The sound of scratching echoed from Tunnel H as Dread hauled his way, on foot, through its confines. He couldn't remember Eridanus--had he ever been here?--but the scent and sight of vibrant life was both thrilling and somehow discomfiting. Regardless of whether he had been here before, he didn't remember it, and its scents of soil and plants. It smelled unlike anywhere he'd lived--wholly different from Monoceros' rocky heat, or the dim dustiness of Orion. Perhaps it was closer to the rank tidal smell of Fornax: warm and pungent, fertile. But it was something all its own.

Had Dread been here as hatchling, he could have darted in and out among the leaves, snatching insects while avoiding the larger predators. Better yet, as an adolescent: he'd have woven through the treetops, apex predator in his cave. But now, as an adult dragon, he was both more powerful than any Lesser living here and far too large to comfortably navigate. His wingspan just would not allow it: he'd have to fly above the treeline, and just hope for the best.

So, the scratching was followed by heavy wingbeats: and from there, the rustle of soaring wingleather. He had to run to take flight, and there was barely enough space to do so. The canopy could reach staggering heights, but the cave ceiling itself was a high and mist-filled dome, allowing the dragon to circle in search of prey below. He tried to cast out his magic senses--there was no way he'd see anything by sight; magic and fire would need to be his guide.

Nothing came, at first, though: and he swept back and around across the trees, preparing for another pass.

Perhaps it was the still-lingering cold, questionable 'gift' from the new polar area of... well, Polaris. Its frigid winds had whipped up snow in a frenzy, cooling the surrounding caves.

Wings thumped against the fog-filled air, and the dragon arched back his neck to inhale the heady scent of life below. On the exhale--content, almost relaxed--he reached again for his magicka. He'd warm up, first; then he'd move on to the rest.

Nothing came, and an irritated cry escaped him: an alien screech-bellow, though short-lived, that echoed down into the trees below. A few birds burst into flight--Carollers, by the looks of them--only to drop back down in confusion to escape the silhouette soaring overhead.

Warmth blossomed at his next attempt: heat, and yet it was ill thought-out.

He'd intended to warm himself, but instead, warming the air around him was usually sufficient. This time, however, he was in speedy flight, soaring, banking--quickly leaving the warmed-up air behind.

Dread let out another anguished cry--the tragedy! The horror! ...This 'transcendence' thing had left him more useless than he'd thought. Clearly, that was the reason behind his lack of foresight; nothing to do with his level of intelligence, or anything.

Wings flapped and half-folded, dropping him lower; his heat had mostly failed him but he had little other option. It was time to look for prey.

Hunger rumbled in his belly. He'd been resting, drinking, and then spitting pyrogel all over Polaris; he planned to go back to that, but first, he had to sate his stomach. Dread banked, flapped twice, and then glided low over the trees at an angle, neck craned to peer down as he swept over the treetops. The birdsong below was loud; those who'd not heard his various angry cries were still chattering happily away amongst themselves.

He cast out his senses, magicka flaring up: and here he 'saw' prey below, in through the trees. There were birds in the canopy, and other, unfamiliar creatures in the trees; then lizards and snakes far below, on the forest floor. He even noted, far above him, other small forms of life: bats, most likely, hiding in the crevices of Eridanus' misty roof.

It smelled like rain.

There was nothing, though, large enough for him to take: and so he banked the other way, angling toward Tunnel I, and the broad and glistening cap of the Monarch (and what was that thing?) in the distance.

Another mid-air twist, serpenting, his finned tail trailing out behind him like a black rudder; and then he was sweeping lower, so far down that his wing-tips brushed the leaves.

He sent out his senses again, feeling, searching: he needed something substantial, something like cave deer, to eat.

What he found, instead, was nothing; his magic flared back at him, and the world turned red. This was a very, very bad thing to have happen midair, and Dread let out a bawling screech of alarm, wings beating frantically to carry him higher, in a trajectory directly toward the cave roof. The last thing he wanted was to smash face-first into the trees, blind.

His call echoed through Eridanus, down through the trees below, the bass thud of wingbeats punctuating his sudden panic.

A flash and a flare, and then--as he struggled to fly, as he fought to regain control of his magicka--the red faded. It dimmed down to dots, to specks, but he was too panicked, still, to pay attention to them. Instead, he circled, jaws parted and eyes wide, panting like a bird.

That had been-... alarming. And he'd come far too close to Eridanus' ceiling, he saw now: if he hadn't gotten control of his vision, he might have smashed right into it, and what then-?

The dragon swept lower, into a careful glide, regaining control of his breathing.

It took him a few minutes to calm himself, to slow his breathing, to lessen the horrifying hammer of his pulse in his neck. When at last he'd managed this, Dread turned his attention, with some trepidation, back to the forest below.

The grumble in his stomach was becoming an ongoing roar.

At first it was uncertain: flickering, still perhaps unsteady from his prior mistakes. But it came back to him now, at least: imagery, red dots, and at last he spotted what looked like a deer herd far below. It was a familiar enough sight from Monoceros, only this time, hidden beneath the canopy--a canopy through which the dragon could not fit.

Whatever could he do..?

He swept lower.

Wings half-folded as he dipped into the leaves, careful not to strike the thicker branches just a foot or two lower down; carefully maneuvering, he inhaled.

Nothing came--nothing at all; the heat in his belly did not rise higher, and the gentle pattering of his wings along the leaves gained him nothing but side-eyes from the deer, tilting their heads a bit to see what was darting overhead.

It was, in fact, a dragon above the treeline, and even a brief glimpse of his silhouette was enough to send them scattering; Dread pulled up and away, stifling another roar of frustration.

His hunger was mounting.

Dread wheeled back around, each wing flap dropping him closer, lower to the treeline once again. He made another attempt: a great inhale, but once again nothing came.

This time, his roar did come: frustrated, a cry of almost anguish. That stupid bird had TAKEN HIS FIRE!

The dragon turned, wheeling, wings flapping heavily, and began to simply throw a tantrum: hind legs tearing at the tree tops, tails lashing at the leaves, sending them in showers to spiral down below. His roars echoed, over and over, bellowing out rage, frustration, grief--he'd LOST. His FIRE!

His roars spooked the deer--of course they did; draconic roaring wasn't exactly standard predator material in Eridanus. But when he saw a few in a brief clearing below, bolting, trying (and failing) to outrun him, he banked hard.

He dropped lower, wings flapping, magicka flaring up in each beat--and the air stirred, churned, and surged. A whirl of dust and leaves picked up, spinning, gaining momentum, and then a few of the deer were lazily tossed a meter or two into the air. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Dread to drop down lower, snagging one in his talons: and then to lift higher, roaring his triumph with another beat of his wings.

Dread could feel it struggling in his claws, but that was a good thing--that was satisfaction. That was prey. He lifted back up over the trees and swept back down to the tunnel entrance, landing atop his meal. A quick twist of his jaws and the deer was no more; the dragon, then, wasted no time in devouring it, satisfying the growl in his gut.