10-24-2019, 06:01 PM
GRETA
I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
" Do you remember? "
There is an innate desire to be touched - each living thing has this drive, this need for connection - verbally, physically, emotionally. It is a lust for words in their ears, skin to skin contact (a gentle brush, an enveloped embrace, a pain splintering punch to the eye), the reaching out of a heart to their own. Strange, how it is such a primal desire, but you cannot always place a name to it. Loneliness; a hollow but solid thing - unnamable if you do not quite know what it means, but it resonates through your bones and seeps out past your skin. It cannot be unrecognized, only felt.
There is a song that carries on the wind; low and sweet and beautiful (a melody that doesn’t quite seem to belong here in this place, but here it is twining through the canyons). It is marked with chirps, little beacons of hope that have sprouted from the sad song. It is unusual - a sound that Greta had never heard (for who would sing to her?), and it is calling. Come, it calls - and so she must, for what else was she to do?
She approaches, her body swathed in the dark - everything so dark, dark, dark. How foolish of her to follow the call in her mind at midnight. How silly of her to be lured like a siren towards an unknown melody. But it called, and so she came. Timid steps, her head quirked slightly, the moonlight her path, the churrups her target.
And oh - oh!
A creature! A thing! A puzzle of pieces and stars and scales and talons; a tail curved like a bow. This was nothing Greta had seen (perhaps, maybe, in nightmares?). He is skittish like falling snow in the wind - this way and that, at every curve of your face and angle of your body. He is everywhere. His body is swirling around her, ragged claws tearing at the dirt (better than flesh, really). And his eyes - he has none! What she mistook for adorning horns (strange, so strange), where his eyes should (would?) be.
She should be disgusted (she thinks?) - but he is a patchwork of her mother, her father. A galaxy ridden thing with wings and horns - a concoction of where she had came from (and still so unsure where to go). She is timid in the face of his recklessness - has he seen so much more of this world than she? He is bold in his words, where she has never spoken a thing. He is unflagging in his surety that this is where he belongs (and where does she go?).
Ghaul. A heavy name for someone so young. You are who?; who was she? She did not know. Her breath was taken in the moment, a cacophony of something so new. It was not a command, but a request - a question, a query. Who was she?
“I-I’m.. Her name, something so simple and sweet - plain, bitten through with hardness. Her father, for what knows why, had chosen it, that much she knew. She knew her mother, she knew her father, she knew they were both gone now, she knew she had no home - no claim - no family - no friend or foe. But she did not know who she was.
“Greta?” A question, almost. An upward inflect - was this all she really was? A series of hard syllables and vowels, a name. “I am here now.” She side stepped as his body made another sharp turn around her, wary of his flagging tail. Her head turns as he circles again, following his movements to better find his attention before she asks - “Where.. Where is here?”
@[Ghaul] eeeee this feels SO GOOOD <3