[open] through the smoke and arrogance. [sinner, any]

[Niklas]

I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

What is it they say about the devil’s tools? He is bored. It is a sentiment that he finds rather disagreeable; it crawls beneath his skin like some feral creature wild for release. The darkness hums at his hooves, an adoring pet, running long, black fingers up stick-like limbs, across the gaunt flanks and protruding ribs, a sinister lover. Like the ice on the lake’s surface the night of the first freeze, it seeps into the whites of his eyes, coaxing them into the back of his head …

When he opens his eyes again, the lanky stallion is stepping from the shadows in a strange land, insolent beneath the midday sun. It dapples his dark hide with sunlight for the briefest of moments; before the light is swallowed and the darkness prevails.

The forest, brilliant with reds and yellows, is quiet here, save for the occasional burst of birdsong and the flutter of feathers. He tilts his head, thin nostrils flared wide against unfamiliar scents. There is water nearby and this mortal body thirsts. The snow crunches underfoot, small black creatures scurrying ahead and alongside him as he slips in between the densely packed trunks, their rough bark drug against his dull coat. Ducking a snow-laden bough, he swings northeast, keeping to the shadows out of habit. His breath rises in steady clouds of vapor, bits of frost forming on the ends of his hair.

When the water source is due west, he abruptly leaves the treeline, his small black companions dispersing, their yellow eyes wide and eager. There is already a path to the shoreline and he assumes it, thin skull slung low, muzzle brushing the snow with every few steps. Someone’s been here recently – he pauses a moment to sort through the scents, before breaking the thin film of ice and drinking his fill. The darkness whispers and his head swings up and around, water dripping from his chin.

Niklas