02-25-2018, 09:41 AM
Khaedrik feels the too-close presence in the night, the heady hot sensation of another living being, breathing down his neck. The shadows wrap him tight, and his nerves rattle and sing as he catches the silver bright voice of the filly. Who is there? Khaedrik´s glitter-dark eyes flash bright in the darkness. He backs away from her voice, and sidles to the right, moving with a silence and practiced grace. Intrigue. Bred into every elegant curve of his body. He drops his small head and reaches the tree line, no longer in the double-darkness of the forest. And Khaedrik stands, in the feeble starlight of this night in Beqanna, obfuscate but glorious. His voice is shrill – too young and innocent to belong to those lips. Khaedrik is every inch a monster. Every inch something more. ”I´m Khaedrik” he offers. Perhaps it means something to his companion, but to most – nothing.
He is too young still to admire the swing and sway of her hip, but there is something about the sylvan wildness of her that sparks his interest. He raises his head and his dark eyes are both turgid and empty. Inquisitively – he sends out a tendril of darkness; silk-smooth and ink-black to coil around her body. A spider-web made of shadow and smoke and his wolf growls again – to Khaedrik, she might be a possible new friend, a wild-eyed filly with dirt on her hocks and stories of adventures to share, but to the wolf she is prey caught in his net. Khaedrik glares at his monster, a master´s warning rebuke to his slave. The wolf might break bones, but Khaedrik would knit them back together. Let there be no confusion as to who is in charge here. The wolf obediently slinks behind Khaedriks tail – the annoyed swish of it a silent warning.
”And I don´t hide in the darkness” he states, in that offended tone that suggests he is much more child than shadow-master. Khaedrik never really did learn how to grasp the concepts of humor.