09-28-2025, 01:01 PM
i'm torn from the truth that holds my soul
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
The compulsion feels like something taking root in his veins, and yet he does not fight it. He simply follows that invisible pull, one step after the other, the shadows of the forest falling behind him as he abandons its safety and seclusion. It guides him out of the dark and into the waning light, the galaxy sheen of his armor glinting in the dying sun as he finds the well-worn path that winds up the mountain. He has never had any reason to go to the mountain, and if that thought tries to spring to mind it is quickly thwarted — he must go to the mountain, now.
There is a part of his mind that is still too simple, too basic; the monstrous side that does things only because it is instinct, that doesn’t really think about the hows and the whys — and this feels like that.
It feels like following his mother on her hunts even though he did not hunger for things the way she did.
It feels like trailing after her armored figure even though she rarely glanced back and did not seem to actually acknowledge or comprehend who he was — not her son, no, but instead a failed hunting partner, a hindrance to her mission.
Not monster enough to hunt with the xenomorphs, yet hardly equine enough to blend with the rest of them, either.
When he arrives at the top of the mountain and finds a small gathering, the spell breaks like glass shattering and clarity rushes over him like a wave. He blinks his starless-night eyes, unable to move, his tongue too heavy in his mouth to ask why they are here. All he can do is slowly tilt his strange head, his knife-tail poised, ready.
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
The compulsion feels like something taking root in his veins, and yet he does not fight it. He simply follows that invisible pull, one step after the other, the shadows of the forest falling behind him as he abandons its safety and seclusion. It guides him out of the dark and into the waning light, the galaxy sheen of his armor glinting in the dying sun as he finds the well-worn path that winds up the mountain. He has never had any reason to go to the mountain, and if that thought tries to spring to mind it is quickly thwarted — he must go to the mountain, now.
There is a part of his mind that is still too simple, too basic; the monstrous side that does things only because it is instinct, that doesn’t really think about the hows and the whys — and this feels like that.
It feels like following his mother on her hunts even though he did not hunger for things the way she did.
It feels like trailing after her armored figure even though she rarely glanced back and did not seem to actually acknowledge or comprehend who he was — not her son, no, but instead a failed hunting partner, a hindrance to her mission.
Not monster enough to hunt with the xenomorphs, yet hardly equine enough to blend with the rest of them, either.
When he arrives at the top of the mountain and finds a small gathering, the spell breaks like glass shattering and clarity rushes over him like a wave. He blinks his starless-night eyes, unable to move, his tongue too heavy in his mouth to ask why they are here. All he can do is slowly tilt his strange head, his knife-tail poised, ready.
-- f r e t
