It is always their thoughts that draw him out from the shadows. Like a predator he waits, stretching invisible fingers outwards from himself to grasp at whatever he could lay his grubby hands on - the juicier, the better. Their thoughts - rampant, wild, free - hit him harder than a drug; to know them so intimately, so privately, so secretly, the young colt simply could not find a better high.
Of course, he had ones that he preferred.
The ones with lackadaisical thoughts. The ones with daydreams (and even nightmares), with large hopes but little experience. Those were the ones that tasted the sweetest on his tongue and today, it is what he seeks out. Of course, they are never perfect. None of them could be, even if he told them that they were.
Molech cares little for the cold that bites at the deep teal and ivory of his flesh, finding that his jaw is set in a terribly clenched way where his mouth is but a thin line while his gold-barred ears are annoyingly tilted back. The cold made it harder to focus, harder to find what he is searching for. So when the rushed thoughts - so rushed! - of another flood his mind, his posture quickly changes. He becomes interested and curious, pressing forward through the familiar paths of his forest, attempting to find to whom these thoughts belonged. Molech is sifting through the flood that is the stream of consciousness, only keeping the information he found useful.
Especially that first thing he had heard. The thing about being lost. The single word had flared in his mind like that of a beacon, drawing him from the shadows like a moth to a flame.
He comes upon her just as she seems to have tripped onto herself, landing with a squeal and a thump that is enough to draw him from his reverie of her thoughts and into the real world, his lavender eyes clicking onto her slumped form. He pauses, halfway out of the trees that he had been walking through, half of him covered by the shadows that cast through the canopy.
She would have been as white as the snow she laid upon if the forest floor had not muddied the crunched ice beneath her. The gentlest touches of pink seem to blush in the softer parts of her body and something Molech first believes are snowflakes trickles around her head and tail. Her inward apology, however, quickly tells him that it is not crystals of ice that float around her, but tiny moths.
Molech snorts softly, alerting her to his presence if she hadn’t already noticed him. He slides out into the fullness of the sunlight, no longer beneath the comfort of the shade. The blood on her nose pools quite noticeably - bright red and streaking as it drips, drips, drips into soft patterns into the snow. He watches it for a moment, his forked tongue slithering forward to taste the metallic sting of it on the air, before flicking it back into his golden mouth.
“Would you like some help?”
molech.
@[Wight]
i couldn't help myself with the moth pun