Secrets were often the butchered veins in a burly man, draining its hideous contents into suffocating organs, contaminating anything that could have shown the possibility of purity. It sizzled through the heavy eyes of even a decent man, conquering its hold until time was lost, an inevitable fate slipping silently through the nestled seams.
Moloculo had been such a man, and the moment the thought anchored itself into the depths of his daughter's mind, he morphed into something hardly recognizable in that of a stranger. Except he was the stranger that never smirked back, never glanced one's way in a two-direction street, shoving against the forces that dared distract his intentions. Moloculo was so full of secrets, Morgana was sure even he wasn't aware of at least half of the contents he accumulated over the years.
For a long while, she always daggered that fact against him. Yet, nature deemed this same drug of character into her own bloodstream, coursing her veins, ready to bust at a minute's notice. It was a curse awaiting the moment to blossom in the midst of winter.
From this same defect, passed from father to kin, had exposed the cavities that had never blistered even under Molculo's skin. Moloculo never spoke of the truth, Morgana spoke lies in its absence. Moloculo hesitated under those who cowered before him, Morgana never gave the pause an opportunity to develop in the wombs of her soul. Moloculo was cold to strangers, Morgana had been practically frostbitten. Where a father saw knives, a daughter saw graves.
Oh, how time can pass one by, leaving nothing but dust and tears. It seemed the more Morgana matured, the more vicious her nature manifested. Moloculo knew this of course, but what was he to do? The adversity of his late-wife had been enough of a venom wound, and hiding the very evidence of this idea from a girl, hardly old of age, only swept this poison into further action. By the time Moloculo had begun to pick up the cold adjustment in his adolescent, the girl already had a head start.
It was never the intention that Moloculo raised Morgana into a lethal mind, at least more than he intended. It was never his intention for her to become a monster, he simply wished for her to be one of his tastes. It was a dead intention that Morgana found a life of crime in her wake, despite the constant warnings her family gave, the weight of the McCawber legacy upon her shoulders. It wasn't Morgana's intention to hardly care.
Moloculo had lost track of the sleepless nights, desperately clawing out for the very soul he butchered through his own blood. As time expanded, those bitter weekly letters turned into monthly, and then into nothing. The ghoul had been sure he had lost his only daughter those days.
Yet, those cold dreams were never futile. Eventually, he found her again. But not without a few accommodations. Forgiveness and grief had replaced the blood and venom Morgana used to granite within her gaze, along with a new sort of affection Moloculo hadn't ever thought the woman was capable of. The encounter had been oddly abrupt, yet the shells Morgana had succumbed to seemed to have cemented itself with time, despite her ghostly absence. For the life of him, Moloculo couldn't put a darn finger as to the arrival that flamed amidst his daughter's thoughts.
Of course, of course Darkwing Duck had been the "arrival." The red-headed girl he dragged with him hadn't been any better. The gun shot rang when Moloculo realized Morgana never planned on telling him of her suitor interests. The fact that Darkwing had been a Normal hadn't even itched him, it was merely a fabrication Moloculo knitted to drape over his such untelling.
Growing with age, Morgana never really admired the attention and affections of other men, Monster or Normal. As the pride lion lingered, prowling for his mistress, Morgana flared a thirst for murder, sending every man she encountered crying for the hills, their mighty tails shivering under their tremoring bellies. She had been a lioness that left the bitter taste of "lone wolf" on the tongues on anyone who moved for her. Her eyes often could dig deeper than the claws she shined every night.
Yet, this same vicious soul Moloculo deemed his child by vein, had been conquered by such a neurotic excuse-of-a-mutt. Who knew such a deadly lioness had "taste." He brought out the compassion inside her, that not even mother nature knew could exist.
The ideal tortured Moloculo worse than the isolation Morgana had practiced against him for so long; Darkwing had been who found the shattering shards of the ghoul's soul, not her own father.
