one problem solved, anyway--though the meal's state left many questions unanswered.

The vulture kept on until he found a stream, and despite there already being water everywhere, he chose to pause there to drink. He found little else of interest in that area, and moved on, heading up the slope on the far side of the creek.

This was a little more difficult than climbing down, he found, and he spread his wings and flapped them unsteadily to give himself a boost. He hadn't gone far before he spotted another figure lying in the dirt: this one a rat, motionless and still in the damp.

It had two single drops of blood sitting atop its oily brown fur. They sat there, just as still as the rat, bright and pure round, like strange berries. But he had eaten the snake, and knew what it was. Were these two related..? Doctor glanced down the hill, thinking. They fought, perhaps--this one died to its wounds after killing the snake. But why, then, does this one show so little damage?
He stepped forward, peering down at the dead rat, and to his surprise, when he nudged it with one talon, it moved. Okay, not dead, then. It twitched and gasped, body arching back, stiffening. He stared down, head tilting, his one good eye regarding it with mild sympathy and intense curiosity.

Could he do anything, perhaps, to help..? He couldn't immediately think of anything--but instinct, again, drove him and he paused, concentrating on this.

He could feel a faint flickering of... of something stirring within him, but it did nothing. He was left standing over the rat, a hulking brown feathered shape staring down in the re-emerging rain.

Many Gembound found guidance when they hatched.

Doctor had not been one of these; yet his cool and distant discipline seemed part of his inherent persona. The lack of contact thus far, however, had already taught him to rely on only himself, and to trust his own judgements and ideas. He had a detached sort of air about him, cold, though not cruel. Empathy would come only with difficulty.

The rat had died, after Doctor had tried, and failed, for some time to help it in some way. He'd still been full, and so he hadn't eaten it. But he'd tasted a sense of magic, and he wanted to know what it was.

Methodically, he explored his world. He knew what food was, and that it was important. Water, too. And he knew that shelter was of use. Already he was climbing tall and gnarled roots, crouching in a huddled perch through the nights.

Though he'd met no other speaking Gembound, yet, he did find interest in lessers, and in his magic. He was, at the moment, practicing on plants: tugging on that faint stirring he'd felt, trying in vain to develop it, to follow its thread and pull it so that something might actually happen.

And do something, it most certainly did. He was staring at the fruit hanging from the bush before him, willing the magicka to react, to affect the fruit in some way so that he might learn from it. The world seemed to gradually blur and sway, sound muffling out so that all he could hear was his heart thudding in his own ears.

The next thing he knew he was on his side, beak open and wings splayed, hotter than he'd ever felt in his life--and delirious with the fever. The world's colors seemed to run together, far too bright, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

exit