A lost, lost bug wandered long to find here. She speaks in a voice that knows of strings, for was she once on them as well? âA puppet?â She approaches, tone quiet. The only sounds that can be made out is her lack of breath and her claws tapping on the floor, but there was no hostility in her gaze. Only⌠was it, Pity? Antenne dropped gracefully behind her head, and scratches covered joints, scars long there from an event long in the past, but still relevant in the way she holds herself, like a performer with stage fright, or string fright.
The sound of joints moving.
A life sized, construct of wicker, with sickles for hands, jerks out of the darkness, carried through the air by strings that fade in and out of view.
âA new harvest, harvestâ
âLet Marien look at you, youâ
A sickle, where the hands would be on a normal bug, swings forward, carefully tilting your chin upwards.
The puppet somehow had moved completely silently, now right in front of you, mask up close to your face.
âSuch a beautiful face, faceâ
âYou have your own strings, Marien sees, seesâ
âThey may be cut, but they still puppet you, strings of fear, fearâ
âMarien knows fear well, well.â
âWe all are puppets to something, something, are we notâ
âSome are stronger than others, othersâ
âsome fade, some linger, but they are always there, thereâ
âWho is it that has your strings, strings?â
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