12-05-2021, 02:38 PM
i'm torn from the truth that holds my soul
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
The forest remains the place he most commonly inhabits.
He has ventured to the meadow once and found it to be too open. He did not like how easy it was for them to stare, how he stood out so starkly with his black armor among the green grasses and soft flowers. Everything about him was already so harsh—the unyielding ridges that line his spine, the knife-tipped tail, and the armor that plates his face. At least in the forest he was overshadowed by the towering trees and the darkness that they cast; he was able to be insignificant and invisible.
It wasn’t what he wanted to be, but maybe it was best, for now.
It’s quiet in this part of the forest, away from where others tended to wander and congregate. He had stepped off the worn paths and was making his own, ignoring the way branches and bramble scraped along the hardened armor. But as the trees grew closer together it became too complicated, his great wings growing cumbersome and hindering his movements. He turns to head back the way he had come when there is a strange gust of wind and the sudden ringing of laughter, and he frowns behind his armor as he tries to figure out where it had come from. The limbs had not rattled, as if the wind had come from within the forest itself instead of following a path from the sky, and he could not find a source for the laugh.
There is the feeling of cold too close to his face, and then the strange sensation that someone is watching. “What are you?” he asks, the words still feeling thick on his inexperienced tongue. He thinks he was supposed to ask who are you, but he is not sure if the wind can be a who.
i'm down in the grave where I belong --
The forest remains the place he most commonly inhabits.
He has ventured to the meadow once and found it to be too open. He did not like how easy it was for them to stare, how he stood out so starkly with his black armor among the green grasses and soft flowers. Everything about him was already so harsh—the unyielding ridges that line his spine, the knife-tipped tail, and the armor that plates his face. At least in the forest he was overshadowed by the towering trees and the darkness that they cast; he was able to be insignificant and invisible.
It wasn’t what he wanted to be, but maybe it was best, for now.
It’s quiet in this part of the forest, away from where others tended to wander and congregate. He had stepped off the worn paths and was making his own, ignoring the way branches and bramble scraped along the hardened armor. But as the trees grew closer together it became too complicated, his great wings growing cumbersome and hindering his movements. He turns to head back the way he had come when there is a strange gust of wind and the sudden ringing of laughter, and he frowns behind his armor as he tries to figure out where it had come from. The limbs had not rattled, as if the wind had come from within the forest itself instead of following a path from the sky, and he could not find a source for the laugh.
There is the feeling of cold too close to his face, and then the strange sensation that someone is watching. “What are you?” he asks, the words still feeling thick on his inexperienced tongue. He thinks he was supposed to ask who are you, but he is not sure if the wind can be a who.
-- f r e t
@alkena