FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

*****

Chapter Ninety-Eight

*****

The Storyteller contemplated where to build his new home. First, he considered manifesting an entirely new world. It was clear now that he had the power to do so. He could forge a sphere from nothingness, and set it to orbit a star. But he feared that his own inexperience with biological life would prove a troublesome stumbling block.

Biological lifeforms were ever so finicky about temperatures, chemical compositions, gravity, and other factors that held no bearing upon him whatsoever. Why, he thought, a mere thousand degrees variation might prove fatal. A wobbly planet, a lopsided orbit, a few too many centuries in the darkness, or a little too much sulfuric acid in the atmosphere was it all would take for his story to end as soon as it began.

Besides, he had already glimpsed countless potentially suitable worlds. Some of them already held life. There were vast green fields and deep forests, and oceans rich with fish. They simply did not have any thinking creatures. Other worlds were absolutely desolate, barren places of rock and fire, or icy crusts and endless glaciers. Some had never known life, while others were one home to grand stories of their own, long since ended. It felt wrong to create a sphere when there were already so many in need of a new story.

Before he made any decisions, The Storyteller sent his understanding further and further away from his home spiral. He sought ever more distant stars, and the spheres that dwelled within their great light. He wished to see what else was out there, before he reduced his focus once again to a single star.

Deep in the cosmos, he found new species not yet glimpsed by his perception. Some of them were quite large, such as the towering Ventaar, a reptilian people ever waging wars of conquest. Then there were the Centarri, like mountainous wolf-bears. Much smaller were the Vrrsh’keen. They were slender, and vaguely feline in appearance, with tufted ears, and extra fingers with additional digits. Most striking where the Kash’rathi. They were quite short, akin to urd’thin in statue. But where urd’thin were lean, Kash’rathi were stout. They had silken fur, retractable claws, short muzzles with sharp teeth, and most unusually, four eyes.

But what surprised him most of all, was that all those species had taken to the stars. Their worlds had existed for a very long time, and one by one, each species had slipped their earthly bonds in ships made to drift amidst the great void. In that region, the Ventaar were the first to visit other worlds. They had taken other spheres for themselves, ever expanding their territory until they met the Kash’rathi. In the smaller species, they found a terrible, unconquerable foe, and war had waged between their species ever since.

Fascinating as he found them, The Storyteller soon withdrew his understanding. The Storyteller did not wish to set his story where there were wars raging amidst the cosmos. His part of the universe was not yet meant to know such travel. Still, he filed the knowledge away, thinking that someday, he would explore that place.

Returning his mind to more local star systems, The Storyteller contemplated what kind of story he wanted to tell for his urd’thin. He wanted them to be meaningful to whatever world he set them in. They had to matter. His urd’thin needed to be important, they needed to be strong, they needed-

It hit him in a blinding flash of inspiration.

They needed a world to bring back to life.

There could be no more important task for his urd’thin than the restoration of an entire world. He altered his search, and bid his understanding to focus on stories that had already ended. He sifted through every possibility until he found one that seemed perfect.

He altered his search, and sent his understanding further, focused on stories that had already ended. In time, he found one that seemed perfect. He opened a door in the darkness, and sent himself there, heedless of what world it was. Travel left his light tingling in strange ways, as if pushing through barriers he had never experienced. He ignored the feeling and found himself in an empty wasteland.

The Storyteller wandered the bleak landscape. Much of the world was little more than cracked red earth, and broken black stone. Great ruins lay buried in sand and dust. Something tugged at his mind. Something familiar. He pushed his understanding against the world, turning back its history. The towers and castles pieced themselves together again. Trees sprouted and forests spread. Ruination unwove itself until cities stood frozen in time. All at once, he understood.

This was the world his friends once called home. When The Storyteller first visited it, life lingered on the dying sphere. But untold ages had passed while he wandered the universe. Now, all that remained was the ruination they had wrought upon themselves. The Storyteller pushed deeper into their history. The last of the humans who dwelled there had been kind-hearted. They opened their great fortress-cities to all the refugees struggling to survive their dying world. In the end, basic decency had overwhelmed the monsters his gift made of them. Those in power offered shelter and respite to those who lacked it.

Happiness pulsed through The Storyteller. He was glad to see the kindness he remembered in his friend’s hearts also lived on through some of their descendants. As their food dwindled, as their world burned, the last of them had opened their gates one last time, pointing them to other habitable existences. They fled to worlds and fates unknown.

The Storyteller hoped that wherever they went, their new stories were happy.

All that mattered to him now was that this place was perfect. From one story’s ending, another would begin. Giving his friends his gift was a great mistake, but at last he could atone for it. Now, he would give urd’thin the power to bring this world back to life. And because it was his story, he could ensure they never abused their powers the same way.

The Storyteller let time wind forward again. He roamed the empty world, seeking the best place to begin. While most of the world was truly dead, simple life lingered in some areas. Towering mountains divided the massive primary continent. Beyond those mountains sprawled a primeval marsh, nearly as large as the wastelands. Further still, a black and briny ocean churned, casting great waves against the rocky spires of its shattered shoreline.

The marsh intrigued The Storyteller. He sensed something there, something powerful and ancient. It was if the marsh held the anchor to a great thread that tied this world to all of existence. Perhaps, he thought, whatever deity first shaped the humans into being had started there. Maybe some lingering trace of his power remained, a spark still breathing life into world otherwise ruined by fire from the gods.

The Storyteller liked the marsh, but did not fit the lives he wished his urd’thin to lead. However, he imagined it could be a goal for them. That if could breathe enough life into the wasteland to spread across the world, one day they could reach the marsh. Then, perhaps they’d understand their part in existence.

He returned to the center of the barren wastes, considering the things mortals needed to live. Though he wished his urd’thin to rejuvenate this land all on their own, they still required food, water, and shelter. He could provide those things, but first he had to decide what manner of habitat best suited his new people. His mind drifted to a tale he remembered from tale passed around amongst urd’thin slaves. The story was about a pup who escaped his captors, and fled into a great, golden desert. Life was difficult, but the pup grew up free, and happy.

The Storyteller’s slight shivered and pulsed with joy. A desert. That was where he would set his story. He would honor the memory of the enslaved urd’thin, by making their hopeful parable a reality. A desert was inhospitable and challenging, but the difficulties of daily life would make their joyful moments that much sweeter. Exploring it would bring his urd’thin a perfect balance of hardship, and happiness.

That was the story he would tell.

*****

The desert came first. The Storyteller swept his understanding across the vast wasteland, and transmuted the barren, red earth into a beautiful, golden sand. Dunes rose and crested, washing across the world like waves on an ocean. With only a thought, he formed aquifers, stores of water deep beneath inside the ground. He connected them to depressions upon the surface, making first one great oasis, then many.

When the world was prepared, it was time to create life.

The Storyteller hesitated. Uncertainly pulsed through his light, dimming it. Never had he tried to create life that could sustain itself. What if he made more mistakes? What if his creations could not survive? What if he left out the wrong amino acids, and doomed his creations to a short, painful existence? What if he forgot their lungs, or built their blood from the wrong element? Biological life was so complicated. Trial and error would eventually solve any problem, but he pitied those poor, doomed errors.

He decided the wisest course of action was to start with the most basic of all creatures. In his wanderings he had glimpsed an immense variety of microbes underpinning all other life, and so he began with those. He plucked the designs of single-celled organisms like algae, bacteria, and amoebas from other worlds. Then he adapted them to his desert, wove them into being, and cast them into his oases. The Storyteller observed their lives, without interfering. Some of them died, while others flourished. He learned equally from both results and altered his designs accordingly.

The second generation proved more successful, and often at the expense of the first. The Storyteller remained a passive observer as his creations devoured one another. He did not halt the minuscule slaughter, nor did he prevent the new predators from overpopulating afterwards. Most of them starved thereafter, but the strongest among them survived long enough to continue their life cycle. With a smaller population, the other organisms also had a chance to rebound. Eventually, balance was restored.

Intrigued, The Storyteller studied many successive generations without making further alterations. He found that over time, his creations adapted all by themselves. In one species, a few of them grew too large to be eaten or absorbed. Those proved the only survivors of their kind, and when they reproduced, their offspring also grew larger than before. In another species, it was just the opposite. Only the tiniest, fastest amongst them proved capable of escaping the predators, and thus, only the smallest of them ever reproduced. Among the predatorial microbes, similar changes occurred across generations. Some of them grew larger, to feast upon bigger cells. Others grew faster, and more adept at chasing down swift prey.

The Storyteller found these changes fascinating. It made him reconsider all the similar variations on life’s many templates he had glimpsed across so many worlds. Were they too shaped by their own adaptations? That might explain creatures like dragons and gryphons, he thought. Similar species in different parts of the world, each adapting to new challenges. But why were they on different worlds? Perhaps he was not the first god to select a species, and alter it to survive a new story, on a different sphere. Could that be why he struggled with imagination? Was the place of gods merely to perpetuate life that already existed?

Whatever the case, now was not the time to lose himself in decades of contemplation. He focused on his tiny colonies, and wove their great adaptability into their essence. Now they would always pass on the most important elements to their offspring. In the future, he would ensure all his life did the same.

When The Storyteller had learned enough, he moved onto more complicated life. He created simple insects and worms, along with multicellular plant life. He remained a passive observer, discovering what survived and what didn’t. After a few generations he tweaked their nature here and there to increase their survivability, learning all the while.

The process repeatedly endlessly. Each time The Storyteller learned all he could from one set of species, he moved further up the food chain. Every new group of lifeforms was more complicated than the last. As a result, each new family of life came with a higher rate of early failure than the last. More and more of them died quickly, but each death taught him something new.

Whenever he added a new level of life, he examined the way it affected those who came before. A few times, one species inadvertently caused the extinction of another. Whenever this happened, he made more of the lost creatures, and changed them just enough to allow them to survive. The more he learned about such cause and effect, the more effectively he was able to alter his earlier creations to help them achieve harmony.

The greatest lesson he learned was that nature sought balance. In an ideal setting, no one creature would ever truly take over their tiny world. For the food chain to reach equilibrium, the population of predator and prey had to remain in balance. Prey must outnumber the predators, but not in such high numbers as to decimate the vegetation. The prey lived shorter lives, and bred more often. Longer life cycles kept predator numbers lower, while predation itself prevented prey from overpopulating. Whenever the numbers grew lopsided, inevitably both species would suffer, and die. But left alone, eventually, those numbers would usually balance out once more.

The Storyteller discovered that introducing new species into a balanced food chain caused chaos. That was what often led to extinctions. The next time creating new species led to an extinction, The Storyteller grew curious to see if balance could still be restored. He watched without interfering. It was not long before another species died, and then a third, as if things had reached a tipping point from which they could not recover. Perhaps that was what happened when he gave the humans his gift.

In the end his little world eventually returned to balance, but with less variety of life than before. He reintroduced the lost species carefully this time. For each new addition, he gave the world time to adapt and find its balance before he reestablished another. Only when all families of life were fully restored did he move onto the next.

By his measure of time, it was not long before he was building far more complex plants and animals. He created fish to swim in the water, frogs to wander the shallows, and birds and snakes to hunt them. Reeds grew to shade the shoreline, and submerged vegetation sheltered fry and tadpoles. Great trees grew around his many oases, and birds roosted within their fronds, feeding on their fruit. Great predators lurked in the watery depths. Herds of hardy prey beasts wandered between watering holes, using horns and hooves to strip thorns from towering cactus.

All that was left to create was the urd’thin. The Storyteller knew they would be his greatest challenge yet. He did not want his urd’thin to struggle and die, generation after generation, the way his other species had. Microbes did not grieve, but death would haunt his urd’thin. Their bodies had to be ready for every hardship, by the time he bid their hearts to beat. In order to properly understand what his children were to face, The Storyteller decided to first experience the world the same way they did. He needed to craft himself a vessel.

The Storyteller shaped sand into the form of an urd’thin. He willed it into flesh and blood, bone and sinew. Organs and muscles developed, linked by nerves, veins, and tissues, covered with skin and fur. A perfect urd’thin. He set it down upon the earth, bid it to draw breath, bid its heart to pump blood. The Storyteller willed the urd’thin to live, and thus, it lived. He settled his consciousness into his new vessel, sent his light away, and weaved himself into mortal form.

His first taste of air was a rasping, gagging cough.

His only voice was a wretched scream.

Never had The Storyteller known physical pain, but now it filled him.

The air was too hot. It scalded his lungs. The sand seared delicate skin beneath thin fur. The sunlight scorched his eyes, blinding him before he ever knew true sight. Every part of him roiled with agony, and agony brought him fear. In an instant, he wished for it to end.

Thus, it ended.

His vessel crumbled into ash.

Once more The Storyteller was but formless light and understanding, connected to everything. But the memory of pain lingered. It left his thoughts quaking. His light dimmed in fear of more pain. Only when the sharpness of the memory eased was he able to collect himself. He looked upon his vessel’s death rationally, and realized his mistake.

He had not considered that this world was damaged. The conditions here were too harsh for most life to exist. That was way the wasteland was empty, before his arrival. Only through his own alterations and tweaks did his early microbes and other lifeforms survive long enough to reproduce, and adapt further. Everything he created had developed just for this place. Newly introduced urd’thin could not survive here. He could alter them, but then they would not truly be urd’thin, anymore.

The Storyteller pushed his understanding out beyond the sky. He observed the star which gave the world light, and heat. He considered dimming it or pushing it further away, but the ramifications were too dangerous. Besides, it was not the star that had changed, not the star that had ruined this world. It was the humans, whose malformed gifts had damaged their atmosphere beyond repair.

He imagined it like a crystalline casing wreathed around the world. The crystal sphere sheltered them from the void beyond, and protected them from all the primal forces wandering existence. Through his still-developing imagination, he brought his vision into existence to examine the damage. The world’s crystalized shell was cracked, and broken. Large swaths of it were gone entirely. The star’s heat and radiation poured in, unchecked.

Piece by shattered piece, hole by empty hole, The Storyteller repaired the world’s veil. He made it stronger than ever before, ensuring that only a power like his could ever shatter it again. When his repairs were complete, he returned his consciousness to his little swath of desert, to prepare it for habitation for higher lifeforms.

First, he had to tend to his existing life. Without knowing it, he had created beings capable of surviving conditions that were immediately fatal to urd’thin, and humans. But the world was soon to cool. The radiation would disperse, and the atmospheric compositions would change. What was necessary for urd’thin survival might kill all the life he had so diligently crafted. The Storyteller studied them for a few generations, as conditioned changed. Whenever they faltered, he guided then to adapt just enough. Only when he was certain all would survive did he craft himself a new vessel.

This time, he decided to make himself a child. After all, the story that inspired him to build a desert was about an urd’thin child. More importantly, if an isolated pup could make it to adulthood, then surely the land was survivable for any urd’thin. He set that as his goal. He would live here as a mortal until his vessel reached maturity, and then at last, he would breathe life into his children.

He shaped his tiny pup out of the sand, but decided to wait until nightfall before giving it life. That way, his new eyes and other senses would have more time to adjust before the sun’s piercing light arrived. In the meantime, The First considered his vessel. He decided to make it male, inspired by the escaped slave in the story. The First realized then, that he considered himself the father of the lifeforms here, anyway. He gave his vessel gray fur, simply because it did not stand out at all. When the were other urd’thin living here, he might wish to blend in amongst them.

For now, though, he was the first and only urd’thin of the desert.

The First.

He called himself that, once. The idea struck a chord with him again now. He decided than, that with a change in form should come a change identity. The Storyteller fit for a time, in his youthful interactions with his human friends. But he reached a new phase of his life, and now he was the first urd’thin to call this world home. So that was who he would be, again.

The First.

*****

Chapter Ninety-Nine

*****

Mirelle clung to Revaramek’s neck as they hurtled across the marsh towards the dragon’s hilltop home. It was already a local landmark, with its own road complete with bridges and walkways. Revaramek owned several homes now, but this one was built with his family in mind. This was the place that gave him hope on his darkest nights, and at long last, that hope was fulfilled.

Revaramek’s family was here.

“That’s them!” Joy and pride filled his voice. Revaramek pointed to a slender green dragon sunning herself atop the hill. A tiny copper-marked hatchling bounding around her. “That’s them, Mirelle!”

“They’re beautiful!” Mirelle leaned over the dragon’s side, peering down. The padded leather straps of her flight harness creaked and pressed against her. “Why don’t you land on the other side of the house? That way they can come see me at their own pace.”

“Good idea! Hold on while I land!”

Mirelle grasped the safety holds on the straps crisscrossing the dragon’s neck. Even with her fear of flight mostly behind her, she appreciated having something to cling to. If not for Aylaryl hurling Mirelle into the air during their first encounter, she imagined she might have come to enjoy flight earlier. Even now, a lingering unease occasionally trembled in the pit of her belly when she considered how high she was. Despite that, she was comfortable enough on Revaramek’s back savor the beauty of the vast world spread out beneath her.

The flight harness Revaramek wore was the city’s newest design, and already Mirelle’s favorite. It was meticulously engineered to provide the most safety for her, and the most comfort for the dragon. The straps were sturdy but thickly padded, strong enough to hold her if she fell but soft enough to protect Revaramek’s scales. Mirelle preferred the harnesses to a true saddle, as she found a saddle demeaning. Revaramek was her friend, not her mount.

The dragon banked, and the motion pressed Mirelle against him. Flight muscles rolled beneath her. Mirelle’s knuckles stood out against her skin. Experience with flight had not lessened the intensity of takeoffs and landings. Her stomach lurched and twisted as the dragon spun tightly, lining up with the hilltop. Mirelle’s belly jumped when he dropped to the ground. Landing jostled her, and she grit her teeth, clutching the holds.

Revaramek trotted a few paces, bleeding off speed. He came to a stop and gazed back at Mirelle. “Everything alright?”

“Fine, Rev, thanks.” Mirelle patted his neck and quickly unbuckled her straps. She hopped down, then leaned against him while her legs adjusted to being on solid ground again. “Don’t think I even bruised anything that time.”

“We’re improving then!”

“Yes, and let’s try to keep it up when we journey to the desert.” Mirelle unbuckled the second set of harness straps from around Revaramek. “That’s a lot of flying time, and I’d prefer to be able to sit down comfortably at night.”

“I shall try to limit myself to one ass-bruising air excursion a day, then.” Revaramek wriggled himself, pulling a limb free from the harness.

“You bruise my ass and I’ll bruise something of yours back there, too!” Mirelle laughed as she walked around the dragon.

“Oh, no!” Revaramek snapped his teeth, but his rumble of laughter belied the threat. “I don’t want you teaching Nyramyn your bad habits. It’s bad enough Enora’s picked them up.”

“One time she kicked you!” Mirelle opened the final clasps, and tugged the harness off the dragon. She arranged it atop the grass, ready to be swiftly reapplied later. “Besides, you had it coming.”

“I most certainly did not!”

Mirelle put her hands on her hips. “You yanked up her dress in front of those urd’thin merchants!”

Revaramek lifted his frills, grinning. “Only because you told me pulling such pranks is considered endearing in their culture!”

“Oh, no.” Mirelle laughed as she undid the ribbons that helped prevent her dark hair from tangling during flight. “I did nothing of the sort. First off, I was talking to Enora. And what I was said…” She jerked her thumb at the dragon. “Better watch out or old Overlord here is gonna start yanking up dresses because he hears urd’thin enjoy embarrassing pranks.”

“I am not old!” Revaramek tossed his head, pawing at the ground. “And see? You did say that!”

“I was being sarcastic.” Mirelle rolled her eyes.

“That’s not how sarcasm works.” The dragon strode past her, lashing his tail. “Sarcasm is when I say something like, my, Mirelle, you’re in a pleasant mood today! Only you’re acting like a harpy again.”

“I know how sarcasm works!” Mirelle stomped a boot against the grass, struggling to hold back laughter. “Enora and I were talking about how you were taking things too literally, so we had to be careful with what we said. But since you were right there, I assumed you knew we were joking!”

“And I assume you just wanted to give her an excuse to kick me in the balls.” Revaramek flattened his copper-dappled wings, grinning at her across them.

“You gave her the excuse, not me.” Mirelle tucked her ribbons into the pockets of her leather riding breeches.

“I’ll concede that.” He paused, fighting a smile as he waited for her. “But you certainly didn’t have to tell her good shot, or insinuate that she got them both.”

“I wasn’t insinuating, I came right out and said it.” Mirelle folded her arms, grinning at the dragon. “It was a good shot. You crumpled like a wet leaf. Besides, the urd’thin were laughing too. You said it yourself.” She smirked at him. “They like pranks.”

“Don’t blame the urd’thin, Mirelle.” Revaramek tossed his head, huffing. “It’s not their fault you insist on teaching my old friends your bad habits.”

“One time she’s done that.” Mirelle shook a finger at the dragon. “Once is not a habit.” She lowered her hand, and tilted her head. “Or is it more than once, now?”

Revaramek quickly looked away, flicking his tail. “That is privileged information between Ambassador Enora and I. However, on a completely unrelated note, I should like to remind you that kicking national treasures is against the law.”

Mirelle put a hand over her face, groaning. “Rev, for the last time, your balls are not national treasures.”

Revaramek cackled, walking away from her. “That’s not what your City Council says!”

Mirelle shook her head, laughing as she followed the dragon. “Getting Kurekka drunk enough to write you a declaration does not make it official!”

“I don’t know, Mirelle.” Revaramek cocked his head. “It is on an official City of Refuge declaratory form.”

“That’s only because Kurekka let himself into the Council Hall in the middle of the night to write your stupid declaration.” Mirelle giggled, grabbing at his tail. “But there’s no way in hell my city will e_ver_ declare a dragon’s testicles to be national treasures! No matter how damn heroic their owner may be.”

“Ah hah!” Revaramek arched his neck. “So, you admit I am heroic!”

Mirelle lifted her foot to waggle a boot at him. “You’re just asking to get kicked later, when your family isn’t around.”

Revaramek cringed and shook his hind end, tail half-tucked. “As long as you don’t teach Nyra your bad habits. After all, Korakos may want siblings, someday.”

“Oh?” Mirelle walked up alongside the dragon, patting his foreleg. “Is that something you two have talked about?”

“No.” Revaramek splayed his ears. “Not yet, anyway.” The dragon scratched his neck with a wingtip. “It would be nice for him to have someone closer to his own age to play with, someday, but not until Nyra’s healthy.” He paused, then a smile parted his muzzle. “Mirelle, look!”

Mirelle followed Revaramek’s gaze towards a tiny, wedge-shaped head peeking around the dragon’s house. Equally tiny spines were flared up all around his head. The hatchling’s intense bronze eyes were focused on Mirelle, his little ears swiveled towards her. The young dragon looked up at his father, then returned to staring intently at Mirelle.

“Aww, Rev, he’s beautiful!” Mirelle smiled till her cheeks ached. “Come on, little guy, I won’t hurt you. Rev, tell him I won’t hurt him!”

“I don’t remember him being shy.” Revaramek stepped towards his son. “But he’s never seen a living human before.”

Mirelle settled onto her knees in the long grass. “I’ll try to make a good impression for my people. His name’s Korakos, right?”

The hatchling perked up at the mention of his name, and took a step forward.

“Yes, that’s right.” Revaramek sat near Mirelle, beckoning the hatchling forward with a paw. “Come on, Korakos, come meet Mirelle.”

Korakos looked up at his father with his head cocked, and his ears splayed at odd angles.

Revaramek flattened his spines. “Oh, he must think I’m speaking gibberish, other than his name. I’m sorry, but I need to speak his language until he learns yours.”

“Of course, of course.” Mirelle smirked up at the dragon. “As much as I appreciate your efforts to be less of an ass, you needn’t apologize for things like that.”

When Revaramek spoke again, it was Mirelle who couldn’t understand a word he said. Though she’d learned a good deal of the va’chaak and urd’thin languages over the years, she had only picked up a smattering of the dragon and gryphon tongues. As Revaramek and Korakos chattered, Mirelle listened for familiar sounds. There were bits and pieces of recognizable syllables, but they were all mixed with strange, rolling growls and slippery, vowel-heavy sounds.

Korakos soon slunk through the grass towards her. The little dragon remained cautious, approaching slowly and with wide eyes fixed upon her. Despite that, his head was held high, and his tail remained straight out behind him. Mirelle’s knowledge of draconic body language told her both were sure signs of curiosity.

Behind Korakos, Nyramyn suddenly strode into view, anything but curious. All her spiny frills were flared up her head. Her wings were half-unfurled, and one forepaw hovered in the air, black claws unsheathed. She lashed her tail, its spiky, sharp-edged webbing on full display. Though Nyramyn was small by dragon standards, Mirelle knew she would be would be an unstoppable force of nature, if Korakos was in danger.

Mirelle lowered her head, her hands flat against the grass. It was as close as she could come to the submissive dragon posture meant to deescalate threats. “Revaramek, please tell your mate she’s nothing to fear from me.” The way Nyramyn glared at Mirelle left her heart hammering, and she kept her eyes to the grass. “I’d prefer to have nothing to fear from her, either.”

As Revaramek spoke to his mate in their native tongue, Mirelle lifted her gaze just enough to watch the hatchling. Korakos skulked towards her, his tail tip lashing, frills twitching. Then he paused, glancing back at his mother as if unable to decide between returning to her, or pouncing Mirelle. His indecision gave Mirelle time to get a good look at him.

Korakos’s scales were not quite as green as his father’s, but their markings were similar. Copper stripes adorned all four limbs, along with his tail. Blotches of the same color were strewn across his wings. His eyes were just as bronze as Revaramek’s. Little black horns crowned his head. Small lengths of webbing spanned the spiky nubs along the end of his tail, the fins not fully developed. His paws looked too large for his body, his wings too small.

“He’s adorable, Rev.” Mirelle held a hand towards the hatchling, palm up. “Is his mother going to be alright with me touching him?” She tilted her head, glancing at the older dragon out of the corner of her eye. “C_an_ I touch him? I don’t want to presume. Or get bitten.”

Revaramek stroked Korakos’s wings, while he spoke with Nyramyn. The hatchling arched into his touch. Rev switched back to Mirelle’s language, his voice soft. “You can touch him, just be gentle. Nyra’s nervous, but she knows I trust you. For now, that’s enough. And Korakos will only bite you playfully.” He splayed his ears. “Actually, I better tell him to be careful, since human skin is easily broken.”

That didn’t exactly put Mirelle at ease. “Yes, please make it clear humans are far softer and squishier than dragons.”

Korakos stepped forward to sniff Mirelle’s outstretched hand. As Revaramek cautioned him, Korakos gave his father a confused look. He chattered back at Rev, sniffed Mirelle’s hand again, then pulled his head back.

Revaramek grinned. “He says you smell funny, Mirelle.”

Mirelle couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sure I do, to him. But you dragons don’t exactly-”

And then Korakos pounced her.

The impact knocked her backwards, as if the tiny dragon’s momentum gave him five times his usual weight. She flopped onto the grass, coughed, and stared at the hatchling standing atop her chest. Korakos stared back at her with wide eyes and perked ears. His miniature frills flared out, displaying their copper edges. He looked in disbelief over what he’d done, but his shock soon faded. Korakos spun a circle atop Mirelle, gave an undersized roar, and flopped onto his belly against her.

Korakos spoke and Revaramek translated, trying to hold back his laughter. “He says he’s defeated the human.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Mirelle smiled, despite her aching ribs. “He’s certainly bruised the human, at least.”

“Sorry about that.” Revaramek’s ears drooped, and he lowered his head, concern shining in his eyes. “You’re not too badly hurt, are you? Perhaps you should always be prepared-”

“Korakos!” Nyramyn snarled the hatchling’s name. Though the syllables sounded different when growled through a thick swamp dragon accent, a mother’s anger was easy enough to discern. She followed it with a lot tense, rapid-fire syllables.

Mirelle lifted her head to stare over the hatchling. Nyramyn’s ears were flattened back, but her spines were up. Her lashing tail scythed down grass as she crossed the hilltop to join them. Mirelle couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed by her son’s behavior, or angry that someone else was egging him on.

“Rev, tell her not to be angry with him.” Mirelle pushed herself up onto her elbows. “He’s only playing, I think. Or if she’s angry with me, tell her I’m sorry-”

“She’s worried about him pouncing unknown creatures that might carry diseases.” Revaramek spoke a few soothing sounding words, then glanced at Mirelle. “I told her you certainly don’t have any diseases.” He cocked his head. “Do you?”

Mirelle clamped her jaw shut to bite back an angry retort. Yelling with a hatchling on her chest and a nervous mother nearby wasn’t a good idea. “Just tell her whatever you have too.”

While Revaramek tried to soothe Nyramyn, Mirelle offered Korakos her hand again. When his mother didn’t stop him, he bumped her palm with his nose. First he sniffed it, then he licked her. Korakos’s tongue slipped over her fingers, soft, warm and wet. Mirelle tried not to giggle. The ticklish sensation wasn’t unlike having a puppy lap at her hand, she thought.

“Mirelle.” She tapped herself with a finger. “That’s my name. Mirelle.”

The dragon sniffed at the place she indicated.

“No, I’m not hiding food there.” Mirelle pointed at the dragon. His bronze eyes crossed, trying to focus on her finger. “Korakos. Your name is Korakos.” She touched his nose, gentle as could be. “Korakos.” Mirelle pointed to herself again. “Mirelle.”

“Mirrble?”

“Not quite,” Mirelle said, smiling. “Though I’m surely mispronouncing your name, too.”

“Korakos,” Nyramyn said. Mirelle wasn’t sure if she was correcting her pronunciation, or seeking the hatchling’s attention.

“Hold still, Mirelle.” Revaramek held a paw out, cautioning her.

Mirelle froze when Nyramyn’s head suddenly loomed just above her, sharp teeth bared. Though Nyramyn was small and lean compared to her mate, her many fangs were no less intimidating. Mirelle held her breath as Nyramyn nuzzled the hatchling still sprawled atop her. Then with great gentleness, Nyramyn grasped Korakos’s neck in her teeth and lifted him off Mirelle’s chest. The hatchling squeaked and all four limbs hung limp, paws wobbling. Nyramyn deposited him back on the grass, then took a few steps back and sat down.

Revaramek stretched a foreleg to corral the little dragon. He hoisted Korakos up and held the wriggling youth against his chest plates. “I shall now formally introduce you all.” Rev smiled at Mirelle. “Nyra likes formal things.”

Mirelle stood up, dusting bits of grass off her clothes. “I’d better stand up, then.”

Rev tilted his head, listening to his mate. He flicked his tail, nodding. “She wants me to conduct introductions in both languages.”

The dragon spoke in his own language first. Mirelle understood little aside from names. Spoken in the swamp dragon tongue, they took on new inflections. Her own name and Nyramyn’s sounded smoother and more fluid. Mirelle’s name brought a funny look to Nyramyn’s face, her ears splaying. Revaramek and Korakos’s names sounded guttural, with sharper consonants.

“There. Now, in your language, Mirelle.” He set a forepaw atop his mate’s shoulder, smiling. “This is Water Ally Nyramyn, my beloved mate, and mother to my son.” The dragon held Korakos a little higher. “This is Korakos, my son, and heir to all I own as overlord.” Then he pointed a wingtip towards Mirelle. “This is Head Councilwoman Mirelle, leader of the unified cities, ally to the united tribes.”

Mirelle bowed, hoping Nyramyn understood the respectful intent, if nothing else. When she straightened up, Nyramyn’s expression was somewhere between baffled and bemused. Her ears were pinned back, and her frills partly flared. Nyra’s eyes widened, and a smile slowly blossomed across her muzzle. She spoke to Revaramek, and the male dragon burst into growling laughter. Revaramek tried to wave off her comments, but it did not seem to work. Nyramyn gestured at Mirelle and spoke her name amidst a question that made Revaramek laugh even harder. His frills flattened, and Mirelle had the distinct impression he was trying to hide their embarrassed crimson flush.

Mirelle put her hands on her hips. “Okay, Rev. What’d she say?”

Revaramek shook his head. “Oh no, Mirelle, that’s private.”

“You’re not getting away from it that easily.” Mirelle poked Revaramek’s scales. “Tell me what she said.”

“She said…” Revaramek glanced back and forth between the two females. “Promise not to kick me, first.”

“I’m not going to kick you in front of your family!” Mirelle scowled. “Wait, it can’t be that bad, can it?”

“She…” Revaramek curled his tail protectively. “May have gotten the impression that you’re my…”

Mirelle narrowed her eyes. “Yes?”

Revaramek checked his tail’s position before replying. “She asked if you’re my slave mistress.”

“Your what?” Mirelle’s jaw dropped.

“Slave mistress.” Rev tilted his head. “A woman who owns and controls a slave-”

“I know what it means!” Mirelle stomped her foot, glaring up at the dragon. “Why the hell does she think that? What have you been filling her head with?”

Nyramyn pointed at Mirelle’s boots, and said something to Revaramek. Happy laughter spilled from the female dragon, a sound far more musical than Revaramek’s. She repeated the phrase.

Revaramek gulped, pulling his wings tight. “She says, it is her! Slave mistress, slave mistress!”

“I am not!” Mirelle sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please tell her I’m not your slave mistress.”

“I’m trying!” Revaramek stroked his mate’s foreleg, then flashed Mirelle a grin. “But there’s so much evidence to the contrary.”

“What evidence?” Mirelle grit her teeth.

“Well, for one, I was your slave!”

“You were not!” Mirelle faltered, folding her arms with a scowl. “I’ll concede that you were forcibly conscripted when they made you sign the truce. But none of that was my doing!”

“I tried to tell her as much, Mirelle.” Revaramek set Korakos back down, grasping his tail to prevent another pounce attack. “Many times. But then I told her about the tyranny of your boots-”

“There’s no tyranny involved with my boots!” Mirelle stomped the grass, and Nyramyn giggled again.

Revaramek glanced down, tail still curled into protective place. “My balls disagree.”

“Your balls had it coming!” Laughing, Mirelle waved at Korakos. “And clearly no harm was done! I’d say only your ego was injured, but we all know it’s invulnerable.”

“Regardless, Nyramyn thinks you were my slave mistress. I shall try and convince her otherwise, but you know how females can be.” He tossed his head, and gave his wings a single half-flap.

Mirelle glared at him. “You had better mean wise and all-knowing! Otherwise, my boots are going to start planning a trip to-”

“But if she’s wise and all-knowing, wouldn’t that mean she’s right?” Revaramek tilted his head as a smile crept across his muzzle. “Are you my slave mistress, Mirelle? As Head Councilwoman, are you promoting the enslavement of dragons?”

Mirelle ran a hand down her face. “I’m about to teach your mate a whole host of my so-called bad habits, dragon.”

“Now Mirelle.” Revaramek held his paws towards her. “That wouldn’t be fair. She can hit a lot harder than you can.”

“Good!” Mirelle laughed again, shaking her head. Dark hair swished around her face. “I’ll start asking her to do it instead.”

The green and copper dragon looked at his mate, lifting his frills. “You’re far too kind-hearted to hit me there, aren’t you Nyra?” When she tilted her head quizzically, he gulped. “Oh. Now I have to translate.”

“What?” Mirelle glanced up at Nyra, who stared down at her. “Just make sure she knows I’m joking. I don’t want her to think she has to protect you from me.”

Revaramek translated after a moment of hesitation. Nyramyn’s copper-bronze eyes widened, and her frills slowly rose. She glanced between Revaramek and Mirelle a few times, then replied with a very devious smile. She waved a paw at Mirelle, clearly expecting her words to be translated.

“She says, as long as I deserve it.” Revaramek pretended to pout, hanging his head. “And as long as it’s not around our son.”

Mirelle giggled. “For your sake, Rev, I shall assume that she’s joking.”

“I think she is.” Revaramek flexed his wings. “She’s always been wittier than me. Admittedly, nuances and sarcasm are not easy to translate.” He spoke to Nyra again. She rustled her wings, looking Mirelle over in thoughtful silence. When she finally nodded, Revaramek scooped Korakos up in a foreleg. “Would you like to hold Korakos, Mirelle?”

“I’d love too!” Mirelle reached for him, then paused. “As long as they’re agreeable.”

“Nyra’s given permission. She was horrified to see him pounce you like that, but the way you handled it put her a little more at ease.” Revaramek murmured to the hatchling, and Korakos held his front legs out towards Mirelle. “Here. I asked him to behave and not squirm or conquer you.”

“Good to know.”

Mirelle took the little dragon and cradled him with an arm under his haunches, and another around him, careful of his wings. Korakos draped his forelegs across her shoulders, making himself comfortable. He nosed at her hair, sniffing it. Mirelle could only imagine how strange hair must seem to him. So long as he didn’t yank it or bite it, she was content to let him investigate.

“He really is beautiful.” Mirelle shifted her grip to stroke his wings. “Can you tell her I said so?”

“Oh, she knows, Mirelle.”

“That’s not the point.” Mirelle tilted her head as the hatchling nosed at her ear. “Ah! That tickles!”

Revaramek translated Mirelle’s compliment, and Nyramyn offered a very happy sounding rumble. “She says thank you.”

“She’s quite welcome.” Mirelle stepped closer to Nyramyn. “Is there anything else I should do to introduce myself? Does she want to get my scent, like you did when we first met?”

“That may depend on if you’re going to kick her for sniffing you, like you did me!”

Mirelle smirked while she stroked Korakos’s tail. The little dragon was heavy, but not yet uncomfortably so. “She hasn’t got the same parts to kick. Besides, that wasn’t for sniffing me, that was for slapping my ass.”

“Mirelle! Don’t say ass around Korakos!” Revaramek snorted, displaying the copper edges of his frills. “He’s going to pick up your foul language.”

She glared at him. “You say far more foul things than I do!”

“Do not! Often.”

“My point was, I sincerely doubt Nyramyn is going to slap my…well, anything.” Mirelle blinked and glanced at the female. “Or is she? I’ve no idea what nonsense you might have filled her head with.”

“Nyra won’t slap your a-” Revaramek clapped his jaws shut, then amended himself. “Area.”

Mirelle grimaced. “That makes it sound even worse!”

Revaramek tossed his head. “Oh, they can’t understand us anyway.”

“Then why do you care if I say-”

“Can’t hear you Mirelle, translating your request!” Revaramek spoke with Nyramyn as the female dragon rose back to all fours. “Okay, hold still.”

“What request?” Mirelle gave the male dragon a sidelong look. “And stop telling me to hold still. I’m not gonna run off with your son.”

Revaramek eased back to give Nyra room. “Your sniff request!”

“My what?” Mirelle groaned. “Somehow, you just keep lowering the bar.”

She quieted as Nyramyn approached her. Mirelle offered the dragon her most reassuring smile, hoping the expression was understandable enough. Nyramyn stretched her neck and nuzzled at Mirelle’s cheek. Then she did the same to her throat, and her hair, sniffling and snuffling. The dragon’s breath blew Mirelle’s hair around.

Mirelle took the opportunity to examine Nyramyn up close. Unlike Revaramek, her coloration was almost uniformly green. Her scales were finest along her face and paws, and broader along her body. Heavier green plates protected her chest. Her frills and spines were smaller than Rev’s, and without any metallic coloration. Though clearly a powerful predator, her body retained curves and grace that her mate’s did not.

Ill health revealed itself in several ways. Her light green hue was too pale. Ribs were visible where they shouldn’t be. Her hip bones were too pronounced. Mirelle would have guessed her malnourished, if not for the knowledge of Nyra’s deeper sickness. A scar along her underbelly looked puffier than it should have.

Nyramyn soon eased back and settled onto her haunches alongside her mate. Nyra nuzzled Rev’s neck, murmuring.

He listened, then translated. “Nyra says Korakos is right. You do smell funny.”

Mirelle chuckled and shook her head. “So do you dragons.”

“Nyra also says that you have a…” Rev waggled a paw. “Not sure how best to translate. Basically, she thinks have you ‘kind sense’ to you. Since I trust you with our son, so does she.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Mirelle’s arms ached, and she shifted Korakos around. “Please tell Nyra I appreciate her willingness to trust me. And that I promise to make that trust worthwhile. Oh, also let her know that I trust her, in return.”

Revaramek only stared at her. “I’m just going to tell her ‘thanks’.”

Mirelle narrowed her eyes. “Ass.”

“What did I tell you about using that word around my son?” Revaramek heaved a mock sigh. “At this rate, I’ll have to tell Nyra to revoke her trust.

Mirelle ignored him, peering down at Korakos when he squirmed. “Does he want down?”

“I think so, yes.”

Mirelle crouched down to deposit the hatchling on the ground. Once Korakos had his footing, Mirelle made a casual gesture towards Nyra’s belly. “That wound, Rev. Is that from the hostile humans, you mentioned?”

“Yes.” Revaramek’s voice was heavy with concern. “Looks like a sword wound, to me. Someone who came through the gate, into the swamp. Storytellers, probably, but I don’t know who, or why.” He flattened his ears. “It should have healed better than that, but…” Revaramek sighed. “Her body’s already fighting hard on so many other fronts.”

“If she’s willing, I’d love to have our doctors look at it.” Mirelle wrung her hands. “But it might be a painful examination. We could get her a drink filled with herbs and medicines to help, but it wouldn’t be the best first experience with other humans.”

Revaramek licked Nyramyn’s neck, murmuring in their language. Her ears drooped, and she looked away. “She’s not happy with the idea, but…I think it would be good for her.” He held up a paw. “But I won’t press her, if she’s not ready. For now, I’m going to try and talk her into coming to The Cathedral, first. That way she could meet our other friends, while remaining isolated from the city. When you and I head out to the desert, I want Kurekka and Chir’raal to help Nyra watch Korakos. But first, she needs to meet them, and get comfortable around them.”

“I think that’s a great idea.” Mirelle clasped her hands before herself, smiling. “I’ll have the grounds totally sealed off ahead of time so it’s nice and quiet there for her. If you fly in early enough, the city should be very peaceful.”

“Good thinking.” Revaramek stood up and gave Nyramyn’s neck a loving lick. He turned his head back towards Mirelle, beaming. “Now, Mirelle. Would you like to be the first human to enter our house?”

“I’d be deli-”

“Well, not literally the first,” Revaramek said. “It was built by humans, after all. And I had them out to stock the bookshelves. And fix that leak!”

Mirelle sighed, shaking her head. “You really won’t ever change, will you Rev?”

“I certainly hope not. I’m fantastic!” Revaramek cackled, nuzzling his mate. “Nyramyn agrees.”

Nyramyn stared at Revaramek. She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes and flattening her ears.

Mirelle arched a brow. “That doesn’t look like agreement, to me.”

“Yes, well.” Revaramek bumped his nose to Nyra’s, earning a playful nip. “Let me do this the formal way for her, then.” He cleared his throat, then straightened up his posture, holding his head high. “Head Councilwoman Mirelle. May I invite you to be the first visitor to my family’s home?”

Mirelle gave a low bow, smiling. “My benevolent overlord, I would like nothing more.”

*****

Chapter One Hundred

*****

The first urd’thin of the desert began life as a pup, in the middle of the night. For all his boundless knowledge, he had never truly known life the way mortals knew it. He had glimpsed it in their minds, but to truly perceive the world through wholly physical senses was an entirely new experience.

Everything about it mesmerized him. The breeze ruffled his fur, tickled the skin beneath. He shivered and strange bumps broke out across him. Even the shiver was a delightful sensation. The sand shifted beneath the pads of his feet, warm and soft. He tilted his head back, sniffing at the wind. The air smelt of sand and water, of fruit trees, and birds and life. The First swiveled his ears, following every sound. Insects chirped. The wind rustled leaves and reeds. Water lapped at the shore of the oasis. He stared at the dark sky. For the first time, he beheld the cosmos as a mortal.

It looked so different. Before, he understood it implicitly, knew it in all directions, saw the galaxies and nebulas and worlds upon worlds. Now he saw only stars, and the world’s moon. Yet there was beauty within its simplicity. An entire ocean of tiny, shining lights. He knew what they were and where they were placed throughout the cosmos, but to his mortal mind, they seemed so…mysterious.

His tongue itched.

The First tried to work it around his muzzle, and it only ended up hanging out. Basic motions came easily, but more complicated tasks were harder. He pulled his tongue back in, and found it itched even more. He lifted a hand and licked the back of it, wetting the fur. His fur tasted like…fur. Sandy fur. The First turned his hand over and licked his palm. His skin tasted faintly of salt, and the sensation of his tongue tickled. He giggled and dropped his hand, but soon his whole throat itched.

How was he meant to scratch the inside of his throat?

The First swallowed a few times, but it did not help. Grit licked from his hand made his throat feel even drier.

Thirst. Finally, he caught on. He was thirsty.

He stumbled towards the oasis. Near the water, he tripped on the shifting sands, and flopped onto his hands and knees. Pain thudded through his limbs, but it was dull, more a nuisance than the searing anguish he remembered. His fall startled a frog. It croaked as it leapt into the water. The First’s ears swiveled to the sound on their own accord.

Fascinated as he was by the way his own ears worked, the tantalizing scent of fresh water spurred him on. He crawled to the pond’s edge. The First plunged his muzzle into it, only to snort up water. He coughed, choked, gagged, and eventually cleared his lungs and sinuses. Another lesson learned, he thought.

It took The First several ensuing attempts to figure out how to drink without inhaling it. Each failed attempt left him coughing anew. Finally, when he managed to drink a single mouthful of water, it was the greatest experience of his short mortal life. The water was cool and refreshing, sweet, pure and delicious. It eased his thirst, sliding into his empty belly. He liked it so much he drank and drank until his stomach would hold no more. Then he rolled over in the sand, panting, and stared up at the stars.

A few minutes later he wretched it all right back up.

Mortal life was challenging.

When his body finished attempting to turn inside out, The First lay whimpering and gasping for breath. He wondered, would more water help soothe his stomach? But the water made him vomit, and he did not want to vomit again. It was a very unpleasant experience. And yet water was necessarily for survival. Perhaps balance was key, he thought. Only drink enough to live, otherwise it would overload his system.

The First rolled over, and returned to the shore. He stared into the oasis, looking for the tiny lifeforms he knew existed within the waters. Was it possible that drinking those caused vomiting? He could not see them, though. Were they gone? The First reached out with his understanding, and immediately, perceived billions of them in that single oasis alone. He realized that mortal eyes simply could not see things that small.

Through his understanding, he also perceived that microscopic life could make mortals dangerously ill. He decided to atop himself, changing his body to ensure that no tiny thing he drank would make him too sick. When the time came, he would do the same for his children. Their story would not last long if the only available water source proved toxic.

The First took another drink, rinsing the unpleasant taste from his mouth. This time he was careful not to drink too much. The miniature lifeforms might not make him sick, but he did not want to give his belly cause to reject the offering again.

Next came a painful rumbling in his stomach. Initially he thought his body was angry to have water in it again. Soon, however, he recognized the sensation as hunger. The First stretched his understanding to a stand of trees with tall, spindly trunks, clusters of broad leaves, and plenty of bright red fruit. Though based on trees from other worlds, they had adapted over generations into something new. He wrapped his power around a crimson fruit and tugged it free. It drifted through the air, then dropped into his outstretched hands.

The fruit hit harder than he expected, fell through his hands, and left his palms stinging.

“OW!”

His own voice startled him. He froze, his ears up, listening to the echo of his cry roll across the nighttime desert. In the distance, something called back with a long, low howl. Something predatorial. The sound left him shivering again, a sensation that was as delightful as it was chilling. There were predators roaming his desert large enough to eat an urd’thin pup. Instinctual fear left his belly twisted in a strange, uncomfortable fashion. Yet he knew nothing in the world could truly threaten him. If this body perished, he would simply build another.

The First took a deep breath, relishing the cool, nighttime air that filled his lungs. He held it until his chest burned and his head swam, relishing each new sensation. When his surging blood begged him for fresh oxygen, he released a long, feral cry. A sense of mischief overcame the urd’thin pup, and he used his power to transmute his voice into a roar that shook the earth.

Nothing would approach him tonight.

The pup giggled, and found himself cherishing both the sound of laughter, and the feeling of laughing. He picked up the multi-pronged fruit. The First held it up in one hand, then compared it to the other. The Fruit resembled the way his fingers spread. He tore away the rind with a sliver of his power, and took a bite of the juicy, brightly-hued flesh.

Sweetness burst across his tongue. The flavor was so sudden, so intense, it made him groan. His knees went weak, his eyes rolled back, and he nearly toppled over. Oh, that’s so good. It was no wonder mortals enjoyed eating. Eating was wonderful. He devoured the rest of the fruit in a few greedy moments, and then pulled a second one off the tree. The First consumed it slower, not wanting to make himself sick again. He found the fruit’s sweetness even more enjoyable when he savored it. When the fruit was gone, his muzzle and his hands were covered in sticky juices. He licked his hands clean, and did the best he could with his muzzle.

The First contemplated bathing in the pond, but he suddenly felt exceptionally tired. He knew the concept, but had never experienced fatigue, or drowsiness. The First had not expected his new body to need sleep so soon. Was it because pups required plenty of rest, to grow? Or did eating led to sleepiness? Both concepts seemed familiar, as if he’d learned of them through mortal stories. As drowsiness washed over him, he found it a pleasant sensation. He settled down on the sand, and flopped onto his back. Then he rolled to his side, and curled up to rest his little horned head on his furry arms.

Sleep came swiftly. For the first time in his very long existence, The First began to dream.

*****

The First decided to make shelter his first priority. The oasis and its surroundings already provided him food and water, but he had little protection from the world’s elements and animals. During the day, the sun’s heat was uncomfortable. He spent the hottest hours lying in the shade beneath the fruit trees, or bathing in the oasis. At night insects swarmed and bit him, left his skin itchy. He forced himself to tolerate their presence, to understand what his children would experience.

He resisted the urge to shape a house into existence. Relying on his powers would not teach him what his people needed to survive. While he had a vast wealth of knowledge to draw from, the gulf between knowing and doing was vast indeed. Only with firsthand experience could he truly impart useful wisdom into his urd’thin. If he was not going to truly live as a mortal, than there was no point to any of this. So, he set out to gather materials manually to build simple walls from fronds, sticks, and woven reeds.

It seemed a solid plan, if only he could climb a tree. His first attempt, he slipped off halfway up the trunk. The First landed on his back, knocking the wind from his body. It hurt, and he struggled to breathe for long, frightening moments. When he recovered, he tried again. This time, The First made it nearly all the way to the top. But when he reached for a frond, he lost his grip and tumbled through the air once more. The pup shattered his arm against the ground, and his scream echoed across the sands. Bone jutted through his skin. Blood soaked his fur. The First panicked, shrieking even louder. Agony coursed through him, searing and unendurable. He made himself whole again, willing the pain away. Even when his arm was healed, the memory of his injury left him shaking and curled up.

Why were mortals so fragile?

They were even more delicate than he realized. Pain was more overwhelming than he expected. The First was going to have to take these things into account. His urd’thin would not get very far if they all succumbed to injuries within the first few days of life. At least his anguish provided a valuable lesson while he collected himself.

When he was ready to try again, The First scaled the tree once more. This time he proceeded with great caution. Once he reached the top, he secured his legs around the trunk. Only when he was suitably anchored did he try to collect the fronds. They were fixed fast to the plant, and he realized he would need a knife to cut them free. The First knew then he may have to provide his urd’thin with tools, at first. For now, he shaped a hint of his power into a knife, and cut away as many giant leaves as he needed.

Next, he gathered reeds from around the oasis. The First tore them into long, fibrous strips. By the time he was finished, his arms ached from exertion, and his pads stung from numerous tiny cuts. He used the strips of reed to lash together sticks into simple frames. Then he tied layers of palm fronds together, and bound them to his framework. Finally, he leaned the makeshift walls up against the trunk of a sturdy hand fruit tree, and lashed them together.

A great sense of pride settled over The First as he took shelter from the sun’s blistering heat inside his new home. His body ached everywhere, and his house was hardly impressive. But it was his. He had built it with his own hands, and his own ingenuity. He treated himself to an extra helping of fruit to celebrate. That night he enjoyed enjoyed sleeping in a place relatively protected from all the biting flies.

The next day he started making tools. The First pulled rocks from the sand, and used them to sharpen other rocks. He chipped and carved until he had a knife. Then he made another, and another. After that, he made axe blades, and cut notched handles from wood. He fit the blades into handles, and lashed them together. The First used his new axes to chop down a tree. It was slow, tiring work, and soon broke all his tools. But he made more, and persevered for over a week until the tree was felled. By then blisters covered his hands, but he refused to heal them. The First spent the following week cutting it down into smaller sections and useful shapes. Some of the wood was used to reinforce his home, while more of it was set aside to be made into spears and other weaponry in the future.

To his surprise, he discovered the tree riddled with tiny tunnels and home to fat, wriggling grubs. Each grub had powerful jaws made for eating wood. The First found them fascinating and mysterious. He did not remember creating them. He pulled one free and touched it with his power to inspect its life cycle. It was larval form of a large green-shelled beetle. The First vaguely remembered the beetles’ relationship to trees, but only in a hazy sense. It was almost as if his memories of godhood and all the years spent studying this place were too difficult for a mortal brain to fully comprehend. He wondered if biological minds were simply unable to properly parse millennia worth of memories, or if-

And then the grub bit his finger.

The First yelped and dropped it, shaking his hand. A droplet of blood trickled from his fingertip. He growled down at the grub, wriggling in the sand. If it was going to bite him, he was going to bite it. He picked it back up and twisted off its head so it couldn’t bite his tongue. Then he popped the rest of it in his mouth, and chewed it up. With little frame of reference, it tasted fine. It was warm, and filled with goo, slightly bittersweet, and flavored wood on which it fed.

Only after he swallowed it did The First realize it might be toxic to urd’thin. He grimaced, afraid he might vomit again. He touched the grubs with his understanding, and ascertained they were not poisonous. In fact, they were quite healthy, filled with nutrients he could not easily get from fruit alone. He ate the rest of the grubs before bed.

Grubs and fruit were enough to sustain him, but his tribe would need more food than that. The First dug more stones from the sand, and carved spearheads from them. He lashed them to poles hewn from the tree. The First spent several days throwing his knives and spears, honing his aim and technique. When he had the motions down, he targeted a flock of birds roosting atop a tree. He hit nothing, and lost every weapon he threw.

At least there still grubs, he thought.

Replacement weapons proved quicker to craft, thanks to experience. His hand still ached from worker, but blisters were becoming callouses, and he had fewer cuts from mishandling slippery stone. His next batch of implements did not fare much better. The First broke several spearheads, and one spear pole, hurling them at birds. He lost another by throwing it at a fish who jumped in the deep part of the oasis.

Soon enough, he was down to his final spear. He kept that one close, and tried to stab things with it. Success proved no easier with that method, and frustration built in him each time his quarry escaped anew. Just as he was ready to curse mortality and the unpleasant feelings that came with failure, he finally slew his very first prey. It was only a small, lazy frog, but that did not matter to The First.

The pup whooped and hollered, sang and danced on the sand as if spearing a slow-witted frog was the greatest accomplishment of his life. He carried it back to his shelter to eat it. The skin tasted terrible, and bones were unpleasantly crunchy, but the flesh? The flesh was delightful. It was surprisingly sweet, and flavored slightly with the taste of oasis water.

The next day The First cut down another tree to make more spears. He selected a smaller one this time, and familiarity with the process made it easier. The First used his next weapons more carefully, refining his techniques. Soon he was catching not only frogs and fish, but birds, small mammals, and other prey.

Larger prey proved especially useful. Their bones could be made into tools and implements, their hides into blankets, and clothing, their teeth into adornments for his fur, and so on. Properly utilizing each part of the animal proved a learning experience like everything else, and more than a few went to waste before he had the processes down. Occasionally he used his powers to speed up a process, or allow himself to do a job that normally took many people.

When he felt he had mastered the basics of survival, The First set a cycle of seasons into motion. The seasons were balanced between wet, and dry. In the dry months, the desert was hot and cloudless, and the oasis slowly shrank. The wet months brought pouring rains that restored the pond to its full size, and even swelled it beyond its banks. The First had to learn to construct sturdier dwellings, to protect himself from the wind and rain when the storms came.

The First let himself age at the same rate any urd’thin would. As he grew, survival kept his body lean, but daily hard work packed his body with muscles. Each passing day, he sharpened himself just as he sharpened his weapons. The stronger he grew, the easier each task became.

Over the years, The First inadvertently killed himself on four separate occasions.

The first time, he grew careless when climbing for fruit. He lost his balance, fell over the tree, and smashed his head open on a rock. It was so quick he’d only just experienced the sudden fear of falling when he found himself adrift. Suddenly he was but light, and understanding. The unexpected transition left him confused. His grand perception felt alien, almost unwieldly, as difficult to use now as his mortal body had once been. He did not wish to lose the natural experiences that had shaped his vessel so far, so he simply fixed the parts that had broken, and returned his consciousness to it.

The First awoke with a great headache, and the vague memory that he’d fallen out of a tree and died.

His second death taught him a valuable lesson about the food chain. The First had convinced himself to hunt a rakatch. They were large, water dwelling predators with enough meat, hide, and bones to keep him fed and stocked for a month. He took his spear, several pouches full of water, and journeyed to an oasis where one made its lair.

When the rakatch emerged from the water, The First moved in, intent on slaying it. Instead, his spear broke against its hide, and The First immediately discovered that urd’thin could also be prey. Irritated, The First forced the rakatch to vomit him up. He fixed his vessel’s injuries, re-inhabited it, and then spent the rest of the day scrubbing his fur clean in the water.

The third death came on an especially cold day, in the rainy season. The First had only just taught himself how to make fire. Delighted as he was by his discovery, he failed to consider that building a fire inside his home was an exceedingly bad idea. After that, he had to do a great deal of reconstruction to his body before it was inhabitable. Worse, he had to build his house all over again.

One dry season, the pup journeyed across the desert to check on his other oases. Along the way he discovered a new plant species he could not recall creating. It had broad, fleshy green leaves with vibrant red and yellow spots. He harvested one to see how its taste compared to other cacti and succulents. The First roasted its thick leaves over hot coals. It smelled so heavenly he ignored the fact that the steam rising from it as it cooked left his head swimming. He gorged himself on it as soon as it was cooked through. After that, he delighted in chasing all the pretty lights and phantom creatures whirling around him, just before he dropped dead. His fourth death taught him that not everything in his desert was edible.

From every death, failure, and hardship, the pup gained important insight about the difficulties his people would face. As he aged, the first considered the natural adaptations his people would have undergone to combat those challenges. Had they lived in this desert for countless generations, he was sure they would have slowly changed, just as all his other creatures had. So he altered his vessel accordingly.

The First made his fur thinner than other worlds’ urd’thin, but increased its insulating properties. It deflected heat on hot days, and kept in warmth on cold ones. Urd’thin always had large ears, but he made his larger still. Their size would not only help his people detect dangers, but also dissipate heat more effectively. Then he strengthened his body’s ability to resist diseases and sickness. He dulled the pain receptors in the pads of his feet, and thickened the skin to protect from the hot, sun-scorched sand. The First even altered his eyes. He gave them a greater range of adjustability from deepest darkness, to blinding sunlight.

When The First’s vessel reached adult, it was time at last to bring his urd’thin forth onto this world. He started with a dozen, and shaped them from the sand. Each was based on his vessel’s finalized design. They were adapted and refined, ready to survive a harsh but rewarding life in the desert. He made six of the urd’thin male, and six female. He sculpted little unique differences in each one, taking his time to get it right. By the time night fell, they waited only for his breath to gift them life. The First trembled with anticipation as he built a fire to keep them warm. At last, he would have his own people, his own tribe, his own story.

It was going to be so glorious.

The First pricked his pads, and anointed each sand sculpture with a droplet of his blood, redolent of his great gift. From that single droplet of blood came life. It swept through each of them, bringing flesh and bone, nerves and tissue, organs and blood vessels. One by one, his urd’thin came to life.

Delight and happiness washed over The First as his creations took their first breaths. Some stumbled and fell. Others stood in a daze, staring at the starry sky. The First could not imagine a more beautiful sight. To think that he once felt that way, tasting air for the first time, feeling the sand under his feet. Now his children got to experience their own first moments, just as he had. It left him shivering, with tears in his eyes.

The First stepped forward, smiling and ready to greet them.

“Hello!” He spoke the word from an old, urd’thin tongue, a language likely forgotten by the world in which it initiated.

All the urd’thin whirled towards him, startled. Only then did it occur to him that in his eagerness to bring them to life, he failed to give them language. Worse, their consciousnesses were not complete. Some stumbled away from him, wide eyed. One tripped and fell, wriggling in the sand. Others bumped into each other, eliciting defensive snarls and bared fangs.

The First scowled, disheartened by his foolish mistakes. But while he contemplated how best to amend his creations, one of urd’thin wandered towards the fire, entranced by the flickering light. Wobbly legs gave out and he pitched into the flames, shrieking as they engulfed him. His agonized scream sent another urd’thin sprinting away, howling in fear. He charged headlong into the oasis, and unable to swim, disappeared beneath the surface, drowning.

“No!”

Shock and horror struck The First harder than any physical blow. His children were dying. Before he could help them, snarls turned to blows, claws, and teeth. An angry female urd’thin pounced on her neighbor and bore him to the ground, beating on him. She tore his throat out with her teeth, and blood gushed across the sand. The rest of the urd’thin scattered, driven by instinctual terror. They ran into the desert, away from the fire, the water, and the bloodshed. The female with the bloodied muzzle rose and chased after another victim.

“Stop!”

The First’s voice came as a thunderclap. Its rumbling, concussive sound blasted golden clouds of sand into the sky, that rolled away from him in waves. The First had not meant to use his power, but emotions drew it out. Time froze. Urd’thin paused in mid-stride. Droplets of blood hung, suspended in the air. Embers hovered above motionless flames etched in time.

His shoulders sagged as he uttered a low, whimpering sob. His throat constricted, burning deep inside. This was his fault. Their fear, their suffering, it was all his fault. His children lived for only moments, and already he failed them. What kind of cruel god was he, to breathe life into them only for them to suffer, and die?

Overwhelmed by an ocean of guilt and sorrow, The First fell to his knees. Tears ran down his muzzle, dripping wet to the sand. Those poor creatures. Alive for only moments, and all they knew was fear and pain. It was not fair. That was not the story he wanted to tell for them. He had failed, and they had suffered for his mistake. Sobs overwhelmed him, stealing his breath, his strength. He curled up on the ground, awash in grief.

The First poured his anguish into the sands, lamenting his lost creations. He cried and cried until merciful slumber claimed him at last.

*****

When The First awoke, it was still dark. For a moment, blissful confusion was all he knew. Why was it still dark? Surely it should have been morning. He rubbed his bleary eyes. Sand clung to his fur. He wiped his face off, gazing around. Motionless urd’thin were scattered everywhere. Burned limbs protruded from a fire frozen in time.

Oh.

Memory was a cold knife deep in his mortal heart. He grasped his chest, whimpering. It was all too much to bear. How could mortals thrive, despite all their pain, their sorrow, their grief? The First wanted to withdraw forever, and wipe the agonizing memories away. But if mortals could push their anguish, then so he could he. Besides, he owed them more than failure, and death. He owed them a story, of their own.

The First pushed himself to his feet, wiping away fresh tears. He contemplated what to do with his lost creations. At first, he completed fixing their bodies, and removing the memories of pain. But that did not seem right. It would not do his people any good if he just kept changing their story so only good things happened. His children would face hardship, even at the best of times. If he genuinely wanted them to become an important part of existence, then he had to let them suffer, and die. Loss was a part of all mortal life. After all, everyone’s story had to end, eventually. It was the only way that new stories could be born in their place.

But that did little to ease his pain.

The First took a few shuddering breaths, collecting himself. When mortals lost someone they cared for, they held a funeral pay their respects and say their farewells. He owed his lost children that much, at least. The First pulled the corpse out of the fire, and set it nearby. Then he stretched his power to the oasis, retrieved the drowned body, and put it near the others. When the three bodies were together, he contemplated what kind of memorial to give them. Just as he had given them life, so too were they meant to give life to the world itself. It seemed only fitting they become part of the desert.

He unfroze time, save for the remaining urd’thin. The world turned again. Flames flickered, night birds called, insects chirped. His own cry of ‘stop’ echoed across the desert in ever-softer repetitions. The First made himself invulnerable, and stepped into the fire. He called the flames to wreathe him, a burning urd’thin to deliver the dead unto eternity.

The First went to each body, and bid his fire to claim them. Roiling, red-orange light cascaded from him onto the three dead urd’thin. He willed the fire hotter and hotter, a forge to return his poor children to the desert. As the bodies burned, The First sang. It was the same melody the stars themselves once sang to him. The wind kicked up, swirling across the sand in time to his voice. As ember and ash, his creations were scattered across the desert until at last they were one with the sand, and the stars.

With the funeral completed, he extinguished himself. The First collected a handful of ashes from each cremated urd’thin, and buried them around the oasis. From their remains, he willed life. Towering trees erupted from the ground, bigger than any he’d ever grown. Each tree immediately bore enough fruit to feed an entire tribe. Then he carried more ashes from each pyre to the tree grown in their memory. The First pressed his head to the wood, and smeared the ash upon their trunks. To each, he whispered an apology, and a goodbye.

Light crept across horizon as the pyres died out. The First climbed a nearby sand dune, and sat alone to watch the sunrise. His children should have been watching it with him, he thought. Suddenly, his desert never felt lonelier. Unable to stop himself, he put his face in his hands, and cried. His sorrow birthed storm clouds. Thunder rumbled through them, and rain cascaded across his desert. Every tear he shed was another deluge upon the sand. When at last his tears were spent, The First trudged back to his oasis through the rain. Anguish gripped his heart, but he was not going to give in.

He was going to start over.

*****

That's it for now! Click the FAVE button and leave a comment with your thoughts if you enjoyed! Thank you for reading!