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DrakeCaven
Meteorite
- Joined
- May 8, 2010
And the little Wild Thing said: “I want to have a soul.”
Then the Oldest of the Wild Things said: “I have no soul to give you;
but if you got a soul, one day you would die, and if you knew
the meaning of music you would learn the meaning of sorrow, and it is
better to be a Wild Thing and never die.”
—Lord Dunsany, “The Kith of the Elf-Folk”
The entire night was a blur of excitement and uncertainty; people dashing for corner to corner, laughter spilling everywhere like water from a broken glass. Perhaps it was their exuberant revelry that blinded them to the creature that stalked in their midst. Mayhaps they mistook him, in his brilliant colors of orange and yellow, thinking the claws, he's strange ears and eyes nothing more than orientation. It was a common folly, a carefully ingrained belief fostered by the Fair Folk who did their deeds and made their oaths under the eyes of thousands who never even blinked.
But let’s pretend, if only for a moment, that someone did pay attention. they stared in horror and watched him stalk with the unmistakable quality of a hunting predator, a grace common among the great cats and hawks. He smile, and laughed, grace every mortal he passed with a slight touch as empty eyes scanned over them one by one, and found them wanting. He had the patience of centuries though, and eventually he found what he sought. A woman, perhaps drunk on life, or maybe something slightly more potent, but she would do regardless. He had no need of her sensibilities, only her word.
Two rings, made of wood and twine rolled about in his palm as he smiled at her with the warmth of a dry fall day.
"You should be careful dear,” he said after bumping into her slightly, his voice vibrating with the crashing sound of a falling tree, “there are dangerous things about tonight.”
(And a Pic for your pleasure.)
Then the Oldest of the Wild Things said: “I have no soul to give you;
but if you got a soul, one day you would die, and if you knew
the meaning of music you would learn the meaning of sorrow, and it is
better to be a Wild Thing and never die.”
—Lord Dunsany, “The Kith of the Elf-Folk”
The entire night was a blur of excitement and uncertainty; people dashing for corner to corner, laughter spilling everywhere like water from a broken glass. Perhaps it was their exuberant revelry that blinded them to the creature that stalked in their midst. Mayhaps they mistook him, in his brilliant colors of orange and yellow, thinking the claws, he's strange ears and eyes nothing more than orientation. It was a common folly, a carefully ingrained belief fostered by the Fair Folk who did their deeds and made their oaths under the eyes of thousands who never even blinked.
But let’s pretend, if only for a moment, that someone did pay attention. they stared in horror and watched him stalk with the unmistakable quality of a hunting predator, a grace common among the great cats and hawks. He smile, and laughed, grace every mortal he passed with a slight touch as empty eyes scanned over them one by one, and found them wanting. He had the patience of centuries though, and eventually he found what he sought. A woman, perhaps drunk on life, or maybe something slightly more potent, but she would do regardless. He had no need of her sensibilities, only her word.
Two rings, made of wood and twine rolled about in his palm as he smiled at her with the warmth of a dry fall day.
"You should be careful dear,” he said after bumping into her slightly, his voice vibrating with the crashing sound of a falling tree, “there are dangerous things about tonight.”
(And a Pic for your pleasure.)
