Father, What is Love?
A Mysterious letter finds itself left at the first steps, the place where a notorious cat-dad resides. In it, a philosophical letter written by a curious son learning about a new world, in more ways than one.
[The letter starts, written in a beautiful cursive hand, perfectly puntuated and almost academic in look. Unfitting to the supposed author.] Father, man of many adventures, if by the twelve's many graces this may be read to you, I ask you so, What is love? What is this feeling that swells like an oncoming storm on the wind, churning the trees and rustling the leaves in my heart? What is this heavy, longing stone that drifts through my heart to follow her, like a stray kitten in the wild? Have you ever felt such a way father? Did it lie in your heart when you lay admist the many duties of a miq'ote? Does it grace upon your lips when you touch them to the silver lady? Do you have knowledge of such a feeling father? or am I simply falling privy to madness? I hold my suspicions close to my chest, akin to cards in a triad game, I do not show my play until now. I say these words and watch her beautiful hands scrawl across the parchment, I watch her face grow as beautifully rose-crimson as her hair. How the red compliments her beautiful scales father, oh she is a wonderful sight I wish to share with you. You must meet her one day. Alas, I must muse on an answer, mustn't I? I cannot avoid it. Perhaps love is the thing that drew me to taking up on her offer for such a engaging activity. Perhaps it is lying between the strong lines of tradition that forbid me from directly scrawling on that parchment, yet draw my heart, nay, beg my heart into to doing so, as to do so, would be to put to paper a feeling close to what I feel for her. Perhaps it is a release, a mechanical value to the soul that tells it that it is okay to feel these feelings, that I do not have a madness in my brain after all. I am only 15 cycles of the sun old, Father, but that you may know. I hope to hear your experience on the next time I can make it back to you, I enjoy being privy to your stories, as your voice is a low gravly hum that resonates with the soul like hot chocolate tastes on the tounge.
[The carefully curated handwriting stops, and scrawled, almost like a cave marking below, tilting diagnoally on the page, perhaps this is the author's true hand.]
If t he s ilv er lad y is rea ding th is, He lll o C: