“What an awful thing that sounds like, to die. Does it happen often? I imagine fairly so, if these troublesome stones don’t let up in their unshapely manners. Manners are important, I say. Manners are becoming!” And then he’s off in a flurry again. “I say you must always be cordial. Being impolite is quite the same as dying, if you speak of it so lowly. It cannot be good, no, it cannot be. Evil as anything. Like the paintings and fire and the wind and most everything else in this cave. These caves, you say. There are multiple, oh, crumbs…”
Waffles is only barely listening when she says her nonsense about the naming, and he has it in him to be only slightly and motfifyingly scandalised by the notion that he had time to choose! He could have thought of such a better name in that time! What dreadful circumstances!
He could have thought of a nicer name. Like Buttercup. The pangolin did not yet know what a buttercup was, nor that they existed, but it came to him and sounded much too nice not to be a word.
He could have thought of a scarier name. Could have taken his… shortcomings—which were more like blessings, depending on who you asked, and if you asked him, perhaps it was the best blessing one could have!---and drench them in the cold terror of a name, corner any poor fellow and announce his likeness from every rockface and cliff’s edge. Like Large and Terrorising Shadow Destroyer: Dream Merchant!
Oh, perhaps that is a bit too much.
Too much of a mouthful.
Though it does not pass him that his name was given on the pretences of having a mouthful. At all times. About all manner of things.
And then he realises that he his mouth has wandered, and though it is relieving for him, having a release of sorts, it was not good for the wolf, as she always looks awfully confused whenever he goes on his little ramblings. On his wafflings, rather, and then he feels smart again.
[“--crystallised not long after I woke up.”]
“I don’t know much of anything when it comes to that word. Crystallising. Quite the term. Is it technical? Is it the opposite? How do you know? There are so many rules. And I must follow them you see—manners are important.” The bumbling pangolin sniffs. “That is alright, though, I think.” He scoots a little closer, just the barest mark, to make himself seem bigger and therefore make his words seem… better? More agreeable? No matter. He is only so much of himself—he does not entirely know what he does until he does it. “I was in a crystal before. Right cruel thing, it was. Spat me out and sent me flying. Oh, I had never been so frightened before—though I don’t remember fear, or much of anything, existing before that, mind—-but I loved it. You have to, I reckon. You love it because you cannot love much else. I thought I would stay in there forever, even before I knew I could think. I did not know wind existed before I felt it. I did not know colour existed before I saw it. The crystal is home but it is a very small home. Not enough room, no. I miss it, even if I hate how properly it sent me---even if I know I would have to outgrow it. I would love a nap,” He blinks. Names are difficult. “...Anala. I would quite like a nap. I would quite like to nap like I had napped before I knew what napping was. It was warm. I remember that. It is home, but home cannot always be home, because if that were the case, I—that is to say, we—would not be here. You would still be in there. I would still be in there. And what a fine pickle that would be.” He straightens. “I mean to say, it is alright. Perhaps you just needed more sleep. I say, I didn’t think I was ready when I came. But my tail knows me better than my mind sometimes does. It knows how to grab and move and swing when my mind does not know how. It is a trade, see. It is a trade. Home knows you better than you think. Perhaps it knew you needed it when you didn’t. Otherwise, it would be cruel, and I’m sure only mine is so cruel. Perhaps home only wanted to love you a little longer."
Waffles huffs, and true to his word, a loose tail bats at the ground. Talking does him some good—it relaxes him. “Oh, but I’m afraid my name is quite right. I should not change it. Perhaps it makes sense that I am called Waffles. Look at what I’m doing!” There is a sound, a nervous tittering, that sounds only so much of a laugh as a scream sounds like laughter. “And what pressure it is, Anala. Names, and such. Change. I have not changed at all, not that I remember. But I already hold some proper reservations about it, I do! I would loathe to see my scales chip. Oh, what would become of me then?” The flat of a paw digs four soft craters into the small bed of gravel beneath him. “I do not like pain, nor what it looks like. Perhaps that is why I am so jealous of your crystal. Safety. It is not fair, I don’t think, that we wake up and are so scared all the time. Very unproductive! Very impolite, I say. I say it is just about the worst use of fear, really. So many other things to do with it. So many other places to take it."
He blinks two beady eyes, and they meet hers. “You can even yell it from rockfaces and cliffs-edge, I hear.”