Standard issue personality

Soft?

No.

Gentle? 

No.

Warm?  

No...

Comforting?  

Uh, no.

Sweet? cheerful? encouraging? Happy?

No, no, no and no.

...

...

Oh, here we go.  Nurturing? Patient? Kind?

Hmm, not really.

Well, let's just skip the rest of the page.  Don't get to these appendices often. Not big enough or young enough for most of this... Here; resilient, cunning, sharp, narrow, focused, potentially lethal, quick.

That seems about right.

Prognosis, somewhere between a boning knife and a main gauche.  Doesn't seem to fit very well with your current position.

It was all that was open. Something about anachronisms.  

Could you at least slow down on the bloodshed?

Hello?!?  Sharp pointy end or short handle, not even a hot spot for cauterizing.

Use this.  It isn't so much a sheath as some flat bits to run along the edges.  Hold very still, should minimize damage. Hopefully an other option'll turn up.

Great, hold still and wait.  That's not very helpful for them?

At least it isn't causing more wounds.

colossus

Beguiling, pleading, maddeningly flitting, lightest caress, mostly imagined touch. Crass, obscene digits, massively outweighing the dulcet sprite, held statue still, painfully so.

Mindless of environs, absorbed with details, the hummingbird examines each fold and whorl.  Seemingly waiting for some other action, a better pose, more secure perch. 

The slightest quiver, barely perceptible, enough to chase away. Not far, over and over, return, flight, return.

Through tears, gazing at the wreckage, the monolith adjusts. Consciously not closing the distance. The quietest whisper a gale, glances literally piercing, to hold is to crush.  Wings and bodies, still pathetically thrumming, litter the ground.  Deep enough to impede movement, disguising the terrain. 

No need for further discouragement, the approach, fraught and unsteady, barely passable, useless now. And still constant invitations form a steady, impatient stream.

Desperately surveying the field for clues, composing a bird's eye view for some strategy, hope, sense. No pattern, nothing meaningful.

Instead, every subtlety, innuendo, artifice gracefully evaded. All things direct overbearing. No middle ground, no common language. Instincts, even tuned with experience, constant dead ends, as testified by multiple mounds of writhing carnage splayed carelessly about where stood similar paths. Their existence doubtful, now, even to the one that tread upon them.

To turn is defeat, but forward, the cost precludes victory. Or, at least victory in any meaningful state. But more, how now to tell one victory for the other? Hope waning, grasps for comfort in stillness.

Patience, despised, spurned, convoluted, better than outright injury.  Silence, a lonely companion.