Deep within the earth dwells a dragon. His eyes are clear as glass, unseeing and empty, but in the darkness of the caves he sees as well as anyone else.

The stone walls are hard and rough, but they are the cradle of his choice. His claws find their way unerringly through treacherous tunnels, his nose guides him through the winding corridors without fail. He isn't the only dragon to roam the tunnels, but the shallows are his and his alone. The deeps belong to others, and he will not challenge their claim.

Sometimes he hears voices, babbling and singing and howling. Most of the time, they are the voices of other dragons. Found their way into the caverns by accident, lost and alone, they go mad and their cacophony is their play-acting, pretending they aren't alone in the dark. They are never hard to find, though their voices echo all around him. A less experienced drake would become lost in the confusion and perhaps go mad themself, but he is unperturbed by the noise.

More than one dragon has recognized him. Overjoyed, they babble about the guide, how they knew he would come and save him. He hushes them gently. Noise is a strange thing in this place. It might rouse things better left undisturbed. He leads them to the sun and sends them on their way with a warning to keep away from the dark.

Sometimes the voices are other things. He stays well away from them. They are clever, to imitate the voices of dragons so well, but he is not fooled. Here in the dark, sight means nothing. To listen is to live.

Others are not so wise, and by the time he finds them it is far too late.

The caves are their own world, with their own rules. He was smart and lucky enough to learn them on his own.

Silence is your ally. Noise attracts the hungry and the curious. Of the two, curious is far more dangerous.

Keep the surface to the surface. Noise is deadly, but scent is nearly as bad. A well-meaning gift might mean a brutal end, if accepted unwisely.

You are not alone. Learn your neighbors, whatever they might be. The fish that swim unseeing in the icy streams, the bats that wing their way each night to the stars, the lurkers with sharp claws and hungry maws. Know each one as intimately as they will allow, for to be ignorant is to be dead.

He lives on fish and fat cave crickets, an unusual diet for his species but perfectly natural for his chosen habitat. While his wings are frail, his limbs are strong and his claws are sharp, honed on stone. The fungus on his back are similar, if not quite the same as the ones sprouting from his bat's fur. She brought him the spores accidentally, but it is a gift he is glad for. The mushrooms protect him from the biting chill of the coldest caves, and their irritating spores drive away most anything that might attack. As of now they grow only along his spine, but he hopes they will spread to cover his wings and sides as well.