GOOD KID ; whittling

[VIRGIL M.]

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XVIII - THE MOON

a monument dreams and fantasies come to life, the representation of instincts often left suppressed and a knock into our subconscious.  Virgil of the pitt is a study in beauty: a perfect understanding of that which terrifies you, a perfect picturesque of horror and delight

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such a fragile craft, balanced on the edge of a knife one flick away from cutting- spilling blood onto perfect wood. Virgil had heard of carving: it was common practice to carve your own mementos: altar crafting wasn't something Virgil had yet: crafting for a non-existent shelf when all she had to her name were the rotting pile in the jungle and a few vials of maggots. She hadn't yet found a place to settle yet, but her garden was in the process: Virgil had set to digging a large pit and the dirt caked her maws, only stopping as she heard the stale hymn of a stranger nearby: the pop of sound of a rhythmic practice. It called to her like a spell cast: an addiction in too many parts at once: Virgil fell to it and followed along to the pair.

Ash had tinged his paws, yet it was the wood that was caught between them that held his interest- Virgil's focus was on his eyes, the slight furrow to the stranger's brow as he carved: a tip used to chisel in a groove for a smile. It was artful- Virgil fell to the concentration held there: such careful consideration even in the rythmic carvings. She wondered too if he took in requests. VIrgil would love a figurine of... of something.

Something hand made had power: even if he didn't know it- placing you're own mark in each groove of the wood imbued it with an essence of yourself. Virgil wondered if he knew what that meant. Tying him to the wood could be very dangerous in the wrong hands- yet she held her tongue from telling him this: in telling it would lessen the chance of her getting a carving. Beyond that- that flair of aura that stuck into the wood with each carve- they were pretty figurines.

"If not- would you teach me?" Virgil's voice was so small- timid. a ghost of a whimper behind her voice that trembled from her maw- she knew asking was a mistake. In the desert begging did nothing but prolong the inevitable- it showed a weakness: Virgil could make do on her own. She admired the pitt's resourcefulness in gathering warriors, but she was a whelp of a witchling. Small and untrained even now- but still she wanted- wanted.