they awaken from their place in the center of their planet, the only habitable place left for them to go, and they search for him. they fly forth from their catacombs, clustered together for safety and self-preservation, for the idea that someone will save from their own core. he that has come, he that is the first of their kind in this biosphere, he that is their hope and most like has no idea.
the first thing they hear when they reach close enough to our planet is a joke, something that they do not have the character to take in jest. they do not laugh, nor cry, nor mourn having to leave their own planet in favor of colonization.
they are a sentient race, omnipresent in their own world and perhaps in ours - we have no way of knowing. at their crown lay tentacles, curled into horn-like shapes in a weak interpretation of earth’s all-too-silly rams, meant to take in information that their eyes cannot. beneath that is their head, a large fly trap with hairy teeth, and below that at their throat lay their eyes, large and black and seemingly depthless. their necks go on forever, stopping only when they break into the wings - batlike in nature, with thick veins and arteries that give them texture and the appearance of a need for what we know to be blood - that carry them around in the continuous caverns in which they live. they have no hands; the receptors on their head do everything for them, and they seem to have the ability to stretch out, to straighten in case they are necessary.
they do not need our oxygen. they do not need our brains, nor our information. they only need our planet; they will shape it to their own needs.
in this way, they have waited for what we know to be centuries.
they could have continued on for much longer than our race will be alive.