10-23-2025, 08:10 PM
bael
Ask him how much time has passed and he will tell you that none has passed at all.
He will tell you neither ice nor death know time.
And, because he is a monster, he does not either.
How meaningless the changing of the seasons, the passing of days.
Born an ugly thing, it is hard to tell that he has aged at all now that he’s an adult.
Nothing about him changes these days, Bael. Except that now he can touch the surface of a pool and watch as the whole thing freezes. Sometimes he will wait for some poor, unwitting creature to wade into the depths before he administers his kiss just to watch it writhe and squirm. The darkness in him is ancient and depthless.
The darkness in him is hungry.
He watches now as the ice splinters outward away from him, watches as the vegetation wilts and freezes. It has always been in his nature to destroy, understand. The first thing he brought to ruin was his voice when his mother, horrified by the ugly thing she had birthed, froze him in place with her own ropes of ice. He had screamed for her, frantic and starving, and she had left him there. The ice had softened more and more the further she got from him, until he could shake free of it. But she was already gone, Camellia, lost to him.
So now it is gravel, strangely stilted by the unnaturally beaked mouth. And only the first of many things he has wrecked.
Because he knows all about hunger.
He roams now, something wicked unleashed on the world more than something birthed into it, though there are much wickeder things here.
And he comes upon the river in his roaming and is just about to press his mouth into the water when he hears something, though he cannot identify the sound or its source. So he just pauses there, hovering above the river’s writhing surface, and listens.
He will tell you neither ice nor death know time.
And, because he is a monster, he does not either.
How meaningless the changing of the seasons, the passing of days.
Born an ugly thing, it is hard to tell that he has aged at all now that he’s an adult.
Nothing about him changes these days, Bael. Except that now he can touch the surface of a pool and watch as the whole thing freezes. Sometimes he will wait for some poor, unwitting creature to wade into the depths before he administers his kiss just to watch it writhe and squirm. The darkness in him is ancient and depthless.
The darkness in him is hungry.
He watches now as the ice splinters outward away from him, watches as the vegetation wilts and freezes. It has always been in his nature to destroy, understand. The first thing he brought to ruin was his voice when his mother, horrified by the ugly thing she had birthed, froze him in place with her own ropes of ice. He had screamed for her, frantic and starving, and she had left him there. The ice had softened more and more the further she got from him, until he could shake free of it. But she was already gone, Camellia, lost to him.
So now it is gravel, strangely stilted by the unnaturally beaked mouth. And only the first of many things he has wrecked.
Because he knows all about hunger.
He roams now, something wicked unleashed on the world more than something birthed into it, though there are much wickeder things here.
And he comes upon the river in his roaming and is just about to press his mouth into the water when he hears something, though he cannot identify the sound or its source. So he just pauses there, hovering above the river’s writhing surface, and listens.
( they won’t muzzle the mouth that just bit ya )