Some would call him lucky, others would not trade places with him for the world: regardless, his beginnings were humble.
His earliest memories were of darkness, and of sound. Vividly, he could remember the footsteps: the light, quick pitter-patter of the attendents, the hulking steps of the Faceless that patrolled the halls, the scraping of his mother's claws echoing through the cave as she watched over her brood. These simple observations made up his life. He did not know who or what he was, because nobody had ever told him. He did not know what light was, because he had never seen it.
And soon his understanding expanded beyond the simple sounds of movement. The guards and the attendants spoke, and even in his youth, he was skillful at picking up the meaning. "Shuul'wah" was one of the first he could recognize, and had been spoken by almost everyone. "Karkun" was one of his mother's favorite words, but most of the other beings could not understand it. Either way, his skill with languages was exceptional. Before long, he could understand every full conversation in the cave regardless on languages. With language came his first coherent thoughts: curiosity about the world, opinions on the individual attendants he heard go about their buisness.
As the weeks passed and his thoughts developed, another strange characteristic of his environment came to his attention. When certain beings came by, a peculiar feeling filled the area. It was a cold, dark feeling, that lingered even after they had left and chilled him to the bone. He could feel it with almost every being, many more than others. The Faceless in particular had this feeling about them, and at this realization he began to dread their footsteps when they began to approach him. His mother, once, leaned her body over to watch over the brood. The chill that washed over him was unlike that of even the Faceless, and it frightened him.
One day, one of the Faceless came close, bringing the strange, familiar feeling with it. There was a long pause without sound, then a strange, ugly sound in the Faceless tongue: "H'iwn thoq Phquathi". There was an odd sound, similar to when his mother moved in her pit of lava, but different in a way he could not describe. The cold was overpowering, and his thoughts went from frenzied to silent, like in his first months of life. The Faceless had retreated, yet even after it should have, the cold feeling lingered. It took time for him to realize, with horror, that the feeling came from himself.
After that day, his very body felt strange. For the first while after, it was simple pain, in the far parts of his body. This feeling evolved to discomfort, and later, to a strange swollen sensation. He had no room to move, to live. He was too big for his own body, it seemed. His body and his mind could not catch up to his size, and it was not a pleasant feeling.
The days continued passing, and the strangest sounds entered his awareness. It began first with strange thunks and frenzied movement, as the rest of his brood sought freedom from the shells in which they had lived for their entire lives. It escalated soon enough, to the sound of cracking and shattering and of claws and wings being tested out for the first time. He was one of the last to begin his struggle for freedom. A concerned attendant checked his egg, and offered to help break it; she was told off by her superiors. If one was too weak to escape his own egg, they explained, he was not strong enough to be of any value to the forces of Twilight.
It was a long, tiring process. His tail, he found, was hard and strong enough to break through, and he used it frequently. In desperation, he resorted to claws and teeth, and simply pressing his body against the shell of the egg in hope of cracking it. His efforts could not pay off soon enough. Freedom came eventually, and he savored his first glimpse of light. His wings were weak and wet, the fluid slowly leaking off and drying off of his body. He could not yet fly; that part would come later.
Overhead flew several older dragons, much larger than him or the rest of the brood. "Oh, isn't this a handsome one?" The speaker was an older female drake who spoke in Draconic to another beside her.
"I hope we get him." Her friend cackled. "He looks like he'd be a fun one. See those wings?"
There was suddenly a rope over his neck, and it was tightened from behind. An attendant, an old orc woman, pulled him off to the side. The brood was shuffled into another cave, where a senior attendant and an old dragon spoke. This wyrm was different from the others: its scales were dark as well, yes, but its wings and underside were orange tones. The twilight brood had dark, inky blue-black bodies, and wings displaying a vibrant gradiant of blue and purple tones.
"Sintharia's brood?" Asked the wyrm.
"Indeed," The attendant answered. "The children of Deathwing."
"A cut above the norm then, I expect," The wyrm commented. "Most of those that I record are the corrupted runts snatched from the lesser red and blue broods. I hope the Master is pleased."
The brood was lined up and records were entered. The wyrm assigned the young twilights their names, and they were recorded into a book by the senior attendant. The handsome young twilight and his orc attendant were one of the last to the front of the line, and the wyrm hardly gave him a glance.
"Araxion, male, Grim Batol, special, black, son of Sintharia and Deathwing." The wyrm stated, and the senior attendant rushed to copy it down.
And like that, Araxion was named. He and his brood were sequestered away in a special section of the Twilight compound, and there they slept, free from their eggs for the first time. For a long time the newly-hatched drakes were awake, daring not to speak; it was difficult, but eventually, each drifted into sweet sleep for the first time.