05-08-2018, 02:31 PM
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror
He’s been curled among the bramble and cobwebs while Beqanna’s rosy peace reigns (while his heart beats for the wilderness of chaos, he can understand the need for balance and thus he allows them their gentle moments). He spends his days crunching squirrel heads beneath his hooves and occasionally ruining a small forest by the swirl of his sandstorms. His destructive streak never dies (always lingering behind his eyes and under the scarred, white-streaked patterns of his skin) but he forces the flames to quiet themselves while the pure-of-heart laugh and dance in the sunshine.
But the need for balance is a powerful thing. There cannot be growth without rain or thunder to water the soil. And he can feel the unsettling of their happiness (he is born from that disturbance, in fact); it draws him out of the shadows to linger on the edges of their gatherings. His mind is frothing with the desire for fresh, true blood (not the thin, slick fluids from the rabbits and squirrels or the faux, magicked fluids he crafts in his own imagination). It has been too long since he has hunted — truly hunted — and saliva pools in his mouth at the prospects.
He can smell them (with their fresh-faced cleanliness and pure souls and hints of prey-instinct fear) and it draws him from the shadows. It would be easy to snatch them off the trail and call that the end, but it’s been too long and he craves their torture. So instead he pulls himself into their line of vision, a bruise-eyed stranger standing on the trail with a pleasant smile and high cheekbones.
“Not sneaky enough.” His tenor voice is light and friendly, dancing with the song of a gentle knight. Mischief is his forte, but it pairs nicely with his mastery in the art of masking his true identity. “My tree-friend could hear you, and she doesn’t even have ears.” He crafts an illusion to their senses (shadowy, slippery fingers sliding between the crevices of their brains) and it is a beautiful, cheery one. A tree-horse, with birch-bark for a body and willow-wisps for hair. It’s eyes are made of Queen Anne’s lace, blossoming before their very (ill-perceiving) eyes.
The tree-horse steps forward, a bubbling laugh on her mouth sounding akin to a water’s trickle sliding across pebbles. “Where are you two from?” Her words are as gentle as a breeze whispering through summer leaves. The trickster steps alongside his tree-friend, mismatched eyes glancing between the two sisters. The eldest smells of weakness and anxiety while the younger smells of fresh excitement and unrooted worry. Perfect.
But the need for balance is a powerful thing. There cannot be growth without rain or thunder to water the soil. And he can feel the unsettling of their happiness (he is born from that disturbance, in fact); it draws him out of the shadows to linger on the edges of their gatherings. His mind is frothing with the desire for fresh, true blood (not the thin, slick fluids from the rabbits and squirrels or the faux, magicked fluids he crafts in his own imagination). It has been too long since he has hunted — truly hunted — and saliva pools in his mouth at the prospects.
He can smell them (with their fresh-faced cleanliness and pure souls and hints of prey-instinct fear) and it draws him from the shadows. It would be easy to snatch them off the trail and call that the end, but it’s been too long and he craves their torture. So instead he pulls himself into their line of vision, a bruise-eyed stranger standing on the trail with a pleasant smile and high cheekbones.
“Not sneaky enough.” His tenor voice is light and friendly, dancing with the song of a gentle knight. Mischief is his forte, but it pairs nicely with his mastery in the art of masking his true identity. “My tree-friend could hear you, and she doesn’t even have ears.” He crafts an illusion to their senses (shadowy, slippery fingers sliding between the crevices of their brains) and it is a beautiful, cheery one. A tree-horse, with birch-bark for a body and willow-wisps for hair. It’s eyes are made of Queen Anne’s lace, blossoming before their very (ill-perceiving) eyes.
The tree-horse steps forward, a bubbling laugh on her mouth sounding akin to a water’s trickle sliding across pebbles. “Where are you two from?” Her words are as gentle as a breeze whispering through summer leaves. The trickster steps alongside his tree-friend, mismatched eyes glancing between the two sisters. The eldest smells of weakness and anxiety while the younger smells of fresh excitement and unrooted worry. Perfect.
Lokii
lover of chaos
@[Khaeli] @[Alonwy]
