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08-14-2012, 11:36 AM
I lack the poor judgement and naiveté that is characteristic of a child. Then again, to say anything of me other than the respectful words, the greeting that acknowledges my true place, is blasphemy in and of itself. For I am Prometheus, (All hail!) The Immortal Son; I am death personified, and yet the master of a balance between two worlds. My power is limitless and my worship to none, not even the Goddess that returned me to this mortal coil. This life of undeath is a toil, undisturbed in so many ways, yet hindered by odd mannerisms I cannot explain. A hatred of birds as the very first. You do not seem to share the disgust that I have for them. You bat at them when they land too close, you playfully jump up to reach those that you could never catch, and all the while I watch with hatred in my eyes. But I suppose the best way to understand a fe- no, I shan't call it fear, for I fear nothing- a hatred for something, is to delve further into it. And thus I arrive here tonight and stand still as a corpse before the shrines of the gods. I've been touched by the moon and the sun, for they've given me life, illusion, and forgery, but I've no knowledge as to who will arrive to answer this plea. I part rotted and torn lips, let the stump that would have been my tail flicker, and speak out into the night. "Gods of the night, sun, and earth- grant me my wings." [[Prometheus is seeking for a way to take to the skies so that he may better understand his hatred for those who do. I would [refer he not end up with the traditional feather or leather set of wings- maybe enchanted bones or something that, when he is in his potential form, are then feather? I'm just trying to keep it undead.]] |
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please tag Prometheus in all replies!
magic & force is permitted at your own peril.
