#kirss

He knocked on the door to where the elemental was staying, a rare occurrence. In his hands was clasped a book, bound in leather and containing papyrus, stitched by hand with plant fibers. Its technique was far older than the demon, the cover looking as old as the methods by which is was made.

As the door open, he let himself in. Baby steps.

The demon would sit on the nearest surface that reasonably could be sat on and turned to Linast.

“You can... auto-translate anything, right? I was. I was wondering if you’d let me read you something. Its.” a deep huff, the room warming up a good few degrees, “All the languages of these humans, I had to learn. I would always pick it up quick, but I didn’t come out knowing the stuff. But this... I’ve always known this. I haven’t found anyone else who really understands it like I do. But I found it not too far from where I... came out. I guess.”

He slowly opened the book. The pages contrasted the cover in their condition. The paper was pristine, outside of a few gentle folded corners; the ink appearing almost wet. Inside was a language older than time itself.

He would wait for the elemental to give a nod of approval before he started, ears ticking down nervously as he began, the ancient language falling easily from his forked tongue.

--

There was once a potter, skilled in her craft with the callused hands to prove it. Since before she could remember, her job was to collect clay from the earth and use it to craft a masterpiece. Nothing less would do.

The clay was hard and dry, but workable. Each afternoon a new piece was made, and each night it would be placed into flames to grow stronger. In these flames, the smallest of errors would cause the piece to crack and often shatter, putting a full day’s work to waste.

But she kept going. Her shop was rarely visited, and her pieces rarely seen, but this was the work she was meant to do.

So she would continue to make her elaborate vessels and platters. Some days she even made two, if the clay was right.

As days turned into years, she grew bored and lonely. So she took it upon herself to sculpt something different; a clay doll. In this she found new inspiration, finding herself working on the earthen creature for days on end. Only when it was perfection in her eyes would she place it in the kiln. The lifeless doll received a kiss on both shoulders for good luck before being placed into the flames.

Within moments, cracks where the woman’s lips were places formed and threatened to shatter the doll, but did not. It was not until the hardening process was finished did the woman bring the doll back out to inspect her work.

The sight of her perfection ruined by her own love for it twisted her stomach, dark hands shaking as the doll was placed in her basket, tears streaming down her face as she went out into the land surrounding her home.

Apologies were spoken to deaf ears as the doll was buried as deep within the sand and clay as the earth would allow, the a child never meant to be born, he was left there.