Earth was a silly place with even sillier creatures. Bipeds with weak exteriors and wrought with breakable forms had easily begun to outnumber the others. Some of them had too much hair and many more of them not enough. He remembered the too-large reptiles with snapping jaws and elongated talons; some of them had had feathers. Shame really about that large hunk of space-rock; they’d not quite had a chance to really grow. He’d had a bet with another Grigori that they’d last for at least another eon. He’d almost liked the feathers better than the hair; they tended to come in more colors...
Mammals. Ha. And they thought speaking in sounds—as they had so recently learned how to accomplish—was the most divine way to communicate. Perhaps not divine… no, but by the cosmos they were deliciously messy. How they’d not killed themselves off sooner than the large reptiles was beyond him; they’d certainly figured out how to war well enough. And that was the interesting part wasn’t it? Most creatures in the universe killed for territory, sex, and sustenance—survival as well; human beings… they had too much passion—vision—and not enough restraint. If they weren’t overproducing themselves into oblivion they were doing a fine job of destroying themselves. And over what? Skin color? Culture? False gods? Land?
Other Grigori were sated to simply trek about the everdark, free of form and oxygen—exploring, watching, and then moving on. Few ever came back to a place once they’d had their fill in one way or another. Some of them liked the planets without speaking bipeds, choosing—for a time—to take a form familiar to that world and muck about until they wanted for something else. His people, if you could call them that, enjoyed the simplicity of untamed creatures. They didn’t think too much beyond what sounds they made and the natural manner they went about existing. So unlike humans…
When he’d been younger some of the Grigori had tarried on Earth for a time. Many of their false gods could be blamed on his people, he supposed. Not that he really cared. If one was too ignorant to grow out of the past then one deserved the blight they brought onto themselves—and their children. But he didn’t care about most of them. Just one.
He was still too young even if he was not as young as he’d been when he’d watched the child fumble about like a newborn star trying to take shape. And after the boy had changed the Grigori still couldn’t stop watching, only leaving when he needed to eat. Each time he returned to Earth it was a little harder to find the biped that changed named like one changed exterior adornments; though, locate him he did.
Watching was a Grigori’s past time, his namesake; however, they all really did grow weary and move on after a while. And here he was… watching—frowning in his unfathomless state of not-being and unable move on. There were other beings on this world, truth be told; beings not quite human. He’d become one, this creature who changed his name with each new age. And yet, the Grigori found nothing interesting about any of them. So why?
Pushing the thought aside, though still frowning, he became put out by the brooding. He not been gloomy often, the Grigori’s little fox. And he couldn’t stop, it seemed. How… awful. He appeared positively content to remain in bed and was doing nothing short of glumming about. Was it the state of the world? Admittedly, it had gotten a little boring in a few places. Not true of the untame western landmasses…
This really wouldn’t do; the little fox’s mood was starting to foul his own and he preferred to be entertained.
Thus, in the quiet of his open room, the black mist began to appear; starry bits of blackness that twinkled and danced roved over the floor, along a corner of the little fox’s bed, before finally coming to rest as the very foot. It was there on the floor that his body began to take shape, galaxy-black clouds curling and forming. The eyes came first, electric magenta that seemed to glow like two lights. Next came limbs: long muscular legs with feet, hands and arms, shoulders and more. Marble cut and far too pale, the Grigori would be staring at his fingers—a hand—as he held the single limb up and the dark receded. Pale lips curled curiously as he flexed the digits. His hair was a long whimsy curled cascade that fell down his back and over his shoulders, locks moving where they may over his collarbone as he blinked and white lashes touched his cheeks.
Perhaps he should have bothered with clothes? It didn’t seem prudent, not when he was so interested in feeling out this new body and the world around him. Air felt warm against his skin, he noticed. The sharp nose twitched and his face moved through several expressions, inadvertently drawing attention the far-too pretty, though masculine, manner in which he’d crafted it.
Still, he’d almost forgotten why he’d gone about the trouble of all this. Electric magenta hues refocused on the body in the bed, narrowing as his hands went to his hips. He opened his mouth speak, but the worlds that escaped were entirely of his people and thus he stopped—frowned. This required further thought, it seemed. He rubbed his throat, coughed, and then rearranged what made the least amount of sense and tried again.
“You’ve become rather boring,” he finally said, a pang of joy blooming secretly within at his own success. He smirked at that, but it quickly faded. “I’ve come a long way and yet all you do is laze about as if the world has nothing more to offer you.” His voice was reproachful; as if he placed blame solely on the little fox. “It’s a lot like watching primordial ooze create life, dismal and usually disappointing.”
Mammals. Ha. And they thought speaking in sounds—as they had so recently learned how to accomplish—was the most divine way to communicate. Perhaps not divine… no, but by the cosmos they were deliciously messy. How they’d not killed themselves off sooner than the large reptiles was beyond him; they’d certainly figured out how to war well enough. And that was the interesting part wasn’t it? Most creatures in the universe killed for territory, sex, and sustenance—survival as well; human beings… they had too much passion—vision—and not enough restraint. If they weren’t overproducing themselves into oblivion they were doing a fine job of destroying themselves. And over what? Skin color? Culture? False gods? Land?
Other Grigori were sated to simply trek about the everdark, free of form and oxygen—exploring, watching, and then moving on. Few ever came back to a place once they’d had their fill in one way or another. Some of them liked the planets without speaking bipeds, choosing—for a time—to take a form familiar to that world and muck about until they wanted for something else. His people, if you could call them that, enjoyed the simplicity of untamed creatures. They didn’t think too much beyond what sounds they made and the natural manner they went about existing. So unlike humans…
When he’d been younger some of the Grigori had tarried on Earth for a time. Many of their false gods could be blamed on his people, he supposed. Not that he really cared. If one was too ignorant to grow out of the past then one deserved the blight they brought onto themselves—and their children. But he didn’t care about most of them. Just one.
He was still too young even if he was not as young as he’d been when he’d watched the child fumble about like a newborn star trying to take shape. And after the boy had changed the Grigori still couldn’t stop watching, only leaving when he needed to eat. Each time he returned to Earth it was a little harder to find the biped that changed named like one changed exterior adornments; though, locate him he did.
Watching was a Grigori’s past time, his namesake; however, they all really did grow weary and move on after a while. And here he was… watching—frowning in his unfathomless state of not-being and unable move on. There were other beings on this world, truth be told; beings not quite human. He’d become one, this creature who changed his name with each new age. And yet, the Grigori found nothing interesting about any of them. So why?
Pushing the thought aside, though still frowning, he became put out by the brooding. He not been gloomy often, the Grigori’s little fox. And he couldn’t stop, it seemed. How… awful. He appeared positively content to remain in bed and was doing nothing short of glumming about. Was it the state of the world? Admittedly, it had gotten a little boring in a few places. Not true of the untame western landmasses…
This really wouldn’t do; the little fox’s mood was starting to foul his own and he preferred to be entertained.
Thus, in the quiet of his open room, the black mist began to appear; starry bits of blackness that twinkled and danced roved over the floor, along a corner of the little fox’s bed, before finally coming to rest as the very foot. It was there on the floor that his body began to take shape, galaxy-black clouds curling and forming. The eyes came first, electric magenta that seemed to glow like two lights. Next came limbs: long muscular legs with feet, hands and arms, shoulders and more. Marble cut and far too pale, the Grigori would be staring at his fingers—a hand—as he held the single limb up and the dark receded. Pale lips curled curiously as he flexed the digits. His hair was a long whimsy curled cascade that fell down his back and over his shoulders, locks moving where they may over his collarbone as he blinked and white lashes touched his cheeks.
Perhaps he should have bothered with clothes? It didn’t seem prudent, not when he was so interested in feeling out this new body and the world around him. Air felt warm against his skin, he noticed. The sharp nose twitched and his face moved through several expressions, inadvertently drawing attention the far-too pretty, though masculine, manner in which he’d crafted it.
Still, he’d almost forgotten why he’d gone about the trouble of all this. Electric magenta hues refocused on the body in the bed, narrowing as his hands went to his hips. He opened his mouth speak, but the worlds that escaped were entirely of his people and thus he stopped—frowned. This required further thought, it seemed. He rubbed his throat, coughed, and then rearranged what made the least amount of sense and tried again.
“You’ve become rather boring,” he finally said, a pang of joy blooming secretly within at his own success. He smirked at that, but it quickly faded. “I’ve come a long way and yet all you do is laze about as if the world has nothing more to offer you.” His voice was reproachful; as if he placed blame solely on the little fox. “It’s a lot like watching primordial ooze create life, dismal and usually disappointing.”
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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539 [Closed] - by tindome - 08-09-2015, 01:48 AM
539 [Closed] - by tindome - 08-09-2015, 01:50 AM
539 [Closed] - by Blade - 08-09-2015, 07:12 AM
539 [Closed] - by tindome - 08-11-2015, 05:14 AM
539 [Closed] - by Blade - 08-11-2015, 10:42 AM
539 [Closed] - by tindome - 08-22-2015, 06:53 PM
RE: 539 [Closed] - by Blade - 11-21-2015, 03:38 PM
RE: 539 [Closed] - by Tindome - 11-28-2015, 11:33 PM
RE: 539 [Closed] - by Blade - 11-29-2015, 12:49 AM
RE: 539 [Closed] - by Tindome - 02-28-2016, 04:18 PM
RE: 539 [Closed] - by Blade - 07-11-2016, 10:56 PM
RE: 539 [Closed] - by Tindome - 01-08-2017, 01:36 PM
RE: 539 [Closed] - by Blade - 03-17-2017, 05:46 PM
RE: 539 [Closed] - by Tindome - 05-07-2017, 04:30 AM