this isn't mischief

    The trickster has never understood a woman’s desire to have children. He supposes it would be something awful (carrying a parasite that feeds off your own body for months on end, only to suffer through hours of painful labor, and then lug around the little nipple-sucker until it grows balls) and he can’t quite see the victory in caring for a creature like a child. He enjoys the part that shoves life into the mother’s womb, but after that the payout is (in his just and righteous opinion) shorted.

    It seems the mother that comes growling into the meadow has similar thoughts as him. Her barrel rolls and heaves with the tides of swollen waddling, and her eyes are crackling with the fire of frustration. There is a dark sense of life in her eyes and the trickster’s mind plays up with curiosity and excitement. He hasn’t been up to trickery since coming back to Beqanna and thoughts of starting again pulse through his brain like leaping fish.

    The pregnant mare seeks shelter under a large tree and the wild weather that had started upon her arrival settles into something softer. Hail pricking at his back changes into white, fluffy snow. Although autumn has finished, the trickster stills huffs a sigh of dismay to himself. Winter is his least favorite season (the frigid temperatures stir an ache in his bowlegged forelegs – legs that were broken and then hastily reassembled – and cause his lungs to feel stripped and burned from the air) and he would be much better off without it.

    Mischievous fingers of illusionism creep toward the stowaway in the mother’s womb. Although the trickster cannot control the baby fully, in a sense he can stimulate some sort of scene to encourage it to move a certain way. His magic stretches into the muscles of the child’s developing legs, sending faux twinges of restlessness through its body. Oh, how the child should need to stretch, to kick its legs into the hard lining of its mother, to wiggle its body around for prolonged moments until the swollen mare turns her frustration toward her growing baby.

    The trickster, stepping across the white dusted ground, heads toward the mare and stops a polite distance away from her (sure, sometimes he can be a gentleman, when he wants to wear that mask). “Having some regrets?” he asks her, smooth tenor voice coming out in a generous slide.

lokii

this is mayhem

this isn't mischief

    Everyone seems to suspect him of something dangerous (and they’re correct in their suspicions) and it makes him laugh. He might seem suspicious (bruised eyes, crooked smile, scarred body, lightning-white stripes, bowlegged knees), but his interior is far from it. He is not a deceiving type (unless it comes down to big shows with potential drama and manipulating the minds of mares to join his herd); much preferring to keep to the atmosphere of dramatic shows and mischievous glares and dangerous decision-making in the shadow of night.

    He can sense her moodiness (whether from the shift in the wind, from the look on her face, or from the instincts of a natural horse deep inside) and it encourages him further. Her eyes seem to narrow as she voices her ‘perhaps’ aloud and he grins at her. However, he doesn’t say anything more, instead waiting for her move to continue the conversation. He ignores the odd moment of awkward silence (ears tipped casually, bruised eyes staring unblinkingly).

    His nostrils give a heavy sigh in response to her question. “Definitely not the weather,” he says. He noticed the way the clouds darkened, or how the weather shifted depending on the way this mare’s feelings were (he isn’t a stranger to magic; in fact, he’s a friend of it). “A bit chilly, don’t you think? Might want to lessen the temps a little – I think my tail might freeze off if you keep up the cold much longer.” He winks, indicating he knows exactly what she’s up to.

    “Oh, I’m just here looking to meet new folks. I’ve been gone for a couple years.”

lokii

this is mayhem