06-03-2015, 07:05 PM
so you wanna play with magic?
Deep inside all the best ones are just little boys. Camrynn is at home among them, able to weave her charm into something that seems earnest, authentic, interesting. She is able to pick out their little flaws, play to their every weakness, give them everything that they never even knew they needed.
That's because, at heart, she is nothing but heartless. She will do whatever needs to be done to accomplish her goals, to seek out and find the knowledge she craves. That is her ultimate goal, always: to push the envelope, to do more, to be more, and she doesn't care in the slightest who she has to destroy to make it happen.
But she is calculated. She is careful. She doesn't risk too much too soon; that is a surefire way to lose it all. She plays her cards close to the vest. She sits back and lets them dance, lets them dance to their deaths – always to the tune that she's devised, to the drum that she beats, to the song that she sings. It's so much better to be the puppetmaster.
She listens to his hopes and dreams, to the songs of his chaos, and she knows that he is hers. She knows that she could have him dance any tune she likes, and she is glad of it. He is a formidable thing, nothing compared to her or Eight or the magicians of old, but as far as the horses of Beqanna go, he's really quite something. He almost reminds her of her – had she not once been an illusionist much like him? She had, although she'd always had more of a gift for winning. No scars, no marks on her body. Oh well, no matter: she'll teach him how to sew chaos, how to bring his lover into the world with grace.
She listens to his words, her lips a mirthless smile. No, she's never been accused of being light-hearted. She's not fit to sit the Deserts throne, except that she's a perfect fit for a throne because she's put her mind to it. She is the queen of pragmatism, the tidal wave that falls across the lands of those who would threaten the Deserts. And perhaps these horses, her spearpoint, will become an implement to help in that goal too. In fact, there can be little doubt – but they won't be simple retainers, a little personal army that she can call on in case of invasion. Oh no, her plans for them are far more grand, far more sinister, and far more underhanded.
"We never are what we're thought to be, are we?" she asks him, her smile softer and teasing. A mark appears then, nestled on his girth area, low on his barrel, behind his left foreleg. It appears as little more than a ruffling of hair, but to those who are looking for it, it will be obvious – and it will appear in its true form, as a black hole, swirling inexorably inward into a sharp point of nothingness. Because they will be like a black hole – swirling ever inward, destroying, and never – never – reaching the event horizon.
Because it's no fun when it ends, is it?
"Now you bear my mark, Lokii." her voice is husky, warm velvet. "And that entitles you to bear my gift." she walks around him then, so close that she is almost touching, stopping every so often as though to appraise. When she has reached his other side, she turns back to face him again. "Any requests?" She offers an impish grin. "Although I can't promise I'll honor them."
That's because, at heart, she is nothing but heartless. She will do whatever needs to be done to accomplish her goals, to seek out and find the knowledge she craves. That is her ultimate goal, always: to push the envelope, to do more, to be more, and she doesn't care in the slightest who she has to destroy to make it happen.
But she is calculated. She is careful. She doesn't risk too much too soon; that is a surefire way to lose it all. She plays her cards close to the vest. She sits back and lets them dance, lets them dance to their deaths – always to the tune that she's devised, to the drum that she beats, to the song that she sings. It's so much better to be the puppetmaster.
She listens to his hopes and dreams, to the songs of his chaos, and she knows that he is hers. She knows that she could have him dance any tune she likes, and she is glad of it. He is a formidable thing, nothing compared to her or Eight or the magicians of old, but as far as the horses of Beqanna go, he's really quite something. He almost reminds her of her – had she not once been an illusionist much like him? She had, although she'd always had more of a gift for winning. No scars, no marks on her body. Oh well, no matter: she'll teach him how to sew chaos, how to bring his lover into the world with grace.
She listens to his words, her lips a mirthless smile. No, she's never been accused of being light-hearted. She's not fit to sit the Deserts throne, except that she's a perfect fit for a throne because she's put her mind to it. She is the queen of pragmatism, the tidal wave that falls across the lands of those who would threaten the Deserts. And perhaps these horses, her spearpoint, will become an implement to help in that goal too. In fact, there can be little doubt – but they won't be simple retainers, a little personal army that she can call on in case of invasion. Oh no, her plans for them are far more grand, far more sinister, and far more underhanded.
"We never are what we're thought to be, are we?" she asks him, her smile softer and teasing. A mark appears then, nestled on his girth area, low on his barrel, behind his left foreleg. It appears as little more than a ruffling of hair, but to those who are looking for it, it will be obvious – and it will appear in its true form, as a black hole, swirling inexorably inward into a sharp point of nothingness. Because they will be like a black hole – swirling ever inward, destroying, and never – never – reaching the event horizon.
Because it's no fun when it ends, is it?
"Now you bear my mark, Lokii." her voice is husky, warm velvet. "And that entitles you to bear my gift." she walks around him then, so close that she is almost touching, stopping every so often as though to appraise. When she has reached his other side, she turns back to face him again. "Any requests?" She offers an impish grin. "Although I can't promise I'll honor them."
CAMRYNN
co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery