A/N: This was a story that I've been itching to write for a very long time. It's a place for me to let out all of the creature ideas that have been swirling around in my head for ages now. There's no distinct plot in my mind, I just want the story to progress in a sort of episodic nature, with each chapter presenting some new sub-plot that gets resolved by the end. Also, some of the characters have accents. They aren't meant to actually mirror real accents save for very loose ideas of how I imagine the characters speaking, so please keep in mind that the accents aren't meant to poke fun or represent any one accent. It's a made up combination of accents that are an accent in the fantasy world presented here. Hopefully it's enjoyable regardless. So, without further ado, enjoy.

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Have you ever stopped to imagine a world where every creature could hold the key to your survival? Imagine, if you would, a world where the tiniest insect could have a skill that helps you get by in your life. It may be a difficult mindset to integrate yourself into, but that is the world that I grew up in. I suppose if I just jump into the story, you will eventually find yourself understanding my world. After all, the methodology of 'jump right in' was one that I abided by quite often in my youth, which is when this story takes place.

The story begins where I grew up, on a farm. You may find this puzzling simply by the way I'm writing, and certainly by the fact that I'm dictating this story by the typed page. Indeed, the typewriter is an invention I once could not even dream of affording. But do not dwell on this fact. I will not often dilute the story with my more educated, future commentary. My job is simply to relay the story I lived.

I, myself, was a gangly thing. I always had wavy brown hair that my mother would cut with a knife when it touched my shoulders or the bangs started to grow over my eyes. My skin was pale, but it turned darker in the summer from all of the work I did outside. I had a bit of muscle from working on the farm, and when I flexed, it showed, but I was lean. I also wasn't the tallest boy around, but I was healthy. My eyes were as bright and green as the leaves of the crops, and my skin always had a healthy glow. When I broke a bone or bruised myself from working on the farm, I'd heal quickly and soon be back to work.

This farm was not unlike those you may be familiar with. My mother tended to the crops, growing all sorts of strange and exotic vegetables that our farm was known for amongst the nearby townspeople for their taste or, on occasion, simply strange outward appearance. We grew vegetables unlike those that had ever been seen by that tiny village, and that's how we kept ourselves alive. But that was hardly the most interesting part of the farm. What was indeed more interesting were the creatures we raised.

Now, this aspect was not what made our farm famous, and that was for one simple reason. In the world I live in, creatures, as you may refer to them, are quite common. They are kept as pets, used as guards, and trained to fight or to help with various tasks. We raised these creatures for two reasons. One was to harvest what they could offer us, in the case of our flock of Kimera, these soft, wooly creatures with sharp horns and long tails or our eldest creature, Bessie, a black and white spotted dragon whom supplied us with milk. The other reason was very simple, and that was to ride.

Our farm had a large ranch area where we raised the bulk of our creatures. They were a species called Centreye. They're gorgeous creatures, though not many people agreed with me when I voiced this opinion. Imagine, if you will, a four-legged ungulate with short, blue fur. Now, this was not a steel blue, tinting gray, but a brighter blue, like the ocean or the sky. Their hooves were the darkest ebony, and contrasted well with this bright fur color. The dark hooves matched the colors of their obsidian black tails, stranded like hair. It's chest is not like an ungulate's, however. They have the chest and torso of a man. Their torso leads up to a pair of shoulders, and from those shoulders grow two muscular arms with three clawed fingers each, even though they already have four legs. And where a head would rest on a man, a long neck, almost as long as their body itself sprouts. It's thick and winding, and ends in a large green eye that's bigger than the head it's seemingly replacing. I suppose I could see how some people may think this strange, but I grew up around these creatures all of my life. To me, they were some of the most majestic creatures in the world, even though I'd barely seen the myriad of different species the world had to offer.

When I was just a boy, two of our strongest Centreyes had a son. This colt was energetic and playful, and he and I grew up side by side. For my tenth birthday, my father gave me a neck harness and saddle, both with the name that I had given the colt etched into golden plaques on their sides. That day, Jeke became my very first creature.

I rode him, taught him, and trained him on top of my normal duties. I had to shear the Kimera in summer, as their wool became too thick and curly for the intense heat. When you sheared them, tiny bat-like wings that sat on their shoulders finally became visible, released from the curly tangle of wool. They'd run through the fields, flapping their wings as they inspected flowers, though they would never have wings large enough to let them fly. When I brought the Kimera inside, I had to milk Bessie. Bessie was the only dragon my mother would ever keep. My mother was absolutely scared stiff of dragons, but not Bessie. Bessie was a kind old thing that only wanted your love. Of course, if you had some food to give her, she loved you even more. Her belly dragged on the ground when she walked because her legs were so short, and her tail was as thick as a tree trunk. When she was younger, her large, leathery wings may have been able to carry her, but now they were just as useless as the tiny wings that the Kimera had. She didn't seem to mind not being able to fly anymore, though. Being loved by my family and kept warm and fed was enough for her. I'd get the milk from Bessie and carry it inside, leaving the bucket on the counter for my mother, who would be out in the fields with my father, tending to the crops. When those chores were done, I could finally go see my Centreye. Jeke would always wait for me at the front of his stall, his neck craned over the barrier and his big green eye watching the door unblinkingly. When I finally arrived at the stable, he'd whinny and kick at the door with his front legs. After I fed all of our other Centreyes, I'd let him out, and the rest of my day would be devoted to him. That was my life for the longest time. That was, however, until I turned fifteen.

One evening as I sat down for dinner, I noticed that the plates and such had not been set out. Rather, my mother and father sat across from me, looking at the bare table.

"Ma? Pa?" I asked, sounding just as confused as I was sure I looked. "What's goin' on?"

"Son, we have some bad news." My father said in his deep, gruff voice. "It seems... well... the crops ain't doin' so good."

"The crops?" I said, my voice full of disbelief. Our crops were the healthiest and most plentiful around. How could they be doing badly?

"They's all gone." My mother gasped, trying to hold back tears. She had taken the handkerchief that usually held back her bushy brown hair and was instead using it to dry her eyes, even though tears had yet to come, letting her hair spill over her shoulders. "I don't rightly know how, but they's all gone."

"They's been gone." My father clarified. "But we just couldn't get the heart to tell ya."

"Oh..." I couldn't keep the sadness out of my eyes, and my mother broke down. I really didn't want to make her cry, but the news was just so disheartening.

"We's not sure how we'll feed ou'selves." My father went on, taking off the straw hat he wore and wringing it between his strong hands. "And we don' know if we can keep ya 'round, son. It wouldn't be fair when we can't feed ya."

"Pa, that's not a problem!" I said quickly, waving my hands. "You 'n ma are mo' importan' than me!"

"No, no." My father insisted. "You done be waitin' for an excuse to go out on yo' own with Jeke, and ain't no time better than now." My mother cried harder, and I could tell then that she knew they were going to throw me out from the start all along. Usually kids with creatures left home as teenagers to seek out their own names, but I wasn't ready to leave my home. At least not on the note of my mother crying and my father feeling as if he could no longer support me. I wanted to leave on a happy note, with me becoming a man as I gather together all of the courage I had cultivated on the farm and finally set out, riding Jeke, ready to face the world. But I didn't have enough courage yet. Right now, I had only a scrap, one that I could feel shriveling up in my chest as I looked at my parents. I wasn't ready to leave, but the farm was obviously ready to get rid of me. I could not believe my ears, and looking between my parents, I waited for them to suddenly tell me that they were kidding. My mother would dry her eyes, smiling, and go to the cupboard to pull out the vegetables that would make up our meal, just some of many that lined the fields. My father was going to stop wringing his hat and instead go to the bucket of milk I'd brought in before and begin to prepare drinks in the shallow wooden cups he'd carved himself. But that never happened. My mother continued to sob into her handkerchief, and my father hung his head. "I'm sorry, son. But ya hafta go. We's gonna pack you as much as Jeke 'kin carry, and then ya'll are set to leave in the mornin'."

And that was how my story began.