"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
It was born, but that is the old story.
It was born, hatched from an egg to peering monstrous faces. It did not know of its conception – alien and old god – it did not know that its existence was a soft of defiance. It did not care for such complexities, then, and it does not care now.
It cared about what was placed before it as its limbs unfurled and the egg-pieces fall away, where they will be ground into the earth. It inhaled, and there was a scent - meat - as something squirmed and mewled before the monster, and then it feasted, uttering shrill, birdlike chirps as it did.
It was born, and it is older now. It is old enough to grasp some of the strangeness of its existence, that it balances in two worlds. It knows its small pack, an alien parent and half-sibling, and the woman – the goddess – who hates its existence, though it does not know why.
It has slipped away from the group, though. It does not know what drove this defiance, nor does it know the path its strange feet take.
The monster moves in the forest, shadows dappling on alien, armored skin. It is not yet full-grown, but this is hard enough to tell, it is not assembled in the exact way the horses around it are, it is armor and acid placed around a vaguely equid shape.
It looks around through dark black eyes, and sees the horses, and it does not yet know if they are kin, or prey.
and what rough beast its hour come ‘round at last slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
05-01-2020, 06:28 PM (This post was last modified: 05-01-2020, 09:21 PM by Indatha.)
Show the world the Love that you stole.
Beqanna was a land of monsters. That was a piece of wisdom imparted on the girl as soon as she took her first step. Her first breath, her first taste of milk and fear. It was something she felt coiled in her chest when she looked into the clear blue eyes of her mother. Eyes that gazed through the little girl and saw nothing but the shadows of the monster she would become.
It didn't take long for Indatha to figure out as she watched her mother disappear into the trees to be swallowed by mist and shadow, another wolf to whisper on the winds. She was a strong girl, her mother told her, she would find those that fit and those that saw her as a pawn, and it was up to her to decide if she would be wolf or sheep. Too much for something so fragile, so new to really understand. But she would make the most of the gifts her parents gave her.
She is a shadow among shadows. Wandering through the woods with little but her name to separate her from the other newborns this season. Her horns are nubs of bone contrasting against the ashen color of her hide and the silvery tufts of mane. A soft red glow seems to emanate from her, casting her in an otherworldly glow. A bubble of silence seemed to surround her as the woodland critters sensed danger in their midst and run. She stops when she finds someone, or something, that doesn't.
The creature before her is something that she has no name for. One of the monsters that she had been forewarned of. One of the things that bumped in the night. One like her. She reaches a tentative nose out to sniff at the thing, her delicate features shifting from wary to awestruck.
"What are you?" she whispers to the thing, not wanting to scare it off but hardly expecting much response.
What are you?
It is a monster, made to hunt and kill. Bred by dark gods unto an alien thing, and thus was it, tearing at the membrane of its egg, tearing into tender flesh offered. It is venomous and terrible and uncomplex, made of baser things.
But perhaps -
Perhaps there is more to it, perhaps complexities lurk underneath that armored skin, behind those flat, shark-like eyes. Perhaps it will overcome its nature and find, in time, desires that go beyond the base.
What are you?
It is an alien, vaguely equid in form, but distinctly not. It can barely imitate their sounds, its words are labored and rough, because its mouth is not shaped like theirs, it is made for hunting trills and triumphant shrieks, not casual conversations. Yet it is here, driven by something, and it turns its strange, foreign head to the thing that has approached. It trills, once, a strange noise, a language few understand.
And does the monster, does the alien, perceive the question? Barely. It watches the other, and smells blood. She is young, like it is, and it thinks of hot, spurting blood, of torn flesh, and it salivates.
But it mustn’t. This had been a rule. Hunting is limited to specific prey. The wrong prey has consequences. The wrong prey can hurt back, even if it seems so weak, so soft. What are you? she asks – she speaks so fast! – and it breathes heavy at her nearness.
It parses the question, word by painstaking word. What. Are. You.
It thinks of what the pack calls it, sometimes. It gives her this.
“Cree…cher…” it says, laboring in the words, trying to say its name. Creature.
As good an explanation as any.
and what rough beast, its hour come ‘round at last slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
