As Black Hat stirred, the first thing he grew dimly aware of was the feeling of floating in something liquid, warm and gel-like – he was sure he hadn't fallen asleep like that, but it was somehow comfortable. His eyes slowly sliding open, he peered muzzily at the softly-lit amber substance all around him, able to feel some form of solid boundary as he shifted and stretched. At first, it was oddly restful, slumbering suspended in his capsule of goo, the walls of it somehow reassuring. He was safe. Nothing could get to him in there. Gradually, though, he began to recall that he wasn't supposed to be there, growing both more uneasy and more lucid. He knew who he was – that much was reassuring – but how he, Black Hat, could have come to be trapped in such a receptacle without his notice was both unknown and alarming. More disturbing still, he could feel some kind of presence against his mind – a connection, though barely developed. If it hadn't felt so disturbingly inherent and vital, he'd have tried to snap it entirely, though he wasn't actually sure how he'd do so. As it was, even the thought of such a thing was painful, in a manner he didn't care to prod at. Instead, he focused his efforts on flailing in his shell, a flare of triumph in his mind as he managed to rupture it – only to spill onto the ground in an unnervingly limb-bereft slump.
This was distinctly less comfortable, and he flailed again, trying to get a good look at himself and his surroundings to see what was going on. Disturbingly, his vision was somewhat fuzzy, and there was something odd about it, but it was enough to take a look at what had become of him. His indignant, horrified squawk at the revelation of his new pale and squishy larval form, while distinctly squeakier than he'd have liked, was quite strident. In fact, it was sufficiently louder than the oodles of other larvae that it drew the notice of what seemed to be an adult. Colossal and grey, with solidly yellow eyes, the somehow feminine creature was an otherworldly attempt by something not quite an insect to mimic something already not quite an equine. Besides the obvious fangs, horn and buglike wings, she was coated in velveted carapace, save for some bands of reflective orange chitin around her barrel, and short membranes in the same hue for mane and tail. Changeling, some part of his mind whispered, both from vague recollection and something else, as he was lifted in an acid-green field of magic from her upcurled horn and carefully examined. He could have appreciated the aesthetic, if he hadn't been so busy shrieking his displeasure to the world at large and her in particular.
Was this some form of nursemaid? Somehow, despite her being the first non-larva he'd seen, he felt oddly certain that she wasn't mother to any of the spawn around him. His eyes widened at the sight of another changeling approaching – that was what had been so strange! It felt so odd to have binocular vision again, and he paused in his attempt to snarl a demand for an explanation, blinking and attempting to get used to the sensation of having both eyes intact. The second figure was far more willowy than the nursemaid, and even larger. There were basic similarities in hue and body plan, but her eyes were catlike and slit-pupilled, her membranous-looking mane and tail long and flowing, horn like a curved-back blade and far longer than the other changeling's. Even without the strangely compelling presence she had, which he thought had to be linked to that tickling in his mind, the crownlike structure on her brow and resemblance to the sole example of her type he had knowledge of removed all doubt. This was the Queen of the black-lacquered hive he found himself in – and that little voice inside loudly insisted that this was his mother.
Staring, slack-jawed, he realised that the two figures had been conversing for a little while now without his notice. He tried to listen in, mentally cursing his apparently unfinished ears, but neither they nor the nascent hivemind connection he seemed to have were yet up to the job. At the very least, he could work some things out from tone and his attempts at lip-reading. Before he could gather more than information on his current – tiny – measurements, though, the Queen took aim at him with her green-glowing horn. Thinking himself revealed as an imposter among her young, he squeaked his defiance, whatever equivalent of adrenaline he possessed surging – only to find himself enveloped in a somewhat euphoric sensation, blotting out all but that feeling. He found himself drinking it in, and in a far more literal sense than he'd have thought. He was dazed and giddy by the time she ceased feeding him, a tiny belch escaping as he was first nuzzled – a disorienting but pleasant experience – then gently set down into what seemed to be a gel and larva-filled nest. He fought to stay awake, so as to try to escape once the adult changelings were gone, but he was warm, full, and in a newborn form – slumber was swift in claiming him.
The Queen was absent when he awoke, though there appeared to be plenty of caretakers around, and other larvae pressed in against him from all sides. It was comfier than he'd given it credit for, and he had to admit, so much nonviolent physical contact felt quite a pleasant change. However, being squished and kind of trapped beneath the rest of his clutch was less so. Not to mention, the more alert he grew, the more he was freaking out about this being real and not some bizarre hallucination. No legs, no arms, no phenomenal cosmic power, no sensation of a hat on his brow – his distress keened sharp and incoherently loud through his developing hivemind link, causing his clutchmates to bawl. It took him until caretakers were scooping them up to realise this, however, as his blind panic had somewhat blocked out the input of his senses while he was wrapped so tightly in it. While they fretfully checked the larvae over, he tried to get a handle on his breathing, to calm himself. Okay, so he was trapped in the form of an infant bughorse. So he couldn't access his power, or feel his hat. He was still alive, and that was what mattered. He could work his way up from this, he had to.
With his infant body, he couldn't do much more than feed, sleep and throw tantrums – not that he'd call them that – but as his time awake gradually increased, so too did both his understanding of the situation and his acceptance that he would have to adapt to it. If he recalled correctly, the last video he'd put out before he'd hatched here had concerned a particularly chaotic inhabitant of this world – ironically, he'd intended to roast Chrysalis briefly in the next, among others – therefore it had likely been Discordian revenge that landed him there. Joy. Well, as boilingly furious as he was, he did relish a challenge, which it seemed he'd been provided with. What he needed to do now was absorb as much knowledge as he could in order to unlock his power, even if that meant taking the long way around.
For her part, in spite of the stress and time constraints of ruling a hive burrowed into the Ghastly Gorge, Queen Sclerite of Crag Hold Hive did her best to make time for her newest children, visiting the most recent larvae in the hatchery. Of course, not all of the hive's larvae were hers, she wasn't the sort of Queen who would forbid her subjects reproduction, but those that weren't hers were generally her grandlarvae anyway. Of her latest brood, she had to admit she'd been worried – for the first week or so, they'd been unusually panicked, and broadcasting that state loud and clear. What had caused this, neither she nor the caretakers knew. As their check-ups had revealed nothing unusual. They had been able to identify the source – one unusually testy and bite-prone larva – but not why the infant was so agitated.
Despite the worry and aggravation, Sclerite was proud of this little one's force of will and sharp aim with those tiny jaws. A Warrior in the making? Perhaps, but it was too soon to tell, despite her Patrol Leader consort's proud claims that it was his heritage showing through. Aedeagus had long been prone to seeing what he wanted to see in his larvae. Whatever they ended up becoming, though, it was a comfort to take the time out to simply hold her young, to feel their soft, warm little forms snuggling in against her. It was a welcome relief from feeling the links of those devoured by Quarry Eels snap, and from allocating the distribution of their meagre stores of love. Hers was not a hive in close proximity to ponykind, despite the rich deposits of useful and in some cases valuable materials that had drawn her ancestors to Ghastly Gorge in the first place.
On top of that, the presence of the ravenous predators made the gauntlet any changeling venturing to or from the hive had to run all the deadlier, in addition to having to cross such distances with little backup. The further someling had to travel, particularly if they had to use a lot of magic or energy, the more of the love they collected they'd have to absorb to make it back. It had been different in her grandmother Spinneret's time, when miners had been more plentiful, their worktowns nearby, but those days had long since passed. What she needed, she was sure, was some form of plan, some scheme to assure her hive's future somewhere more prosperous. Then, she and whatever heirs she had could truly thrive, rather than merely surviving. Holding her larvae close to her, she gave them a nuzzle with her silent vow to win them a better future.