He does not try to hide in the darkness of the forest, though its fog and shadow attempt to cling to him with hungry, humid teeth. The taste of water is still sweet on his tongue, cool and clear, drip-drying in the fading light. Dusk settles in with a sigh, breathing against the deep green and white of his skin, a warmth that gently rustles the dampness of tri-colored downy feathers, delicate and tender in the way it caresses the fragile bones that flex mindlessly beneath. Gold and orange of sun-set trickle through the canopy, painting him with intricate patterns of the branches above.
Silence scrapes at his brain and it causes the young colt’s golden mouth to press into a fervent line, his jaw champing at the moist air. The trees are silent, the stones are deaf, the dried pine needles that litter the forest floor are mute - it is nearly agonizing to him as he picks his way carefully over the underbrush, his slender gold and white legs carrying him over tangled tree roots twisted into rock and dirt. His own thoughts are not enough; they do not taste as sweet nor do they satisfy the deep burning in the back of his throat that spreads far into the soft slope of his youthful chest. His own thoughts are mush and meal compared to the others so those tender, lavender eyes scour the descending darkness of the forest for anything alive, anything he could pry himself into and nestle there, like a crow coming home to roost.
Becoming frustrated and impatient, he sets a lure. Invisible yet like a string, stretching into the deepness of the woods as far as he could, attempting to find whatever may lay within his grasp - anything would do, as long as the silence would end and he would not be left to his own thoughts that chatter angrily in his mind.
Just when he thinks that he may truly be alone in this forest (when his skin has nearly dried from the river and the drops of water on his feathers only glisten dimly in the dull light), something calls to him without knowing he is listening. His lure has found a catch and, without any hesitation, the colt turns sharply and quickens his pace, following the barely inaudible stream of consciousness so that he may amplify it. Much like a drug, he cannot function without this high - the way he can hear their most private concerns and hopes, privy to their needs and wants in a way that makes him wedge himself like a burr (or more like a tick, feeding endlessly).
With a sharp snort, he realizes he cannot place them perfectly, slowing his movements into something more deliberate, more purposeful. “Where are you?” he murmurs into the nothingness, his voice sweet and curious as it falls into the dusk of the forest. At the same time he plunges deep into their mind with hungry fists, digging and clawing and pressing them fervently (angrily?) with another statement - but with his voice all the gentleness of a feather:
I know you’re here.
molech.
@[laura]