OemUbris

Birth from soil

"Who is the one you keep hidden among your trees?"
"Who?"
"Don't act a fool, you know what I mean"

---

Soil molded to life. Jagged sharp rock teeth and mossy insides emerge from it's sad smile as it feeds and grows along the Garden. Miracle construct offspring of green and red, no matter the many layers of cloth and scale that drape from it's form, it can never call itself a dragon like the rest, as verdant and as strong it stands it cannot call itself nothing more than the dirt that composes it. And so it weeps.

"hush my dear, lest you wish they take you away" a clawed hand caresses it's side, thumb rubbing a tear of mud away for it's glowing socket.

"whatamI" the sound of scrapping feet over dirt fill the air, quick and unsure."whatamI" the steps continue.

"ours...our son" two hands now hold the sturdy shell skin(?) between it's claws, blunt claws. soft. calm voice...correcting too fast.

the sound of a metallic rake scratching humid soil, dragging dead leaves, hitting the occasional pebble sounds softly and repetitive. Empty breath hitched and trembling, running away from lungs somewhere within. "I-Idon't"

Figure too small to embrace but still an effort is made. Tender hand running along the cold cloth and metal, snug to the form, made to fit and cover well. It's safer like this. Fingers absent-mindedly playing with the stray threads. Shredded. Remind them to fix. "you are"

"Iam...?" the sound of steps still lingers feebly along the rake's scrapes. Rock-sharp claws dig to her side, barely hurting but enough to leave a mark. It needs to learn, it will learn. The steps become weaker the longer they stay still until the weight of a body slumps heavy onto the soil, coming to a rest. "Iam..." The body stays put, it's weight pressing into the soil, rocks and leaves press back but it's too tired and comfortable to move."I..."

---

Foresta holds the hatchling closer, it's eyes closed as it snuggles further unto her own leaves, the soft raking sound blending with her breath as she caresses it's back in small motions.

She doesn't know how much time she has spent with it like this but maybe it has been a lot as the other gardeners have come to seek her. Some hold their gaze to the body between her arms, their expressions worried, some to the point of looking away for any stranger stumbling upon the scene; others wanting to reach to the figure but stopping as the imperial's gaze hardens the smallest bit before shaking her head soft enough they barely perceive the notion.

Behind her back two pair of glowing eyes escape further into the trees, one with a feather-light scramble the occasional sound of splatter at every odd step and the other with a careful but heavy pace, careless of the sound that vibrates across the place as it rumbles and gruffs.