the sound is rife with scents of others and while nothing that gave scarab the impression of borders he doesn't like it. fifteen days away from the wilds, without socialization and he's reverted back to hermit-esque behavior. the thought of socializing fills him with a mixture of dread and, dare he label it, disgust. or perhaps it was the smell of whatever'd taken residence in the grotto; something sweet that brings with it a stirring of dizzying nostalgia and a little bit of a stench that he has no name for ( fritos, maybe ) mingling with the scents of others.
ugh. others.
scarab wants to turn and book it the hell out of the sound but stubborn and possessive and curious he cannot make himself turn round. so he investigates with caution, creeping towards the grotto as if he were a critter easily spooked.
ugh. others.
scarab wants to turn and book it the hell out of the sound but stubborn and possessive and curious he cannot make himself turn round. so he investigates with caution, creeping towards the grotto as if he were a critter easily spooked.
“it's a quality of the gods
to see a creature with its back broken
and be unmoved —”
to see a creature with its back broken
and be unmoved —”
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