Mossie had puzzled endlessly over the matter of how to get her stone.

She was an accomplished hunter for her size, to be sure. But other Greater Gembound had claws and teeth and magic, just like her. She wasn't special.

(Not yet, anyway. But soon she would have Purpose, and soon she would be Great.)

She'd need a vulnerable, helpless target, one that couldn't force her into the chrysalis, one that'd be easy to maim beyond repair.

A newborn Gembound was the only possible Greater target, but she'd never seen any chrysalis unattended.

Then a thought came to mind, terribly wonderful in its simplicity. And yet. And yet.

If she took a Lesser for its stone, gave life to that stone, and then killed the resulting Greater...that'd count, right?

It had to.

But her belly roiled with queasiness at the thought. How could she do such a thing? Would she really be able to cross that line? Once she did, there was no going back.

("My Master, Farina, created me to bring death.")

What was a purpose really worth? Could she go back to her mundane life palling around with mundane Gembound and never accomplishing anything before probably dying at some point in time?

I'll just look around for a target, she tells herself as she scans the passing herd of Wooly Deer, shorter and stouter than she, for visible gemstones. I don't have to commit.

There.

She sees just one, with a golden-colored antler. Her jaws water.

How far could she go?

The protest flew from her mind as she spotted the helpless creature, ambling about with no clue of its future fate. The humming song of corruption that laid low in her brain surged forward once more, urging her to rend the foolish beast from limb to limb, and then drag whatever poor resulting whelp came forth from its chrysalis with her bare claws and gut it.

("Bring death.")

The herd trundled on, hooves clacking on the slick dark stone as they approached the ponds and bent their antler-heavy heads to drink. Taking on an entire herd when she was only barely bigger than them certainly wasn't wise, at least if she only used claws and teeth like the song urged her to. But she was not so far gone yet that she could not reason--and she needed to use her magic, anyway.

She stalks closer, taking a moment to roll in a bit of moss to disguise her scent. When the herd swings upwind, it carries a mingled scent-- but it also carries the spores she exhales.

Not far enough, it seems. The herd startles and snorts, trotting off a couple dozen feet.

"Jungle rats," she huffed, ignoring the urge to race after the herd. She'll go look for something else.

Next, Mossie searches for stones.

The thing had to be flat at the top, long, and about as tall as one of those Wooly deer. It had to be all one stone. And it needed to be dark--that, at least, was a guarantee in Pisces. If she found one almost-suitable, she might be able to chip away at it to find a suitable one...

So she sets off, roaming around the corners and staunchly avoiding the wooly deer, and hopes.

Her efforts are, of course, fruitless, but it's the thought that counts.

After a long and fruitless search, her paws ache beyond belief.

The herd's lay back down to rest, though, settling by the warrens. The gemmed one lurks near the edge of the herd, ever foolish.

It looks so peacefully serene as it lays down to sleep though it's eyes still flutter, a stark contrast to the tormented chaos swirling in her mind, and rage boils beneath her gut. How dare that stupid grassmuncher be so joyous, so content in its utterly worthless, pointless, disgusting life? What was it even doing?

She pads forward once more, intending to steal every last bit of disgustingly simple joy from it's dull eyes as she releases spores to send it to a final sleep.


And, of course, nothing happens.

Mossie knows that the search for purpose would be long, hard, and painful.

But sometimes she wonders if the caves themselves are spiting her.

Or perhaps, they're whispering that this is a bad idea, that her son should never be born, that she needs to turn back before she crosses a line she can never uncross.

...Could it be?

No.

No, this is just the entity testing her. Seeing if she was worthy. And she must be. She's strong, she's brave, she doesn't flinch in the face of--

Of--

No.

Mossie lays down by the waterfall, the gentle mists dampening her fur. She only intends to stop for a bit to rest, but before she knows it the effort of getting up seems insurmountable, tears are streaming from her eyes, and she screams till her throat is hoarse. The yowls of anguish echo quietly, and the herd of Woolly Deer give her good looks.

She wonders what the point of this is. She wonders what she should do next.

Maybe she missed a suitable rock on her loop around?

She stands up at last, shaking droplets from her fur, and runs another perimeter to check.

There is nothing. Her paws are tired. The caves themselves are laughing at her. Why is she doing this? Why is she alive?

She screams, again, even though it hurts like a bitch and her head is pounding and she really needs to be fucking quiet so she doesn't scare off the damn deer, but really, nothing matters anymore.

"Fuck!" She yells at nobody in particular. "FUCK!"

She needs to get this over with. She needs to end this, she needs it to be over, she needs that deer's stupid pathetic life to be over.

Is the deer even the pathetic one, at this point?

Her belly burns with insipid rage.

She stalks the deer once more, to see the lot of them gathered around a dead fish with seemingly astonished expressions.

This spell hasn't been reliable, at all, but she'll try again, because caves knew she needed the fucking practice.

Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:

gore

Whoever's watching this would not be surprised to see that she had failed. Again. For a moment, Mossie lays down once more. Stares at all the black irregularly-shaped rocks scattered across the cave, so close and yet so far. Seriously considers giving up.

Hell to the Shadow. Hell to the stupid bitchass Collector. Hell to her stupid bitchass son who really did not want to be born only to die for some fucking reason. At this point she's killing the deer, and she's going to tear him to shreds out of spite.

"SHUT UP ABOUT THE FISH," she roars at the deer though they're completely silent. They startle and run, and she gives chase before aggressively breathing spores at them. Fourth time's the charm.

And finally, finally, it collapses. Mossie's upon it in an instant, howling with feral joy. She springs and wrestles it to the ground, before fastening her jaws around the gemstone antler and wrenching her head back till she tears it free from the thing's body.

It screams a terrible scream, one of utter agony that reverberates through its body and rattles in its chest. For some reason, Mossie finds this terribly vexing.

"Shut UP," she screams. "Shut up, shut up, shut up." Unsheathing her claws, she rips the thing's soft belly often and gorges on the entrails that spill out, panting and drooling.

There's so much blood. Her pelt's soaked in it. The golden fur around her jaws is matted with gore. At some point, the thing died.

She sits up unsteadily.

The herd of Woolly Deer are just staring at her, with oddly concerned expressions. So she tosses a rapidly-dissolving leg at the leader, and they scatter.

She's got the stone. It's over.

Mossie picks up the antler in her jaws and pads over towards the waterfall.


Her chest feels oddly empty. Something's ringing insistently in her ears.

She stares into the misty pool, and a stranger wild-eyed and hollow stares back. The blood's soaked into her pelt, obscuring her spots.

She feels a sudden desperate urge to cleanse herself of the horror of the past day, and she leaps into the water.

It's cold, deliciously so. She kicks her way to the bottom of the pool, holding her breath. Waiting. For what, she doesn't know. She waits till her lungs burn and the chill's seeped into her bones and she forgets she's even alive.

But she is. Probably.

So with heavy limbs she returns to the surface, scrambling over to the antler and gathering it in her paws. She whispers a fervent, desperate prayer as she pours her magic inside, hoping for it to take...


And it does. She feels the life quickening within. Joy and dread in equal measure swirls in her heart, so dizzying she nearly collapses back into the pool.

In one cycle, her son will be born. In one cycle, she will have to kill him.

She turns and runs.

[exit mossie]