01-17-2019, 09:26 AM
godbear
He is unfamiliar with everything. His soul is white washed -- his history scalped clean -- his body rinsed and renewed (a different color, a different marking, but the same mortal mark on one side of his body -- youcan’tsee youcan’thear). He does not know where to go from here - he never knew (abandoned at birth - then Nera, oh Nera - swept back to the stars and the system of solar gods - back, back to Beqanna). He has no home, no one akin to him, no knowledge of how this world spins and turns and rolls.
He knows there is sickness. The heft of it’s stench roils his nose (something so relied on, with such sensory shortcomings). The coughing, the dripdripdrip of blood from nosemoutheyes, Death ready and waiting. He does not know how to change it (is it even something for him to change? He has nothing here in this world - no one, nothing to fight for.) Perhaps this all the more reason to etch a halt in the rapid spread of the plague. Others had things to give - to live for - to shirk in the safe havens, away from Death. But Godbear; Godbear would not be known - Godbear would not be missed should Death drive over him.
He heeds - following the whisper call to a land dense with flora (such a far cry from the cold, the salt crunch of the frozen meadow). The first blossoms - they must be found - a beacon of mending, the steps to cure this wrought-ridden land. He can do it - for there is not much else he is good for.
He follows - the fairy bright and light before him - Beqanna beckoning with a plea a bargain a beg. He can do it - he can, he will, he shall help willfully. He steps - head and ear swiveling (anything to catch the empty space on that right side) - he is met by a sea of swirling petal, falling drifting swimming towards him. Head spinning - stars screaming for him to sleepsleephushnow. Eyes closing (completely blind, now - left and right side even again), senses drifting to the scent of the wildblooms. Sleep sleep sleep they whisper.. And he will, oh he will, because he can..
He knows there is sickness. The heft of it’s stench roils his nose (something so relied on, with such sensory shortcomings). The coughing, the dripdripdrip of blood from nosemoutheyes, Death ready and waiting. He does not know how to change it (is it even something for him to change? He has nothing here in this world - no one, nothing to fight for.) Perhaps this all the more reason to etch a halt in the rapid spread of the plague. Others had things to give - to live for - to shirk in the safe havens, away from Death. But Godbear; Godbear would not be known - Godbear would not be missed should Death drive over him.
He heeds - following the whisper call to a land dense with flora (such a far cry from the cold, the salt crunch of the frozen meadow). The first blossoms - they must be found - a beacon of mending, the steps to cure this wrought-ridden land. He can do it - for there is not much else he is good for.
He follows - the fairy bright and light before him - Beqanna beckoning with a plea a bargain a beg. He can do it - he can, he will, he shall help willfully. He steps - head and ear swiveling (anything to catch the empty space on that right side) - he is met by a sea of swirling petal, falling drifting swimming towards him. Head spinning - stars screaming for him to sleepsleephushnow. Eyes closing (completely blind, now - left and right side even again), senses drifting to the scent of the wildblooms. Sleep sleep sleep they whisper.. And he will, oh he will, because he can..
the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
Code by: Pride