Beetle
Pet Name: Beetle
Owner: Apache
Theme / Type: Overgrowth Obsideon
Born: October 3, 2012
Gender: Female
MisticPal Name: Identity
MisticPal Age: 4438 Days
Battle Portal Stats
Hit Points: 10 / 10
Strength: 20
Defense: 0
Speed: 20
Intellect: 10
Misticpower: 1
Battles Won: 0
Battles Lost: 0
| Attached Weapons | |
Books Read
Books Read: None
Exotic Foods Eaten
Foods Eaten: 0/1254 [ View Foods ]
Deep in the black ancient woods, something stirred the damp and stagnant air.
A beetle crawled on the ground, picking its way on slender legs.
As it carried on, it found its way labored. It struggled, once, twice, little legs scraping at dead leaves, before the delicate body fell to the side, suddenly and disturbingly still.
Underneath the beetle the ground heaved, and out rose a thing from a long and dreadful slumber.
It bore no name worth remembering.
Piercing pinpricks of light opened from dark, shadowy eye-sockets.
It stared at the little bug that had fallen, shiny, intriguing.
Dead.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Mm, and what strength of mortals is told by valiance, action, death. Is there no character to be seen in small things, in the attention or acknowledgement of things insignificant to your own existence?"
ID No. 27F
Beetle; "an insect distinguished by forewings typically modified into hard wing cases that cover and protect the hind wings and abdomen"
analytical || superior || dismissive || callous
"The Caretaker"
There are all manners of small, forgotten, and overlooked things in this world. And Beetle knows them all. She watches, and catalogs, and remembers. She has claimed dominion over all things insignificant.
She is regarded as a god, though she pays such thoughts no mind. Her awareness is clear cut, and used sparingly. She spares no thoughts for many things, especially those things loud, or obvious, or strong. Her awareness is like a power. She cannot forget what she witnesses.
When those who are ignored cry out to her, she extends to them her protection, her notice. Things old, especially, is what she tries to protect the most. She cares a great deal for history, and when she can she takes items, relics, even those dirty and broken, into her possession for safekeeping.
Beetle is a soft-spoken, yet critical individual. She does not care for fluff or excuses.
Beetle only does what she feels is necessary and does let herself indulge in any whims or desires. She does not care for her personal well-being, indeed she barely even thinks of herself often, and has great difficulty conceptualizing herself as an individual with a past and a name. She pays much more attention to others.
Despite her steadfast resolve in avoiding pleasure, she does seek personal companionship, but only in one type of outlet: insects. She prizes them above all.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Painted things
with stripes of gold
adorned with feathers,
fanned and cold, bright and spread below
the ashes of our lost.
Statues left,
forgotten now,
what brought such hope and knowing then,
and what is now,
left in the ground,
rotting, left for dead.
-----------~-~-~----------~~-~-~-~~----------~-~-~-----------
Sometimes, when she shuts her eyes and delves too deeply into darkness, she sees a body.
Hers.
But she knows it is not herself she sees, it once was, but no longer. Just a vessel, long since emptied.
She, who is devoid of such immaterial things, hears whispers of emotions when she looks.
What am I now though?
She is resolute, purposeful, different. She is many things.
She remembers, just there, and catches onto it. Passing memories.
It is identity. Oh, yes, that. A bitter smile tugs at her heartstrings.
It is not a thing she wants to trifle with anymore. Identity is not a construct essential to her purpose. Identity is not flexible enough.
She needs to be able to bend, to change. She can almost revel in it, but not quite. She does not pride herself in, well, pride.
I am comfortable, and that is enough.
It strains her to think this way. To call herself I.
So she lets go. She pushes it all away, again, and will almost forget herself in the present.
I am driven by...?
---
No more words.
Only action.
There is a gentle comfort to the quiet in her mind. It is not evil, nor dumb, nor useless.
It is peace that echoes in her. It reverberates, perpetually growing, changing, existing. She is happy, but does not notice. And it is simply enough to be happy.
She would know I envied her, if she could see me.
But I am invisible to she, for I feel significant, and I am known, even if only to myself. I am not small nor invisible, so this deviant, though she would never name herself as such, if she would ever name herself at all, cannot and would not choose to turn her weighted gaze in my direction.
I observe her performance. She is skilled.
I have no ties to her, but I feel myself overcome by pride. She dances with chaos in order to preserve order. This is admirable.
Things shift slightly in the direction of the concrete.
I can see her in a place now, alive, material.
There is a cottage, deep in the dark woods. Not unlike the place that she first woke from. And in that cottage, an elderly man, wise, worldly, cultured.
But still alone, and lost though he does not know it.
His body is failing him.
But she is there. I am still overwhelmed by her attention.
He does not know himself, he does not remember. I can hear his voice, muffled by distance. He is asking where he is, where his family is.
He needs to tend to his flock, he says. But his body is not responding. She comes and soothes him.
Though she has no voice, she sings. She gives him dreams that are not dreams, but fragments of happy reality. She fills him with contentment. With purpose.
With memory.
He asks one last thing.
His name, he cannot remember his name.
But it is irrelevant. He asks even though he knows it. She helps him remember.
And as he departs, she remembers also.
She is filled up with his identity, she takes it into herself. She makes herself a living monument to something past.
She keeps a mental log. He is added to it.
While others may forget, she will not. She will keep his memory and existence locked away in her ethereal books. He is written there, in muddied ink, proof that he once walked this earth.
She is a sentinel, risen against the precarious and dangerous winds that threaten the mortal and temporary things with nonexistence.
The bold are remembered, why not the humble?
I look with my body's eyes. For a moment she sees me. A moment I will cherish, for it is intertwined with another that I greatly admire. With one that I feel bears kinship.
Eventually the moment passes. As all things, it is temporary.
I am both emboldened and eased. I am proud, yes of her, but of myself also.
There are no words for my elation. She saw me.
I will never be forgotten.
And she knows, she knows that I love her.
Take care, friend.
~
Beetle belongs to Apache.
Boxed Overgrowth on 6/14/18!
Pet Collections
Revelry
|