From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
It could’ve been a dream.
Except it was unlike the rest of his nightmares – no endless leagues of battlefields, no friends felled by the wayside one by one, no raindrops rampaging down eyes, no kingdoms torn and flayed apart. Instead, it was wild and chaotic, unleashed, untamed, unbroken, hands unfurling to paws, claws unfamiliar, rapacious edges blistering, brimming, over the boundaries of his predacious mind.
Quick, sudden movements, the frenzy and frenetic energy stored within his limbs, launching, swift, sleek, no tiger entities, no eagle plumage, no bear adornments – a streamlined essence of haunting, demonic energy. It called and chased, seared and simmered, and he answered, answered, answered with no recollection of how or why or when. He was on the wind, over fallen limbs and broken boughs, no sensation of his long-favored control. It was fire, it was darkness, it was entities long since embedded and infused, lingering well below the surface, beneath his confined elements and oeuvres of demonic capabilities.
A howl pierced and pulled from his form, long and unwinding, feral and undaunted, power and precision interlocking, threading on his barbaric movements, wandering through the forest with no set goal except becoming a part of the dusk, the devilry, the havoc. Reality and tangibility not entirely set in stone, disbelieving as paws moved keenly over moss, over broken, brittle leaves, over the siren winds of impending winter. He was uncertain if he was doom or gloom or everything contorted, coiled in between, a hound in the midst of pending depravity, immersed in bedlam, in menace, in layers and lacquer he thought he’d conquered long ago. Like a spell cast, like the unknown throttling, beholding, he only ceased his tempestuous run and rampage once he reached a familiar path, lowering his head instinctively to sniff – the human portions of his mind not adhering to actuality, the here and now.
{Open thread with Hellhound!Deimos}
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
There is a quiet, yet ferocious, tension in the air. It simmers, bubbles and brews somewhere just below the surface of my perception - it creeps and stalks ever closer, I can feel it, sense it in some inexplicable capacity, rising, nearing, imminent and impending.
Feline whiskers tremble and twitch as scents swirl and dance all around - it is difficult to allow oneself to be ruled by the natural instincts and abilities that come with the shift, particularly when science and logic have been the main points of guidance throughout one's life. It is a challenge - and a welcome one.
Suddenly, sharply, keenly, a howl echoes through the land, causing hairs to rise on their ends all down the speckled nape and spine of my taut, firm bodice. Round ears lift and rotate atop my skull as a definitive source of the sound is sought, my senses alight with the mystery of it all.
Upon a branch, reasonably high from the ground, is where I perch, somewhat precariously, yet the strength of my limbs and the aptitude of my balance when in this form appears to lend me a degree of coordination I would not otherwise have known. I relish in it, even as my attention is drawn to the beast that stalks below.
It is canine, no doubt a natural adversary to this form of mine, and yet I feel no fear - only curiosity, intrigue, a deep and unfathomable desire to know more about the creatures in this world, even when I am taken by this form, possessed and yet not utterly disconnected from me, from the human mind, the brain that seeks logic and knowledge in all things.
And so I watch the beast, unwittingly sending my curiosity across the link, though without knowing whether the hound was a shifted Attuned or simply a creature that prowls these woods, I remain in ignorance.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Carnivore predilections, a return to cold malevolence, in the rampage, in the feast of virile frames and feral flames, animalistic acrimony threading, beating to the pulse in his veins, an undulation of damnation and condemnation. A searing fervor reached into the back of his mind, pulled and seared at every instinct, an winding, raptorial motion, argent domination without its simmering contemplations – a dream, of course – nothing more than like days spent across the battlefield, unholy violence stoked to the bridge of its arcane possession. Wretched and devouring, a threatening cataclysm, fiendish incantations in its Tartarean guile, as if embedded, infused, unraveled from mouths of underworld depravities, the steps of his breadth a barbarous wake, too much too soon and the world would burn apart beneath his claws, the pads of his feet.
How easy would it be to destroy everything in his path?
His throat, his chest, sought to unleash another howl, to let, permit, the soulless dissolution rampage through ribs and over lungs, to terrorize the landscape of dark, haunting woods, abandoned, relinquished, renounced, a stark, cold, rancorous entropy. As if he’d never been altered, as if he’d never been changed, as if he hadn’t eroded from the monstrous animosity of his past, Reaper again, in hardened muscles, iron intimidation, sinew of wolves and dogs and hounds.
He might have done it all: lingered in the notions and thoughts of carnage, possessed by the demonic interludes of whatever this slumber had wrought, had another’s strange, unknown confusion not entered his mind.
An Attuned connection, stretched thin in the clarity, but there just the same – and his piercing eyes immediately shifted towards the tree above him, to where the leopard was perched.
(Not a dream then; this was real and tangible, utterly bizarre, confusing, confounding, terrifying and treacherous). These were his paws. His claws. His jaws. His monstrous entity, leaping and bounding to the surface again (he’d been the master of all the other beasts within – why was this one any different?)
His attention shifted back, torn and twisted, crackling and fumbling, riveting from one thing to the next – haunted perhaps, by too many tremulous tribulations and trials scratching across his skull. A breath and then he shifted them away, tried desperately, in the total company of a stranger. The other wasn’t unlike Oliver, except Deimos would’ve expected Oliver to announce his presence (with either worry, anxiety, or apprehension). This one merely embodied curiosity, and so he tilted his cranium, a narrowing of his eyes, a deep rumble of his tones cast towards the unfamiliar presence. Who are you?
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
And so confirmation of the beast's origin was given - Attuned - and my curiosity only intensifies, my glacial gaze piercing the fading evening light to take in all that the canine has to show. Feline vision gives me clarity - perhaps if human senses were all I had, fear would indeed be dominant within me, but as I was, a quiet confidence in my ability to stay out of harm's way (mostly) prevailed. With the assurance of lean, athletic muscles, and a healthy distance between myself and the mythical, fantastic beast before me, I impart a calm, almost clinical observation - it is the scientist, the veterinarian, that defines me, shapes me and my behaviours - gives me a cool head even in a potentially precarious situation.
I have his attention just as he has mine, and my inexperience with the Attuned-bond leaves me only ever more curious at his reaction - it would seem he is able to guard it, to restrain that which he communicates, though I am surprised that I can sense that much - that a leak of emotion occurred, and is snuffed out from my radar (I am surprised not at the emotion, but the action that then hides it from me). I file this information away, determined to learn, to master this gift bestowed upon me, no matter the time and repetition it takes, no matter the dedication - it was a dream realised, and I would not waste it.
A question is cast, I hear it clearly, and I stand deftly upon my branch, allowing the fading golden light to decorate my dappled pelt with its dappled rays, curling my tail high over my spine. I stretch, waking muscles that were tense from holding my position so still and secure, before bunching them up again to leap down from my position.
Perhaps it is foolish (it is). Perhaps it is stupid, reckless, and pure insanity. But the beast before me is Attuned, and while I know nature's instincts are stronger when one is possessed by their Attuned form(s), I trust in this comrade's ability - he is the one who asked the question, after all.
"A friend," I reply as I land before the creature, hoping my communication conveys the genuine hope, the desire for it to be true (but ready to leap out of the way of biting teeth and angry growls all the same).
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
The only thing reminding him of his human existence was the voice tangling through the webs of everything else – the temptation to run, to rampage, to launch, to contort, coiled and undulated its way through his muscles, through his veins, through every other inch of his frame. The other was either unafraid or inexperienced, perhaps both, and the arch of intimidation threatened to brim and fume over the edges of him, the boundaries and fringes ready for the fray, yearning to cast his nefarious, sinister wake over the endless expanse, the mutinous boundaries, the seditious splendor. In other world, in another place, in another time, no one would have dared to approach him – a haunting entity, unreachable, unattainable, the living, breathing weapon of the mountains.
And what was he here?
A growl, a rumble, churned through his body, and the stranger could either consider it a warning, an ultimatum, or naught at all – instincts curling and searing through his flesh and blood (a roar, a pounding of ichor in his ears; war drums bristling and waiting, wanting the ripping of flesh, the breaking of bone). Even more ridiculous in the plains of twilight and the bristling glimpse of the unknown, was the launching, the leaping, of the leopard, to stand before his massive prowess and think themselves a companion. Deimos remained still as a stone, unyielding, unbending, a statuesque portion of predator and strength, a promise of prowess, should the onlooker attempt anything at all. Naught else was bared, granted, or given, save for the state of his vocals, the puncturing, piercing glance rendered solely on the cat. My friends have names. He knew them all by heart – the ones that had crept into that blackened, decrepit, withered portion, given it fragile life again. This creature was not amongst them.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
A shiver coils down my body, though the weather here is far warmer than the climes of Halo, the season only changing the hues of the leaves around us - my shiver is not from the creeping cold. As the sun drops below the horizon, as its dappled light is snuffed out and twilight reigns over the golden kingdom of autumn, a single, long and undulating tremor etches its way through my muscles, raising hairs and awareness to an entirely new level. It would seem this form has more sense than my own in more ways that just keener eyes and ears - it would seem it can sense the true height of foolishness I have brought us to even if I remain, on a conscious level, wilfully ignorant.
The growl resonates and rumbles, vibrates and thrums against the very fibres of my being, though I stand steady before him, the growl coming in the wake of the shiver, the warning, the instinctual alarm system that was this form's way of ensuring preparedness, for what could follow the growl.
He is a beast to be sure, larger than this form - probably two or three times larger or more, layered in muscle and pelt, dark and most assuredly dangerous. But I stand before him all the same, the original curiosity that brought me here prevailing over the desire that this form had to yield, to run and climb and get away from the teeth and claws that could so easily render injury or death upon me.
A name, he demands, he insists, seeking an identity, more information - is he really so different from me? The thirst for knowledge exists in all creatures, in some it is academic, in others a far more simple, primal need.
(I don't get the impression that this fellow is keen to swap academic papers.)
"Chulane," I proffer with warmth, with honesty, with hope. "I am new - I seek to learn, to grow and gain - friendships, knowledge, whatever skills I can," I continue, my feline countenance tilting as my voice radiates towards this stranger, willing to offer the information he desires - and hoping I receive some in return.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
There’d been days where there was no doubt to how dangerous he could be.
An anthem to fiendish incantations, a stiletto hilt to ruthlessness, fixated on those crooned corruptions sinking into flesh and blood and bone. A malignant, vicious essence, entropy and detachment carved straight into the outline of his form, acknowledging existence, but fixating it within breadths and breaths of revolution (of sedition, of power). Despite all his hidden, tangible threads, the world had still passed on his name, through savage whispers, through fearful, tremulous disdain, through the same melded abhorrence that he strung their comrades upon. Reaper, now Sword; the former a monstrous beacon of exactly what he sought to bring to the earth, the latter established in finessed forbidding, but far more willing to flicker his ire away.
Perhaps it was lucky, fortunate, for this stranger that others had already molded themselves into the General’s heart and lungs, his entity and soul, ensuring his piercing seething only went so far. Still, the potential remained (was it ever truly locked away – or merely remaining, immersed amidst all his other emotions and clarities; biding, biding, biding its time?)
Another breath or two, the lulls along his sides and ribs the only indication he’d moved, save for the flick of a canine ear. There was too much honesty, warmth, and hope embedded along this attuned bond – not what the carnivore irreverence craved – and so he sat, hind end coming to rest along the earthen path, the long tail motionless upon the ground. A name: Chulane, signified nothing to him; he didn’t know this creature from all the others within this world. Someone new, someone foreign, someone likely dropped from one portal to another, the same as the rest of the Outlanders.
His piercing gaze etched and scrutinized, narrowed and defined. While the Sword couldn’t be eternally declared as scholarly, he was always eager to learn – would be foolish not to live in a world of wisdom and sagacity, grasping at what granules were offered. It was another means of survival, of adapting, of assimilating, of enduring. Were his hound body to allow it, there would be a slight arch of his brow, a tilt of his predacious head, a more human aspect to the rest of the canine features. Deimos, lacking the fundamentals of Chulane’s warmth, an icy decree and title, General of the Hollowed Grounds. When he had a blade in his hand; for now the fangs, the claws, the promise of power would have to do. What do you want to know?
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
The hound sat, and so I mirror the action with my feline body, haunches folding and tail wrapping neatly around my paws. I can only wonder what he thinks of me, grateful at least that he doesn't see me as a threat needing to be eliminated, for he surely would be successful in that venture.
Feline instincts and prowess may exist within me, but I was yet to truly tap into them, to immerse myself completely, to lose myself and allow the leopard to rule, to control, to hunt and stalk prey, to feast and thrive in its primal urges - I was too human still, too fresh into this world and too unpractised in this gift. A confrontation with a beast such as he would undoubtedly lead to my untimely death - and for one who holds such an imposing Attuned figure, I can only guess that his human form is just as imposing, just as dangerous and effortlessly intimidating.
Luck is on my side, as he reveals his name, and even his rank, and I hope that the surprise, swiftly followed by reverence that travels across the bond make it clear that I appreciate his giving time to a lowly newcomer such as me.
I almost apologise to him, plead forgiveness for disturbing him with my simple ignorance, my curiosity, my yearning to know, and yet he poses another question, opening another door of possibility, of opportunity, and I simply cannot resist, cannot turn away from it. But what to ask, when I want to know all, I want to gather the information all together, to store it and share it and learn from it, and help others to learn from it too - what do I ask to even get me on the track that will meet my ambitions, my desires?
"I am still learning much about the gods of this world," I begin, knowing the deities of the lands are strongly related to the difference race caste that populate them, and knowing that I will one day, potentially, come across one of these beings myself. "Which do you follow?"
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Reflections of movement; his piercing eyes watched as the leopard sat too, predators aligned rather than ignited. A calming edge to otherwise tumultuous possibilities, the rumble of ire and fire and devastation contorting its way through his marrow, too much time in predator antics and instincts to ever have it leave. He’d always been the carnivore rapacity, the agent provocateur, the slash of a blade, the steel and glint of a sword. None of that had changed while embedded and infused in beastly adornments; just the state of weaponry and munitions.
But this stranger might have been smarter, keener, than they appeared; the surprising flickering through telepathic whims wound its way to his hound abyss, and a bizarre set of reverence the mountainous individual was not akin to feeling. A gruff snort billowed through his nostrils, rushing into the midnight air on a plume and curl of breath, the only thing maneuvering from his sanction. Perhaps it was a good thing Chulane didn’t start apologizing, asking for forgiveness – there was nothing that would cause a need to express regret, and Deimos would have lumped him in the same category as Oliver all over again.
The inquiry set forward though it wasn’t what he expected. The General presumed there’d be questions about lands, about regions, about kingdoms, about portals, how and why and when everyone had been received here. He could’ve imparted a deluge of information about the disasters, the ruins, the oblivions, the consignments of condemnation and oblivion. But the Gods were not in his repertoire, despite his experiences with them. Chulane would’ve had better luck with Amalia, with Ronin, with Jigano, with any of the counterparts of Voice congregations. Unfortunately for him, however, he hadn’t run into the Shield, the Dark Star, the Sage, or even the Wraith. He’d found the Sword, rampaging through consuming groves.
He couldn’t even truly saw followed or devoted – Deimos had nearly made it a point to skirt around the issue, for fear and experiences of manipulation, of being so severely bound that his choices were no longer his own. Maybe it was inherently foolish, to be so distrusting, to be so cautious and apprehensive, when his own loved ones had long since been committed to stars and galaxies. Maybe he was too, and simply didn’t see it, didn’t understand it, already far too immersed, already owed enough debts, already extended his hands and wiles into their machinations. Safrin attuned me was a safer answer.
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
Perhaps it was too bold a question, an assumption made that any who have dwelt here long enough find themselves following the gods, worshipping them, devoting their lives to them in the hope that these more powerful beings would protect them from the dark and terrible things I have heard also exist in this world. But maybe I was bringing my assumptions from the religious zealots that exist in some places on Earth, those who pray to an invisible being who has never actually been proved to exist, praying and worshipping and hoping that he will protect them from the horrible things that humans do to each other.
Maybe I am too sceptical, too much of a scientist, desiring proof and evidence, wanting theories to be tested following good clean processes and protocols - I knew magic existed here, though I maintained it to simply be something I had no other explanation for yet, and I held a similar opinion of the gods, though I am yet to meet one directly.
"Safrin," I echo, a simple confirmation that I had heard his words, and was mulling over their complete impact: Which god was responsible for attuning me? It was a question I was yet to pose, and one I suddenly yearned an answer to. I didn't ask it of Deimos, of course, but I was likely unable to hide all of the curiosities that swelled within me just at his words, all of the questions I did not even know I needed to ask, all of the answers I was yet to hear and understand.
"How long have you been attuned?" I pose, ears twitching, eyes imploring him to continue the conversation, a quiet gratitude and delight growing as my thirst for knowledge is slowly offered some relief.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos had been born into a world with gods of hatred and condemnation, a spread of their vitriol, avarice, and abhorrence an everyday occurrence, normal to consider them nothing or everything, normal to be ignored, detached, from the wreckage and ruin. Even when he’d pleaded, begged, for their expanse, for their abilities, for the rain to become whole, he was left within stark fields, talking to nothingness, never an ear inclined in his direction. The same could’ve been said for Helovia, with its fickle deities and demanding heavens, with their manipulative wiles, with their specious jurisdictions, with their blatant favoritism. No matter if he’d bent a knee in their direction, no matter if he’d proffered any words of reverence. The Reaper had been his own weapon, a blade for the Basin, sharpened and honed on the chilling fringes, on the glacial boundaries, on the nonchalant suffering. Guarded, trying not to give too much of his entity into their wiles here and now; knowing that it might’ve been too late, placing faith in himself, in his companions, in the ways of human intertwining. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe he was already far gone, slipped into their ethereal ethers the moment he requested the prowess, the potential, of more strength and dominion.
Her name was only an echo, and he pondered what else there was to define, to scrape away, if this Chulane, new and foreign, had merely wandered into the sanction without a herald’s guidance; automatically emboldened and embedded with fur and claws. Much like the Sword had been anointed with incantations, with enchantments, the moment he took his first breath, his first heartbeat, no choice, no looking back.
Instead of any other queries, it was the length of time he’d been amidst the shifts, the animal contortions. In a vaguely predator sway, a tilt of his head, a rumbling scrutiny in carnivore collections and coils, the beast considered. Had it been so long since he’d gone to Safrin, and she’d lifted him into the sky, released his frame from the horizon and let him descend amongst and amidst ghosts, to find his wings? A year, if not a little more here and there, the season’s change nearly upon them now, the passing of time swift when they journeyed from one chaotic emblem to the next. Survival, somehow, someway, after every notion and nuance, after every trial and tribulation. I was Abandoned first he added, eternally thrust into the inferno. Would Chulane even understand the weight of the word? How it’d been scorned and reviled (and how he hadn’t cared, his head raised and powers controlled, ensuring some level of prowess and distinction amidst a time where discontent simmered and seethed)?
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
The circumstance of my arrival was a blur, a foggy memory of heightened emotions and general lost meanderings, of a raven guiding me to shelter, and shocking realisations striking me harder than a hammer hits an anvil. My history in this realm was shorter than most others, my life before it I thought was leading to fulfilment, but when perspective is offered from another's eyes, my life was easy, my adventures truly uneventful, that is, until I arrived here. Science and logic were my religions, if I had claim to any, they guided me through my life, helped me carve out a career, a living, helped to feed my ever-growing thirst for learning, for answers, for reasons to everything.
So why was it that I found myself with the ability to take this form upon entering this world? Why was it that a god - or was it a herald? - bestowed upon me this gift, this treasure, this ability?
Was it so that I would ask more questions, learn more about them, before succumbing to the ultimate curiosity within me of seeking them out directly? Were they merely trying to lure me nearer, to draw me in closer, that I might fall prey to darker intentions, to more destructive forces than the attuned bond offers?
The beast gives a timeframe, and I allow his thoughts to bring me out of my introversion, the thoughts and internal interrogation that was best suited to occupy me whilst back at my lodge and room, where relative safety existed. A year, he says, and I wonder if the years here were the same as home - so far the length of the days were comparable. Then he calls himself something else, and the sharp increase in my curiosity is no doubt felt through the bond, as I ponder over the word Abandoned.
I had completed some readings, though not nearly enough to satiate me, and learned what I could from Jigano, and others who were willing to share their knowledge. I knew that Abandoned were magic-wielders of this realm, the wizards (or warlocks?), the mages. I knew their magic was tied to the elements, I felt like I knew so much and that there was yet so much more I still needed to learn about it all.
"Did you ask to be changed?" My next query extended, my thoughts wondering at what motivations would drive a person to seek and accept something so drastic, so monumentally and fundamentally altering, a gift that could only be bestowed on by an entity so powerful that they are called gods.
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be
The inquiry seemed innocent, but he wondered at the predilections underneath. Very few people had ever forced or coerced Deimos to do something not of his own volition. His weapons had been stained with blood by his choice. His movements had become savage, feral things by his choice. He’d led his armies into battle by his choice. He’d rampaged, stalked, and sworn vengeance by his choice. He’d done the same with Safrin, winding his way towards more strength, more convictions, more power, more defiance, in the act of committing to shifts, to compelled forces, towards a liberation he’d never been able to grasp before. Yes, plunged through – and so he pondered if the meaning hadn’t been placed upon him, but Chulane instead.
Had he come into the beastly form without a rhyme or reason? Not born to it, as some? Not relegated to it, from opposing worlds, like others? Their stories, besides the Naturals, had always been wildly different, dispersed from alternating portals, masses, myths, and legends, bringing forth a collective framework of everything and nothing all at once. Lost in their ignorance of this kingdom, but not of another, assimilating while still bringing forth their sagacity, their knowledge, until everything seemed to intertwine. An acceptance, a tolerance, existing and surviving here that hadn’t been so readily available or valued years ago.
He let the question hang in the air, balancing on its filaments for a moment, his gaze wandering from the leopard, and towards twilight sanctions, the breeze billowing old leaves down the frequently-trod path. Now I have both intertwined instead of the inquiry hanging in his throat – incantations and animal hinges, fringes, measures and means collected in his soul.
Then the Sword’s attention riveted back to the other, the piercing gaze landing, watching, waiting, as if in some great deliberation. Only thereafter did he echo back the same refrain, more emphasis placed on particular syllables. Did you ask to be changed?
DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
And so it was confirmed, he chose this improvement, this ability, this Attunedness, to be added to his Abandoned status, to supplement, to advance, to progress in this strange world of magic and nature and all things still unknown to me. I process this information, percolating it with the other knowledge I have gained since my arrival, wondering at the advantages of this choice. Could he summon his magic while holding this form? What elements did he have access to?
Would I one day be able to access elemental magic?
It was a question that had been burning away within me, slowly but surely, for some time now. My desire to know more about accessing the elements to perform this magic was something I think would only ever be met when I could perform it myself, to be able to study it directly, to feel it, to manipulate it. Is this what Jigano meant when he said that the gods could do a great many things, if one presented them with a satisfactory offer? What sort of offering had to be made to alter one's very racial makeup?
Then he poses a question, his canine features turned towards me with the intensity of interrogation - I meet his stare with my own feline features, tilting my crown to ensure I 'hear' what he has to say. and my mind is set awhirl once more with unanswered questions, mysteries and foggy recollections.
Did I ask?
Did I ask to be changed? Did I ask to have my form twisted and mutated, shifted at my will? Did I ask to find a closer connection to nature, to the fauna that I have otherwise devoted my life to? I blink slowly to myself, icy gems flickering behind spotted lids for the briefest of moments.
Perhaps it is something I have been asking for my whole life, and it wasn't until I was brought into this world that my deepest desires were realised.
"I did not ask to be brought here," I begin my response after a swirl of emotions roll through me, a wave of nostalgia first, of outrage at the thought of my lost homeworld next, followed by a deep yearning for an opportunity to say goodbye, to farewell those who were left behind. "My life before was spent caring for animals, studying them, helping them,"I continue, as the emotions that colour my words change to a quiet contentedness, to acceptance.
"While I was brought here against my will, and had this change placed upon me unknowingly; I have accepted the will of the gods of this land, and hope to prove myself worthy to them, and the people." I spoke honestly, almost coming to these realisations within myself as the words formed, but not regretting them for a moment.
