Progress Comes From Within (Quinnsing)

(Trigger Warning: Blood, Gore, Death)

In the end, Quinnsing's avian companion would let their worrying simmer at the back of their mind, their emotional state of mind turning from a whining insistence to a curious cock of their head and thrumming in their chest. The furry bird ate sand, and gemstones sometimes, as far as Quinnsing had observed, and they seemed to show no particular curiosity or interest in the body of still-warm flesh before him, but they sniffed and poked it for a moment anyways before watching Quinnsing, seemingly interested in what he was doing.

If it found Quinnsing's bloody jaws, dark tufts of fur amidst the skin and meat of the prismermine disgusting or disturbing, it certainly didn't project such, yet it similarly held no interest in partaking as well. It didn't really matter either way to Quinnsing. There was far too much for Quinnsing to eat in one sitting, but they did find that it was... oddly enjoyable to eat. The flavor was rich and savory, the texture heavy and tough as he had to bury his teeth in and strain the muscles in their neck to rip out pieces, but the feeling of having something in his stomach was contenting for the moment. He would have to experiment more with it, while there seemed to be no intrinsic need for the action, and he felt no great draw or memory of such things that made him feel it had been an important part of his life before, he did find it... satisfactory. There was a stirring of accomplishment, the stinging of his wounds a marker to the frantic but brief struggle.

Quinnsing felt heavy again though, and as he finally tore himself away from the rest of the carcass, a forked tongue flickering around a bloody muzzle, he found his eyes lidding again. Strange, he had never actively felt tired before. Was that a side effect of eating, or of his injuries he wondered, studying the corpse and looking around to determine if there was any obvious path of action here. Seeing none so better than laying where he was, he padded a few spaces from the deceased Prismerine and dug at the sand slightly with his paws, hollowing a rough indent in the earth and wearily circling it before laying down, his long reptilian tail curling over his paws. A thrum echoed in his mind, and a furred body settled beside him again, feathered wings spreading over him. Was it the nature of camivians to do this? He had never noticed before, perhaps largely due to his lack of really indulging in sleep, but the avian seemed inclined to want to immediately wrap themselves around him. A strange creature...

If Quinnsing had dreamed the first time he slept, he didn't recall any such events, but the second time he most certainly dreamt, and vividly. When paws twitched, then scrabbled at the sand, his body jerking awake to a startled caw and flurry of angry, upset, worried, and confused emotions swirling in his head, he cast a slitted gaze about his person, seemingly startled. Tufted ears flattened against his skull, and for a moment, his grey tail lashed behind him, whipping up sand. Then, finally, his senses seemed to return, and Quinnsing blinked, slowly, his breaths deepening. He closed his eyes for a moment and calmed himself.

Quinnsing remembered blood. Not that of bloblings, colorful and bright, but that like the visions Eris had shown during the Trial. Crimson. He... he had been bleeding. He had been dying. There was a sense of finality, a sensation of acceptance. It was peculiar, he knew already bloblings could not die, not truly it would seem, yet he had been sure that when his eyes closed, they would not open again, and he would not return. His body, massive and sinuous, clad in fur and scales both, was heavy, and in pain. He didn't want to, might not have even been able to, move. He was aware he was dying, knew it already. He did not welcome it, but he did not fight it either. A warm and heavy breath sighed onto his paws, his muzzle resting on them. He had closed his eyes.... and woken up.

The dream was strange, and more than that, confusing, leading host to another series of questions and confusion. What did it mean? What had happened? He was not dying, if anything, his wounds seemed to already healed beyond a faint soreness, yet he remembered the blood, the ache of injuries lacing his entire body, and the heaviness. And he had been certain, so very certain, that when he died, he would not return. Had this been... a past life, or was it a strange vision of his mind, lingering still on questions of what was and what had been before, drawn to the only answers he had so far: that of an angry god getting revenge by revealing pieces of another's past.

A caw, again, softer but still scratchy in tone. Quinnsing blinked, seeming to only belatedly realize his camivian was still here, their head cocked and watching him, feathers no longer ruffled and wings widespread in alarm, and the steady thrum in his head turned only to curiosity and that constant trill of worry underlaid beneath. He hummed, his tail flicking slightly against the sand, and then sighed, shaking his head. He couldn't explain and wasn't sure the creature was capable of understanding even if he could. His skin felt itchy, and he was overcome again with the feeling of being in the wrong body, of being in an incomplete form. Rolling his shoulders, Quinnsing's ears flicked, annoyed, and after a moment he crouched down and then pushed himself onto his side in the sand. The rough grains were not comfortable, but they did scratch against his skin, and feeling at least a bit of relief and distraction from that sensation, the blobling writhed a moment, scraping himself and rolling himself against the sand before rising to his feet at last and shaking himself thoroughly.

Quinnsing hadn't quite rid himself of the dream, nor the feeling that he was... incomplete, but it was better. He had no other reliable option yet but to tackle this in the way he had been currently, one step at a time.