in the hushing dusk; any

[cringe]

how to be a monster:
1. learn the taste of dirt and pain.
2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed.
3. see if that makes it easier to breathe.

He sees the thing – the child – the boy – a swirl of darkness with bright eyes. He squints, trying to make out more of him, but his features are plunged in unnatural shadow. Curious.
He can taste his own aura in his mouth, like pennies, like blood, and he wonders what it is the boy fears, what would appear should he press further, curl tendrils of fear into his mind. He does not, though. He has learned, somewhere along the line, that it does well to hide talents that can remain hidden, to appear plain.
(You’re baiting them, his father had said, and his voice had been mired in disgust, but Cringe had liked the word.)

He nods to the boy, cornsilk mane shifting on his neck. He smiles, as if he is the kind and welcoming sort, and steps just a little closer.
“Hello, Arctyrus,” he says, “my name is Cringe.”
There is so much that could be done, and he aches to do it. But patience is a virtue, or so he’s heard, so he keeps himself at bay, still tasting copper on his tongue.
“The shadows…” he murmurs, appraising the wealth of darkness collected by the boy, “they follow you. Quite interesting.”

cringe

@[Arctyrus] sorry for taking a million years