I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
He snarls, ashen lips peeling back to reveal the yellowed, blunt teeth beneath. Ears pin back and find their home amongst the vines of his mane, his expression turning ugly with annoyance. “Then you can go enjoy your space over there with the rest of the pups.” His voice is pointed, flat, dismissive, and, for a moment, he takes a second to focus on the colt, the yellow of his coat, the split of his hooves. The resemblance causes his stomach to roll, a jealous possessiveness rooting in his belly as he thinks of their father. He has worked too hard, done too much, to share Pollock’s haphazard affection with some brat.
“If you think I was sniffing the ground like a common dog, then you’re more idiotic than you look,” a flat growl, ears never leavening their place against the curve of his head. He shakes his head and the light glints off the heavy horns that adorn his skull, their weight regal. The next question that comes though brings a smile to his face, the curve of lip flat and wide and cold. He was not a hunter first and foremost (he was an artist, he was a master of his craft), but to make art, you sometimes needed to root out the very material. Bruise was not afraid to crack the bones between his teeth to reach the marrow.
His nose twitches again as the smile settles onto his angular face, as he takes a step forward to the whelp, to the half-brother who is a threat with every breath he draws into his youthful lungs. “I am hunting,” he acknowledges with a dip of head, his mind reaching outward and finding the threads of the Fear that race over and above them. “You will not like the answer.” Without a sound, without another word, he lunges forward, the motion faster than any horse has the right to move, the grace of it like running water.
He grabs at the Fear and begins to pull, begins to dance the landscape around them, manipulating it to the beat of his own pulse, to the dreams that beat against the back of his skull. His flesh peels back to reveal the skull beneath, the gore that drips from between undead teeth, the eyes that roll in bony sockets. “Run,” he hisses to his flesh and blood, snapping his jaws near the boy’s haunches and then dancing out of sight again, dipping in out and of vision as he continues to thrum the strings of Fear he knows so well.
Let the boy know terror. Let him quake. Let him recognize the Krampus before him.
(Boys will be boys. Let him experience this brotherly love.)
1 - I love Feast. :|
2 - Totally up to you how / if he reacts to the fear induction. <3