08-16-2020, 01:15 PM
HIGHER BEINGS, THESE WORDS ARE FOR YOU ALONE
ghostwhisper - mantis-awahondo hybrid - they/them
[div style="width: 100%; height: auto; text-align: justify; padding: 20px; font-size: 15px; color: #f2ffff;"]They were expected to kill again, for this festival thing. They'd already done such once before, in order to earn their place, in order to have the ability to skitter around the territory to map its edged. Performing such a task had settled heavily. They never struck first, they had to goad that creature into attacking them. They raised claw to gently scratch their shell, to distract themself from those thoughts surging forth. More killing. They could circumvent this, somewhat, could they not? Harvesting this task had been called, where they had to bring back something dead. Did they have to kill and strike with their own claws? Did they have to follow the ritual to a letter, just so that they could stay and continue their mapping? Absurdity on one claw, disgust on the other. They had four more claws to spare, but they didn't really need to relabel something the same way six times.
Their form moved slowly and with purpose to once again leave the Pitt's territory. After all, if they hoped for this task to be accomplished, they would need a little bit of aid of distance on their claws. A map was shuffled from their cloak, one that would hopefully aid them in their current task. Not all the way south, but south of where the Pitt made their home. Outside their 'borders', which Ghost vaguely understood enough to nod at the one who had suggested it and carefully mark it with dotted lines. Not that important to them. They'd much rather color code the lands, but that would have to settle for the finalized version of their maps. For now, dotted lines would do.
Ghostwhisper did deem themself intelligent. Smart enough to make maps and judge distance, smart enough to know to keep out of trouble and keep causing it to a minimum. A claw rubbed against shell, mind turning over once again. The past that they could never speak about, that would likely never be believed by anyone. They'd caused a lot of trouble before, hadn't they? They certainly did not wish to think about it at the time.
A miner's hat and her pick, strewn across a purple hued floor. They stood as the faint ringing of song comes to an end, falling to their knees.
The place where all trash wings up now granted by a corpse, the last true crafter of weapons in the whole kingdom. They passed him by every time they entered the home of the gods.
A daughter sitting next to where her mother had been laid to rest. They had been ushered away, and they had not the will to stay and comfort.
A nail embedded into a shore, abandoned despite it's pristine condition. They had sat with him not that long ago, unaware that it would be the last.
They shake their shell, realizing that they'd almost stumbled into a tree. Their form gives a small shake, cloak adjusting on their shoulders. Ghostwhisper had traveled to this location once before. There'd been a small tribe of creatures living here. Fierce, aggressive, proud, relentless, reminding them of mantises. They stored kills, Ghost had noted. It was a unique method, one that had left Ghost rater marveled. Perhaps they could use such a skill for their own means? To bundle up their maps? They'd have to think about it, after they updated their maps once again. Such a unique method of storage. Gently bound in the canopy of trees, safe from any predator with a mind focused on the ground rather than what rested above, or thieves that did not know where to properly look.
Upwards they gaze, equally as mindful to take note of the area around them. Finally they find such a package, and their wings help them rise to the cradle of branches that the kill rested in. A slash of their claws allowed a small glimpse inside. Fresh, definitely, could not have been killed all that long ago. Enough time that whoever had performed the kill was gone, but fresh enough that they could claim that they had killed such themself. They free the kill from the wrappings and saddle such on their back. The crook of their wings keep the food secure, and the backward bend of their arms around their neck ensured such.
Ghostwhisper climbed down, and skittered on their way.
[div style="width: 100%; height: auto; text-align: justify; padding: 20px; font-size: 15px; color: #f2ffff;"]They were expected to kill again, for this festival thing. They'd already done such once before, in order to earn their place, in order to have the ability to skitter around the territory to map its edged. Performing such a task had settled heavily. They never struck first, they had to goad that creature into attacking them. They raised claw to gently scratch their shell, to distract themself from those thoughts surging forth. More killing. They could circumvent this, somewhat, could they not? Harvesting this task had been called, where they had to bring back something dead. Did they have to kill and strike with their own claws? Did they have to follow the ritual to a letter, just so that they could stay and continue their mapping? Absurdity on one claw, disgust on the other. They had four more claws to spare, but they didn't really need to relabel something the same way six times.
Their form moved slowly and with purpose to once again leave the Pitt's territory. After all, if they hoped for this task to be accomplished, they would need a little bit of aid of distance on their claws. A map was shuffled from their cloak, one that would hopefully aid them in their current task. Not all the way south, but south of where the Pitt made their home. Outside their 'borders', which Ghost vaguely understood enough to nod at the one who had suggested it and carefully mark it with dotted lines. Not that important to them. They'd much rather color code the lands, but that would have to settle for the finalized version of their maps. For now, dotted lines would do.
Ghostwhisper did deem themself intelligent. Smart enough to make maps and judge distance, smart enough to know to keep out of trouble and keep causing it to a minimum. A claw rubbed against shell, mind turning over once again. The past that they could never speak about, that would likely never be believed by anyone. They'd caused a lot of trouble before, hadn't they? They certainly did not wish to think about it at the time.
A miner's hat and her pick, strewn across a purple hued floor. They stood as the faint ringing of song comes to an end, falling to their knees.
The place where all trash wings up now granted by a corpse, the last true crafter of weapons in the whole kingdom. They passed him by every time they entered the home of the gods.
A daughter sitting next to where her mother had been laid to rest. They had been ushered away, and they had not the will to stay and comfort.
A nail embedded into a shore, abandoned despite it's pristine condition. They had sat with him not that long ago, unaware that it would be the last.
They shake their shell, realizing that they'd almost stumbled into a tree. Their form gives a small shake, cloak adjusting on their shoulders. Ghostwhisper had traveled to this location once before. There'd been a small tribe of creatures living here. Fierce, aggressive, proud, relentless, reminding them of mantises. They stored kills, Ghost had noted. It was a unique method, one that had left Ghost rater marveled. Perhaps they could use such a skill for their own means? To bundle up their maps? They'd have to think about it, after they updated their maps once again. Such a unique method of storage. Gently bound in the canopy of trees, safe from any predator with a mind focused on the ground rather than what rested above, or thieves that did not know where to properly look.
Upwards they gaze, equally as mindful to take note of the area around them. Finally they find such a package, and their wings help them rise to the cradle of branches that the kill rested in. A slash of their claws allowed a small glimpse inside. Fresh, definitely, could not have been killed all that long ago. Enough time that whoever had performed the kill was gone, but fresh enough that they could claim that they had killed such themself. They free the kill from the wrappings and saddle such on their back. The crook of their wings keep the food secure, and the backward bend of their arms around their neck ensured such.
Ghostwhisper climbed down, and skittered on their way.
TAGS 7/22/20:
[table]
[tr]
[td][/td]
[td]
[/tr]
[/table]
[tr]
[td][/td]
[td]
FULZANIN is a 19 year old content creator. Currently roleplaying as Beezlebub in the Pitt and Jotunhel in the Typhoon. Time spent outside of work and writing is typically done in Creatures of Sonaria. FULZANIN is also in a happy relationship, and is aegosexual/asexual herself.
[/td][/tr]
[/table]