I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
All he ever feels is different. The lightning crackles in his veins but never sparks to life. It makes him feel dull, muzzled, and silent. It leaves a disquiet that he can never shake—something that follows him along and then reminds him at every corner how he is trapped here and in this body. But this frustration fades when the flash of light catches him off guard. He startles a little, taking a defensive step back and lifting his head in a protective sweep upward, snorting as he stomps down, the sound like a clap of thunder.
What he finds though is not something so concerning.
It’s just a young girl, at least by appearances. He settles, a little, but the energy of the bristling storm still lives just under the surface of him, trapped behind the white of his eyes. He remains still, his tail cracking behind him and his head still raised to reveal the deep arch of his throat. For a second, he just stands there and studies her intently, pouring all of his energy into trying to learn all of the different pieces of her.
She is more than she appears. He feels it in his bones, but he has no words to explain it. No ability to try and put it into words so he instead just tucks the feeling away, letting it soak into him. He settles, just a little, but enough to not look quite so on edge. “Clearly,” he simply responds—not once thinking that he should be the one to apologize and not holding it against her that she didn’t apologize.
The storm didn’t apologize for the damage in its wake.
The stars didn’t apologize for their light.
“I am trapped thunder,” he says, and it’s not nearly as poetic as it is truth. He doesn’t elaborate though. Just shakes his head, his heavy, matted mane falling down both sides of his arched neck. He looks down his nose to her, trying to find the words that do not come. “My name is Morrowind,” he still thinks at how strange it sounds in this tongue—how it feels so dull when translated to this world.
MORROWIND
