mr verney

He calls himself Zerah, and thinks his name, which literally means "dawn", as something of a birthright.

If there is one thing I have to admit, is that his creator put much care into his construction. His stitching is careful and almost delicate, looking out of place on such a massive form. Every inch of his skin below the neck is lined in tattoos that couldn't have been easy to find, not crude etchings but elaborate pieces of art.

He is the largest Created, of my own lineage or otherwise, that I have seen, and yet he carries himself with a perpetual gentleness unbefitting of us. He speaks softly and simply, like a child. When asked about his past, he speaks fondly of his 'mother', of his loved ones (other Created, of course) and what few friends he has somehow managed to keep. In some ways, I suppose he does share our zeal. Our stubbornness, at least, as not asking nor threats convinced him to leave. But, at least for the moment, he has managed to escape the cynicism that claims all of us eventually.

Perhaps it is his somewhat privileged birth that has led him to hold the attitudes he does.

I am still not sure how to feel about him. He seems to have declared us "friends", but that's simply his naivete speaking again. Maybe eventually, he will realize that even monsters can only stand the company of other monsters for so long. Still, he honored his promise to me, so I must honor him in return. I have given him permission to stay with me for a while, so that he may learn whatever it is he wants to know and move on with his pilgrimage.

It is curious why he decided to seek me out in the first place. He is certainly harboring much more resentment than he lets on. And that, I understand. The patronizing pity our Disquiet brings can in some ways be more toxic than the violent hatred, causing a much more insidious and lasting damage. But I would have thought that there would be easier sources of this information than myself. Perhaps he has things to prove to other Prometheans?

Right now, as I write this, he is sitting outside, playing his guitar. I still do not know how he manages to work such a delicate instrument with those enormous fingers. I admit, there are times when it annoys me, and I feel my humours boiling, urging me to smash the thing.

The urges dissapate when I ask myself why I feel this way, and I realize that I cannot answer them in a satisfactory way. Or, worse perhaps, that my feelings are envious, that this figurative child has found a skill that people value while everything I touch ends up breaking.

It is times like that where I go quiet, and simply listen. And I try to take myself back, to a time where I too was new and innocent.

Maybe I'll let him stay a little longer.