this isn't mischief
He hasn’t forgotten her (even amongst all his killings and adventures and quests and other “partners”) or their little game (a game which resulted in something – or, rather, someone – whom she would have to care for). He hasn’t forgotten their first and second encounters, or the way her gold eyes flared to life with spunk and emotion. He hasn’t forgotten the feeling of the two of them connected on that night, or the way their individual magic warred for a victory.
He’s back again, now, and his thoughts turn toward her. It’s been years since he saw her last. He wonders (although it isn’t tender thoughtfulness; his wondering offers no sympathy or love) if she has found a lover who will soothe her in the night when she wakes from dreams of his grinning, smug face. He wonders if she has had any children past her firstborn (and his firstborn, too), and whether they were raised better than theirs. He wonders if she’s getting along in her years, if her eyes are fading and her splashed coat is graying and her powers of the earth are growing weaker.
He doesn’t ask around to find her location (he never has, he never will), but heads for the most humid part of Beqanna. The musk of the Jungle leaks into his nostrils as he travels closer. The chill of the winter cold burns away to reveal the warmth of the Jungle’s constant temperatures and the swirling sounds of snow melt into the cawing of birds and growling of predators.
He doesn’t call for her. He does, however, uncaringly trek over the border and waits near a thin stream weaving between the underbrush. She will find him; she usually does.
lokii
this is mayhem