forgotten
It had forgotten a lot of things over the years. Ideas and thoughts came ever slowly, dripping through calcite into stagnant murky pools. It had forgotten things, swallowed by the dull monotony that was It's slowly starving brain.
What had Its voice sounded like?
It had once considered a thousand different worlds, and settled in one he never dared consider its own. It had sorted through different flashes of life, each unique and special but so distant they existed only a glimmer in darkness. Once, It had known their names and could recite them easily in a voice he had forgotten some years ago. It kept itself at a distance, observing blandly through forced reluctance, and after some time those feelings became true.
When It gazed into its reflection, echoed in the soft ripples all water held regardless of its stillness, It could not recognize itself. Objectively, It observed each unique feature, as unimpressive as the rest, but together they constructed an image It could not actively recall. There was an oddity to Its features, a sense of unsettling wrongness from Its fading memory. There weren't many things that looked at It openly, only those that stank with death, and death had no care for the inaccurate slide to Its steps and sounds of Its cracking joints. The barren-faced skeletons did not care for the pallor of It's skin, nor the movements and sounds of It creeping across caverns and deep caves, they were dead and the dead did not care for if It lived or didn't.
It had been years since It saw a human. It had been longer since It heard one speak, and It had no shame in how Its memories had merged into faceless images all mute except for a rough cadence of speech It couldn't hear. It knew humans had two legs and two arms, but the distinct differences had long been lost to time. It had once spent months forcing Itself to try and speak in a language It didn't remember. It had once jerked about through freakish metamorphosis, struggling and creating something halfway between cursed or blessed in a silent land far from holy.
It could not remove all of Itself, and there was once a time where this bothered It. Now, It's daily concerns stretched so far as: where It would forage for fresh apples in the trees, what fields and plains remained untouched and potentially ripe for potatoes or carrots. If It felt particularly daring, It considered crawling out from below the rock and dirt under the burning light of day instead of the safe security of the moon.
It had a name, like the trees had a name and mobs did too before they were death and forgot how to care for all living things. It had a name, but It had forgotten it just as he forgot how joints were to move and where the feathers and flesh met and melted or how to live without pain. Pain was a companion to It, a comforting presence that always lingered in the bouts between deep aching melancholy and the dulling brain rotting slowly from within.
It had been alone for years. Anything that once knew It would no longer recognize It. It had lost all bits of Itself in ways It could faintly see, but neither cared enough or remembered enough how to change or what exactly made It so wrong. Its hair had stopped growing, the feathers along the ears had changed and formed bones that shrouded Its face gently with curved wings that acted as much as a veil as they did whiskers. Its body moved strangely and sometimes Its skin burned quite awful from where It twisted oddly and joints pushed and stretched to where It could tear like wet parchment. It saw everything simply and it took longer each year to think cohesive words, until it took minutes to react to the sounds and textures felt below the ratty skin. It hadn't opened its eyes in so long It had forgotten how to do so, Its eyelids settled flatly with atrophy over the reddish purple hue of the celestial sight. What purpose were eyes when It could see between every feather and every flicker of movement around It? What reason did It have to open the small wings cradling Its jaw and skull, when It could feel the whispers of movement along Its body as keenly as any other blind and muted creature?
Everything banal went unnoticed, utterly unremarkable to It. It had once known colours but now the different shades were long indistinct in the darkened depths of caves It settled in for months on end. Unmoving, until the spiders wove cobwebs across the furthest tips of Its feathers, and where the lichen began to creep across the living skin hungrily.
Life hadn't always been like this. It remembered bits from before, but allowed the rest of years to pass through him like echoes across deepslate. It remembered that It once had friends, companions that stood at each flank and laughed and whispered words invaluable. It knew this, but could not recall their names or faces beyond basic description: a male human with dark hair, a female human with long hair.
It had a family once, or maybe It didn't. It saw bats with their young, small sleeping sheep with their herd. It had never seen the rattling bones of a newly undead, but some of the moaning rotten beasts were small and spry and far too young for death. It had a family, like all things must, but It couldn't remember. Perhaps It's family were the two humans It saw in flashes hidden with gaussian blurs, or perhaps they were the friends It was sure It once had. Maybe those things were one and the same, or maybe they weren't.
It had forgotten a lot of things over the years. Ideas and thoughts came ever slowly, dripping through calcite into stagnant murky pools. It had forgotten things, swallowed by the dull monotony that was Its slowly starving brain.
What had Its voice sounded like?
It had come to this world alone, but sometimes It allowed itself to remember differently. Sometimes, when Its bones hurt deeply and the strange lilting joints crunched with Its sluggish breaths, It dreamed while awake. It had come to this world alone, but It imagined and pretended coming to this place with humans at It's side. They spoke with those strange voices, saying words It could not think of. It remembered things sluggishly, but the blissful idea and delirious hope that It was not alone was one far too glorious to truly believe. It knew it could not be true, but It hoped painfully for something different.
And then, everything had changed.
There were noises, sounds no louder than the grumbling tones of creepers in the depths. They grew, rousing It from the month-long trance. It ached, rattling through the vanes and quills across Its face with a piercing anxiety. It felt panic then, spurring It to crawl deeper to the pits and crevices too dark for mortal eyes.
It slept there, curled in a miserable collection of limbs that did not fit and always hurt no matter how It moved. It could see the world through the translucent edges of reality, hazy glazed pupils squinting through the layered covert feathers to stare endlessly across.
There were things here, chaotic noises too cluttered and loud to be them. They were too spread out, too physically disorienting to ever claim the ethereal bell-like sounds of them and their cruelty. This was something different, something tangible like the dead walking bones and the hissing sounds of spiders stealing his shed down feathers for their silk sacks and many eggs.
It crawled for many cycles of what would be a day-night-day, but wrong. Altered oddly with a forced soothing whisper of sleep from something not Itself. It was a thing living in the depths of this world , but what did It live for? What reason did It have to continue sleeping and eating, what reason did It tell the brain to keep breathing and existing when It saw no purpose despite seeing so much at all times.
'Don't you want to see what is happening?' It thought sluggishly, the idea fragmented and coiling over the course of many hours before it truly set in understanding. It took him days to think and respond, 'yes, I want to see what is happening.'
Drooping stalagmites cracked off of Its body like barnacles on the hull of a downed whale. The beginnings of tuff and dust shed from between his long feathers, each quill dull and matte like indistinct basalt under the light of magma. It crawled slowly, each movement taking days, joints crunching with the heavy sound of skeletons piercing one another with sharp flint-arrows.
The creatures of where It had settled fled hurriedly, fearing a mountain were awaking. In truth, a similar thing was occurring- a physical mound became alive and reanimated when even the dead had presumed It deceased.
'What is happening?' It wondered, breaking the stiffened joints to cycle fluid through old rounded bones. Many wings slid apart with a horrendous sound not unlike breaking amethyst. It awoke, like the awakening of an Enderdragon roused to activity under the burning light of crystals in the void.
It crawled, fluttering jerkily to shed off years of grime that clung to a spine like moss. Bats shrieked about It, rattling noises that caressed Its feathers and lit dozens of eyes with bright awareness. It did not see colors, but It could still see some. A watcher always watched, and despite everything, It was still Itself.
'Look at those things,' It thought in a voice unlike any It remembered, 'look at the surface.'
On the world above, little fluttering things moved clumsily. Dancing through the air as silhouettes wearing wings unlike Its but unlike anything It could remember. Its memory was hazy, but It knew the sounds and whispers were words in a language It should have known. It watched as they evolved, creating things like magic between the blinking of many many eyes. It watched, silent in the depths below their feet as they grew and interacted. It took a week to remember what they were: 'they are human.'
And they stayed, venturing out on miniature expeditions. They traveled and returned, creating dens and caves of their own above the surface where It refused to walk under the light of the sky. It was too easy to be seen above the surface when the sun rose. There was too little to hide It from any watchful gaze. It could not be seen- It could never be seen- that idea alone drove It mad with paranoia.
It watched, and they explored downwards, holding rock and objects that carved apart the ground below their hands. They were chaos, a force of devastation that made It's skin crawl- but they were builders and creators of some unknown passion.
They carved themselves a hole to the lower levels of the world, touching the skin that separated them from the aching void. The mottled bedrock was there to protect them from an empty drop which always ended in death.
The creatures burrowed deep for some incomprehensible reason, and It watched them. Fascinated, baffled by their precise rhythmic movements as they tore apart stone and gems by hand. Humans, so tiny but so bright with their ideas and creativity. It watched them, noticing their differences and realized, 'that is a male, and that is a female.'
Then, after a long time It thought with horrified sacrilegious hope, '...aren't I a male, too?'
He dared not ponder such things, too afraid to think of the things that only made him hurt. He was used to hurting, but this was a different pain he didn't know how to stop or lessen besides settling to sleep the weeks and months away until he forgot how to move once more.
One of the humans noticed it, ( him, It decided, I am him ) and spoke to him casually. It felt wrong, sinful to address him openly but he could not remember why. He knew he shouldn't interact with a human, but didn't remember the citation to his punishment.
The humans spoke to him with a voice gentle and curious. They kept him company. One day, they worked in their pit in the ground where he lived and dared so bold as to address him as a friend.
He had no friends, or he once did but couldn't remember them anymore. He didn't understand, he didn't recognize or know how to begin to think in a way that deviated from the stagnation he had drowned in. They gave him a name (and names were dangerous, he knew that), and left him food and things no matter how little he reacted. He did not need to eat, but they fed him. He did not need to sleep, but they carved a piece of their time and compassion and filled it with soft textures and things that made him wonder if there was not more to life than simply living.
They offered him boxes filled with trinkets and gems, a transaction he could remember. They asked him and he provided, or he would be hurt and punished for the failure of his actions- they asked him blue-round-small and he tried to please them as they so needed-.
'They are your friend,' he thought, terrified and clinging to the damp lichen of his cavern's roof, peering at the opened chests with new offerings he couldn't understand, 'they aren't here to hurt me.'
Maybe, if he repeated those thoughts, he would soon believe it.
With monotony came awareness of everything deviating from its prearranged schedule. Hypervigilant of his surroundings, the stirring of dirt and deposits of clay and rock were blatant to his many eyes.
The humans had been there, to the makeshift woolen cavern they jokingly called his lair. They had frequently left behind crates and barrels filled with the oddest assortments of trinkets or textures. Cloth and food, spongy blocks of organic material he could not remember. Some left priceless gems, which he recognized from his many hundred subterranean passages and hidden crevices. He responded in kind, providing emeralds and lapis in ore deposits larger than his clawed furled hand.
The humans liked this, he knew it. They responded in kind, bartering without words (although sometimes with crudely drawn pictures and diagrams). It stirred something in his brain, a bright ember slowly nursed back to a weak puttering flame. The drive for discovery, the insatiable hunger of curiosity and knowledge below his many fingers.
What did the humans want from him? What were they creating with their talented hands and holy imagination? What did they see that he could not, no matter how long he squinted into the darkened abyss below their feet or above the stars.
They explored his tunnels, carving ores and rocks from crude jagged outcrops into smoothed passages fit for any traveler. They claimed mountains, reframing them and forming them to flattened surfaces with care a mare showed their foal.
He didn't understand. The humans had been here only months perhaps, but already they had built the beginnings of an entire civilization. There were buildings growing where none had been before. Great stretches of ocean slowly drained and filled with harder materials- the foundation for some great revolution. Trees were crafted by hand, ignoring the natural process of vegetation to create something aesthetically pleasing.
Great stretches of sand and dirt were removed and replaced with stained sand the colour of sunset. Stalactites speared upwards dangerously in a wasteland constructed by man. Factories grew overnight, their interior workings a mystery but the vibrations of pistons and automation penetrated deep into his home and bed.
He did not mind it. It was fascinating to watch, to observe the starts of something far greater than him.
The bravery they held to conjure the undead with the sound of funeral bells permeating the world. He felt his heart shift, shuddering its lilting beat as it remembered the horrible sight of the tri-headed monster.
When he slept, he imagined something of a memory he didn't believe ever happened. ( 'I'm going to fight the Wither today, I've never done it before but I thought it would be a good start before trying the Ender D-.' ) He wondered what it would be like to face the creature and attack it with mortal limbs and mortal weapons. He wondered how his humans could summon it so recklessly, and defeat it so uncaring of its horrific presence.
There were beacons now, spearing the heavens with their delight. The benefits extended beyond that of only humans- he could feel the strength in his body. He could feel the health and life return to his mottled skin, feathers growing through all stages with plumage shed in dark tufts on the cavern floors. He felt the speed in how his brain processed, the gentle warmth of thought and individuality returning. There was once a time where he spent days trapped in the cyclical repetition of confusion and questioning- when he struggled to remember what he had forgotten for so long he couldn't remember what he was doing. There were months that passed in lethargy, lost to the bottomless ache of depression and inhibited cognition. There were months of suffering, large lapses in his mind he willingly forgot, preferring the patchwork disorienting haze that was his life now.
Except, it didn't need to be that anymore. There were humans here. They were unlike the cattle and the horses, they deviated from their dictated patterns in ways he could never predict despite watching them so closely.
So, he climbed clumsily from the depths. He ascended, fracturing long inefficient claws into jagged serrated edges that scraped and scrambled across stone and granite. He fluttered through jerky uncoordinated movements as he glided and fell off small ledges and alcoves before he began to climb once more.
The humans created something he was loath to call a home, but he felt somewhere in his heart that it had the potential to be one. He nestled awkwardly on material so soft it felt foreign, rustling his wings and broken quills until they shed from damaged skin and old knots trapped below his tertiary feathers. Surely birds didn't need to deal with this mess- but he couldn't remember what birds did to prepare themselves to fly. He couldn't remember how the joints worked, and no matter how long he watched the chickens frolic below the sun, he couldn't fathom how the bones and feathers all fit together.
'Does it matter?' he wondered, bending his spine in a way that ached but allowed himself to settle somewhat on his side and no longer his old arthritic knees, 'the humans do not have wings.'
He arranged the material around him in the utter darkness he had long since lived in. Pulling and twisting fabric with a strange curiosity. It was not neat or organized, it was not efficient or organized. The soft floor had been laid carefully with human hands and he tore it clumsily in great tufts to pile in a hazardous pile large enough to buffer the ache of his tired body. He had not seen colours in what felt like forever, but in the faint flickering light of old dying torches, there was a certain shade that caught his eye.
'Is this life now?' he wondered, folding his legs and body to collapse on his front with wings outstretched and many eyes staring upwards through rock to sky. 'Is this contentment?'
They built and he watched. When they began the traverse down ladders and steps and into a confusing sudden drop into a microscopic pool of water. If he did not see their approach, or hear their voice as they called out below from the rungs of the ladder, he always heard the splash of water under the weight of a human form.
In those moments, he would retreat into one of his many hidden passages, watching from behind feathers and walls as the humans would approach with loud voices each distinct from one another. On good days, he could recognize the gender, and he was having good days more frequently now.
The human that appeared this time was one of the regulars. He was pleased to identify the shape of it, the tall lanky form and strange stumbling gait that resembled that of a newborn animal. It talked loudly, tone expressing joy or delight although he could not understand its language exactly. He peered through the walls, flinching at the sight of a glowing orange lantern, and thought: 'it is a male human. The loud one.'
That was how he understood them, struggling to identify or name them in any other way. There was the repeating stuttering one, the gentle female, the laughing one, the loud one.
The loud one wore a hat far too large and inconvenient for the caves. It scratched on the top of the tunnels, nearly falling off as it brushed against hanging lichen. The human scowled, taunting the plant as if it could understand it. He did not understand why.
The human called out to him in a word he had learned meant him ( "Scout! Scout! I'm here, buddy! And I've got loads of good things for you!")
Curiously, he watched with a held breath. The human repeated his name happily, scrounging through his large bag on his back, plucking out new trinkets and bits of small human things. He found them utterly delightful, especially the smaller things with joints and levers or small fiddly things.
The human called out to him, looking around before happily surveying his pile of fiber. He had torn it brutally from the ground, compressing it under the weight of his skin and form. It lacked the beautiful grace and consideration the humans made with their hands, but this human looked at it in awe.
The human repeated his name, babbling something as he plucked out a collection of the lost feathers. The broken ugly ones, dull and matted with dirt and mud and clay from the lush caves that glowed. The feathers were not his important ones, the long blade-like vanes that were clumped and matted and extended out from the hinge of his elbow and wing like swords or knives or branches on a subterranean tree. Those were firmly stuck in his skin, longer than a human's arm and as useless as a discarded rock.
The human repeated his name, plucking each shed feather and dropped fluffy down to cradle by his chest. The pile was no larger than a newborn chick. The human crowed something, cradling it happily before setting his orange lantern just outside the edge of the woolen pile.
'He is leaving now,' he thought, watching from an eye under the feathers below his jaw, 'he will take the feathers and leave something else.'
The human did not do that. He held the feathers closely, vibrating in excitement. The human pulled something from his bag, a strange copper shape with no obvious meaning, and set it just outside the edges of the woolen mess. The human, clearly excited, reached out and extinguished the lantern.
The cave plummeted once more into darkness. He waited, confused and perplexed by the action of the human. Why was it seated in the dark? Humans could not see beyond a certain light, utterly blind in the depths where he lived. Why would it willingly do that to himself?
'What is it waiting for?' he wondered, curiosity itching at his skin. He stared, peering through the dark nervously for any sort of difference. He would see if the human made a move to turn on the lantern or draw a sword. He doubted this one, the loud one, even had a weapon on him.
He knew better, truthfully he did. Yet…perhaps something of the human mind was contagious, because he found himself horribly curious.
Slowly, in movements so careful he felt more ancient than the dead that walked the halls below. A soft scratch of his talons on the stone, echoing across small tunnels. The gentle whisper of feathers on slate, no louder than the rattle of leaves in a small breeze. With every movement, he shed a sound. With every step, he watched the human vibrate in excitement and squeeze his eyes ever tighter closed.
'Is it waiting?' he wondered, hesitating just outside the closest tunnel. Even if the human lit its lantern, it would see him from his current position. 'What is it waiting for?'
The human breathed, shaking with miniscule tremors. It said his name, biting his lip from nervous energy.
He clawed himself around the rock outcropping, keeping a handful of eyes affixed on the stationary lantern. The human froze, realizing they now existed in the same space. He waited, frozen in an outstretched prowl for the human to jerk and do something so utterly predictable.
He clawed closer, wings scraping on stone and catching on a bit unprotected with the wool. He stretched closer, curiosity making him simple and dumb.
He approached, until he could hear the shaky breaths of the human's exhale and imagine the heat of a living body so far below. Closer, his talons sounded like metal.
The human flinched at the grating squeal of broken claws on the metal shape. He plucked it hastily, jerking away protectively- if he had stretched further, he could have touched the human.
He watched, half of his eyes focused on the single drip of sweat on the human's brow. The remainder of his eyes peered at the metal thing, rotating it clumsily between his misshaped fingers. Trying to manipulate it required his elbow to bend, which pulled on his wing and awkwardly forced his spine to bend to accommodate the fusion of elbow to joint. It hurt, but he always hurt.
( "Scout?" Scar asked, speaking no louder than a whisper. He held his breath, trying not to shake from excitement as if to scare the creature away, "is that you? Oh man, the boys back at Boatem won't believe this!")
He looked at the little metal thing, struggling to identify it. It looked like the things the humans had made on the surface, out of wood and metal and other odd bits. He couldn't name it, nor understand the purpose of it.
( "It's one of my Swaggons," Scar explained, wishing he could open his eyes and see his friend for the first time, "I thought you may like one of them! They're my pride and joy- oh and before I forget-," )
He flinched back, all wings flaring out in a dazzling shape of eyes staring. They blinked, a rattling disorienting look of a hundred pupils, dozens of dozens of iris'-.
The human had moved, his eyes still squeezed shut. The human reached into his bag, fumbling slightly before he pulled out a round metal thing- an apple, and reached out with one shaking hand. He held it on the flat of his palm, glossy and pristine.
He stared at it, comprehending sluggishly. 'Is that for me?'
The human repeated his name twice, holding the apple with a baited breath. He shuffled, unsure but curious. This was a thing that humans did, he had seen it. They provided things to the other- and in truth the humans had already given him trinkets and bits and built him a den or a cave somewhere safe to sleep. What difference was this, receiving a thing from a hand instead of the damp coldness.
Here, he was not alone. At least, for a little while.
Scar held his breath, feeling the weight and presence of something much larger than him. Their running guesses had been wrong- Impulse and Tango were arguing over if Scout was greater than or less than the size of a Ravager. Mumbo had argued that Vex were small and horribly pesky things, so perhaps Scout was actually quite small. Xisuma wasn't one to outright say his mind, but he had grimaced and flinched badly when Etho casually cast his vote for something the size of an Iron Golem.
And Doc thought he and Etho were insane! No, Scar also believed Scout was an enormous thing, it had to be one if it could live in such close proximity to scary things like creepers and skeletons.
It was great to have his thoughts confirmed- he couldn't actually see Scout, but he could feel the way the cave air suddenly felt a lot less drafty. Directly in front of him, outside the fluffy mess of red wool that looked a bit like a bird's nest (Scout was shaping up to be one wonderful cave-chicken), Scout had crept out from one of the many tunnels. He and the Boatem Crew all agreed to not light the passages with torches, sure they would stop the mobs from appearing but Scout seemed equally nervous around any bright light.
It was gut intuition which told Scar to turn off his light. If Scar was so desperate to not be seen, then Scar would make sure he wouldn't look! Besides, Scout had been a helpful cave monster for Impulse, and he scrounged up gems and lapis when they last asked. As far as Scar was concerned, the Boatem Mascot was a big softie at heart.
'Come on, Scout!' he mentally begged, holding his hand steady with his golden apple outstretched. 'You've liked them before!'
He waited, the seconds feeling like an eternity. He could feel sweat on his brow growing from nervous excitement, oh he couldn't wait to tell the others about this.
Scout rustled, the many feathers (he assumed considering the sound came from a lot of different places at once) scraped on the ground. Was Scout like a peacock then? With an enormous feathered tail that dragged around? How would that be useful in a cave of all places?
Scar waited, excited and nervous. His arm was aching from the effort of holding it still. He felt the air shift, swirling slightly, he heard an odd crackle of static. It sounded a bit like Mumbo's back after he spent an entire day fiddling with redstone.
Scar squeezed his eyes tighter, and felt the apple vanish from his grip. He felt the barest scratch of something along his palm, a weird multiple-layered texture of Jellie's claw after he cut her nails and they peeled a bit. He'd know the feeling of a busted nail anywhere, but certainly didn't expect one quite so large.
Scar waited, a question bubbling in his throat. He presumed Scout didn't understand English, maybe he'd get Keralis down here to speak in a different language in hopes that they could breach the communication barrier. Maybe Scout was just really shy.
He waited, settling down for the long game. He had patience, he had been training by watching his copper oxidize in front of him. He could outlast a big feathery monster!
Although…he'd need to feed Jellie eventually. And Pearl would come looking for him after a while. He wasn't exactly ah, strategic with planning out his sudden drop to the cavern. He had a great idea and wanted to join Scout in his nest at the soonest convenience- he didn't have time to send off a message!
'Although, maybe I should have,' Scar thought, trying not to grimace. He didn't know if Scout was blind or could use some sort of echo like the bats. He didn't want his facial expressions to scare the thing off. 'I should have at least told Impulse…'
Lost in his thoughts, he jumped at the sound of an odd crackle. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to identify the sound, although it was much quieter than he normally heard.
"Scout?" he asked, breathing shakily and somewhat in awe, "are you…eating the apple?"
The crunching stopped. The horrible sensation of being watched intensified, until Scar felt like a stranger in his own skin. The paranoia burned at him, but his determination to last burned brighter. He wasn't running away, not if he could help it. Besides! The cavern was pitch black and he'd likely fall off a cliff if he tried to walk.
He waited, licking his dry lips. He asked gently to the cavern, "Scout?"
The shuffling resumed, brushing against the ground no more than an arms length in front of him. He knew Scout had taken the little bronze Swaggon, but he never expected it to actually stay in the area. He never dreamed of Scout going so far as to eat in front of him.
"Scout?" Scar asked again, trying his best to be soothing and gentle. The crunching stopped, although there was a weird noise he associated with chewing. He always hated the sound of chewing, but on Scout it was a beautiful thing.
'It's now or never,' Scar thought, trying not to giggle at the hilarity of the entire situation. It was surreal, impossible to explain if not for the fact it was still happening. Scar licked his lips, trying not to cry from the stress and excitement of it all, and reached out with one hand.
He felt nothing in the cave, it was a bit drafty. It was a tad damp but not as bad as some of the other ones. He could feel the eyes on him, worse now than ever. Was that possible? How could it get more focused?
'This was a horrible idea,' Scar thought, 'this was one of those silly dumb ideas! Oh, Xisuma is going to be so disappointed in me! Oh, this is horrible!'
There was a rustle, the slightest shift of something. Then, Scar felt something against his hand.
He had expected a gemstone, maybe a bit of rock. Something equal to a single golden apple- but this wasn't cold or stone or any gemstone from the ground. It was warm, but damp and cold in a way that made him think 'they're sick'. Scar had held ( too many in his opinion) chickens before and knew the shape and feel of healthy skin and feathers and new pins growing in. The touch of a wing or an unnamed appendage against his hand made his stomach drop. It felt like the body of a stressed parrot, plucking itself until its own forced neglect caused it to die.
"Scout," Scar breathed horrified, frozen as the appendage yanked itself away hastily. "Scout, you're sick."
Oh, they had all been so stupid. They were right before, why was a feathered thing underground? Birds were meant to fly, or at least flutter somewhere. There was no room to fly here, there was barely any room for Scar to run around!
"Scout," Scar said again, his voice strained. There was a scuffling scratching noise as the creature bolted, afraid of something or wary of being in Scar's presence for so long. The uncomfortable sensation of being watched lessened, until Scar opened his eyes and knew he wouldn't be anywhere close to the thing.
With shaking hands, Scar relit the lantern. The little glowing light made him flinch at first, eyes watering from the bright glow. There were a handful of new tiny feathers, the fluffy undercoat insulation that went into pillows and quilts for winter. There were the smallest bits of torn wool, uprooted by broken claws.
Scar fumbled with his communicator, squinting at the bright light from the screen. There were a few messages in the main chat lines- according to the clock it was mid-afternoon. He had spent hours in the dark.
He typed across the keyboard, each sound loud and jarring to his ears. He trembled, disgusted and worried. Laying across from him, discarded and entirely used, the bits of an apple core gleamed the last light of residual regeneration.