01-06-2018, 04:56 PM
He is indifferent as the magician steps forward to indulge in the remains of the badger (whether a show of power or control or dominance or what-have-you; he cares not). His scarred ears quip forward to catch the name that slides between blood-soaked teeth and around pulverized intestine. The trickster wonders (for the breath of a rabbit) why he hasn’t heard of this stallion before. He chalks it up to be the length of his absence (nestled between rock and cobweb in the corners of Beqanna only the loners travel to).
The trickster is exceptionally amused by the dark one’s judgements. He always finds interest in the ways they constantly underestimate him (pushing him down because of his angular size, because of his foggy eye, because of the way he looks like an underdog). His lips curl into a smirk mingled with a smile of humor. “Hate to break it to you, but I don’t partake in dick-sizing competitions.”
His shoulders are rolling into a shrug when the dark one lurches closer. The trickster doesn’t flinch (he’s felt the breath of anger and blood against his face many times before and it doesn’t intimidate him now) but instead his bruised eyes lock with the other’s gaze. He is slow to reply to the biting words of the magician, almost as though he were teasing him. Finally, “Sylva was never my home, and Gryffen was surely not my king.”
Deep inside, he honestly isn’t quite sure of this dark one’s intentions. But the trickster has always been one to roll with the punches and give zero fucks as to anything that happens, so he waits patiently.
The trickster is exceptionally amused by the dark one’s judgements. He always finds interest in the ways they constantly underestimate him (pushing him down because of his angular size, because of his foggy eye, because of the way he looks like an underdog). His lips curl into a smirk mingled with a smile of humor. “Hate to break it to you, but I don’t partake in dick-sizing competitions.”
His shoulders are rolling into a shrug when the dark one lurches closer. The trickster doesn’t flinch (he’s felt the breath of anger and blood against his face many times before and it doesn’t intimidate him now) but instead his bruised eyes lock with the other’s gaze. He is slow to reply to the biting words of the magician, almost as though he were teasing him. Finally, “Sylva was never my home, and Gryffen was surely not my king.”
Deep inside, he honestly isn’t quite sure of this dark one’s intentions. But the trickster has always been one to roll with the punches and give zero fucks as to anything that happens, so he waits patiently.
LOKII
