Angel born from blood of man, fragmented spirit of abominable birth.
Filled with the love of man, and hated by gods.
Caged within a wooden prison formed in the image of human flesh.
Years of watching this world grow cold, filling with corruption, she gathers dust and ash.
Seasons arrive with chilly air and softened rain.
Everything lives and dies save this singular doll; an image for the madman and his invited guests
Like with a cleansed mind and programmed wit, behaves this bewitched shell.
One hunter dies, another comes, his destiny to shape within this enchanting marionette
He breathes while she prays and the cycle renews.
Drenched in the blood of madness, her Hunter approaches.
Drawn innately to this lovely visage of death and renewal, she offers the humblest of greetings, head lowered in respect.
Remembrance presses the folds of this puppet's consciousness—a golden comb he presents.
Light in her darkness, joy, she thinks, reigns over her ashen face. A single tear smudges her wooden cheek.
A gift to her beloved Hunter—this evidence of love.
Recollection lies beyond an eternally sealed door of fog where only this Hunter may enter.
Their dream, her prison.
What is thy purpose, Angel born from the Blood of Man?
A/N: This came about after reading more on the Doll in the Hunter's Dream. Hope it was alright. My perspective of the Doll in writing.
