10-23-2017, 06:02 PM
The world is poisoned (with death, with sin, with disease). The trickster injects the poison into his system like an ancient heroin addict. He poises the needle against his skin and pushes it in with a slim finger. The world is poisoned and everyone knows it (yet not everyone loves it, cherishes it, desires it).
It’s a given that one must be cautious with so much infection leaking through the air (children can be murdered, wives can be raped, dreams can be crushed). Perhaps that is why emotions are so easily hurt in the face of chaos. The trickster never understood it. He’d spent his life giving zero fucks to anything that happened to anyone (not that he hasn’t stopped - in fact, that carelessness has grown tenfold since his childhood). The only thing he ever cared for was the poison, the chaos, the disease (this comes to mind - a flash of blazing golden eyes, a faint memory of walls of earth around his shoulders, the smell of whispering words in the dead of night - but he pushes it stubbornly away).
Though he has aged since his younger days (days of the shadowy kingdom long gone, days of dragons flying high in the sky, days of pink queens and ancient gods), he is not old. The trickster’s skin has history written upon it, but his angular face is just as charming as ever. Cunning, precise, and sharp but still charming. His steps are rugged and slanting, his shape is a combination of hazardly-tossed together body parts, his eyes are alluring and sly (but he is a chaotic sort of handsome, a question waiting to be answered).
She tugs on her meal and he watches the way her elegant neck bends. There a quick flashes of desperate thought (his lips placing sweet kisses on that neck, his teeth shredding her skin to reach her esophagus, blood dripping quietly down her throat) but he controls himself. The infected had taught him well and he yearned for the pleasure those nights spent in the dark had given him.
Finally, she acknowledges his presence with her name. He takes a step closer and decides to flex his muscles just a bit. Her aesthetic brings to mind wintertime and the chill of snow. The trickster’s smokey fingers leak into the crevasses of her brain and access the sensory machinery. In the blink of an eye, it is no longer summer to her.
The meadow is a frozen wasteland. There is no one around (no one but herself, as far as she can see) and the trees are even naked from their friendly leaved companions. Snow is piled around the edges of the meadow, high enough the mare might have to crane her neck to see their peaks. The wind is a bitter sting against her hide, the sun is absent (hidden behind a thick curtain of deeply gray clouds), and her breath clouds into a dragon’s huff before her mouth.
In the next moment, she is back in the meadow during the summer, with the trickster standing with a leg popped out in a comfortable position. He shrugs his shoulders (nonchalant as ever). “The name’s Lokii.”
It’s a given that one must be cautious with so much infection leaking through the air (children can be murdered, wives can be raped, dreams can be crushed). Perhaps that is why emotions are so easily hurt in the face of chaos. The trickster never understood it. He’d spent his life giving zero fucks to anything that happened to anyone (not that he hasn’t stopped - in fact, that carelessness has grown tenfold since his childhood). The only thing he ever cared for was the poison, the chaos, the disease (this comes to mind - a flash of blazing golden eyes, a faint memory of walls of earth around his shoulders, the smell of whispering words in the dead of night - but he pushes it stubbornly away).
Though he has aged since his younger days (days of the shadowy kingdom long gone, days of dragons flying high in the sky, days of pink queens and ancient gods), he is not old. The trickster’s skin has history written upon it, but his angular face is just as charming as ever. Cunning, precise, and sharp but still charming. His steps are rugged and slanting, his shape is a combination of hazardly-tossed together body parts, his eyes are alluring and sly (but he is a chaotic sort of handsome, a question waiting to be answered).
She tugs on her meal and he watches the way her elegant neck bends. There a quick flashes of desperate thought (his lips placing sweet kisses on that neck, his teeth shredding her skin to reach her esophagus, blood dripping quietly down her throat) but he controls himself. The infected had taught him well and he yearned for the pleasure those nights spent in the dark had given him.
Finally, she acknowledges his presence with her name. He takes a step closer and decides to flex his muscles just a bit. Her aesthetic brings to mind wintertime and the chill of snow. The trickster’s smokey fingers leak into the crevasses of her brain and access the sensory machinery. In the blink of an eye, it is no longer summer to her.
The meadow is a frozen wasteland. There is no one around (no one but herself, as far as she can see) and the trees are even naked from their friendly leaved companions. Snow is piled around the edges of the meadow, high enough the mare might have to crane her neck to see their peaks. The wind is a bitter sting against her hide, the sun is absent (hidden behind a thick curtain of deeply gray clouds), and her breath clouds into a dragon’s huff before her mouth.
In the next moment, she is back in the meadow during the summer, with the trickster standing with a leg popped out in a comfortable position. He shrugs his shoulders (nonchalant as ever). “The name’s Lokii.”
LOKII
i should have asked before powerplaying, so i do apologize. if you want me to change anything please don't hesitate to private message me and i can edit stuff out <3