His world is dark, quiet, and undisturbed. There is occasional movement but never enough to jostle him. This is what he is happy with as his body grows larger. Fletchor doesn't want to leave his slumbering cave; he has tried to remain here as long as possible because it's all he has known.

There is movement, however, and it twists him. He groans inside his chamber as he tries to resist like he has so many times before. The tunnel is pulling him, but he turns rigid in attempt to elude turning. The tunnel has a light at the end of it that he doesn't want to follow. This is where he belongs, not wherever that light is. Frail muscles quiver as he fights back, but in the end his chamber ousts him. He is being evicted against his own will. Anger boils inside as sunlight suddenly bathes him. It's warm, but nothing like it was in his cave. Everything inside him wants to return, but suddenly his muscles are languid and he no longer feels weightless. His head stretches out, his eyes still closed, and a weak noise slips past his lips.

"Fletchor," he hears and he shies away. The voice is familiar; he has been listening to it for months but this time it doesn't bring reassurance and calm. "Open your eyes, Fletchor," the female voice says, but he refuses. Opening his eyes would be accepting this fate that he didn't want. Anger is still pulsating through him, clouding his mind, quivering his muscles. "Look at your mother," she murmurs into his ear with adoration although her own eyes read regret. This isn't Covet's child like she would've preferred, but he is still a child of hers. Her breath fans across him, startling the newborn and sending him over an edge that neither would expect.

The thoughts of anger and fear consume the boy, eating away at him until he finally opens his eyes. That's when he sees her for the first and last time. His emotions are controlling him. There is a whirlwind of sand around them, spinning faster and faster, taking away the air. There is fear in mother's eyes, but Fletchor can't stop. His discomfort, fear, and anger has taken over him and his world. "Fletchor!" She says as she is choked of oxygen. Sand pelts her skin, drawing small speckles of blood along her face. She tries to reach him to stop him, but her body collapses in her old, weakened state. Only then, when she looks to be asleep, does everything suddenly stop. The sandstorm falls flat around the body of his mother while he continues to lie there helplessly, his body trembling. "M... Moth.... Mother," he finally says as his muzzle reaches out to touch her, expecting warmth to expel from her nostrils again, but there is nothing.

He blinks. "Mother," is all he can say in these first minutes of life, hoping it's enough to awaken her. He doesn't realize what happened, where the sand came from, or what caused it. All he knows is that mother isn't moving and her hot breaths are no longer fanning across his skin. Confused, he squirms just inches forward and just rests his head next to hers. Sleep finds him until later in the afternoon. When he awakens, his mother is gone. In her place is a mound of dirt where the Jungle has taken another of its own and given a burial.

Alone and confused, Fletchor looks around and tries to find comfort between the two graves, the other unknowingly belonging to his grandmother, Echion.

He doesn't understand what just happened, or how. His eyes flicker to the mound of dirt near him where mother was previously. All he knows is that there is a strange sense of loss overcoming him. The warmth that enveloped him has suddenly diminished. A shiver runs down the length of his spine, his body still somewhat damp. "Momma," a whispering voice escapes him, but he doesn't move. This world is different from everything he has known. It's more vivid, more open, and so very green. Mother's voice isn't vibrating through him anymore, however, and he feels alone.

He doesn't like this world.

He was forced into this sea of green against his will. Mother brought him here then left him alone. How could she do this to me? anger threads itself in his veins, stabbing into his heart. That's when the sand stirs in front of his fallen gaze. With his chin resting on the soil he watches his own creation come to life, twisting and turning. What the boy doesn't realize is that his mind is manipulating the sand; it marks it as a random occurrence that is shortly followed by a voice. At first Fletchor almost ignores her, caught up in his sand's trance, but she introduces herself and piques his interest. A name. There had been something mother said before the silence ripped the voice from her throat.

"Fletchor," the boy says when his chin lifts away from the ground. What little sand had been dancing in front of him now settles and soaks down into the soil like it never existed. "My name is Fletchor," he grapples with his voice, trying to sound more confident as he makes a feeble attempt to stand. His legs are wobbly and his balance poor, making the effort a strenuous fail. Back on the ground with a huff, he looks back up to Rhy. "Mom was here, then left. I don't know where I am." He is surprised by the lack of innocence in his own voice; there is more anger, more frustration, webbed in the words that fall from his mouth.