It is not like its mother.
Its mother is a magician, all slick angles and darkness, wrapped in shadows and spirits. It has none of that wicked grace, none of the strange mysticism bathed across its features. Besides her it feels clunky and heavy, jaws clicking as it tries to master a language not meant for its tongue.
It is not like its father.
Its father shares the same body, alien and sharp, spines and teeth like knives, teeth meant to tear and render meat to shreds. But its father knows only the birdlike trills of their language (its natural tongue, the one that comes easy, the one resistant). Its father can only stomach meat, its father does not speak their language, only mushy slurred words that leave everyone frustrated.
It is its own being.
A true cross-breed, with the look of aliens and a mind closer to a horse. It traipses through the world, sharp and untouchable, trying to learn their language. Its mouth is too-wide, like it’s always smiling.
(You’re not an It, insists its sister, who is wholly equine, who is bright and wicked and who sometimes hurts it, sometimes creeps into its mind and makes it do things, you’re a she, a her. Just like me.)
It has a name – Charnel. A name of death houses. A ghastly name, for it comes from a ghastly family.
(Its sister is named violence. They are named for pain and hurt.)
(I’ll make you normal, promises its sister, just let me in.)
It has wings that grow, too, metallic glistening things that it unfurls and flaps tentatively. They are large and cumbersome and it does not yet know how to fly. It is the only one in the family with wings.
Wings folded against ink-dark sides, it
(she)
walks into the forest. And the first thing it (she) sees is a mare, older than Charnel but you wouldn’t know (aliens grow fast, already tall and armored).
She would smile, but is afraid to show her teeth.
“Hello,” she says. The word is still mushy, odd in her almost beak-like mouth, but she manages. She’s been practicing.
sorry about the weird text color I am incopetent and trying to fix it