Mm. She's behind.

Her work—her chaos—is not a thing that comes quickly. She is slow, careful, cunning; her siblings' work is a beautiful thing of their own, of course, the way they burn and swipe and ruin... but isn't it so much sweeter to plan it all out beforehand? A kind of strangely measured chaos; the wonderment of stacking up all the dominoes simply to knock them down.

But—as slow-acting as her chaos may be, she does have a schedule. An agenda to keep to, so to speak, and she's behind.

So she's intending to simply cut through the tunnel (hurried hoofbeats echoing on stone, unsynchronized) and leave it behind her.

But then—she hears it. A sound she has not heard for a long, long time, in the cycles since her birth: a distinct, sharp, crack! The breaking of a chrysalis. The sound of new life.

Oh, she just has to see this.

A little voice (what a sweet, tiny little thing! so easily breakable) resounds down the tunnel as she approaches; a mewing cold! cold! cold!

Many things Tsetse is, but cold she is not. Chaos burns through her veins, oil dripping intermittently from her maw (ah, she needs to stabilize soon; that will come later, however), constant fever making her skin hot to the touch and slick with sweat.

She can banish the cold. And she does so with something approximating a grin stretching across her face and a sweeping rattle of her tail; careful not to accidentally step upon the newborn, (so tiny, so tiny, could break her with a hoof) she lays herself upon the stone, using that same tail to sweep her against her side.

"Warm," she intones with a hiss of her vents, for once forgoing the usual grand vocabulary that marks her words in favor of something more... simple. Easier for a child to understand.

Oh! It... it vibrates. The little hatchling vibrates, as if its throat was full of something reverberating, thrumming.

Tsetse has never met a cat before... the little thing is so new. So soft. So immediately trusting; there is no fear in the little one's eyes, only a great curiosity.

Curiosity is good. Curiosity is what drives him to pick apart and destroy and dissect, some days. He'll always have a proclivity towards chaos, but the driving emotions vary, and curiosity is one of the many.

He's uncertain as to what to do with such a hatchling. Surely something one so little cannot fend for itself? But—what use is there for taking care of the mewling thing? Feeding it and taking care of it and making sure it does not wander off does not further chaos. It is not destruction. Quite the opposite, at that.

Still, it is... it is interesting. Perhaps he will entertain it, for a time.

"Many things are warm," he tells them. "Anything can be warm, if you heat it up." Like fevered rats writhing in their holes, confined to their burrows, frothing at the mouth; like fire untouched by chaos, purely elemental in its destruction. Like the feather-down of little birds just before they are ripped apart—

—like the tiny, tiny form of a kitten, curled up at his side.

How interesting. How interesting, indeed.