He was aware of a couple things.

Like the way he wasn't moving. There had always been some sort of movement in his life- a steady rocking as his mother breathed, or an exciting kind of bouncing when she flew. Now there was nothing. No rocking, no bouncing, not even the soft vibrations and soothing hum when she spoke. It was unpleasant. It was weird. He didn't like it very much.

He was also aware of the way his body pressed against his home, like he was just a little bit too big for his once cozy shell. He could feel his various appendages scratching and chafing against the inside of it, and it really was getting ridiculously cramped.

So the space thing, along with the lack of movement, were really what made him decide it was time for a change.

As it turns out, the boy wasn't patient, but oh, was he stubborn. He tried to just push against it first, flexing his many limbs and arching his frail neck, all to very little effect. That's when the flailing began, a determined yet poorly directed surge of action fueled on by his determination to get-- he wasn't sure. The kid had no concept of out. Yet. He just knew that the way things were just wasn't doing it for him anymore, and something had to give.

It took more strength than he ever thought he had. Certainly more than he had ever used, because life in an egg really required very little physical exertion. By the end of it he was heaving thick, liquidy breaths, and had managed to completely re-position himself within his little home, back down and hooves up and wing wrapping around the inside of the shell. Every inch of him flailed with as much force and speed as he could possibly muster. It was an unspeakable relief when the thing finally gave way, a snap breaking through the air and the first real experience of triumph filling him with elation.

Followed, of course, by the first real experience of fear as the comfortable liquid which filled his home began to pour away, replaced with wretchedly cold nothing. The shell split apart and the boy was not prepared, spindly legs suddenly working against nothing, wing beating against a sudden lack of opposition and sending him sprawling onto his left side. It was thus that he learned about something he would soon be intimately familiar with, sand.

His first impression of it wasn't awful, but came pretty damn close.

Cold, wet, hungry, and alarmed, the boy nonetheless felt a sense of pride for managing to escape what he now decided must be a prison. Brashly he tested out his newfound freedom and mobility, stretching out his wing from where it covered his body and raising it, trembling, into the air- only to have it fall backwards onto the sand. Was it escaping? He followed it with his sunbeam eyes, and then his head, and before he knew it his entire body was flipping again, limbs akimbo, an indignant squawk escaping his tiny lungs.

He landed on his right, exposing a left side barren of anything but a slight bulge where a wing should be, which quivered as he attempted to shake the phantom limb.

But this was all exhausting, and he was hungry, and dimly he was beginning to become aware that he wasn't alone. Towering over him was a figure, black and blue and rather difficult to make out. Blinking, he stared at it, trying to decide just what it might be. It seemed... well, didn't have a word for what it seemed, but it was definitely something awesome, so he continued to stare at it, waiting to be taken care of with all the innocent self-indulgence of a newborn babe.

"Speech"