Nycthemeron: there's the vocabulary word of the day—which was, if one sat down to think about it, was a rather amusing phrase.

It was the period of twenty-four hours that marked every day, without using a word that was fairly difficult to apply to a setting that lacked blue skies and sunny mornings entirely. There was good reason that many measured the passage of time simply by how many times they'd slept; or, did not bother to count them at all. Measuring time seemed to be a futile act when one was functionally ageless past the fourth cycle.

At least, that was the old lion's sentiments about it. The taste of living life as it went was far sweeter than counting the cycles he'd spent wandering while all others simply slept. He was not bitter—there wasn't an ounce of vitriol in his body—about it, no, but, it seemed… rather worthless.

Despite reservations about watching the clock, Mercy had kept a close eye on it. The rhythmic dimming of lights was observed with steadily mounting eagerness (which he'd always announce to Pride with "another day passes" as he had for the stag's own life-given chrysalises) and he'd abandon whatever it was that he was doing; abandon it, so that he could pick his way toward the stone triplets and lay another flower at their bases.

The old lion had made somewhat of a game of finding a unique bloom for each visit. Today, they numbered thirty unique individuals.

He wished he'd thought of this for Temperance and Ember's stones—and he shared that much with Pride before beckoning for the stag to approach, "I think… that their time draws near, friend. The children, I mean."

Moonlit eyes regarded the chrysalises, then; a foggy sensation resembling concern murmured out from inky lips, "… do… you think that they will need—something other than what's been grown here?" Less deliberately, and far more stifled, Mercy worried: "will they bear pointed teeth… ? I do not know what shape their stones took before."

Falling back onto his haunches, then rocking forward onto his elbows, the old storyteller waited; both for a response from his dearly beloved and for the first, tattling crack! of gem ejecting a new life into this world.

He hoped that it would be a comfortable awakening—perhaps one into paradise, what with the flourishing greenery in this little pocket of Orion, and the filed-down remains of some siblings' shells. Mercy had baubled some of them, strung them up in the vines, but left many simply interspersed in the fine bluegrasses and saccharine-scented flowers.

A bit of a scavenger hunt for later, hm… ?

@Pride @Tobias @Casimir @Ampelio

Surrounded by coniferous ferns and thirty carefully selected flowers in every color and texture, the glistening blue opal and fuchsia quartz were right at home. They shone their beautiful, unique shades of brilliant color, promising the bold creatures within. And yet, among them was a dark shadow, streaked black astrophyllite that had grown into the largest among them.

He was the first to stir from his childish dreams, half-memories that had not quite taken firm root in the stone and quick-- soon to be forgotten and replaced by new memories-- the dark stone began to crack. The dull browns and blacks splintered, hints of sharp blue catching the light in the motion. It was the first sensation of cold shock reaching the new life as air seeped inside.

The babe within did not care for this change, and twisted, trying to get away from the chill that crawled in. The black stone broke further. Light encroached upon the comfortable shelter, and the tiniest squeak of complaint escaped in a huff. With that puff of breath, the darkness fell apart completely.

It was from the darkness that came, at first glance, a perfect recreation of Mercy's own flesh: a bundle of pure white fuzz. The first marked difference: two horns replaced by a single curvature between his brow. Brilliant blue eyes stared up at the world as bumbling, heavy paws slid out in every direction until the child was little more than a puddle of damp fur among the flowers. Closer inspection might give hint of his stone's impact: the curls in his thick fur, his awkwardly large forelimbs and hand-like paws, but as a round, pudgy baby, he could be mistaken as cloned from the lion hovering over him.

The smell was strong. The cold was stronger. The lights were strongest of all: the child's first impression was of dozens of blurry halos casting streaks of golden rays. Beyond the baubled lights, there was Orion's starry impression of glistening galaxies, but those were lost to the boy.

As he blinked, bleary eyes struggling to focus, he finally took notice of his father. Big, baby blue eyes met with his father's own, reflections of one another, perhaps? The splooted infant simply stared, another huff building up and puffing out of his wobbly lips.

Rumble.

Wasn't it all just so perfect? Mercy had done a fantastic job setting a fitting stage for these three. They would be swathed in color, warmth, and delight, right from the get-go, and that was just what they were build for! Often times, children c-

Rumble, rumble.

Children carry their environments with them, you know? Fill them with love and they'll spread it around. Fill them with sadness and they'll carry that, too. Same with seeds from plants that stick, or sap that falls from trees -- with dirt, children will certainly muddy up the world! With anger they'll send the earth quaking. And with laughter, well-

Rumble, rumble, rumble.

...Speaking of laughter.

C- CR- CRH-

I feel like there's one too many sourpusses in the room.

C- C- CRACK--!!

We ought to change that. In fact, we've just been dying to. Without another word, a peep, or a chirp, the fuchsia bloom split like a budding grape, and practically spit out the little ball of goof nestled inside! A baby was ordered, and a baby was gotten -- one dazzling and strange.

The initial taste of life, for said baby, was sweet and soft, while the aftertaste was sparkling cold. Rejuvenating! In sharp contrast to the sibling before it (who had managed to beat it to the punch, no fair!), this little monkey-cat-baby was awake and alive as soon as possible. They tried -- tried -- springing to their clumsy little feet in a flash, as soon as their instincts realized what "feet" were! But alas, the goo underneath (and all around, in fact) was not accounted for, and neither was balance, nor gravity, nor desired destination, nor anything really. They appeared as if their only goal was simply to move.

This was not accomplished, of course. They fell flat; splooted against their will.

But move they must! Move they SHALL! But moving... what, exactly? ...Thump, thump, thump! A little noise from behind, something teeny smacking itself against the gooey nest. Thump, thump, thump!! And like a god, this little baby had brought noise into this world, with a single itty bitty appendage. Where else could this come from? Where else could it go? Exercising their ability, just like that, the baby was compelled to make a most... interesting call. Not the loudest, not the weirdest... but pretty loud and weird if you ask me. Fortunately, mercifully if you will, it was brief.

Guess that's just what you get when you get when you cross a boisterous mandrill and a melancholy lion, with an added dash of some kind of mystery powder. Just who IS this little kidcub, anyway? Well... you can call 'em "P" for now, I suppose. And look out, 'cause you're going to be seeing a lot more of them soon!

"If they are, I don't mind teaching them how to hunt, and taking care of that aspect," was Pride's murmured response. He looked over the flowers, and settled in with Mercy to wait. "Funny, when you think about it." A hunting stag, and a grass-eating lion? Who'd have thought. But he'd never hunt for himself; it was a skill that had come of necessity, when a carnivore friend had shattered her own leg. He'd learned the habits of the Lessers, and how to kill them mercifully, so such lessons--though distasteful--certainly were not beyond him.

"To less grim thoughts; I'm here for whatever you need, you know that, yes-? If you need a rest. You know how children can be," he added, amused. Arsu and Azizos had been remarkably calm children even in their games, but others--he'd met plenty of children and they could be quite exhausting. Pale eyes travelled over the garden Mercy had built: that he'd been working on, adding to, beautifying. "You've created a wonderful world for them," and this was quiet, and admiring.

Ahh--and then the stones were cracking. Quiet, at first, and Pride took a quiet step back--respectful, though his eyes glowed with joy. Well, metaphorically speaking.

The first--flopping down, legs flailed out to either side--and then the second, in a spill of chrysalis fluid. Pride left it to Mercy, for the most part; these were not his children, but he stood quite close by, waiting, watching. The warmth was there, in his heart, and he drew a little closer in case he was needed, but he didn't intrude as yet.

He did look them over. It was hard to make out any real features in children so young, but he noted that they quite resembled Mercy in most ways: relatively feline, mostly white, stocky-bodied. And, of course, adorable, with large eyes and... ah, strange cries.

Pride reached out to Mercy, then, mind-to-mind along their link. If you can speak to them like this, I find it helps them learn. Let me know if you want help. It was a bit of a hurried message, and a very quiet--or, rather, unintrusive--one; he simply hadn't thought to mention it, before. As an afterthought, he added: They're beautiful.
He meant it.

He leaned into the reassuring presence that was Pride—both physical and mental—a smattering of both thankfulness and apprehension ambling along their connection. Mercy sighed softly by way of a halfhearted laugh, "situational irony at its finest."

Despite the stag's lack of ill intent, he still felt dimly... upset, by the prospects. If these children were of sharp tooth, claw, and wit, he would not be able to share what was allegedly so innate to him (what'd been nailed out of him time and time again, despite his unerring optimism and beliefs about redemption.) The first two—and yes, Mercy considered those two children to be his own just as much as he'd consider these three to be Pride's—had been indication enough of that incapability.

Yet, for his dear friend's sake and their spawn's own, he looked on the... softer side of things: they, together, still had all that a parent needed to provide for their own.

"Of course, and the same for all of ours," the pale beast offered, leaning to put just a little more weight against the stag's side. Inky lips tipped up in the slightest of smiles, somehow wan and yet so full of warmth. As for the garden—"Your mist certainly helped its growth along," he laughed gently. On more than one occasion, Mercy had come to dew and mist despite the dryness of Orion.

But, then, then, then—!

The darker and largest of the chrysalises started to crack, rutilated facets splitting apart. Mercy barely noted Pride's inaction in favor of taking a creaking stand (curse those stiff joints of his—) and hobbling forward a few steps. His tail flicked an uneven rhythm, the tassel whipping through the air with trepidition. The stone would upend a child into the world on its own, he knew, but against everything, he wished to help. Ember and Temperance had already been out once he managed to amble out of the shubbery.

The sight of downy curls spilling over darling baby-blues was enough for him to make his move.

"Hello," came the soft chuff, brief but full of all the radiated warmth of a fire on a cool night, as a great, big paw went to scoop the cub closer. Mercy half-fell onto his elbows, cracking his jaw to rasp his tongue up and down the little one's back. It was done with perfect efficiency, cleaning up all that fluid and membrane. It tasted vaguely of iron and salt (and he would not be fully able to equate that to the odor of sanguine.)

By the time his singularly-focused mind had parsed the sound of a second shell cracking, the infant'd already sputtered into explosive being, and was crumpling beneath unsteady, slippery feet. When Mercy managed to crane his neck to make a saving catch, the little one had gone splayed across the ground. Rumbling in his throat—a little bit of a laugh—he halfway stuffed the first child under his mane and snatched the second by the shaggy scruff.

This one wasn't free of the intense cleaning session treatment, no matter how they were considerably less... hairy, particularly in the facial department.

Pride edged into his sphere of attention, and Mercy welcomed him—ah, of course. I did with Ember and Temperance. He lifted his head, pushing up just slightly. Moonlit gaze regarding the children—both practically underneath him, as a mother hen would sit on her eggs—he called, it will work best if we do it at the same time, I think... ? While we wait for the third—he spared a longing glance to the opal—just names and the essentials, do you think?

Regardless, he reached gently for the stark-white, robin's egg eyed child's mind, offering an in to what Pride and he already shared. The sting of failure bit back, instead, sharp and cloying like the metallic taste lingering on his tongue. Mercy screwed his eyes shut for just a moment, breath rattling in a single-second migraine, before he exhaled softly.

They're wonderful, he chirped, distracting himself from the pain surely passed along.

@Pride first? Then @Casimir @Ampelio and @Tobias !

He was the silent set-piece, still and content, beautiful but motionless. He didn't want to interrupt--not at all. But his mind was open to Mercy's; soft acknowledgement (wordless; there was no need for words) was given.

Pride's head dipped a little to the lion--quizzical, then comprehending--as Mercy's magic faltered, failed. Let me give it a try. The thought was gently reassuring and warm. His mind-magic rarely failed him, and he looked forward--focusing upon the same cub Mercy had been looking toward. The little white one with fluff that promised to one day be long, manelike fur.

Beautiful, he thought, a wholesome fatherly adoration rippling along his link.

Then he reached out with his own magic, guiding it with that benign soft care. He stretched the invisible tendril of magicka toward Casimir--for the child's sake, and for Mercy's. He felt it connect, and briefly focused to allow Mercy to pass along his messages; then he leaned down, offering a gentle-snouted nudge and a message of his own by word and thought both.

"Hello, little one. You're safe, here. We'll take care of you. Do you have a name?"

But he wouldn't leave the other without attention, no; he asked the little, strangely-colored creature the same question, albeit by voice alone. The same gentle touch was offered. "And you?" the white stag asked; "Do you have a name?"

The soft sound of a rough murmur overhead could have startled the young bundle of white hair, if not for the massive paw that scooped him up becoming a much more pressing issue. A tiny, reflexive squeak came from the new life, trying to move all four paws at once in response. No matter how much he squirmed, this made for very little success at any attempt to escape. Yet as the barbed tongue licked back the cold wet of birth and instead brought warmth, the cub accepted his fate and fell still.

The warm body that held him hostage rumbled with a massive sound, but despite the volume it didn't strike fear into the child's heart. Already, this figure in white was recognized as a source of good and comfort, well before any other influence had played into his thoughts. He squinted at his brother-- not yet comprehending that they had been born together-- as Mercy brought the second cub in closer to lick him clean, too.

The newborn's face scrunched up, debating the pros and cons of squealing yet another mewl of protest. There was an instant pang of nebulous, terrible and simply infantile jealousy, and it made the world feel like it was crashing all about the fuzzy baby.

Before he could decide whether he should yell or not (such debates were difficult to process for such an inexperienced child), Pride's consciousness reached out to him. When it touched an entirely new window in the boy's mind opened, and he froze, staring as though he could see the wash of thoughts coming down.

Pride's velvet-nose brushed the top of his head, and he stared up at the majestic creature in short, pristine white and a frame of brambles rising over his head. This was the source of the voice both inside and out of his head, and he managed to gain control of his limbs in time to raise a heavy forelimb. His toes and tiny needles of claws stretched as he tried to reach out and grasp the big stag's soft face.

It feels safe, his thoughts reached back as easy as breathing, who are you? But words, as much as he may have wanted to form them aloud, had not come to his tongue. He was too absorbed in the magic of this new, fantastic world. As his brother was asked the same question, his thoughts fixated on the concept of names.

A name.

It was not a decision he was about to make lightly... And as previously mentioned, the debate that began to scramble about in his freshly formed mind was one that would not be decided overnight. Or, at least, not in this immediate second. Even if he had a gut feeling as to what his name should be, who was to say that was the correct choice? Who he was. He rubbed his cheek into the thick fur of his father's mane and lost himself to the depth of possibility.

@Ampelio

P was less a minor god and more a poor mockery of a music box. As of yet, they lacked rhythm and drive, because, well... they were a baby. No experience, no revelation of a world beyond whatever they produced. It is a lesson learned time and time again; that life is only what you make of it. P was taking quite some time to realize that these other entities moved in spaces beyond their control -- perhaps one too many seconds to realize that they were separate from the background of lights and flora, that they stood out from the altogether. But, don't give up on 'em yet! P is for prolific, after all! ...Okay no it's not, but regardless, they'd get the hang of all of this in time.

P's gaze met no other's for the aforementioned reason of P not realizing the meaning of the possessive "other's". It wasn't until Mercy gave P a new concept of life in the form of definitive texture and temperature -- life in the form of foreign fur and a good cleaning -- that P would begin to understand such a concept. The cleaning itself was icky, but warm, and kind of nice, and it might've reminded P of where they had been before all of this, if only that memory hadn't been lost already. The memory was forgotten to make room for the more important one surfacing with this first contact: P couldn't control the thing making them clean. That was movement all its own, that was someone else! Like P but really really not P! There were other things- other people! Wild stuff.

This person, the very first person ever registered in P's little... P-brain. They kind of looked like P! But way way way bigger. And P wasn't afraid of them. P wanted to be closer to them actually, 'cause they were warm and soft and nice, but there wasn't really space right now to maneuver. So P would just make their own noises at this person, more strange calls but of a quieter caliber. Something about the whole situation was making P want to wiggle so they would try that too, but again, they were being somewhat restrained.

P made noises to replicate the noises that had come before P had started being cleaned... P had discarded them along with the rest of the environment for the sake of making their own louder noises. Were those noises also from a person? Another person, I mean, as in... not a background scene, not a prop. Was there a way to... find that out? P would attempt the next thing that came to mind, which was another weird call. This one sounded different, possibly help a tone of confusion. That was the extent of P's experiment.

Evidently it was sort of successful? Noises returned, but from a different source. The source introduced itself by bestowing upon P a touch of its own, one that P could not control. So it was a person! And this person made noises that meant something! P knew what they meant, kind of. They knew their name, they knew it was meant to be given somehow, probably through the same method as the question had been asked. That was language! Right there! An exchanging of ideas across a shared medium! Yes! And P was going to participate, as soon as...

"P- puh. Puh-! ...puh."

As soon as they could get this right. P is not for some special vocabulary word! It's actually short for... a name! And "P" was... relatively aware of theirs? It felt just on the tip of their tongue...

"Aaah..." Yes, there was an "Ah" sound, most definitely an "Ah" sound in there somewhere. "P- p- puh- peh- peh!!" Oh yes, we are getting somewhere fellas! We are making progress! "Aaaaaaaaah pehhh...." And here is where P's face developed the likeness of a baby who had just eaten a citrus. They weren't quite sure how to do this, and it was making them rather bitter. A lemon not-boy.

It was in their head! It really was!! But it was just... four whole syllables. They needed more time or examples or something. Ex-amp-les... eggs amp els.... amp.... Just another moment please, just the last five seconds of prep to get this name business down before the ultimate third act of...

@Tobias

@Mercy !

A bolt of lightning. Clouds in the sky crackle like thunder. For a moment, it's quiet, everything's quiet, fizzling with all the tension of ozone and static — then, a bloom of consciousness unfurls into being, and it's light, and it's color, and it's life!, flowing into every sleeping-waking cell in his sleeping-waking body. Again the sky crackles as it comes into focus. That bolt of lightning's hanging over him still, suspended, unmoving. There's a definite chill seeping in. He shivers, and all at once, he's very aware of the clouds' startling proximity, of the weight pressing in all around him, of how small his sky really is. It's too small, isn't it? This storm, it's gonna tear it to pieces. Should he be afraid? ... Somehow, he isn't.

It's not a real sky, of course, but it's the nearest thing he'll ever know: a hemisphere of deep, deep blue, shimmering inside with opalescent glimmers of cyan and green. Another fissure splits from the first, and another, another, spinning the colors into frantic auroras. It's beautiful — it's dazzling. Whatever small amount of uncertainty his instincts made him harbor, it's gone in an instant. He reaches for the storm, and at the eager push of his nose, a window opens up between the cracks. The cold is pouring in, but he doesn't even feel it — he's drinking in the air and digging out the light, letting it in, letting him out, and it doesn't sound so much like thunder anymore, but oh-oh-oh his heart is beat-beat-beating in his ears — and his own little planet gives out underneath him, and he's broken it open, and he's spilled himself out.

Hello, world! Hello, day! And hello, home.

The impact doesn't hurt in the slightest, cushioned by the mossy nest that awaits him below — but still the shock of it (of change, of something new!) punches a little sound out of him, soft and high-pitched, closer to a squeak than a grunt. He's fallen sort of sideways, which feels not-quite-right somehow, and he tries to get his bearings, which takes a second to successfully achieve. He has an awful lot of body parts to sort through, see: four knobbly legs and four oversize feet, one tail, one torso, not to mention all the things he's got happening on his head and his face ... oh, gosh, that's more than ten body parts, he can't even count that high yet, that's way too many. And for a moment, he's just sorta rolling in place, flailing in slow-mo, utterly lost. But against all odds, he finds an elbow in all that mess, and (yesss!) there's his anchor. He props himself up on that elbow, then puts down his forepaws ... aligns his back end ... and gives the ground a push. Ladies and germs, we have a sit! It's not a 10/10, his paws are splayed, he's shaking a little, but for less than a minute of age? Pretty impressive, if you ask me. And now that he's figured out at least the basics of his body, he is ready for the big leagues: everything else.

Space — that's the first thing that enthralls his attention, opening up in a great expanse of potential around him. Where to start, where to start? Why, with the king of the directions, of course! Up. He raises his muzzle to a star-studded ceiling, and all right, maybe it's not as pretty as the sky he's left behind, but oh, goodness gracious, it is so ... much ... bigger. His eyes open wide — and they're two of the bluest you've ever seen, flawlessly round and sparkling with awe.

They fall now to the assortment of figures standing a ways in front of him, which he registers with a start. He goes very still. Then, measure by measure, his first-ever smile floats like daybreak onto his face.

He'd like to come closer. Can he do that? He looks down at one of his paws. Tries to lift it; feels his balance failing; lowers that paw, scoots the other one closer to center, tries once again, sets it down a little further ahead of him, moves the other forward too ... this is a very delicate procedure, and all the while, he's glancing back and forth between each respective paw and the ground just ahead of him. That's his objective, and he's gonna get there, just you watch. He shifts his weight forward — and all of a sudden, he's standing! He's moving his destination a little further away, and he's moving his feet, and he's walking! He's walking! Woohoo!!

Confidence mounting with every step, he toddles his way up to the others, stops, and tilts his head to the side, one paw raised. A companionable blink for each of the two bigger ones, and then he turns his gaze to the smaller ones (who are, well, still bigger than him, mind you, but not by too much for now). He takes a little breath, and for a second there, you'd think you're about to hear his first words — but what comes out is a tiny, bubbly giggle, cherub-high. His eyes narrow from the bottom up.

These are his friends — his family, and he knows this as surely as he knows anything else, that the ground is soft and green under his toes, that the air is cool on his fur and sweet in his nose, that he's awake and he's alive and that it is all so very, very beautiful.

No permission but a soft of course was granted to Pride; not that the stag had needed it. All their trust in one another and their actions—no matter how in disagreement they could sometimes be (pacifism versus a quick, easy solution brokered at least a modicum of conflict)—was implicit. Mercy rumbled softly as the veil that was their link almost... parted to allow the babe in, urged along by the stag. He made a careful introduction for this new presence, murmuring pleasant nothings. His companion veered for the verbal, and Mercy made his best attempt at bringing the other cub into their sort of... awkward three-way connection.

The little one squirmed nonetheless, both physically and mentally—half-baked words and concepts swirled around in that brilliant little mind, thought the oven was a little cool, yet, to be delivering any finished products. Mercy thought that was quite alright. Being born took quite a lot of work; or... so, he supposed. It'd been years since he last broke free from a chrysalis. Still, he'd witnessed enough emergences to know—

Magic found its hold in time for sputtered syllables and faint bitterness—but, it was at least a little sweet, hmm... ? Those first few moments before uttering their first words; his and Pride's first litter had been just as articulate as they'd been spring chickens bounding about the grove. Curious, how different children could be. Mercy adored them all the same, and murmured his encouragements to the stocky little cub—coupling them with a spreading sensation of warmth pressing against their young mind.

He extended along their shared links—through Pride's proxy connection and his own—a reassurance: "oh, you can take your time." Practice makes perfect, as one says... and a name was quite serious business to determine. Mercy did not want to saddle any of them with a label he'd decided for them. "Whatever you pick will fit just right." Still images expressing concepts and the abstract put into concrete flitted along the link and, of course, the old lion did not pry into what could be shared in return. That was theirs alone.

So, then, two cubs half nestled into his bosom and babbling their first attempts at words, the storyteller peered up at his companion. "Charming, aren't they?" Inky lips tilted up in a distantly mirthful smile. "I'm sure they'll get more of it from you." Prior carnivorous hesitation already tossed to the wayside, Mercy snuffled against either of their hides, before huffing softly, contentedly, "I think that Temperance and Ember will like them."

And... the third? Crackling one moment, and squeaking the next. The pudgy little thing within tumbled out, shaking with every breath from not the exertion, but the sheer intensity of it. Paws found their bearings, and then baby blues opened wide to regard the open air. Mercy left the cub to it only for the sheer determination written across that façade; only breaking his formation of being baby-shelter to smile broadly at the cherubic giggle.

"Well, hello!" he laughed softly, silvery eyes glancing to Pride with sheer disbelief painted on his features.

"Do you think you can manage another link—here, welcome, little one." Mercy shuffled his limbs underneath himself, arranging the stockier cub—to the best of his abilities—to reside next to the curly-haired babe. A forepaw remained outstretched, forward and just slightly to the outside. He lifted his head up, and nodded downward in a clear invitation to "come over here. Let's get you warmed up." Since, of course, this little one had already taken so much initiative.

Goodness. We're going to be swarmed by children, the pale beast shot towards Pride, as if he'd not considered this before the two of them brought pentuplets to the world.

@Pride