12-10-2017, 08:57 PM
He’s noticed the damage to the woodland (the charred remnants that surface as the snow melts, the brittle trunks that reach their naked arms to the sky even as the others around them are clothed, the stark lack of underbrush that might shelter the forest creatures) and it reminds him of another scorched forest he’d called home (although the desolation of the fire had been absolute, the flame eating at everyone and everything who were not fortunate enough to climb inside that bubble of solitude). It piques his curiosity, but he remains silent about it. He can guess something interesting had happened (the bitterness of winter has long since drowned the scents of sex and sin that might have clouded the air here), although it had happened before his arrival.
He isn’t ignorant of her presence. There’s a certain sort of awareness when another (a fellow chaos-lover, someone else who delights in orgies with destruction and sin and death, another who toys with the tendrils of mischief) creeps nearby. The trickster’s ears turn in her direction as she creeps along his hip. Her breath is warm and sparks a hint of a flame deep between his legs. He smirks although his bruised eyes do not look in her direction just yet.
It is only when she speaks (in an erotic way that makes the shadows seem somehow darker, that ignites emotions that might remain stagnant otherwise, that pulls forward cords of primal instinct) that he moves to look at her. He is mildly amused that she might know his name (it has been a long time since his title has been found among the households — frankly, he’s missed it) and it shows blatantly in the curve of his mouth and the spark in his gaze.
Just as she knows who he is, he knows who she is.
“I’ve heard of you,” he croons. He’s heard the whispers of gossip in the social corners of Beqanna (stories of her association with the white wraith, of her seduction toward stallions, of her position alongside the throne of Sylva). “Gryffen’s bitch, right?” It’s blunt (to put it lightly) but the trickster’s never given a fuck about treading carefully.
He considers playing a trick on her.
Her next statement throws him off from his thoughts. He tips his head to the side, a charismatic smile dancing across his mouth (it’s a look that treads a fine line between captivating and insanity). “And for what reason?”
He isn’t ignorant of her presence. There’s a certain sort of awareness when another (a fellow chaos-lover, someone else who delights in orgies with destruction and sin and death, another who toys with the tendrils of mischief) creeps nearby. The trickster’s ears turn in her direction as she creeps along his hip. Her breath is warm and sparks a hint of a flame deep between his legs. He smirks although his bruised eyes do not look in her direction just yet.
It is only when she speaks (in an erotic way that makes the shadows seem somehow darker, that ignites emotions that might remain stagnant otherwise, that pulls forward cords of primal instinct) that he moves to look at her. He is mildly amused that she might know his name (it has been a long time since his title has been found among the households — frankly, he’s missed it) and it shows blatantly in the curve of his mouth and the spark in his gaze.
Just as she knows who he is, he knows who she is.
“I’ve heard of you,” he croons. He’s heard the whispers of gossip in the social corners of Beqanna (stories of her association with the white wraith, of her seduction toward stallions, of her position alongside the throne of Sylva). “Gryffen’s bitch, right?” It’s blunt (to put it lightly) but the trickster’s never given a fuck about treading carefully.
He considers playing a trick on her.
Her next statement throws him off from his thoughts. He tips his head to the side, a charismatic smile dancing across his mouth (it’s a look that treads a fine line between captivating and insanity). “And for what reason?”
LOKII
