you're so fucking special,
i wish i was special but i'm a creep
It feels something new, something it has never felt before - warmth. It remembers the lapping of the waves against its skin, it remembers the bloating of its mother, the stiffness in her maw, the beady eyes. This warmth is precious to it. The creature opens its eyes, its adrenaline kicks in - food; a weaker heart would result in myocardial infarction but this creature is not faint of such. It wonders why it is so easy, as if they just step in - it has learned that it must hunt, be swift but not now. It doesn't understand magic, not yet, but it is thankful.
Once its belly is full, engorged with mice (some perhaps still alive), it stands. In feeding, a large stallion has appeared - it remembers nightmares it's mother had; was this that image? Perhaps. The stallion has large wings, they fascinate it - the light that bends across the black scales; almost iridescent. Only having seen one other horse -it's mother, and at eye level to the ground - the stallion's size is all irrelative to it. It's perception of things, clearly, is skewed. The winged man asks a question. A name. It thinks, brow furrowed, confused and unsure; how do words become words? "Si-lo-am," it says, choppily but practicing in its head over and over. Siloam. The stallion mentions abandonment which means nothing to the strange little thing, he asks why.
It doesn't know why. It doesn't understand body mechanics, mortality, or that it is a walking, recently talking, freak show. It would learn in later years, though, that much is certain. "Water. Mama cold. Siloam leave. it says, not sure if this would suffice - still confused. It is not afraid of this man, perhaps a young colt should be but fear does not register.
It is moldable, one can only hope it has given to good hands.
infection and oliphander