this isn't mischief
Winter has finally faded away into the energy of spring. The trickster is grateful for the fact that the chill of snow and ice has disappeared (although the replacement of springtime drizzles and thunderstorms isn’t all that great either). The winter season leaves a cold ache to spread in his bones, primarily in his forelegs (the forelegs that the dark magician broke and sewn back together, the forelegs that bore the scars of bones that split through his skin, the forelegs that forced him to bow), and the dull pain doesn’t fade until the middle of spring.
His walking isn’t as fast and long as it normally might be on this springtime day. Nonetheless, it is still smooth and gangly, head bobbing lightly in time with each step he takes. His trip to the field brings back memories (memories of recruiting for the Valley, memories of meeting mares, memories of standing on the sidelines watching kingdom members and herd stallions compete for someone’s attention).
The field is bustling (full of mares heavy with child, stallions casually enjoying their day, and a mother doe nimbly taking refuge from the predators among the protection of horses) as he steps into the sunshine. Although there are still piles of snow melting on the ground around him, they are easily avoidable. He steps onto the growing springtime grass, bruised eyes (the left blue and white, the right blue and black) glancing around for someone who might seem interesting. He’s not quite sure what he’s here for (he isn’t currently involved in a kingdom, he doesn’t have a herd of his own – although that could change, and he isn’t on any secret missions), but he looks nonetheless.
That’s when his gaze lands on the delicate mare getting a drink from the water pooling below the waterfall. Her breeding speaks of a strong heritage, while her young looks cause him to think she isn’t very far into her years. She is young, innocent, and naïve. She is a perfect girl for him and his noble (oh, the laughter in the background) personality.
As she moves toward the edge of the field, he creeps along in the shadows, not walking straight across the field. Although the shadows are chilling and the sun is satisfying, he finds the darkness comforts him much more soothingly than the light does. He allows the miniature sandstorms that usually swirl around his ankles to sleep today, but instead allows his illusionism out to play. It coddles against his body, swirling around his face, and transforms him into someone completely different in the eyes of the gentle mare.
Rather than seeing a gangly, sharp-boned trickster, the chestnut sees a handsome knight (although his coloring remains the same – silver bay – his build has changed; thick, strong muscle replaces sinewy strength, striped white lightning markings from destroying his own corpse fade into the silvery bay of his coat, bruised eyes are replaced with a gentle, charming coffee brown). He is the picture of the perfect stallion in the mind of an innocent young mare, and he knows it.
Although, this image is one only the mare can see, with her eyes covered by the mask of trickery.
“Greetings, miss.” His voice comes out a low tune (something else he has distorted from within her ear) and sweet to hear. “It’s dangerous to come out to the field unaccompanied, unless you’re looking from trouble.” He smiles gently (although the feeling of smiling in a – oh, ew – gentlemanly way feels strange on his lips) and nods in a gracious bow of the head. “My name is Kii. What’s yours?”
lokii
this is mayhem