this isn't mischief
The trickster watches her as she walks. He is a predator to prey (the suppleness of her curves sending shivers down his spine, the knowledge that her blood pumps beneath her skin making his teeth ache to puncture, the lilt of her steps causing him to wish to cease them dramatically) and his lip curls in barely-withheld desire. She is a lone fish swimming in the sea and he is the shark rising from the depths.
He pauses before approaching her. He could easily probe her eyes into thinking he is someone else (someone impressive and deep-voiced and handsome and love-able) but he decides against it. He is content with his two mares for the time being, one already having a child on the way. So he steps deeper into the creek, scattering the fish that had drifted back in while he thought.
“Summer fits you well,” he says by way of greeting. His tricks itch to play, his sandstorms complaining that the water does little to bring them forth. He hisses in his mind at them (crooning for them to silence their whining, promising they will have their turn soon, whispering that they will not have to wait forever) while turning his bruised gaze (blue and black in the right eye, blue and white in the left eye) toward her splashed face. “The name’s Lokii.” He doesn’t ask for her name. She will give it if she wishes.
While his tricks and storms whisper and beg to be let out of their cages, he waits patiently for her answer (mischief and chaos twining between the colors of his eyes).
lokii
this is mayhem
