She sells seashells by the sea shore // Laura pony

[atrox]

hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive

He is mostly silent, for once, as she swims closer, giving her a cavalier grin when she says that she simply sings with enthusiam. At this, he guffaws lightly, not bothering to outright deny it or confirm it. To be honest, he has little interest in discussing her singing or her other vocal activities. He is much more interested in the way that she moves through the water toward him, curious at the way she boldly makes her way his way. His eyebrows rise just a little as she makes her way to the edge and then shakes, the water flecking across his forehead. There is an instinct buried within him to fly backward, hissing, but over the years, Atrox has exercised a steely hand over such instincts. It’s a self-control that is difficult to see underneath the languid drawl and apathetic approach to all things, but it lives there all the same.

So his only reaction to the assault of water that drips down his broad face is a sharpening of his eyes, his lips pulling back over his large teeth to reveal the sharp edges and pink tongue in a lazy grin. “You’re bold for being fishfood,” his speech is characteristically slow, practically dripping with all the things that go unsaid with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his strange companions make their way down the bank of the river. They are silent, as always, their blue eyes glowing and their bodies whole and yet showing that strange feeling of decay—that feeling of death that always hangs heavy on their shoulders.

He says nothing, does not acknowledge them, and they stand several yards behind—just watching.

His attention returns fully to her, unsure whether to be amused or annoyed. “You will find that I am always up to no good,” his toothy smile grows again, eyes flashing, “and I am not very nice.”

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING