Cerulean Cape we have always known how to be monsters

”oh,”

Kitsch gave a small, childlike sigh when Axolotl stated that he did not worship some fantastical fish god — it hadn't been plausible, but the pearl had found some amusement in the vivid mental imagery a fish god stirred. In fact, the idea was so hilarious that she stifled the giggle that bubbled in her chest, throwing up a small, ink-and-salt stained paw to press against her lips and block the noises from coming out. The leviathan was not going to hurt her, but that did not necessarily mean he was a nice man. He had won her over with his stalwart nature and crooning baritone, but the fear was still there — and to laugh a man about his god… yes, that was something to be afraid of!

Had the pearl been a more perceptive wolf, she might have noted the choleric minutia in his words — even without such social cues, Kitsch had no problem latching onto a new part of their exchange. She listened, ears perched eagerly on the top of her crown, appearing to be the picture of cherubic curiosity as the brute explained atlan’s actuality. The sea, a god? The giant lake of poison water that was loud and smelled bad? It was not much better than the fish god. 

“A god, in the sea?” the kitten spoke incredulously. The connection to the ocean was a reach for Kitsch, but it was not the only factor in Kitsch’s questioning. Kitsch knew things, things that a man like Axolotl could never understand — and one of those things was god was a lie.  Kitsch knew, in her heart of hearts, that god didn’t exist. She had looked the devil in the face and knew it to be true; for what god could let such cruelty fall upon her? upon anyone?  A god, aqueous or not, would never sanction such atrocity — so, it was easier to shut down that part of herself and simply choose not to believe; that none of it was real. 

If Kitsch gave any more thought to it, she would realize that the idea of being alone and insignificant in a godless universe was terrifying — but that realization had not come to her yet. 

“That sounds…” her voice trailed off as she tried to summon the right words, as to not offend him and prematurely end their meeting. “Well, I...” She knew the etiquette and decorum, as the conventions of Saio Baile had been carved into her brain at a young age — but without advisors and other benevolent figures to hold her feet to the proverbial fire, such lessons were lost on the girl. Out here, Kitsch tried to do as she was instructed, to conduct herself in a fashion fit for aristocracy, but she was constantly left with the lingering resentment that she was doing something —everything—  wrong. As such, Kitsch’s next question spilled from her lips almost as soon as her mind thought it up. 

“Is Atlan a mean god?”