The young colt hears nothing in return except for the sweetly trilling call of a forest bird. He snorts softly, golden nostrils flaring, peering through the quickly fading light of dusk. Tawny-lined ears flick back into the deep gold of his mane, his mouth erupting into a snarl. That terrible forked tongue - black and unnatural - seeps from his golden lips, tasting the cold air greedily. Molech has halted now, the once light gold of sunset that illuminated his body now dark with shadows of nightfall; the branches’ play their spindly fingers across his skin, dark and ominous as they stretch with the final rays of sunlight.
He swallows a shout of frustration. It is then that her thoughts find him again and, this time, she calls to him willingly.
That screwed up grimace now flattens and curves into a delectable grin, his lavender eyes alighting with mischief and curiosity. His ears prick forward as he takes a single step, halting mid-way as the sound of tiny claws skittering against rough bark causes him to falter. I’ve been looking for you, he whispers into her mind almost mournfully, a solemnity in the gentle curiousness of his telepathy. Come out, he tells himself frustratingly, though is careful that the anger in that particular thought does not reach her mind.
She still hadn’t answered his question - where are you? - and he fits hard to remain calm. His power to incite fear wraps quietly around himself, ready to seek out its target. He does not enjoy being toyed with - he would much rather be the one in that position of power. He wonders seethingly if he will be able to hide amongst his own charms when she finally reveals herself to him. His patience is already wearing thin.
But if he is to become a hunter, a collector, he must remember his self-control. So the aura remains close to him, not yet sent out to strike fear into what he imagines is a tiny, willowy, pittering heart.
“Please come out,” he says aloud, his head turning left to right (and even glancing up to the treetops), “I don’t want to be alone in the dark.” He nearly pouts, not afraid to feign helplessness.
molech.
@[aero]