06-28-2018, 02:13 PM
[div style="width: 50%; text-align:justify;font-family:calibri;font-size:13pt;"]Griffingate was unforgiving to children like Davet, children who could no better control the extras they had as they could the color of their eyes or hair. They were about as loved as a burnt cake, loved only by those who were also starving.
Davet was a 'mutant' though the better term was demon. For some reason the latter was more comforting than the former.
He lay on the ground in the alley where he'd been staying for the last two nights, unable to actually escape Griffingate as so many others had. It was hard to get from a prison to a sanctuary when your body was no more than bones and skin. So here he was, battered, bloodied and bruised by people who hated him because of something he could not control. People who decided a malnourished and untrained target, someone easy, would be enough to take their anger out on. The fucking cowards.
There were five of them, already an overkill for a beating like this, some not too much older than him, others in their twenties and thirties. All men, however. It was that he'd found odd, expecting a mix, but he supposed that sometimes women had the better sense of empathy for a child.
They pulled at his wings and beat down on his horns, tried to rip off the scales on his cheeks. They yelled obscenities at him as small cuts appeared on exposed skin. To them, he supposed, stuff like this was nothing. He was too weak to fight back, barely strong enough to sit up at times. A savior was what he needed but not something he'd think he'd have anytime soon.
Davet was a 'mutant' though the better term was demon. For some reason the latter was more comforting than the former.
He lay on the ground in the alley where he'd been staying for the last two nights, unable to actually escape Griffingate as so many others had. It was hard to get from a prison to a sanctuary when your body was no more than bones and skin. So here he was, battered, bloodied and bruised by people who hated him because of something he could not control. People who decided a malnourished and untrained target, someone easy, would be enough to take their anger out on. The fucking cowards.
There were five of them, already an overkill for a beating like this, some not too much older than him, others in their twenties and thirties. All men, however. It was that he'd found odd, expecting a mix, but he supposed that sometimes women had the better sense of empathy for a child.
They pulled at his wings and beat down on his horns, tried to rip off the scales on his cheeks. They yelled obscenities at him as small cuts appeared on exposed skin. To them, he supposed, stuff like this was nothing. He was too weak to fight back, barely strong enough to sit up at times. A savior was what he needed but not something he'd think he'd have anytime soon.