A small, solid grey kit looked around with wide eyes. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know who he was. He remembered vaguely what happened, but it was only images, fragments of a proper memory. There was a human standing over him, a flash, falling, he recalled feeling a sharp pain to his head, but that was it. He mewled piteously in hunger, but there was no response, he kept this feeble attempt to contact somebody, anybody, but hopefully his mother for a good portion of his waking day, but there was no response but the wind and the chill of the air.
Eventually, he got to his feet, and wobbled forward. He didn't recognize where he was, behing surrounded by rocks and dangerous looking drop offs that seemed to continue on forever, their bottom eaten up by shadow. He continued on like this until the thought of moving his foot forward another step brought a dread comparable to that of facing death, and so he let himself collapse. He lay there on his side for a long time, watching as his breath stirred the smallest of pebbles just outside his muzzle, and before long, he'd fallen asleep. Many days went by like this, occasionally he'd find a puddle to drink from, some other poor creature that had died, and was now the only thing keeping he himself alive. After a moon or so of wandering, he'd grown, and stiffened up. He could walk farther and he found his body had adjusted to the harshness of his world.
One evening, while laying on the cold stone as the sun went down, he recalled the fact that his mother possessed a name. What it was, he did not know, but he knew it existed, and so he sought out to choose a name for himself. After a long time of thinking, he'd decided upon one. He had decided to call himself 'Stone'. While this was not the most common of names, he was surrounded by them, and as if he was one of them, he seemed to be stuck here, a stone, never leaving this rocky chasm. Besides, he looked like one, he figured, his grey pelt often seemed to blend into the backround.
Stone had a good life, he thought. He didn't have much to compare to, only that he was not dead, and he decided that being alive was a good thing. He also had a routine life. He would wake up, walk forward, eat if he could, drink whenever a puddle found itself across his path, and then sleep, to begin it all over again the next day. Moons past by like this, days blurring together due to their similarity. And as he grew, and his mentality began to mature, the hope that he would find his mother again, that this chasm would eventually end, began to ebb away.
This is where the story begins.