Bhikhu
(#32324987)
Level 1 Wildclaw
Familiar
Primrose Mith
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Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Earth.
Male Wildclaw
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
6.47 m
Wingspan
5.55 m
Weight
608.53 kg
Genetics
White
Iridescent
Iridescent
Watermelon
Facet
Facet
Pink
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Wildclaw
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
8
AGI
9
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
6
MND
6
Lineage
Biography
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___________________Bhikhu___________________
The Seed of Life |
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BASICS
Name • (name) Age • (age) Species • (species) Gender • (gender) Pronouns • (pronouns) Role • (role) Relationships • (relationships) |
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He had been magnificent once. But where once there had been smooth, rosy fur, there were now ugly patches of skin, rough and scaly. The few bits of fur that remained were scraggly. The marks of old wounds remained. He had not always been alone. There had been...his mother.... Struggling through jagged mountain passes, pawing at dry, barren ground. Chips of stone. Paler fragments. They had been looking for something to eat. His mother had spoken in her faint, whispering voice, telling him what the pale rocks were. Not rocks, but the remnants of things that had lived here once and galloped across the shattered plain. Only they were left.... His mother warned him that they would have to flee. But he was too young; his legs were too spindly. She nuzzled his back, as if trying to coax something from him. He didn’t know what it was. He watched as she bent down, brushing aside the rocks with her horn. It was already worn down, scratched and blunted from years of sweeping at the ground. His own horn was only a few inches long, too short to be of use. He queried with his eyes and ears, asking why they stayed here. There was nothing for them in this wasteland. Couldn’t they go somewhere else? His mother tossed her head. Her sparse mane drifted over her face, her back, as her eyes flashed with pride. “Always we have trodden these paths, Bhikhu” she declared, her voice still a great brass bugle. “Always our kind walked here, before the roads of poison and steel covered the ground.” Bhikhu was silent, out of respect for his mother and those who had gone on before. But the bones, the lack of food and water...Logic told him to leave these ancestral trails—but he couldn’t. His mother stubbornly clung to the old land, and in any case, he was still too young and weak to travel for any distance. He looked towards the smoggy horizon. He couldn’t see the stars. “There are other worlds beyond,” Bhikhu’s mother told him. “Others fled there, long ago....Only a few, but surely they survived.” Bhikhu asked, “How does one go there?” “By the will of the earth,” she explained unhelpfully. “By power, by energy. By the instinct that drives you to find a new world in which to put down roots.” It sounded like something that’d been drummed into her brain. Bhikhu looked narrowly at her. He saw how her eyes were clouded, how her head drooped closer to the ground. He pressed against her, helping her stand as they struggled on. Amidst the bleakness of the land, they shone like pearls. In the past they might have melted among the trees or used their magic to conceal themselves. But the trees had been stripped away, and without food, they had no fuel for their magic. They were easy prey. Bhikhu went to sleep that night in the darkness of a cage, surrounded by walls that rumbled and groaned. His mother paced restlessly next to him. She had offered no comment about where they were headed or what might happen to them, but now he heard her murmur, for she’d thought he was asleep, “Maybe they will be kind enough to kill us.” They weren’t. ~ ~ ~ In the following years, Bhikhu came to know unspeakable terror and pain. “Life,” his captors thundered in an incomprehensible language. He only knew what they were saying from the images that sometimes leaped from their minds. Yet Bhikhu was still confused: Life, surely, was sweet air and flowing water, from the stories his mother had told him. What was this “life”, these strings of codes, these odd and twirling blocks? “Life,” they exhorted, “give us life!” “Give” wasn’t the right word. They would take it one way or another. They sliced deeply into Bhikhu and his mother, heedless of their screams, their pain. In another life, the captors might have been kinder, might even have prayed to these ethereal creatures....But desperation drove them on, made them as ruthless as the blades they wielded. They would gain life—even if it meant dealing out death. Bhikhu’s mother met her end in the laboratory, on a cold steel table. Butchered like a common hog, then thrown away when she was of no more use. Her son was spared the trauma of seeing her perish. It was scant comfort; for the first time in centuries, he was utterly alone. All he had left of his mother were her words. “By the will of the earth, by power, by energy. By the instinct that drives you to find a new world in which to put down roots.” Her words looped in his head. He pawed the floor, stabbed at the walls with his growing horn. He would become strong—somehow. And then he would flee. There was no place for logic now; desperation had taken over. Instinct was king. The instinct that would drive him to find a new world and thence put down roots...and beget life. ~ ~ ~ The years ground past slowly, mercilessly. The researchers had learned from their mistakes, and rather than carelessly slaughter Bhikhu, they made efforts to understand how he worked. He was studied...and tested. Pushed to the limits of endurance, day after day, so they could learn how he kept his life burning, even as the world shriveled outside. “Will I die here?” he asked himself one day. An experiment had gone wrong; something had exploded against the side of his head. The burns would heal, but the blast had burst one eardrum. He’d never hear again, not on that side. “Has death come?” he asked after a routine operation went wrong. Not enough anesthesia for his growing body; he had been awake throughout the ordeal. Roped down, unable to move. “Is this it? Will I be extinguished?” “No,” his mother seemed to growl each time. His proud and noble mother, tossing her head, pushing him onwards. Urging him on and on, even when he would have given up.... “I did not bring you into this world just to die. You did not come here to wither away.” She loomed large in his mind, her clarion voice ringing. “You are a seed of life. Your purview is to engender life, let it grow. Is this world not to your liking? Very well—there are places to which even the stubbornest life must not cling.” And, even in his mind, she bowed her head, closed her eyes. “Soon we must flee,” she told him, echoing the words from before. Bhikhu awakened then, raising his head as pain streaked across his back. He wondered if he’d been damaged more deeply than he’d first thought. He twisted his long neck....There was something in a row along his back. Small bumps...Buds? “You are a seed of life.” His mother’s voice rang once more in his mind. Suddenly the words had a different meaning. ~ ~ ~ The scientists left Bhikhu alone, giving him time to recuperate. He curled in the farthest corner of his pen, away from the surveillance equipment, and took to sleeping on his side. He wanted to hide the growths from them. Those flowers...He couldn’t let the researchers see them. They would descend upon him with their machines and their knives....He would not survive their attentions for much longer. Why had he changed? He had been here for a long time, certainly....But his mother hadn’t— The food and water. Yes...That must’ve been it. As bland as the food and water here was, there was a steady supply of it. Perfectly engineered to generate and sustain energy...and seeds needed energy to grow. He had thought about removing them at first: ripping them out with his teeth, or horn....But as they swelled, he felt something else within him. The first stirring of power. And so he ate hugely, felt shivers race through him as the food changed to energy. The buds grew larger....He needed to gather as much energy as he could. Soon the scientists would take a look at him and the terror would begin again.... They had hardly failed to notice the growths on his back. Five days later, Bhikhu awakened in fear. There were bright lights trained on him, and he heard the grinding, rustling noise that told him his captors were preparing to enter the pen. He pressed into the corner, trembling with fear. He watched as the door creaked open. He saw the glint of steel, heard the awful snick-snicking of claws. And the rustling, the hissing...eyes glinting in the light. “Come on, come on!” he prayed to the flowers. They shivered, echoing his fear. “Open already!” The researchers lumbered forward. They ensnared his neck, hauled him out into the open. Bhikhu kicked and plunged, but his legs might as well have been dead twigs for all the good it did. One of the researchers snarled and then backhanded his head. As Bhikhu lost his balance, another researcher barked an order to sedate him. A pair of them stabbed sparking rods against Bhikhu. The smell of burning flesh filled the air; electricity coursed through his body. He spasmed helplessly, contorting in pain. As they roped down his limbs, he seemed to hear a voice.... “What does instinct tell you to do?” His mother stood before him, her mane blowing in a phantom breeze. Even as she spoke she turned away, looking towards the horizon...No, beyond the horizon. Bhikhu answered, “It tells me to flee.” His mother nodded approvingly. For the last time, her spirit left him, vanishing into the dawn of a new world. Bhikhu would have to go elsewhere. His eyes opened, and so did the blossoms adorning his back. Power and light! The wind that poured from them was as brisk as a typhoon. It shook the walls of the pen, made the metal and plastic hum. The researchers keened as they were flung away, their tabards blowing around them. Amidst the storm, Bhikhu managed to stand. Dark blood coursed down his sides—but the blossoms upon his back shone as bright as any lighthouse. “Life cannot remain here. Let us seek elsewhere...” And Bhikhu raised his hooves, allowed himself to be picked up off the floor. Like a dandelion seed cutting loose, swept away by a gale. He vanished, taking the wind and light with him. The scientists raised their heads and tentatively sampled the air. One of them crawled forward, touched the spot where Bhikhu had stood. Something had been left behind, something small and sparkling.... ~ ~ ~ Bhikhu drifted in nothingness for a time. It was an incredible relief after the long years of torment, of being trapped, alone and afraid. Soon, though, he became aware of his discomfort. In addition to the old wounds, the new burns and incisions throbbed mercilessly. He could not go back to that world. And he had to be careful where he went next. “Where will I not be alone?” he wondered. The flowers on his back pulsed weakly. They would lose all their seeds soon. “Am I...the last one?” His head drooped in despair. He sank into the darkness, praying, “Take me away from the world of death, from the world of poison and artifice....Take me away.” He closed his eyes. He did not realize he was already moving: The flowers that had burst open upon his back were responding to instinct. Like thirsty beasts scenting water, they rushed through the planes of reality, carrying Bhikhu with them. His eyelids fluttered. He was nearly at the end of his strength. He was now rushing down a tunnel of light and patches of darkness. Portals...doors. Strange things moved beyond: flickering scales, shadows and smoke. Bhikhu struggled to make sense of what he was now seeing, but it was difficult; he could barely stay awake. “If there is no one else like me...then at least...help me find someone who will not...” He couldn’t complete the prayer. Instead, memories filled his mind: ruthless knives, cold steel walls, rumbling machinery and the crackle of lightning. He remembered his mother being hauled away; she had fought back with all her strength, kicking and rearing until the door had come down, separating them from each other forever. He could almost hear her voice again.... No, it wasn’t her voice. It was a song—and what a beautiful song it was! He was drawn to a door. The room beyond was dark and cool; he could see gold glints scattered across the blackness. It smelled old, musty. But after the antiseptic scent of the laboratory, it was a welcome respite. He stumbled through. He didn’t notice how the door disappeared behind him. He tottered forward, towards the song. As he drew closer to the source, the music died away, fracturing into syllables, words. Whoever it was, they weren’t singing. They were speaking. “I should run,” Bhikhu thought again—but he had no more strength left to flee. The flowers could no longer transport him; they had already expended too much energy. But maybe they could help him one last time. He could see three people standing near the other side of the room. His eyes picked out the tallest one. “Maybe if I look like them...” he thought. His form wavered, shimmered, and started to change. It was Deregh, with his many eyes, who became aware of the intruder. He turned, hands frozen in mid-sign; the air above him briefly trembled, as if something were about to appear. Something certainly did. From around the shelf stepped a small boy. His face bore an uncanny resemblance to Hermesiel’s, but he glowed with an alien light, and he looked up at the three men with eyes that held only pain. They caught him as he collapsed. Bhikhu felt his strength leave him, and he closed his eyes. Neither he nor the others noticed how he had left something behind the shelf, something that still glimmered and shone. But something else saw. After the boy had been carried away to the Healers’ Cove, a tiny black form scuttled out of the darkness. It pawed the glimmering objects, and it let out a soft meow. ~ ~ ~ The first visage Bhikhu saw was not reassuring. He awoke as Marrowrend was stitching his wounds and coaxing the blood to clot. “What’s your name, boy?” rasped the surgeon. With a long, mewling bray, Bhikhu curled against the headboard, trembling, eyes shut as Marrowrend worked silently on him. When the surgeon departed, he tried to scramble out of bed, but there was someone else waiting for him, a nurse in sapphire-blue clothes. She wrestled him back into place and forced him to drink a soporific potion. He gulped it down, and even though she’d had to handle him roughly, she now cradled him, soothing him to sleep. Thereafter, Bhikhu became one of the Hidden Haven’s strangest patients. Clan members looked in on him, their eyes wide with wonder, for even beneath his bandages and wounds, his skin glowed softly, like the moon. “I’ve never seen anything like him,” Lachlan groused. He looked up at Lana. “Has he said anything—anything at all?” Lana shook her head. “He’s suffered tremendous damage; he may be mute due to shock. I hate to think about what he might have gone through.” “Well, he’s safe now. We’d best make him warm and comfortable. I’ve found that that usually helps....” “Warm and comfortable” meant providing extra pillows and blankets, but they went overboard, until soon Bhikhu had a room to himself, carpeted from ceiling to floor in plush cloth, with extra-large piles for him to play in. He would burrow into these mounds, and here he would sleep. “Like an overgrown cat,” Lachlan grumbled, and he rubbed his chin and considered it. As Bhikhu slept, he dreamed. He remembered the laboratory, his mother, and the knives....One night, something else came. It pushed the dream away with a silken hand and gently stroked his face. “You are like me.” Bhikhu squirmed. Like him? No...This creature was not at all like him. It walked on eight legs, and its pure white fur was tipped in scarlet. “We are not the same,” the creature agreed. “But we are alike in some ways. I, too, am not a native of this world. I have traveled far, arriving here from another world. Like you, young one. Bhikhu...That is your name?” Bhikhu opened his eyes. His first thought was that he was still dreaming; the silken arms remained, cradling him gently. He looked into the face of the creature carrying him—and found none. There was only a vast rectangle of ruby light, like a friendly fire. What was this strange thing? The creature set him down amidst the pillows and blankets. “You need not fear,” it told him, “for this is the Hidden Haven, and it lives up to its name. Your tormentors will not find you. And you will be safe here.” The words hung in the air, like the last notes of a gong or a trumpet’s blare....There was something familiar about that. Something reassuring. And then Bhikhu heard something else, like a tiny, tinkling bell. A mew. A small, velvet-black form rolled out of the darkness and bounced towards him on many rubbery legs. It set something before Bhikhu, then watched expectantly as he picked it up: a petal, still glimmering like a slice of the moon. He reached back and gingerly touched his spine. Underneath the tunic and the bandages, he felt them: More buds, dormant but still alive. Waiting for the right moment to spring forth, to flourish and grow.... He looked up at the megameom, still standing over him like a guard, and he managed to smile. For the first time in many years, he felt at ease. The time for survival was over. The time for living was now. ~ written by Disillusionist (254672) “Strangers” by Felix Kramer and J.
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