05-23-2018, 11:09 AM
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror
It is twilight when he arrives (the sky painted hues of lavender and apricot and rose and navy), stepping across the border without so much as a twitch of his ears. He’s never paid mind to the laws of a kingdom (not with his pink queen so long ago, not with the dragon-queen so long ago, not with the magician-queen so long ago) and he certainly doesn’t plan on starting now. The only thing they could truly do to him is force him out of the kingdom (and even then he will simply fade into their shadows and go find some other poor soul to torture), a thought which makes him chuckle aloud.
Two slender sandstorms twirl around him, tinted in varying shades of pink and deep red from their cargo (said luggage being two sisterly hearts, now shed of blood and vessels). They’ve been traveling all day (the trickster with his two hearts) yet the storms have maintained their shape, expertly crafted by the shadowy, slender, metaphorical fingers of the trickster. As he slips under the shade of the forest, an audible sigh leaves his lungs (these shadows bring nostalgia to his mind with thoughts of the Valley). Although he spent a minimal amount of time in these woods with the white-ghost as king, there is familiarity in the thickness of the trees and undergrowth and shadow.
If they’re good Sylvans, they will know he is here (thus he doesn’t call out, content to lean his left hip against a wide boulder). His bruised eyes scan the undergrowth, watching as the world gradually gets darker while the sun is suffocated by the horizon. He’s due for a dip in some cool water (the thick layers of dried blood are itching at his skin now, but he’s too hell-bent on meeting this baby-evil to bother with a good bath) and so another, careless yet annoyed, sigh drips from his throat.
Two slender sandstorms twirl around him, tinted in varying shades of pink and deep red from their cargo (said luggage being two sisterly hearts, now shed of blood and vessels). They’ve been traveling all day (the trickster with his two hearts) yet the storms have maintained their shape, expertly crafted by the shadowy, slender, metaphorical fingers of the trickster. As he slips under the shade of the forest, an audible sigh leaves his lungs (these shadows bring nostalgia to his mind with thoughts of the Valley). Although he spent a minimal amount of time in these woods with the white-ghost as king, there is familiarity in the thickness of the trees and undergrowth and shadow.
If they’re good Sylvans, they will know he is here (thus he doesn’t call out, content to lean his left hip against a wide boulder). His bruised eyes scan the undergrowth, watching as the world gradually gets darker while the sun is suffocated by the horizon. He’s due for a dip in some cool water (the thick layers of dried blood are itching at his skin now, but he’s too hell-bent on meeting this baby-evil to bother with a good bath) and so another, careless yet annoyed, sigh drips from his throat.
Lokii
lover of chaos
@[Modicum Mortem] + anyone who wants to join