certain dark things; bruise

[glim]

Soot-eyed and bramble-maned —

The daughter of dragons is not afraid of the dark. 

It embraces her. 

Lays over her like a lover.

Really it’s just an amorphous and vaporous blob that sometimes congeals and is given a shape of her choosing. The rest of the time it just trails off down the length of her back and over her spotted hips. It mingles itself into the long fine hairs of her tail and puddles underneath her feet. 

Once; it had a name.

Once; it spoke to her.

Then she fought with her shadow and friend became fiend. So she banished him into the nebulous abyss from which she supposed all darkness is spawned from. She could conjure him back up if she chose to. But for the time being, she enjoyed the loosened shackle of the bond that kept them bound to one another. 

It allowed her a certain unquestioned freedom. No snide comments. No unhappy looks. Only peace and quiet. So she sighed before inhaling the fog-moistened air of the redwood forest. Sometimes she paused to stare up into their overarching canopies. Whenever she did so, she could feel the darkness gathered in their branches singing to her. 

The dark recognized its master as she walked by. Flowed out from beneath branches and over upturned roots to lick at her heels. It twined itself sinuously with the shadows that ran off her back. Glim could hear them start to murmur to one another like old friends and a smile came over her lips.

The loud explosive crack of a branch underfoot caused her to whip her head around and demand, “Who’s there?” 

@[bruise] ❤️

[bruise]

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)

Once, his father has taken the Forest as his plaything.

He had asserted his dominance over it, warping it into a kingdom of his own (a kingdom that was later replaced with the desolate wasteland of Pangea—a shame) and twisting the trees into nightmares of his own making. His golden father has since disappeared, chasing the Fear to some end, so perhaps it is fitting that Bruise has taken up pseudo residence within these trees. Perhaps it is fitting that he has begun to haunt these foggy lands, winding his slender form around the massive trees, weaving the Fear.

He can still taste the dregs of his last playmate in the air, the terror sweet on his tongue, and he relishes it as he walks, stopping only at the loud crack (a deer, perhaps) and the whip-quick voice. There is enough of a edge to pique his interest. Enough of an arrogant swagger that the goat-horned does not immediately dismiss it and disappear into the shadows. For a moment he presses his lips together in thought, oil-dark eyes peering out to where she stands. He lifts his chin just slightly to sniff, thinking.

With a dismissive shrug, he makes the decision to approach—his motions too quick, too graceful to be anything natural. He emerges from the shadows on the side where she is not looking, his handsome face done up with amusement. “What does it matter to you?” He contorts his expression into something cavalier and casual—charming even—and shrugs elegantly. “This is my forest, after all.”

Like father, like son.

[glim]

Whatever broke the branch beneath its careless foot is soon fleeing. Gone - that is all that she recognizes beyond the glimpse of a white tail raised up in alarm. Of course it had been nothing more than a doe! This was a forest after all and more than horses haunted its depths like ghosts.

Still, she is unafraid as she stares into the spot the whitetail has vanished from.

Even as he materializes out of the shadows on the side opposite to where she was looking. It wasn’t the same the way she could make things come up out of the dark but he was impressive enough in his looks and charm. Her eyes find his face beneath the horns that curl up and out of his head. She thinks she could conjure up a pair out of shadow to match but Glim has never bothered to glamor herself that way.

“It doesn’t...” she mutters, turning away from his handsome face to consider the fog and redwoods. It wasn’t that they were more interesting than he was, but it was also possible that they were. Mostly, she just couldn’t keep looking at his face. It was beautiful in a way that Glim never thought a face could be and that bothered her just a bit.

Until he mentions that this is his forest, like she’s trespassed and they tiptoe around the subject of it oh so casually. Glim snaps her head back around to him and stares with narrowed eyes. “Your forest?” she says with a huff that has all the haughtiness she has in her behind it. 

She manages to square up and look halfway regal despite her small height and wildness. “I hardly think this is your forest. Is your name writ upon the trees, stamped by your hoof into the ground?”

@[bruise] it’s going to be so fun when he breaks her a little ❤️

[bruise]

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)

Perhaps her eyes linger a little too long on his face, perhaps he’s just acutely aware of the sharp handsomeness that he possesses, a dangerous kind of beauty that sits below the surface like a knife. It’s not his favorite weapon to wield, but he’s done it before, and he isn’t afraid to prey upon the hearts of those who are stupid enough to offer it up to him. It’s just a different kind of art, that’s all, and if he’s anything, it’s a connoisseur. Sometimes, he likes to break them with primal fear. He likes to watch them run. Likes to watch them break in front of him, shattering before the enormity of their own fear.

Other times, he likes the more insidious fear, the one that slowly creeps in their bones.

He likes the way it requires more than just his gift.

It requires grit and cunning and he loves the way he has to work for that final masterpiece.

It made it all the sweeter for the reward.

“My forest,” he repeats with a shrug of his elegant shoulder, one corner of his sooty mouth lifting into a casual smile. He takes another step toward her, purposefully closing the distance between them. He doesn’t pull on the threads of the Fear just yet, although his hands rest on them as always.

He takes another step, his smile just a little wicked, and his face all the more handsome because of it.

“Maybe my name is write upon it,” he breathes, his voice just a little husky.

She is perhaps beautiful, but he doesn’t appreciate the curve of her hip or the unique spots that crawl up and around her barrel. He appreciates the way he can see what she will look like. The way her face would look when it is contorted with terror. The way her limbs would look all contorted and wrong.

He nearly shivers with pleasure from the mere idea.

“Would you like to find out?”

@[glim] <333