10-31-2017, 03:39 PM
His insides crave (his lungs itch, his intestines twitch, his heart jumps) the sweet taste of chaos. There was something about it (perhaps the scream of a woman, or the gurgle of blood in the throat, or the cry of an orphaned child) that brought him the greatest level of joy. There was nothing any woman could do that could bring him greater pleasure than destruction, pain, and havoc.
He’d felt that tingle deep in his gut (something that started out small before spreading throughout his body - a brave wildfire - until it drove him crazy) upon hearing about a kingdom doing the dirty work he loved so preciously. The trickster had been spending the afternoons in the meadow, occasionally striking up a conversation but mostly watching and listening.
He knew the shadowy creatures of the land (the ones with blood on their lips, death in their hearts, and darkness in their eyes) would be up to trouble eventually. He simply had to wait until he heard of it. The whisperings reached his graying ears easily enough (“blood pouring out of the front door” and “I would never take my daughter anywhere near that place” and “his red eyes still give me nightmares”) and it wasn’t long before his scarred body was headed toward the forested land.
The trickster had never been a fan of respecting others. He’d run into his fair share of trouble with that philosophy (when the dark god had snapped his forelegs and sewn them back together in a botched fashion during the first year of his life) and yet he had never seemed to learn. He’d spent many hours talking his way out of trespassing, yet his careless behavior tossed those memories to the wind the moment they were in the past.
So he trespasses yet again (he doesn’t sneak, but walks with his head at a comfortable position and his steps casual). He admires the forest (it seemed close to the Valley, what he might call home) with its dark shadows and tall boulders. He winds between the trunks, dappling sunlight falling on his lightning strikes. Then, the trickster settles himself against the coolness of a smaller boulder and waits patiently for someone to arrive (he knows they will come quickly, they always do).
He’d felt that tingle deep in his gut (something that started out small before spreading throughout his body - a brave wildfire - until it drove him crazy) upon hearing about a kingdom doing the dirty work he loved so preciously. The trickster had been spending the afternoons in the meadow, occasionally striking up a conversation but mostly watching and listening.
He knew the shadowy creatures of the land (the ones with blood on their lips, death in their hearts, and darkness in their eyes) would be up to trouble eventually. He simply had to wait until he heard of it. The whisperings reached his graying ears easily enough (“blood pouring out of the front door” and “I would never take my daughter anywhere near that place” and “his red eyes still give me nightmares”) and it wasn’t long before his scarred body was headed toward the forested land.
The trickster had never been a fan of respecting others. He’d run into his fair share of trouble with that philosophy (when the dark god had snapped his forelegs and sewn them back together in a botched fashion during the first year of his life) and yet he had never seemed to learn. He’d spent many hours talking his way out of trespassing, yet his careless behavior tossed those memories to the wind the moment they were in the past.
So he trespasses yet again (he doesn’t sneak, but walks with his head at a comfortable position and his steps casual). He admires the forest (it seemed close to the Valley, what he might call home) with its dark shadows and tall boulders. He winds between the trunks, dappling sunlight falling on his lightning strikes. Then, the trickster settles himself against the coolness of a smaller boulder and waits patiently for someone to arrive (he knows they will come quickly, they always do).
LOKII
