12-09-2021, 03:07 PM
She is not beautiful, and it galls her. She is not plain, either, in the traditional sense, because her wine red skin is marked with red snakes that glow ominously even in the daylight, but arresting and stately are not what she desires.
Pangea is not a beautiful place, and for that reason, she abandons it, as she does the silver-eyed mother that lurks through the canyon searching for her next obsession. It had been nothing at all for a girl raised under the crush of manufactured devotion to transfer all that fervor from a brother who jealously rejected her to another who used her no differently. It had just as surely been nothing at all to the Dark God to trace the skinless patterns that etched across Chimera's body, nor to wonder how those spaces would stretch and bleed and ache when her belly grew swollen with the child. Perhaps it was his aim, even, but who can tell with such creatures? Still, there is something wicked and hungry in Chimera's enchantment that makes a thrill of every pain and horror inflicted upon her. It is something that Creatrice cannot understand, and so she shuns the ugly and the dull and the useless.
Like Pangea, this place is also not beautiful, but it had the benefit of being new. The yearling weaves through columns of stacked and toppled stones like a droplet of blood, picking her way delicately between the structures with a scowl rending her lips. Ugly, she thinks, with a flick of her petulant ears. She finds her curiosity about the Ruins poorly rewarded by what they show her. Mud, stone, dead sea life that was too unlucky to avoid the sudden rise up out of the abyss.
A lesson, then. The girl hates lessons, she is not of a studious bent, but she nods her head because she will not be like them, too dumb, too slow, and she turns to leave, her interest quite sated with this place. There is another along her way, not far, and staring out at the sea as though she might burn it all away. She is lovely and jealousy and desire leap up like wildfire in Creatrice' throat, shoving her forward on their feverish thermals to draw up beisde the golden mare at the muddy shoreline.
"It stinks here," is all she says, snorting her disgust into the salt-fish air.
Pangea is not a beautiful place, and for that reason, she abandons it, as she does the silver-eyed mother that lurks through the canyon searching for her next obsession. It had been nothing at all for a girl raised under the crush of manufactured devotion to transfer all that fervor from a brother who jealously rejected her to another who used her no differently. It had just as surely been nothing at all to the Dark God to trace the skinless patterns that etched across Chimera's body, nor to wonder how those spaces would stretch and bleed and ache when her belly grew swollen with the child. Perhaps it was his aim, even, but who can tell with such creatures? Still, there is something wicked and hungry in Chimera's enchantment that makes a thrill of every pain and horror inflicted upon her. It is something that Creatrice cannot understand, and so she shuns the ugly and the dull and the useless.
Like Pangea, this place is also not beautiful, but it had the benefit of being new. The yearling weaves through columns of stacked and toppled stones like a droplet of blood, picking her way delicately between the structures with a scowl rending her lips. Ugly, she thinks, with a flick of her petulant ears. She finds her curiosity about the Ruins poorly rewarded by what they show her. Mud, stone, dead sea life that was too unlucky to avoid the sudden rise up out of the abyss.
A lesson, then. The girl hates lessons, she is not of a studious bent, but she nods her head because she will not be like them, too dumb, too slow, and she turns to leave, her interest quite sated with this place. There is another along her way, not far, and staring out at the sea as though she might burn it all away. She is lovely and jealousy and desire leap up like wildfire in Creatrice' throat, shoving her forward on their feverish thermals to draw up beisde the golden mare at the muddy shoreline.
"It stinks here," is all she says, snorting her disgust into the salt-fish air.
- Creatrice
@Aela