Among the constellations of Orion (above the cliffs, almost directly,) it was difficult to see, but a shape had taken form. It was so small, so unlikely to be fixed upon with any gaze at all, but it was there. The sound of the chrysalis softly cracking (and the bits scattering to the wind as they fell) would likely go unnoticed.

Bits of shell fell from the ceiling and dusted in the wind; still, the creature inside was not free. Perhaps it was for the best that they take their time - Orion is a large place, and to fall so swiftly after creation would surely lead to an equally swift demise. Yet the newborn could not contain their desire to be free. They peeped uselessly, wiggled in the confines of the pod, and worked at the shell from the inside, oblivious to the dangers of the world around it.

Something was preventing it from escaping. The creature was so small and the hold of the stone around it was so intense! Maybe it would never be free. The chrysalis was so tight around the creature's tiny shoulders that one of their appendages was going numb - maybe had always been numb - and so the babe had to struggle to angle their beak at the blockage and then focus to chip away at it. Consciousness had flooded them upon waking; the knowledge that they were alive, had to be out of here, but not why they were, not who they were. Only the impending panic of claustrophobia was there, and in the creature's heart a powerful desire to escape.

The last of the stone had been chipped from around its body, leaving a chasm - a nest of sorts, maybe - and the newborn could roost within it. The structure was almost hive-like; it was only a little bit bigger than themselves, not enough to really stretch out in. The bird knew almost immediately that that was what it wanted - so it began excavating a hole through the outer edge. If it widened it enough then it'd become a window.

It wasn't enough.

Well, it was, to make a window. As soon as the bird could see outside the safety of the chrysalis housing it, they wanted more. Orion was a place of dust and stone, but from up high the newborn could see small details too: a series of cliffs, crooked-tooth slabs of stone, and the dark city beneath that lay forgotten.

So the bird began to test the hole they had made; squeeze their face through, chisel a bit, squeeze the next bit through, peeping and kicking and doing their best to stay calm while adventure lay in wait below them. Unfortunately, the bird hadn't considered how exhausting all this work was going to be. They were mindless in their pursuits, and in the end they only failed.

With a huff and a puff, the creature settled back upon the ledge of its chrysalis and was pulled in to a nap.

Hours later, when the neonate awoke, it was with a strange new clarity. It was as if by resting here they had been imparted with some knowledge. It was innate - this awareness - but it would take some effort before a full understanding could be unveiled. The bird knew, somehow, it could use magic. It knew perhaps because of an instinctual memory, or maybe there was more power to a gembound's stone than previously thought.

Either way, the bird seemed to know that there was nothing around to help it. That, to survive this and to escape, they would have to find their own way. Something stirred within the neonate then - a thought, real and cognizant and loud, which erupted from their little body as a voice: "T.. Til.. Tildaaah!"

They screeched, a shine caught on something odd within the creature's mouth, and then -

Energy erupted so hastily from the neonate, but it was more than breath. It was more than anything they'd ever thought possible. The pressure of the air fluctuated dramatically as Tilda shot a force through it, at the stone. The rock vibrated and burst apart in some places (none of which were helpful for their desires) but the true impact came after.

When their voice died, the air pressure did not adjust again. The gust of wind that had belched out of them merely bounced off of the stone, was sent back at the baby bird, and throttled them hard against the back of the chrysalis. There was a crunch as the bird's hollow bones met the surrounding stonework and they keened a mixed sound of surprise and pain, because they'd just dislocated (perhaps even broken) their new wings.

The only good thing to occur after this (if you could call it good) was the child's consciousness fading. They'd wanted to sleep, and now sleep would come for them unabated. Their new body was ruined, and the pain had transmuted into shock, giving way to a deep sleep. The bird's body slouched forwards, teetered precariously at the opening the magic had produced, and then... Tilda fell.