CREATURE
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?
