It has been too long.

Khavur's body felt tense and crickety as his chrysalis released him from his stasis. He opted to take a moment to stretch it out, feeling all the different muscles and reflexes twitch. Both heads swung about, checking himself over. When you had little function in the pain receptors, you had to be careful. His movements felt slow, ever uneven. What a cumbersome body.

He checked his finer details, now. Small joints, small features. Most scars had healed over, except the permanent ones. A set of claws drifted up to his face; there they had remained. His own additions had since wilted away. He sighed, quietly.

And why had he drifted away? Perhaps because trying to find new ways to guard the food stores from pesky Lesser rats and pests wasn't really doing it for him anymore. And why had he taken a nap for—who knows how long, it had felt like a while. Well, that was related to why he woke up.

He still had something to do here.

He had a lot, actually. Something churned and twisted in his gut; that wasn't a reflex, but it was common enough when he thought about the topic that it could've been. His claws tapped lightly against the oilstone breakage on his face. Failure. His procrastination, his unreadiness, his... lack of trust. The other claws gripped at the floor. So much failure.

And what had become of the caves, while he was asleep? His plans might all already be foiled. Order may have crept its way so deep that he might have already lost the opportunity to truly prove himself. He sighed again, more abruptly this time, forcing the heated air of premature disappointment from his lungs. Based on his surroundings, he somehow doubted that last thought.

But it was true that he remained unready. And Vargas remained unknowing. There was much to consider there, but it made Khavur's heads ache to think about. To further the ache was the attempt to remember his conversation with the labradorite. Khavur huffed.

This was too much thinking. Right now, he was a rusty toy soldier who had sat melting on a shelf in the sun. He needed to move. Punch something. Throw a rock. The impulses began churning, some strange and some unreasonable.

Memories swirled in the back of his mind as he ascended the Climb of Draco. Bones littered the floor. He decided to try something; to throw one up in the air and use his tail to shatter it.

We could try to fix you.

CRACK!

Somehow, despite however much time had passed, Khavur's reflexes hadn't failed him. So often they had, before. Right when he needed them. He recalled a small green Maximus who had brought him to the earth; no, kept him from flight! A snarl twitched into the corners of his lips. He grabbed a bone of the floor and attempted to snap it.

It took some effort, but he succeeded. It wasn't enough. Will it ever be?

The snarl abated as the broken pieces of bone clattered to the floor. He had gone on a long walk once, not as long as he had wanted. His pilgrimage; where had that led him to? The conclusion that you are a monster that needs to apologize. It was hard not to be upset.

He sauntered over to a loose rock higher up the steps.

Maybe he should be.

It was unwise for a creature such as him, who often could not tell what his body was feeling, to punch a rock wall. He tried it anyway.

Weak. He couldn't tell if the impact had brought him any pain, but he saw no difference in the rock. He checked his own palm, his knuckles. No blood. No dice. Nothing.

He hissed and turned away, frumpily teetering down the Climb. He hadn't even bothered trying to fly. Did he even want to start, when he might just crash? Your design is weak.

How many designs existed now? How many failures?

Thoughts started to seep in. Cherry scented 'venom' from his quills began to seep out. Distantly he heard the beating of wings, the scent of his carollers. Do you really want your first action after cycles of sleep to be another tantrum? You are acting like how the others used to, when they were small. He flared his nostrils.

He needed to talk to Vargas talk to anyone get out of here. He needed to train. To reflect upon himself, his design. How was it intended to be used? How had Vargas failed? How many times has he failed now? And could Khavur have stopped any of it?

He grimaced.

There was nothing here to practice on. He supposed he could utilize some kind of skill to summon something of interest.

Using heat sensing pits and his sharp sense of smell, Khavur was able to find a spot of interest. Populated by multiple rats. Upon catching a glimpse of that scent and a hint of their scurrying shadows, Khavur recalled them. In his time trying to understand the patterns of Lessers in Draco (to concoct solutions for the food stores), he had encountered these pretty commonly. They hunted together, and while they climbed exceptionally well, they were ultimately stuck on the ground. Different from the bats that also occupied this part of Draco.

It was possible that Khavur could lure them out into the open. They were a large threat to any crumb of food. But unless he could get one on its own, there was no safe way of approaching them. They were brutal fighters, and came in large packs. Khavur was not a fan of the idea of chrysalizing again.

There was only one solution: he had to fly.

Khavur first placed a bit of bait. Usually smarter creatures did not approach him despite the smell of his failed venom, because they smelled the accompanying scent of a predator. But his venom alone could lure in something. He left a splotch of it near a small pile of rubble a ways away from where he had seen the rats.

Then, he pushed himself to climb. Using his wings for some additional air, he attempted to lunge up the steep cliffside. This was, after all, what he had been designed for. It came somewhat naturally to him. He willed the carollers away, to aid him with stealth. As stealthy as he could be. If he could make it up high enough, he could potentially use the shadows to hide what his own treacherous flesh refused to.

Not only did he fail to even make it one cliff ledge up; he failed to watch his surroundings so severely he ended up slamming his face into a straight up rock wall. For a moment, the lights dimmed as he stumbled backwards and then tumbled ungracefully down to the bottom of the Climb. It was pathetic. Like watching a Looney Tune.

He landed sprawled out on the floor at the bottom of the Climb, much closer to his bait and the rats than he ever wanted to be. And that was just the problem; his little bait trick had been working. From the rats' perspective, they had collectively smelled something sweet and delicious in the otherwise barren cave. Then, from the sky, a fat pile of neon orange competition (or perhaps dinner?) had landed only a few feet away.

And there were, indeed, enough to take him.

Once his thoughts could swim back together, Khavur soon realized all this as the glowing red eyes of several pitch rats greeted him. He bared his fangs in seething rage. You should have known this would happen, said that regretful animal instinct in him. Forget the way Vargas designed you. He made you a fish with no fins. The only thing you're good for now is diving in head first.

What pain could he feel, if he failed? How many layers of thick, armored hide would they need to rip through to truly destroy him? Honestly, what was he so afraid of. Let them rip it all away. All the parts of you that fail. Perhaps with enough of those permanent scars, you might turn into a stark white angel of death.

He did not let the rats make the first move. Barely oriented, barely thinking, Khavur rushed head first into the swarm.

With a guttural yell, Khavur charged the rats. His teeth and jaws were a flurry of sharp edges, a caterwauling close-range siege tank that the rats could not have escaped. A few of them died on first impact; others found themselves pierced and wounded by a stray claw, a tooth, a quill; others attempted to scuttle away. There were likely some bites and claws in return, some desperate attempts to attack, but Khavur could not notice. They all understood that the competition was fierce, and the danger was grave.

Swarm intelligence must have pulled them in different directions. Khavur was aiming to grab and claw at as many of them as possible, so the instinct there was to flee. Then, it seemed, to amass power elsewhere. Calls went out, likely for reinforcement, which Khavur was not keen on. A pool of them was gathering at a distance from him, perhaps trying to build enough force to cover his body. It didn't take a genius to figure that he needed to quell their counterattack.

Khavur attempted to swipe at the collective with his tail.

The attack was shaky, not quite landing where he wanted it to, but at least he didn't miss. Some of the posturing rats came loose from their swarm. More, however, were building. Khavur suspected that he might be able to win by defeating them all. He could take some token of victory by collecting as many corpses as possible, however.

Khavur launched himself once more at the horde, mindlessly churning his claws and fangs at the crowd until it was thinned enough for him to make his escape.

Something about all of this was familiar.

The realization must have stung, as well as the set of claws that Khavur had swung far too large—they sank into his own bulky shoulder. The force of the hit to himself ruined all his progress; now he was stunned and damaged in the middle of an amassing swarm, having accomplished nothing. Khavur seethed with far more malice than pain.

He tried to unsink his claws from his shoulder.

Tug.

Tug.

Oh, come on.

There he was again, a flailing, flopping fish with no fins. He could have breathed fire in his rage. This will not do. We won't make it to Ursa like this. Painful to admit, but in this situation, undeniably true.

Khavur's only tactical option was retreat. The smell of his own blood, and the faint pressure of nibbly little rodent bites all over his hide, were inviting some sense into him.

Using his remaining arms and strength, he attempted to swipe and tear his way out.

They were gaining on him, hard. His flailing and swiping wasn't making a dent. He had to keep trying; perhaps his wings could be of use for once?

It would take a pretty monumental effort, but a freshly slept Khavur should be able to manage, right?

Raising his wings up high, flinging around the rats that had bitten in, Khavur attempted to muscle through and beat his way up.

But there were too many rats. They weighed him down. He weighed himself down. These wings could carry 2,000 pounds, but they needed a running start.