"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝; 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐨𝐮𝐬."
"Haven't I given enough? Must I sacrifice myself upon the altar of man's p...
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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The Creature is young and thin, her wings of midnight and shadow stained with dirt and neglect. Her frame – tall and scrawny from malnutrition – moves lithely through the dark night, struggling as she drags the thing behind her. The looming clouds obscure the moon and rain is promised for later, she has to move fast if she wants to stay dry. The branches make shallow cuts on her cheeks and arms that heal as fast as they appear, leaving behind only bloody lines.
She is distracted, unaware of her surroundings. Otherwise, she would have noticed him.
Hmm, that would have to be remedied.
The eyes watching her observe her tattered clothes, stolen from charity shops no doubt, old and ragged and hanging loosely on her body. She does not cut an impressive figure. She appears precisely as she is; a homeless orphan.
She's leaving tracks, does she not realize? Rain will only erase so much. Careless. That's what she is. That's no good.
He moves closer, silent footsteps on the forest floor, and studies her intently as she empties the thing's pockets and wallet, counting the bills. An unimpressive amount, he guesses by her disappointed frown. This close, he can discern the details of her face – the hollow of her cheeks, the line of her jaw, her nose, her slightly fuller bottom lip, the thick lashes framing wide and heterochromatic eyes. Familiar features that remind him of someone else.
"You have made yourself a mess," he voices through the silent night. "Do not run," he adds when she startles upright, assuming a defensive position.
She straightens up, scrutinizing him closely, her gaze fixed on his long coat and gold-pommelled cane. "I wasn't going to," she rasps, her voice scratchy and rough with disuse. He wonders when she last had a conversation with someone – he wonders when the last time was that she had spoken out loud.
The eyes watching her glance disinterestedly at the body at her feet, noting the damage. "What did he do to you?"
The Creature flexes her wings, looking down at the man before her without a hint of remorse or regret. "He's been hunting me for weeks," she mutters. "He tried to hurt me."
