ORIGIN

It was not a horribly peculiar day. In the grand scheme of things, it was rather boring of a day, really. It was quiet as anything—no great rumblings, no talk of false gods, no big fussings or frazzlings or any such causes for concern. Which is why, perhaps, the chrysalis decided that in the whispering den of Monoceros, it was the proper day to dissolve. They say chrysalises are quite the punctual lot, them, and do not meddle in things like procrastination. They were a humble shell, a buildup of energy and tissue and nutrients, so perhaps it was in their best interests not to have interests—that is to say, punctuality—at all. And so, with no reason to delay itself any longer, it lets the squirming, sniffling creature part through its thin shell and tumble out.
And isn’t it unfortunate, that before the creature has even considered themselves awake, they already find themselves falling from the dangling fixture. But the chrysalis does not care—as it is also in their best interests not to have emotions, either—and only cradles its broken shards in its spindly, satin limbs and watches as a tiny, plump pangolin hits the plinth of rock perhaps a mere foot or so below and rolls, rolls, rolls until they meet a small lip and topple once more into a dug trench. The rocky nook coughs and spits dust in the face of its new and quite unthreatening adversary, which shakes their still-coiled body in abject outrage. “Oh,” A hand dislodges from the latticework of their body and pats at their shell, contrite, and feels an awful dread at the idea that one of their scales may have chipped from the scuffle. Even worse, that their scales can chip at all. “How dreadful…”
The ability to talk—and the ability of literacy—is not surprising to them, but they have not yet learned that it is typically very rare for such a feat, and so soon. They only think that they need to talk more, as the sound is quite lovely when the wind does not swallow it up. That, and they find they rather hate the sound of silence.
He—for he was, in fact, a he, as he dutifully notes—sticks his snout straight up and it twitches, horribly off put by the dust—for he was also, as he dutifully notes, very adverse to dust and all things dirty. He hopes he does not sneeze, because there doesn’t seem to be many others who would wish him well because of it. And he has a feeling, a deep determination, that one should exercise optimal manners when one sneezes or chokes or makes a fool of themselves altogether. “Perhaps it is time to get up, old boy. Dust is no good for the nose, they say.”
He does not know who says it, nor if they say it at all. But the words feel right. The words have not felt wrong yet, so he is inclined to keep using them. He does not have much else, see. Only his four feet and big snout and… oh, but who really knows if he does have four feet and a big snout? Yes, perhaps it really is time to get up. Because he cannot even see his extremities—or a possible lack thereof—when he is so finely bunched up. “This won’t do at all.”
Inspired and wholly dedicated to this cause, he attempts to stretch his neck upward but the soreness—yes, soreness seemed correct—halts him, wracking his poor body in the most terrible of shudders.
“My goodness. Tumbles are sure to put a ghastly kink in the neck.” This is the profound kind of sensation that always seems to come with a name, and he attests to this with what he cheerfully recognizes as his charming intellect and good character—yes, he thinks, this is pain.
He finds that he does not particularly care for pain. So!
He leans forward and sends the spiked ball of his body with the motion, kicking back and allowing it to turn him over until he can heft himself upright. It is here that all four of his stubby legs find purchase on the ground, and the shattered rind of the earth feels atrocious under his tender feet. He was no expert on the luxuries of life, but this felt out of order, he’ll say. Very out of order!
The wind overhead sounds like a cracked whip, spilling its yowling afterimages against the stone arches. It is not his own prose that tells him the wind exists in unison with madness, but instead something more primal. Something that existed long before his tumble. Long before time itself. “Oh, crumbs,” He is almost blown back by the aftershock. “Oh, dear!”
The pangolin decides that he rather likes the idea of running. And so, with crude limbs and a babbling mouth and a mind disastrously unknowing, run he does.

It turns out, regrettably, that one of the first discoveries the pangolin makes is that the Gorge is quite an impressive labyrinth. But the Gorge is not yet called the Gorge to him, no, he has rather nicknamed the thing the esteemed 'Dizzy Tunnel', as he gets properly winded if he looks at the twists and turns too long. And so, he descends deeper into the trench, being careful of the unwholesome dust. He did not want to sneeze, that much was sure.
"Not for the faint of heart, that sight." His voice, usually prim and very distinguished if you ask him, grows nasally under the choked air. "How dreadful..."
And just as he decided that he rather liked running, he also decided that he rather liked the word 'dreadful' as well. It all seemed very obvious in the moment. To him, he was sure it had to be the way it was. Otherwise, the patterns would be all jumbled up and that would not be suitable at all.
“There are other things here, are there not?” He says to the walls, which do not answer, and for that the pangolin is very scandalised. “Or perhaps I’m the last. Am I the last? That would be—” Dreadful. “....Oh, crumbs. I cannot be.”
He turns a right. Because right is always right, and does not have the same ring as, ‘left is always right’ so he is sure it is the correct—that is to say, right---thing to do. And he has not been incorrect—that is to say, left---yet. So, right it is.
Righty-o.
“I can’t be the last, see. That would be most absurd. Being the last of anything is most absurd. You are not the last tunnel. There must be more, I say. I say there must be more, because it would be absurd if there wasn’t. Most absurd. And if there are more tunnels, there are more like me, and if there are more like me, perhaps my manners will not go to waste, then, will they?”
The tunnel—most assuredly not the last—doesn't fancy his rambling. This is another of his early discoveries, that tunnels and trenches seem to be exceeding rude. What terrible thing has happened here that has taken the tunnel’s genesis in peace and has corrupted it so? It is a tale fit for the fireside, is it not? “I reckon it is,” Says the pangolin, simply to fill the silence. “I reckon it is a terrible story, this is. How dreadful…”
The narrow neck of the Dizzy Tunnel takes a curving left and he feels his head grow light and giddy under the lack of blood flow. So stressful—so much pressure! Perhaps it was true that it should be called the Dizzy Tunnel, for he has—”Never been so woozy, no. No, I haven’t been in such a state since…” Ever? But what, truly, did ‘ever’ mean? “Since I took that hideous tumble. How hideous, yes, how hideous.”
There are turns, brushes against what must be the beginning and end of time itself before there is an opening, a small mouth that gathers where the trench has been carved from the earth. He was never meant for the earth, it seemed. He was not meant for much, he has reason to believe, and takes to that notion when his feet kick up and he’s sent forward.
And as much as the pangolin has discovered that he fancied the idea of running, it remained that he was quite averse to the feeling of it. The burning lungs, the pulsing heartbeat. When he skirts around an unfashionably-shaped rock, he declares that it must be horrible manners to run, as well. The wind almost sounds like reprimanding. But he does not listen, no, for the winds did not listen to him. They were rude, they were. The tunnel and the wind. All of these things. And such company was not company he wished to entertain.
The passageway grows wider under the swarming debris, and the pangolin—who, indeed, was yet only a pangolin—makes another discovery as his drum feet batter against the skin of Monoceros: that this cave, whatever it may be named and whatever its best interests may be, was not meant for him. How dreadful of a day to wake up. How dreadful of a place to call home.
No matter. Manners did not matter now. And that—that notion is enough to spur him into a dash.

Before long, there has been a new discovery! Uphill inclines are certainly the work of evil. Perhaps it is a truth of this world that what comes down must come back up—or rather, what comes up must come back down—but he bristles to take it as so. For what he can manage, he bristles to take it as so.
And yet another discovery: he is not nearly bristly enough.
“Oh, crumbs,” Scales brush against the rough interior of the proclaimed ‘Dizzy Tunnel’ and carve small indents into the crust, leaving a trail that he does not fuss over, simply for the fact that he is much too frazzled to think of much else than—”How horrible this is.”
The wind knocks him and he’s crushed against the rock, hard. The pangolin has never seen stars, but it is most definitely the correct name for the thing that flashes behind his eyelids now. It is the only word that seems cosmic enough. But then he wonders just what cosmic means. And then he wonders what names mean. And then he is even more frazzled than before.
“So much in a name, really. It is big and breathing as…” What was the biggest, breathing thing he knew? “Me. But perhaps there are bigger things out there. Unless I am the first. Oh, I hope I am not the first, either. What pressure that would be…”
Such a courageous boy as him does not falter, however, and instead decids to keep his mouth wary and his steps jovial—as jovial as one could be, of course. It was, indeed, awfully impolite to be too coarse or mopey, and the discouragement of the body was far steeper than the discouragement of the mind, the pangolin was sure. And that, well, it takes him to the top of the trench and he looks out across the blotted contusions of banded brown and grey and black, sprawling long limbs across the chamber and pulling upward in great arches that made him even dizzier than the esteemed ‘Dizzy Tunnel’. At the near end, cradled by the fallen and yet to fall shelves of rock sits an opening. In a sharp rabbet sits the gaping mouth of yet another tunnel, which has the pangolin worried—but it does, in fact, have a top, so perhaps it is much different and, with any hope, much more tolerable than the last predicament involving something that could, reasonably, be called a tunnel. And so, there he goes.
The pangolin does not yet know what will become of him, nor does he particularly care to guess, for he is sure among many other things that he is not as wise about the future as he ought to be. But what other way was there to know but to live? To find his becoming, that is the discovery to end all discoveries.
That, and perhaps, getting himself a name.
Right, then!
Names! He debates, striding across the great plain of jagged earth, names, names, names! Oh, so many! And what pressure it is. A name! He has named something before. He has named that tunnel the ‘Dizzy Tunnel’ and he has named himself a ‘boy’ and has surely more things to name in his future. Not a hard task, no!
So!
The pangolin continues his merry march, feeling the recesses of cold air hit him like a garish slap. The grass—rather, tunnel—on the other side must be greener, or any other colour of that capacity! And how green or blue or red or pink or beige or purple shall it be!
He leaves Monoceros behind him like a lame weight, shucking and shaking the dust off of him like a shed skin, and he continues south to make a new discovery: on names, at last!