Deep, dark, pleasant warmth. Not much room to move around, but very comfortable. There is no sense of time, only occassional movement, sometimes a slight tap, oftentimes near overbearing yet somehow still pleasant warmth. Like buried and wrapped in 10 fluffy, thick blankets.

With each tap, more warmth soaks in. But as it gets darker, it gets harder to move. Harder to turn, and an interesting tiny scraping sound. The more moving around, the more the tiny sound becomes intriguing.

Starting to push outwards, there is a satisfying loud crack, but then it's cold! Retreating back to the warmth, the cold still seeps in.

Not far, there seems to be an unyielding heat outside. Drawn to it, flopping out, a little silvery white dragon is now on the cold ground, one wing stretched out. Opening big, pastel-blue eyes to see a dark red blurry figure standing infront of him, it moves and lays ontop of him, drenching him in the warmth he craved, a dark wing now flopped over his head.