The chrysalis had been sitting at the bottom of one of the pools for some time, like a pebble in the eye of a giant. It was tiny at first. A speck of dust, nothing more. When it began to grow larger, it formed a clear-coated iris - easily missed by anything that crept by the water for a drink, or a swim. Like nothing was even there. In the weeks following its emergence it would grow, and grow, until it was the size of a small kennel - but the shape remained. Smooth, round, unblemished. If something grew within its cavity it was impossible to tell; the translucence grew foggy, darkening over the course of hours until it was a blackness at the bottom of the pool. The water rolled about it; one might expect erosion, but the crystalline structure of the chrysalis was stalwart, and the subtle strobe of magic kept it safe and secure. Finally, there was a shift. Perhaps it was tectonic, perhaps it was magical - but either way, the orb came loose from its mooring and drifted upwards through the water, and bobbed there like a spherical ice-cube. A solid sphere, as far as anyone would be able to tell, and a dull glow emanating from its core. Curious indeed.
Though the being within the chrysalis may have slept, as it grew, nightmarish touch plagued the stone. A bitter, bone-chilling cold pervaded the stone egg, and the sound of soft scraping, as of fingers dragging on rock, sometimes reverberated through its core. Whether Titus' unconsciousness left him oblivious, or whether half-glimpsed memories worked their way into his mind, perhaps in form of unpleasant dream, depended on the unborn himself.
The sphere bobbed like a great egg in the water, although the tempo of its subtle shifting changed when a non-corporeal effect swept through it; to call it a shadow would be wrong, for it cast no darkness. To call it a feeling wasn't right either, lest that would imply that the chrysalis was alive when it was merely made animate by the magicka blossoming inside, twisting and contorting and fashioning itself a vessel. No, this effect, it seemed to drift through the zirconium of the chrysalis shell.
The creature inside, mostly formed but not yet aware, remained dormant. The scratching - or the sound, the sensation, whatever power it was that caused the eerie clicking of claws against the hard surface - wasn't something the neonate within could fathom. They slept, and the strobe of the shell's magicka continued. Whatever was waiting inside of the cavity, whatever life was being formed, had not been finished yet. Perhaps it would not survive the strange affectation -- be forever changed, magically mutilated, corrupted in some way.
A voice came; not from the stone, but the opposite - the shore of the pond. A figure had appeared there and was calling out to the orb. The creature kicked in its sleep; something hard scrapes the inside of the zirconium but nothing breaks. The child is safe inside of the chrysalis, for now.