do you think God stays in his heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he has created?
He’s made so many new friends lately that he has elected to try his hand in the field. Ana had told him to recruit and grow their numbers, and he’s eager to comply. When he arrives, the air has that humid thickness that tells him a storm is building on the horizon. The rain and thunder are his only indication that it is spring aside from the lack of frigid cold. He might mourn his inability to see the bright green grasses and blooming flowers if he only knew what he was missing out on.
But he does not, and so he mourns nothing.
There is someone strange nearby, however, and he notices the way her outline changes shape. Suddenly, he can smell feathers, and he finds himself hoping for it to be followed by the scent of scales. His wings spread halfway and he slinks closer with his neck outstretched eagerly. Quick as they sprouted, the feathers are gone in an instant, and he finds himself coming to an abrupt halt. Ghaul raises his head as his wings fully extend and he lifts his head, ears turned toward her curiously. What a strange little thing, he thinks. But he likes strange, doesn’t he? He loves to collect and hoard them for himself.
The wyrm edges closer, talons sinking into the mud with each step and leaving awful gashes in the earth. What does he want? What a splendid question. When the sun peeks out and allows her skin to shimmer and glisten beautifully, it only reveals the veins within the membrane of his wings. He is an ugly thing in the light.
“I do not fly,” he responds quietly, still creeping closer to her. When the clouds regain control of the skies, the stars across his horns and cheeks resume their glittering. “Do you?”
And he wants to reach out and trace the angles of her face as he has done so often to others, but he retrains himself. Instead he listens closely for her answer as his chest tightens at the anxiety surrounding it. He has seen little heat signatures in the skies and he has wondered what it’s like. Sometimes he stands on the cliffs of Pangea and spreads his wings so he can imagine he’s flying while the wind blows over his face. But how could a blind thing ever hope to soar?
“I am Ghaul, from Pangea. You are who?” he asks with a tilt of his head as he attempts a smile, though the expression is full of crooked fangs and scarred lips.
@[Gluttony] he's halfway behaved here! yay!