06-24-2017, 08:54 AM
i'm not going to change, so stay out of my way.
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
The gentle caress of autumn weaves its way through her ruffled feathers as a quiet breeze touches delicately along her pale golden pelt, a long and drawn out sigh emerging from her parted, whiskered lips. It had been a long time - too long, perhaps - since she had descended into the shadows of a once familiar pathway of heavy rock and sloping foliage. The shadows beckon her forth and she falls into temptation, savoring the way the temperature drops as the sun struggles to peek through the heavy pines that shelter her.
Tightly, she draws her wings against her lithe and flexible body, grimacing only slightly as the bristling feathers scratch against the old, brittle bark that tugs and pulls relentlessly at her. She prefers the dim, dark rhythm of the night, in which she is unrestrained and able to move swiftly – but the darkness is a gentle reprieve from the dense humidity and heat she is so used to.
The silence is almost deafening, and the sunlight is beginning to fade away – a shadow is descending overhead; an incoming storm with a frigid gust of wind that weaves its way through the winding branches of the forest, rustling the ivory feathers of her folded wings. A shiver traverses the course of her spine, but she is wholly unphased – weather would come, and it would go – it would pass, and soon, she would be uncomfortably warm and slick with perspiration near the rumbling volcano she had come to call her own.
Alas, the tranquility is shattered with a sudden grotesque thud echoing through the dense foliage from somewhere in the distance, and the ridges of her brow line knit together in a scowl. Quietly, with her winged appendages tucked tightly against the ridges of her body, she paces through the woodland, weaving between small, nearly impossible gaps between old and winding pines – before coming across a small clearing, where a delicate and colorful thing lay amidst the dull, dying vegetation.
Her dark eyes search the sky and the line of the forest for any movement, and finding none, she moves nearer to the small child. She is vivid, bright – with soft, paper-thin wings of marigold and amber, with skin the very same shade of gold as her own. When she sees her eyes – wide, compound, unblinking, her heart nearly seizes within her chest. She would know of her father’s genes anywhere – she carried them herself, after all, and moreso, had lovingly plucked and groomed at his soft, feathery antennae more times than she could count.
”Shh, shh – don’t cry,” she murmurs softly, as the soft plush of her nose presses against the unusual moth-child’s cheek. ”you’re not alone. Where is your mother?”
And your father? she doesn’t ask, her heart overwhelmed with so many questions – was she his child? If so, that meant he was alive – and somewhere out there.
Tightly, she draws her wings against her lithe and flexible body, grimacing only slightly as the bristling feathers scratch against the old, brittle bark that tugs and pulls relentlessly at her. She prefers the dim, dark rhythm of the night, in which she is unrestrained and able to move swiftly – but the darkness is a gentle reprieve from the dense humidity and heat she is so used to.
The silence is almost deafening, and the sunlight is beginning to fade away – a shadow is descending overhead; an incoming storm with a frigid gust of wind that weaves its way through the winding branches of the forest, rustling the ivory feathers of her folded wings. A shiver traverses the course of her spine, but she is wholly unphased – weather would come, and it would go – it would pass, and soon, she would be uncomfortably warm and slick with perspiration near the rumbling volcano she had come to call her own.
Alas, the tranquility is shattered with a sudden grotesque thud echoing through the dense foliage from somewhere in the distance, and the ridges of her brow line knit together in a scowl. Quietly, with her winged appendages tucked tightly against the ridges of her body, she paces through the woodland, weaving between small, nearly impossible gaps between old and winding pines – before coming across a small clearing, where a delicate and colorful thing lay amidst the dull, dying vegetation.
Her dark eyes search the sky and the line of the forest for any movement, and finding none, she moves nearer to the small child. She is vivid, bright – with soft, paper-thin wings of marigold and amber, with skin the very same shade of gold as her own. When she sees her eyes – wide, compound, unblinking, her heart nearly seizes within her chest. She would know of her father’s genes anywhere – she carried them herself, after all, and moreso, had lovingly plucked and groomed at his soft, feathery antennae more times than she could count.
”Shh, shh – don’t cry,” she murmurs softly, as the soft plush of her nose presses against the unusual moth-child’s cheek. ”you’re not alone. Where is your mother?”
And your father? she doesn’t ask, her heart overwhelmed with so many questions – was she his child? If so, that meant he was alive – and somewhere out there.
Ellyse
So, Elly is her half-sister and recognized her immediately as being family.