LET ME SHOW YOU

what you've been missing

It's strange to wander into a land and never feel eyes on them, they think. A place where judgements aren't spoken aloud, where barbed whispers don't chase them down. Cicatrix has long learned that the words of the ones that wish to hurt them were nothing, but that didn't mean they didn't haunt them wherever they went. They were well aware of how they looked, a face with no skin, a drip of blue glimmering liquid. It isn't as if the sight of them is something . . . normal. They're well aware of how different they are, how they can easily cause unease . . . yet something still compelled them to come to this festival.

There's a sweep of feathers and thin skin, their wings catching air as they land delicately on golden hooves, feeling weight press down and taking in a breath as they do. The astronomer carefully tucks their wings to their sides, hiding the maps that stretched over the expanse of blues and blacks. So far, so good. A few glances were cast their way, but that's something that comes with being well . . . them. Carefully, they arrange the cloak that much closer to themselves, the golden rings on the top of it pressing against the onyx pitch of their skull, and they turn their head away slowly, taking in the sounds and sighs of the place. It's bright here, warm, a sort of sensation that could be related to home, if they had ever bothered to talk about it.

With a soft jingle of chains, they lower their head a little, attempting to make themselves seem that much smaller. If there was someone to talk to, they could seek them out. For now though, Cicatrix makes a beeline toward a fire, if only to admire the warmth and the way the flames dance and move. Something is calming about it, enough so that their legs fold and carefully they lay down, light enough on their legs that it wouldn't bother them to do so.  

M

LET ME SHOW YOU

what you've been missing

They know there are gazes that linger, that trace patterns along their starry skin and the wonderment of the star maps on their wings. But most of the gazes, surely, settle somewhere on their face and bore holes within the bone, staring, staring, staring. Cicatrix is used to this, though they would be lying if they said they enjoyed the fact they were used to it. The stares can make them uncomfortable at times, especially where they are naught but a stranger in the tides of bodies here. They came here with the hope to perhaps settle, make a life.

Live to the fullest that they could, even if this existence in these lands could be nothing but a drop in the bucket of their longevity.

The pitch of their head lifts, and tilts to one side, glancing from underneath the cloak they so covet to glance toward someone nearing them. Would there be sharp words, or an olive branch? It's strange to hear what they say, and if Cicatrix had eyes, perhaps they would have blinked them in their mild confusion.

What the stranger receives from a stranger themselves is a quiet stare and a soft laugh between gilded teeth. It rumbles, and the giant seems so small in the way they lie there, hooves digging slightly into the earth, enjoying the heat of a fire on a night like tonight. "Are you so certain? It isn't often I meet someone like myself." Divinity had cursed them, but they do not utter that fact. They instead only exhale a soft chortle, words delicately woven. Soft, expressive.

When one doesn't have the muscles or face to create expressions, they learn to speak to show what they mean. It's in this way that Cicatrix is blessed; being able to at least articulate what they feel in soft tones.

Still, they are happy someone is at least talking to them, they cannot deny the loneliness they have carried on their shoulders through the years. "...I am Cicatrix."