There is nothing more satisfying than seeing something grow. It is why being a Provider is a privilege.

-From Neonatum Provisae: 1:5-6

Chew the leaves! The neonate’s Instinct demanded with a snarl the next morning, pounding the inside of her skull.

She shook her head to try and get rid of her headache. It only made it worse. She struggled to keep her eyes open, it was like she hadn’t slept at all and had instead smeared her eyelids with sand.

Now!

No!

Stubbornly, she crawled out into the rain to stand under a solid stream of rainwater, opening her mouth and drinking slowly as it poured down from a spout shaped leaf. Taking her time with it, trying to ignore how her skull was pounding.

I don’t need more now. Only to help me sleep.

She glared at her surroundings, not letting her frustration at her dependency stop her from keeping watch. She didn’t want to crave the leaves at all.

Too many competitors. I can’t be weak.

Leaves! Now!

She shook her head again, returning to the log to keep working on the rope. The water hadn’t helped her headache either, so she hoped that time would.

It took the neonate four days to work up the courage to go back through the warren of thorns.

She tried to justify the delay to herself with busywork, but she couldn’t lie about it. She knew the true reason for her hesitation.

I can't stand the path. The admission was difficult, but both times she had gone through that maze it had forced her to relive the fight with One-eye.

The tight spaces, the thorns scratching and stabbing her, being able to see the light of the outside but not being able to reach it. It was all just too much to bear again so soon.

I need the distraction.

Her Instinct lingered in the back of her mind, not responding to that but acknowledging it. The craving for more of the herbs lingering there as well.

Should at least do something productive…

Yes.

So the neonate spent the time making rope out of the fibers, checking the snares, and stockpiling supplies for her eventual move.

It was getting harder and harder to find herbs near her den, but on the bright side, the berries were producing again, and they supplemented her diet nicely. Unfortunately, she had learned that she had to make sure to only pick the ripest specimens, or pay a steep cost.

She was in the middle of cutting the sapling poles down to size with the knife, just a bit longer than she was tall, when she was hit with terrible cramping pains. Urges that she couldn’t ignore, lest she soil her temporary den.

Clutching her stomach and fighting to hold it in, she sprinted away from the log into the deep bushes. The neonate had to constantly dash back to her chosen spot over and over again. It slowed her down during her daily activities.

Something did speed her recovery though, and it was a surprise when it did. It was the next day, and she was still feeling awful. Holding her stomach as it seemed to slide like a rock inside her, banging back and forth within.

Her tongue slid out and she looked forward, eyes going wide as she sniffed the air as well.

A kill!

Close.

She stumbled forward, looking around, checking to make sure there were none of the others before she came to one of her snares. An animal in it, garroted by the thin cord.

Darkly furred, and not yet bloated, it was like a mawfrog, but stockier.

She looked at the big front teeth, almost orange. Definitely a rodent. She looked at the long bald tail, thick as her forearm and not flat. Not a beaver.

She felt yellow pride fill her as she pulled the thing closer. About time these snares supplemented my diet. Hopefully the turnover would increase as the Island continued to flood, condensing the prey.

Consume!

Carefully, she checked for rivals, fighting back the need to claim her prize, her prey. Once satisfied, she pulled it to her, tongue flickering rapidly.

She savored the smell before even getting a true taste, and she took a moment to admire her catch. It was one of those too-large rat things that she had seen when shadowing Ropemaker.

Eat! Now!

She paused.

Thunder rumbled.

No name?

Her Instinct didn’t respond.

Usually it named things for her, but this time it refused. Now that she could see it clearly, she turned it over with over-eager claws. It was like a rat, just like how a Greenscale was like a Blackscale. In the same family, closer related than to say, a crocodile. But definitely different species.

It had the fur, the paws, the same general shape, but it wasn’t just bigger. The jaws were larger, with more muscle, stouter bones and teeth. And the paws, they were odd. She pressed on one, and found that it had retractable claws like a swampcat. She hissed softly, thinking, taking a sniff of the creature.

Odd. Rodent, mammal, death. But also… Tingling? What did that mean? She grew more curious.

Well? She directed at her Instinct.

Nothing.

She tilted her head as she pulled the snare away from around the thing’s neck. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, but it was certainly the strangest.

Why? It is a creature, it has a name, right?

Her Instinct maintained its puzzled silence. She reset the snare, taking the creature away before processing it. Meat was meat, but the lack of a name confused her.

She got to the bank, holding the thing in her jaws and climbing up into a willow tree. She didn’t want anything to interrupt her meal. Especially any of the numerous apex predators that lurked at the waterline, like Tikabo or Crocodiles.

The neonate used her knife to peal open the abdomen before carefully removing the stomach and intestines first. If that waited too long, or if she pierced them, the digestive juices would ruin the flesh of her catch.

The pale organs slipped free, squashy and still hot like the blood. There!

The warmth was an added bonus for this kill. But she wanted a quick bite first, something to sate her during the butchery. Pleased that she hadn’t ruptured the organs, her Instinct hissing with approval, she separated out the liver.

It was dark like most, but that strange tingling smell was even stronger. She turned it in her claws, looking at it.

“Different hue…” She whispered. Not dark red but dark purple. She bit into it.

Gods. It was perfect.

Fresh, unctuous, rich with blood, but there was some other flavor to it that she couldn’t place. It worried her a little for only a moment.

Ropemaker eats these. And judging by his nest, it had been for quite some time.

Then, without even realizing it, the lingering gurgle from the unripe berries left her. She felt invigorated! The meat had settled her stomach.

Safe. Her Instinct agreed.

Greedily she finished it, tearing away large chunks, swallowing some of those whole to get them safe in her belly. The blood dripped off of her chin, and she savored that feeling, fingers of her one hand gripping the leather hilt of her blade.

She was still puzzling as to why she didn’t know what this thing was. Her Instinct named all the other things that it was familiar with, and every animal and plant so far had had a name.

Why not this one?

Silence.

Perhaps it is from upstream? Got washed down here by the rain.

Her Instinct remained vaguely confused, and she licked dripping burgundy blood off of her claws.

No matter, I’ll eat well tonight.

She turned the carcass of the overlarge rat like Ropemaker had with a wet splat, quartering it easily with the knife, which sliced just like the obsidian shard, gliding through the flesh.

She would happily catch more of them. Maybe more could be lured with meat scraps? She found that the skin was easy to remove, peeling away with a sharp yank in one piece, though it had to be cut free at the paws and nose. She set it aside.

Could make a pouch. She would have to dry it first.

Good! Adapt.

She made a point to save the tendons of the front legs of the creature just like Ropemaker had, placing them in the log. She still wasn’t sure what they were being dried for in the first place, but they were a resource.

Cordage? Flesh cordage?

Perhaps.

She ripped another bloody chunk free.

Give that a try once it is dried.

She also made a point to save the bones, not sure what she might do with them, picking them clean. Nothing wasted.

Chew! Snap! Marrow! Her Instinct purred.

She did enjoy gnawing at them, they had a lovely flavor, and it was something to do. But she also expected that she might be able to use them as crafting material.

Any edge I can give myself, so long as it cuts.

The other thing that the neonate spent time on in those four days was testing the properties of the magical bag. Wanting to know what it could do.

Waste of time. Her Instinct disagreed.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

She confirmed early on that it did keep things dry, and that this ability was something that would wear out.

So how long can it do that, and how long before it can do that again? It was a mystery, but a mystery she meant to solve.

Too visible! Her Instinct snarled from her hand, fighting against the desire to let go of the bag and leave it outside in the rain.

True.

The bag once again flickered with changing symbols and devices, dancing in circular designs filled with angles of smoothskin geometry.

It wasn’t as starkly visible during the day as it was in the stygian night, but it would still be spotted if any were to walk by.

She hissed as the rain pattered onto her shoulders.

Digging a hole is out. Soil won’t hold its shape, too easy to access...

No holes!

Crackew!

That same sound from the other day, closer now, echoing. She faced it in surprise as she heard numerous birds take to the sky with squawking clamor.

Not thunder… Then what?

Danger. Avoid. Her Instinct emphasized it this time.

She looked up at the birds above, then back at the bag. Contemplative.

Later, she was up a tree, some distance away, checking on the bag high up in the thin branches she was sure only she could reach.

She had made a nest by twisting and weaving leaves and ferns with some thin cordage she had just made and placed the bag up there. The nest itself would hide the light from below, and the open top left it exposed to the rain.

And after a few days of testing it seemed that her hypothesis was correct. The protection from wet lasted until about midday if she took the bag out of the log at dawn, then the amount of protection began to decrease, letting the things inside get more and more damp, albeit at an decreased rate.

Once the symbols went out at dusk though, no protection was provided. Keeping it in the log overnight out of the elements seemed to give the bag enough time to rest.

As if it was tired and needed to sleep.

Magic is strange.

Is it alive then? Does it need food to grow? What does it eat?

Her Instinct hissed pensively inside her mind.

She gave up on such lines of inquiry. There was no real starting point, no frame of reference, no way to even know where to begin. What was more, she couldn’t justify delaying any longer. It was time to travel to her new home.

Through the thorny warren.

She hissed, vexxed, slinking back to her log.

The neonate made one last check of her snares, collecting them as she went, winding them around her wrists. She had started to grasp how to read animal sign in the rain while using them, and the bent blades of grass and trampled leaves told her it was a big animal.

It had left a muddy print on a flat stone, leaving a clear mark that she examined.

Another one of those strange rodents. Not quite as big as the one that had cured her ailment. She was seeing a lot more signs of them lately. Something she was happy to see.

Maybe it is their breeding season? That was the only explanation that she could think of for the rise in numbers. Especially with others like Ropemaker killing so many.

Have to name them at this rate.

Her Instinct basked, smug. Content with her progress as the neonate continued to learn.

The neonate tried to be efficient with her packing.

Into the magic bag went the items from the grave, her healing herbs, the bones, and the bark shavings. They weren’t fit for cordage, but they had dried nicely and were perfect kindling.

Into a still gory fur pouch went her supply of berries, protected from the flesh of the pouch with more herbs. The knife sheath was threaded onto the strap of the bag via some convenient slots cut into the black leather. The staves were slung over one shoulder.

With all of her work done, and her supplies tied in bundles to the resized logs, she turned her mind to how best to deal with the wrong colors of those supplies.

Not to mention that bag. It flickered guiltily in the rain.

She gathered up the reeds she planned to use for a roof, bringing them back, and like when she was crossing the flooded section before, she draped them over everything, only this time she tied them in place, even about herself. Soon enough everything was under reeds.

Not perfect, but at least it’s green.

Visible…

It should work at a distance.

She couldn’t keep waiting.

I can.

No! I will fight this fear!

Determined, the neonate turned from the log, bedecked in all of her worldly possessions, and began her trek to her new home.

The journey was uneventful, and she was starting to think that there weren’t any others this far north on the island. That was fine with her. Getting through the thorns was the true challenge.

Getting the reeds and staves through the winding warren of thorns and vines had her panting and stressed well before she got through.

And what was worse was she had to make multiple trips, leaving the reeds behind and then returning for them after. She made sure to mask her tracks as best she could, hiding her scent with the fragrant moss as well.

By the time she was done with the first bundle of materials she was a shivering wreck, having to fight back the urge to chew on the leaves to forget her fear.

I need a different way in and out. Or just make this way easier.

Idiotic! Difficulty makes it safe. Over.

She hissed, clenching her black knife with both hands to keep them from reaching for the leaves. She couldn’t go over the gods damn thorns. What was she going to do? Flap her arms? Jump from a tree and sail through the air?

Her Instinct struggled, trying to find a concept that seemed difficult for it, but she squashed it down.

It has to be under.

And her Instinct was right about widening the entrance. She needed it to look as untouched as possible.

And I couldn’t make myself go back in right now anyway. She shook herself, thinking of claws punching through. Of insane ranting. The smell of her blood.

The neonate set to work building the shelter, fleeing the memories with wild abandon.

She paced it out, marking it with one of the poles as she went. Fresh water ran down the massive tree, forming a little rivulet that ran just past where she had cleared the debris. So she incorporated that, planning to build around it for easy washing and drinking.

She looked at the back of the planned structure, next to the trunk. Put the fire there, so the smoke runs up the tree.

Build. Thrive!

Nodding to herself, she took the bag and hung it by its strap under a branch. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mostly out of the rain, and the frantic flashes of the designs lessened. She would have to work quickly to keep the tinder dry, but sheltering the bag would buy her more time.

She started with the staves, using them to dig the holes they would be pushed into to stabilize them. After some figuring out, including getting some nasty splinters she had to spend quite some time picking out with her teeth, she managed to get at least part of the structure completed. She used stones to hammer some of the staves into the dirt, tying cross beams and rafters with her cordage to them, and then stacking the bundles of reeds on top, starting at the bottom and working her way up.

It was then that she found she had been too ambitious with the size of her shelter. She could only cover the section closest to the tree.

Enough to sleep under. For now anyway.

She would have to get more. There wasn’t enough space to make her fire yet, but there were more reeds down by the thorns inside her new territory. For now though, night was on her, black as charred wood. The only momentary illumination from the lightning that started to roll in once more.

Have to wait until morning.

She smoothed out the ground, then laid down and wriggled into it, belly down, chin resting in the slowly drying clay laden mud. It made a depression that conformed to the shape of her body, and it was comforting and comfortable. She piled her bedding on top of herself for now, hoping it would insulate her from above. She planned to use it as bedding again once the depression had dried more and solidified.

She closed her eyes, sighing. Feeling safe, if a little chilly.

She woke up cold, the wind blowing through the unwalled structure chilling her to the bone without some other form of warmth and heat.

The chill made her sluggish.

She knew she had to do… something about that.

Thinking… hard…

Warmth. Her Instinct… demanded.

She struggled to get moving, her body screaming about the lack of heat, her muscles belligerent with their slowness as she tried to force them to work.

She knew she needed more thatch, so she gathered the reeds first, knife making quick work of them.

It was when she was placing the last bundle on her roof, when there was a fresh empty space, that she remembered.

Fire. She needed to get one started before anything else.

She gathered some of the stones from the pile she had made.

Rough ones! Her Instinct insisted.

She couldn’t think of a reason not to listen, so she started tossing the smooth stones in a different pile only taking the jagged rocks. Digging a hole for them with a piece of waiting firewood.

Will hold heat. Live!

She was glad that she was still full from yesterday. She didn’t think she would be able to move at all without food. If anything, she was still feeling energetic! Full of… the… she should name the creature… the…

Rous..? That was a name she could use.

Rous.

She was feeling quite full of energy because of the rous she had consumed the previous day.

The neonate piled the stones into the bottom of the pit she had dug, trying her best to fit them as close together as she could, pressing them into the mud. The activity warmed her body as well, not a lot but enough to keep going.

More stones were placed around the outside of the pit in a crude circle.

Fire now, precision later.

With the firepit completed to the satisfaction of the moment, she opened up the magical bag and pulled out the bark tinder. She took the finest pieces of it and rubbed it hard between her hands, breaking it down even further. Listening to it rustle. Pleased. Thinking of Tok.

Regurgitation for hatchlings.

She made sure to make the main tinder bundle very lofty.

Air to breathe.

Sticks and other small pieces also came out of the bag, and she made the nest to hatch her fire. It would let the fire fight off the wet on its own. As it should be.

Her Instinct grunted.

If I can light it, anyway.

Survive!

She took out the spindle and flat piece of wood that she had made, placing both on top of the tinder bundle. Hissing softly, matching the tempo Tok had used, she started to spin it back and forth in her hands. She pressed down firmly, the spindle bending slightly.

It had been just after what she thought was midday when she started, and it was just starting to get dark by the time she started to smell smoke. She was exhausted, her arms were like dead earthworms, her palms had blistered, skin on them torn. Her spindle was stained with her blood, but she forced herself to keep going in spite of the pain.

She let herself snarl, needing the release, trusting the thorns.

She would get sick if she had another cold wet night like that, and she didn’t know if she could survive that.

Smoke started to form.

That’s it, kiddo! Come on! You’re doing great for a first timer!

Yes!

The neonate redoubled her efforts, pulling on reserves of energy she didn’t know she had, driven once again by desperation.

Fight!

The wisps of smoke became steady streams, blackened dust gathering in a neat little pile in the notch of the flat piece of wood. She didn’t stop, the dark helping her see that there wasn’t an ember yet.

On. The. Cusp!

Her palms were screaming, awkward with cold but not numb to the pain. All the same she moved them back to the top of the spindle and kept spinning.

Almost… Almost…

“Come on you fucker!” she gnashed, panting, spinning faster, the wood squealing as it rubbed.

A little orange glow.

Her heart swelled with blazing sunrise pride.

“Hatch!”

She didn’t stop.

It was intoxicating.

So much smoke now.

Better than the leaves, better than food.

Billows of it.

She kept going.

Just a little more!

There it was! An ember.

Hands shaking with pain and excitement, fighting the urge to rush, she tapped the coal out into the fluffy bundle of dried tinder and cupped her hands around it.

As gently as she could, she breathed into it, watching and smelling as the smoke increased, going from a trickle, to a flow, to a torrent. She blew into the bundle. Softly. A whispering hiss. She tried her best to coax the little ember, to help it hatch.

Flame.

Success! Both halves of her mind rejoiced.

It was tiny. Fragile. But it fought to survive all the same, consuming the tinder she provided it.

The tinder that she Provided to it.

She had stolen the knowledge of how to make it successfully from the Provider.

This is going to change everything.

Thrive!