.Patchwork Angel.What is this? A child? The age of the creature slowly traversing the lake's edge is undeterminable, it could be a hatchling, but if so, one with care beyond her years. Face is set in stoic determination--she could have been pretty, at one point, had the world not washed it away. Her expression is one of grim determination... vitality all that's left to her. She'd find somewhere to stay... Or she would move on. That is how it had been, that is how it always will be. Now... and forever.
The drifter...
the wanderer...
the lost child...
The patchwork angel.
Love? It always ends up in pain. Familly? A fantasy, a falsehood. Tears? Foreign. She approaches, it is obvious that the little femme is a hatchling, her rough scales the color of a dulled sunset, her underbelly and and accents pale, powder blue. Pained blue eyes, tainted by darkness, drift to the colony of dragon upon the rocks.
Would this be her home?
Would these be her familly?
Probably not...
After all...
..::she was the patchwork angel::.