The orange-brown stone that had gradually--over the weeks preceding--emerged from the mud of Cetus looked rather like a smear of rust. It didn't look special, or pretty, or even really notable. And when it began to crack, the creature that started to shove its way out wasn't a likely superstar, either: she was squat, broad, already hefty in bulk and build and less "adorable child" than--in the manner of turtles--"reptilian miniature of her adult form."

Not that Agatha was, exactly, a turtle. The clawed paws that shoved at the shards of Tantalite could have been mistaken for those of a giant snapping turtle, yes--as could the hooked beak that pried at the shards of stone. The pupils, too, though they thinned briefly to a catlike slit at the first sight of dim light, were rounded in an almost horizontal fashion when they dilated once again. But the rest-...

"Hell," the little child spat, and resorted to bashing her skull against the chrysalis in an attempt to shatter her prison and unfold herself into the swamp beyond.

She tumbled out, landing face-first in the muck and giving anyone who might be watching a prime view of a lashing tail and a body lined with spines and quills. There she flailed, for a moment, turtle-like (as if in slow-motion) before fumbling herself back upright and spitting out a jawful of mud with a "Pah!"

Then Agatha looked around, blinking, trying to figure out where she was--and who she was, for that matter.

What a strange world, that the first stranger the squat, toad-faced child should meet was this elegant vision of beauty. Sleek muscle in gleaming blue; backswept antlers and glowing gold. A musical voice fluting past beneath glowing violet eyes. She extricated herself from the mud, staring up at him with a calculating eye.

Parents..? Nascent mind sought the meaning of this word. Brought, in vague concepts that bubbled up from a latent subconscious, the image of larger, protective figures.

"You," she declared, her voice already roughly hoarse, and she began to schluck, schluck her way with mud-sucking steps, struggling toward Alek through the muck, "are parents." It was a decision, a possessive declaration, a reverse-adoption given with the absolute certainty of a child's complete ignorance. 'Parents' were 'big safe thing;' therefore, 'big safe thing' was 'parents.'

Orange eyes blinked at him, and she hauled herself closer, lifting each turtlish foot to flick away mud. The gesture was oddly cat-like, rather out of place on a hefty reptilian. Agatha settled at Alek's feet, and squinted up. "Alek," she repeated. And corrected, "Dad." Although--he'd asked for her name, right? And his name--Alek/Dad--was his, so she couldn't use those, too.

"A-" she started again, about to blurt Alek, then remembered--no, she had to change that. Hell. (She didn't know what that meant, but it had a good, forbidden feeling to it and she liked revelling in it.) "Aaaah...gtha. Agatha. Yeah." Yeah, that sounded good. "Agatha." She blinked, then yawned, beak-face gaping, and the little flower on her tongue-tip was briefly visible glowing there. Forelimbs stretched out, shoulders idly rolling, and she looked up at Alek/Dad again. "Can... more words?" she asked, struggling to find the language. "Want learn... more words."

A pause, and dutifully she recited what she knew so far. "Dad Alek Agatha hell parents. More?" It was a questionable string to put all in a row like that, but she was unaware.

Dad, as it turned out, was very kind. Kind, understanding, and patient--and more than that, he was informative. Agatha listened, and tried to understand. She picked up some of it, heavy head tilting a little to one side, and as Alek finished, she grunted.

"How do I know... the order?" she tried. But as soon as she'd asked it she almost knew the answer: the same way she'd made that sentence. It sounded right. She didn't retract her question though, because she wasn't certain. It SOUNDED right, yes--but was it? Dad--she was certain--would tell her.

And in the meantime, she found another desire: the slow growl of her stomach. Instinct told her she had to put things in her mouth and swallow them to sate it, but what 'things,' she didn't know: so she started off by simply lowering a turtlish head, scooping muck and rotten reeds into her jaw, and tossing them back with squinting blinks as she tasted it.

A moment later she was spitting it all out with an audible "Blah," flower-tipped tongue pushing mud from disappointed beak.

With luck, this 'parent' could teach her a little better--because for now, she clearly had much to learn.