12-23-2021, 12:36 AM
i'm torn from the truth that holds my soul
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
Though he was not much of a conversationalist, he has always been observant.
For the longest time that was all he could do, was watch them. Their language was strange to his ears and he couldn’t figure out how to make his tongue say the right words that they would understand, and so all he did was watch. His predator side made it easy — he could follow them unnoticed, and knew just how to step to avoid making sounds. And in all of his watching he learned that Beqanna was brimming with magic, and that it showed itself in countless ways. The voice that he is hearing now must be another example of that magic, though it was nothing like he had experienced before and for some reason it is unsettling, perhaps because it had never occurred to him to look for the things that are invisible.
“I was not being unkind,” and though the words are clumsy there is a sort of indignation to his tone, his ears falling back although they don’t quite pin. She laughs when she says it, which feels confusing as he tries to decipher if she—is the wind a she?—is actually angry or not. He can feel a flicker of irritation come to life in the pit of his stomach because he still cannot see whatever he is speaking to, and switching to the infrared range had not helped him.
It made him feel exposed, and he was not used to being the prey.
The feeling fades though when he is caught off guard by her question, confusion shadowing his face. “I’m a….” he trails off in uncertainty, his mind struggling to recall the thing he had heard others murmur when he walked by. What they called themselves in his mother’s tongue had no translation, but there was a word in particular that was said over and over by those around him as they stared. “Xenomorph. Or part one. My name is Fret.”
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
Though he was not much of a conversationalist, he has always been observant.
For the longest time that was all he could do, was watch them. Their language was strange to his ears and he couldn’t figure out how to make his tongue say the right words that they would understand, and so all he did was watch. His predator side made it easy — he could follow them unnoticed, and knew just how to step to avoid making sounds. And in all of his watching he learned that Beqanna was brimming with magic, and that it showed itself in countless ways. The voice that he is hearing now must be another example of that magic, though it was nothing like he had experienced before and for some reason it is unsettling, perhaps because it had never occurred to him to look for the things that are invisible.
“I was not being unkind,” and though the words are clumsy there is a sort of indignation to his tone, his ears falling back although they don’t quite pin. She laughs when she says it, which feels confusing as he tries to decipher if she—is the wind a she?—is actually angry or not. He can feel a flicker of irritation come to life in the pit of his stomach because he still cannot see whatever he is speaking to, and switching to the infrared range had not helped him.
It made him feel exposed, and he was not used to being the prey.
The feeling fades though when he is caught off guard by her question, confusion shadowing his face. “I’m a….” he trails off in uncertainty, his mind struggling to recall the thing he had heard others murmur when he walked by. What they called themselves in his mother’s tongue had no translation, but there was a word in particular that was said over and over by those around him as they stared. “Xenomorph. Or part one. My name is Fret.”
-- f r e t
