04-09-2023, 03:29 PM
i'm torn from the truth that holds my soul
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
It’s a strange thing, to be both a monster and invisible.
There is no shortage of fearsome creatures in this land, he has learned; he is hardly unique in that sense, and he tries to find relief in that. There are just as many beautiful things as there are horrific ones—a demon for every angel, an antidote for every poison. It’s the balance of Beqanna, to overflow with all things wonderful and strange, and because of this so few notice the peculiar boy (hardly a boy anymore, though; he has grown tall and his face has lost the softness of adolescence, but in his mind he is still young and lost) that clings to the shadows.
He has been alone now for longer than he can remember, having long since been cast aside by his mother. He was not enough like her—in appearance, yes, but not enough in the mind. Only half a hunting machine, and half wasn’t good enough. Where Ripley mostly only craved the hunt, Fret craved companionship; when he was not hungry his mind wandered to other things, often distracted by the sounds of conversation.
Unfortunately, he has never been able to shake the feeling of being an outcast.
Unable to keep pace with the monsters, unable to blend with the rest of the crowd.
Self-imposed isolation had become his norm.
He is standing just down river when the sound of someone entering the water drags his attention from the current he had been absentmindedly staring at, and immediately he goes rigidly still. From where he stands he can just barely make out her figure between the leafy limbs of the trees that shaded this side of the bank, and that familiar longing in his chest flares to life. He follows that feeling, cautiously pulling away from the river to round the other side of the trees, until she is in plain sight. “Hello,” he say, the simple greeting sounding rough on his little-used tongue. He does not come any closer, his knife-tail lowered and still, as if that could somehow make his overall appearance less threatening.
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
It’s a strange thing, to be both a monster and invisible.
There is no shortage of fearsome creatures in this land, he has learned; he is hardly unique in that sense, and he tries to find relief in that. There are just as many beautiful things as there are horrific ones—a demon for every angel, an antidote for every poison. It’s the balance of Beqanna, to overflow with all things wonderful and strange, and because of this so few notice the peculiar boy (hardly a boy anymore, though; he has grown tall and his face has lost the softness of adolescence, but in his mind he is still young and lost) that clings to the shadows.
He has been alone now for longer than he can remember, having long since been cast aside by his mother. He was not enough like her—in appearance, yes, but not enough in the mind. Only half a hunting machine, and half wasn’t good enough. Where Ripley mostly only craved the hunt, Fret craved companionship; when he was not hungry his mind wandered to other things, often distracted by the sounds of conversation.
Unfortunately, he has never been able to shake the feeling of being an outcast.
Unable to keep pace with the monsters, unable to blend with the rest of the crowd.
Self-imposed isolation had become his norm.
He is standing just down river when the sound of someone entering the water drags his attention from the current he had been absentmindedly staring at, and immediately he goes rigidly still. From where he stands he can just barely make out her figure between the leafy limbs of the trees that shaded this side of the bank, and that familiar longing in his chest flares to life. He follows that feeling, cautiously pulling away from the river to round the other side of the trees, until she is in plain sight. “Hello,” he say, the simple greeting sounding rough on his little-used tongue. He does not come any closer, his knife-tail lowered and still, as if that could somehow make his overall appearance less threatening.
- - f r e t
