04-18-2015, 10:59 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-18-2015, 11:00 PM by Camrynn.)
so you wanna play with magic? If she understands anything, she understands using one's power simply for the hell of it. She understands scheming, she understands plotting, she understands using your power to subject the powerless for a greater goal. But she perhaps first understands doing it because you can.
She is drawn to those who have magic in their blood. She is even more drawn to those who have power and are not afraid to use it. That is how she comes to seek out Lokii. Perhaps she has always been aware of him. Or perhaps he's grabbed her attention when he tried one of her favorite activities: playing with time. He's done some funny things with it, nothing on the scale of what she does, but enough that she notices it. And perhaps she is the one who makes it happen, perhaps her magic entwines with him somehow and gives him the little boost that he needs. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it is all him.
The black mare watches him before she even leaves the Deserts. He is in the meadow, flecks of time manipulation still dripping off of him like stray raindrops. It is always a danger to play with these things when you don't know them well; it was never such for her, because nothing is ever a danger to her, but it certainly could be for him. She gently, invisibly corrects the time flow around him, stabilizing him and ensuring that he wouldn't simply sift back into time. Perhaps it isn't necessary, or perhaps it saves his life.
She can feel the traces of magic that flick along his skin, different and independent from his own. Traces of it feel something like Yael's, and she lets the history expand outward in her mind for a moment, understanding how Yael's magic came to be hers, learning of an old mare called Morphine. She is confused for a moment, witnessing one of their kind go out of the world makes no sense to her. They should be eternal, immortal – but Morphine had something Camrynn is not burdened with. Morphine had a very strong conscience. For Camrynn, conscience is more of…a suggestion.
She appears beside him silently and suddenly, looking off into the same direction he faces. She is a beautiful mare by any standard, her coat a rich, dark black that gleams in the late summer sunlight. Her mane and tail are incongruously detangled, free to blow in the gentle breeze. Across her chest a gold crook and flail stand out proudly, gilded onto her body by the magic of the Deserts. Across her left cheek sits a trail of gemstones and diamonds, an equine necklace of precious stones. It is a gift from Lokii's king, from her lover, from Eight.
After a moment's pause, she turns to look at him. "Lokii." she states, a small smile playing on her lovely lips. "You've been playing with time." it is not chiding, it is merely amused. Her smile quirks upwards, and they begin to flick through time incredibly rapidly. The meadow fills and empties around them, suns rise and fall in the sky, snow falls and disappears, all accelerated. It is impossible to tell whether they are going backwards, or forwards, or simply looping; it's all going so fast, too much of a blur, to know anything definitive. But it is real, it is no illusion, and Camrynn is entirely in control of it.
She and Lokii stand at the center of the chaos, enclosed in a bubble that separates them from the shifts outside. They don't change (she never would, and she prevents it in him). Her eyes are fixed on his, their irises a deep purple. She watches his expression, curious to know what he thinks. She could show him scenes from his past (she could pull up memories of a certain pink queen) but she has no desire to do that to him. After all, they've just met – surely it would be rude.
"What did you think of it?" she asks genuinely, referring obviously to his dabblings in time manipulation. Before he has time to answer, abruptly, the world stops spinning and they're back where they started. The meadow is quiet around them, the other horses undisturbed, having no idea where the two of them had just been.
"I'm Camrynn, by the way." CAMRYNN co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery
I thought this might be fun 
born to be a king, I ask for one thing  He truly doesn’t ever intend for the magicians to seek him out. His intentions are always to further the doing of chaos (to cause destruction to beautiful lives, to make the child scream over their dead family, to feel the seeping darkness of evil between his bones, to sense the oncoming shadows in every breath, to see the fire flame up alongside that pretty house with the white picket fence, to watch kingdoms fall from the pressure of darkness and destruction). He won’t admit he isn’t showy (mostly because he is showy and he knows it), but the trickster doesn’t always mean for the magicians to find him.
His first interaction with such a magician was the great one himself. The magician everyone knows about (the one told from stories, the one murmured about to children in order to scare them into staying close, the one who has traveled far and long and wide and yet still finds his way back to their homelands – Carnage) was summoned by the pink Valley queen and he had been there (nothing more than a lanky colt barely a year old, with enough pride and courage to get him easily into a high position in a kingdom where the dangerous and cunning lived). In the end, the trickster ended up with broken forelegs which were sloppily sewn back together (and now his front knees are awkwardly bowlegged and criss-crossed with the scars to prove a magician’s handiwork) and his once clear blue eye poisoned by the dark blackness of the magician’s mark.
His second came from a magician who considered herself good. The magician who was, perhaps, one of the only ones on the good side at the time (from the Deserts, with wisdom beyond her years and a heart worthy enough to carry the sun – Morphine) but her dark side was pulled out when she met the trickster’s presence. He didn’t receive anything quite so physically injuring from her compared to the first magician, but his tricks did expand after a mental duel with the likes of the good magician.
And finally, the golden queen herself (the one he had attacked while he was surrounded by both friends and enemies, the queen with the magic given to her by the good magician, the queen with the strange accent and golden body – Yael). Their grudges for each other were always hidden behind the scenes but still kept nonetheless alive. Although she did nothing to him (except for keep him locked away within the realms of her kingdom) his interactions with her still remain.
The magicians find him whether he wishes them to or not. When the black mare flashes into the space beside him, he doesn’t startle. The mysterious portals between reality and fantasy (between time traveling and syrupy time; between here and there; between darkness and light; between good and evil; between sleeping and waking) are things he knows about – and has just experienced. After living surrounded by magic for so long, the trickster is accustomed to the sudden disappearance or sudden arrival of bodies. Instead, one ear merely flicks in her direction and he nonchalantly works his jaw against the mouthful of grass in his mouth.
It isn’t hard for him to smell the magic on her (or notice the way her body is effortlessly decorated and primed for perfection) and he knows instantly what – or who – she is. Nonetheless, he isn’t scared off by her presence. And when she knows his name, he rolls his shoulders in an easy motion of casualness. Before he can say anything, they are moving through time again. They stand still but the grass grows and dies and is covered by snow and grows again right under his hooves. Suns and moons rise and fall, stars twinkle in and out of his vision, the lighting of the days move through morning and noon and afternoon and evening and nighttime too quickly for him to count.
They are caught in a bubble of chaos and he soaks in the feeling of his lover purring against his skin. He relishes in the way time flows around them as if they are eternally trapped in a warping of nothing and everything and something. And when it stops (and when they are normal again; and when it is as if they never left; and when chaos fades away and leaves him whispering to come back soon) his head slowly twists in her direction.
She has captured his curiosity, at least.
“I’m sure you already know what I think of it,” he says smugly, tenor voice twittering out in that charismatic tune. And indeed his feelings radiate out (a rush of euphoria, that heart-pounding feeling of adrenaline, the lustful calling of his heart to chaos, the heavy feeling in his chest like he cannot get enough air, the dangerous tightrope between want and addiction); he has never been one to keep things contained. In fact, she could feel everything brimming behind the front of his mind – he is an oyster she is free to explore.
And he smiles, then, a smile full of chaotic excitement and charming smirks. “I’d introduce myself, but you know who I am.” His shoulders roll into that casual shrug again, bruised eyes (blue and black in the right, blue and white in the left) scanning over her face. “How can I help you?” Lokii the tricky god of chaos a front seat to watch earth burn
so you wanna play with magic? His feelings wash over her like waves, lapping at the edges of her consciousness, surging and eddying in equal measure as she enjoys the sensation. It is wonderful to feel, the twists and turns of another's mind; telepathy is one of the best aspects of her magic (but is there anything that isn't best? No, she supposes, there isn't).
She wonders, for a moment, what he would be with magic. What would he do? Would he be her? Or infinitely more capricious? They are both wily, both impossibly practiced at deception, both with a long and tangled history (that magic she smells on him, now it will smell a little bit of her too). Kindred spirits, if you will. She smiles at the thought.
She looks at him with eyes that shift to leaf-green as she turns her head to regard him. How can he help her, he asks. It makes her wonder how much he really knows of magicians. They can so rarely be truly helped; they can be assisted, they can be served, but they can never be helped. "Yes Lokii, I know you."She smiles. "And I'm more interested in how I can help you." Her voice is liquid silk, smooth, sweet, beautiful to listen to.
Idly, she wonders how much he knows of her. Has he heard her name at all, whispered between stories of the Deserts competition? She knows Eight hasn't mentioned her, in the same way she hasn’t mentioned him – the things they are to each other are too dear, too precious, and too entirely unexpected for it to ever be shared with anyone else. But still, word gets around, especially when you piss off the Amazons and find yourself queen.
She wonders if he knows yet just how much she is unleashed, just how much she wears her magic like a comfortable coat. He has dealt with many magicians, but even Evrae is not Camrynn. She is another breed, a tempest of magic, a wellspring of surprises, a thing that is simultaneously unimaginable and terrifyingly real.
And terrifyingly capricious.
She hasn’t decided yet whether she will actually offer him anything and let him help her or not. It can be very useful to have sworn servants, or at least to have those who are in your debt. She knows he wants things – she's seen him ask Eight for immortality, she knows how he thirsts for chaos, she feels how he gloried in it when they were encased in the bubble, whipping through time so effortlessly. She chuckles.
"But we're getting ahead of ourselves. How are things in the Valley?" maybe he will sense that she has ties there. Maybe not. "It just seems so…crass to answer all my own questions. No fun at all." a tiny smirk plays on her features as she looks at him. CAMRYNN co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery
born to be a king, I ask for one thing The prospect of having his own magic is something he has rarely wondered about. He is rather content with his tricks and storms (things that are familiar to him, things he has lived with for many years, things he has mastered to the point of needing something else to occupy himself) and magic is foreign when it comes to him using it as his own. There is power in magic, more power than he has ever had, and power can cause chaos and destruction and all the things he desires to cause.
However, having his own magic is something he has rarely considered, except on small occasions. He does wonder how he would be with his own brand of magic. He certainly wouldn’t be serving of the side of goodness and light and happiness; but would he serve darkness and chaos and destruction and his lovers, or would he serve only himself? The whisperings of curiosity often peak at the edge of his thoughtful mind whenever he comes across a magician, but when her voice rings out; he forces his thoughts back to her.
Her words pique at his interest even further and his bruised eyes latch on to her shifting eyes. “Sounds like my kind of party,” he says smoothly, calculating expression glancing over hers. He’s rather good at reading facial expressions (at dissecting their tiniest tells like the best of the poker players, at listening for the hidden catches in their words and volumes and accents, at finding the small things that give a sneak peek of how they tick) and he uses such talents now, keeping a causal look over his face even though he knows she can feel his emotions and thoughts and shifting memories.
“I wouldn’t know, really. When I was last there, things seemed to be going wonderfully. But now that I’m a couple weeks in the future, there could have been a war for all I know.” He chuckles to himself, ears flopping leisurely as if his home becoming completely demolished by war was something he almost wanted to see. And in truth, maybe he did. War meant chaos and chaos meant destruction and destruction meant death and all four of those things are things he loves.
He shrugs his sloped shoulders casually. “Congratulations, by the way.” He didn’t really keep up very much with the recording of the Deserts’ competition, but he did find out enough to know who the winners were. And then he licks his lips slowly and patiently, waiting to find out just what she has in mind for him.
Lokii the tricky god of chaos a front seat to watch earth burn
so you wanna play with magic? Camrynn is everyone's kind of party. That's the thing about being magic: you can be all things to all people. It's remarkable, truly. And when he answers, her only reply is a smile. She knows, of course, what he's thinking. She knows how he desperately tries to stay one step ahead of her, to read her as he's used to reading all the others – and she is amused by the fact that he's still trying. She is very good at this game, it cannot be denied, but perhaps he could outmatch her.
No, she thinks, she doesn't mean it.
He speaks of the Valley and she knows more than he does. But she doesn't let on, listening quietly to his descriptions, letting him think she's thoroughly enthralled. She understands his infatuation with chaos, the way he lets it wrap around him like a lover, the way it sings to his bones – the same way that her magic sings to her.
And then he congratulates her. There's been remarkably little congratulations, really – not that she cares one way or the other. It seems to be a complex thing for some of them to understand, the way that she was chosen, the ways and reasons why she rules. But to Camrynn it is simple, elementary. And possibly, to Lokii as well.
"Why thank you." she says, her lips curled into a tiny smile. She means it, too, even though she is amused as she speaks.
She lets the silence hang for a moment. Around them, the meadow hums with everything and nothing, with other horses minding their own business, with a million things that Camrynn could care about, if she chose. It is a tremendous rush, an incredible power trip to know just how much control she has. It is her favorite part of magic, to know that she holds the earth on a string. If she were a different kind of magician, perhaps Lokii would hate her, because she could be the enemy of chaos. If she so wished, she could rip the world apart and sew it back together in her own image, exactly as she wants it to be.
And maybe, someday, she will.
"What is it you want, Lokii? she asks, her velvet voice seductive by its nature, although she isn't actively trying to seduce him (any more than she is trying to seduce everyone, at all times). "And I mean what do you really want. Think of it like I'm a genie, and this is your one wish." her lips quirk up, amused. She doesn't clarify as to whether she's planning to grant his wish, whatever it might be. It's probably within her power (most things are, after all) but does she wish to do it? She hasn't quite decided yet.
She has an idea, nestled deep within her mind, a thought of assembling an elite team with the intention of causing chaos. Think of them as the Anti-Avengers, the bringers of havoc, a team in service to Camrynn – for what end, she has no idea. Perhaps the idea will go nowhere. Perhaps she'll simply learn something new and exciting about Lokii, and then decide (ever so capriciously) not to do anything about it.
Or perhaps he'll be the first of a new club, a new breed.
Who knows? CAMRYNN co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery
born to be a king, I ask for one thing It is a weird thing to be understood. All these years, no one understood him (they underestimated or overestimated him, they scoffed at him for not understanding, they shook their fingers and put him in time-out). He has lived his entire life knowing he will disappoint or let down or be judged or laughed at – but he has come to accept it. And when he senses her understanding, it is a dramatic shock to him mentally. He tries to shrug it off (forcing in and out deep, silent breaths; turning his mind away from the matter; allowing his eyes to scan the surroundings slowly) but he knows she is finely attuned to his every thoughts, sense, emotion, and memory and she is reading everything.
He doesn’t try to hide anything (she must know everything about him, already; pulling memories and thoughts on him from various places in the minds of the Beqannians – and he hopes she’s stumbled across Quark’s heartache from his own doing – like they are newsletters about him), but he does force his mind to switch tracks as quickly as possible. She accepts his congratulations and the small smile at the corners of her lips makes him wonder how much she has actually been congratulated.
Their conversation dies, but he doesn’t put effort to work it back up. The river of voices in the meadow takes over, flowing between the empty spaces between them. He is content to wait until she proposes her true reason behind being here (because knows she has a purpose as to meeting him, he knows she is not here by chance, he knows there is something brimming so electrically behind her magical mind) and merely observes the scenery around him until she speaks again.
She asks him what he wants, suddenly, and he almost laughs. It’s a silly question – a simple question, but silly nonetheless. She might be able to guess what he wants (the history written on his body, the angular sharpness of his devilish cheeks, the blood metaphorically splattered on his hooves, the glint of darkness and death and evil in his eyes) but to ask him the question is amusing to him. It always amuses him that magicians ask questions to their victims when they already know the answer, when they can just peel it away between the layers of thoughts and emotions and memories and events and wishes in their minds.
(She’s red and brilliant and full of power. This is before she’d succumbed to something bubbly pink and shriveling and self-harming. This is before she left the throne in a cloud of disappearance in the middle of a war. This is when she was thriving and brimming with ideas and abilities and prosperity. And he had come to her because he had wanted to be her right-hand man. Her accomplice. He wanted to be something powerful and accomplished and wonderful and feared and dangerous. And she could give it to him.
“Alright, what is it that you want?” Her eyes relay an expression of boredom – she does not think he can do much, but she will be proven wrong soon later. And his answer is one that he remembers for a long time – one that echoes in his mind when he must remind himself of why he is here, of what makes his toes curl and his lips smirk and his bruised eyes bruised.
“I want to be the unknown assassin, the very thing children whisper about at night and mothers croon terrifying stories about. I want to be the thing that everyone judges, but no one knows will kill them just when they think their life is perfect.” In those words, in those moments, in those sentences, he became something he wasn’t and something he would never be and something he would always be. Even with his one clear blue eye and one blue and white eye, even with his yearling body and lean haunches and sharp cheekbones and practiced tricks, there could almost be a hint of all the things to come in his being. And she had granted that, and much more.)
He raises his chin to look at her, bruised eyes swirling with memories and thoughts. Here he is, given the chance to become anything he wants, and he cannot come up with an answer. His eyes flare with mingled thoughtfulness and indecisiveness.
And then, he combines the past with the future. “I want to be the very thing children whisper about at night and mothers croon terrifying stories about. I want to be a bringer of chaos and destruction and death and mischief.” He knows there is more he can say, but he also knows she can already feel it brimming beneath the curtains of his mind. He shrugs his shoulders. “As for what you want to do with that information, I’ll leave that up to your magical imagination.” He grins haughtily, sharp cheekbones sliding up into a charismatic smile.
While she is seductive and snakelike and velvety, he is charming and showy and explosive.
Although they are different and although they are the same, they work together in perfection. And he knows it. Lokii the tricky god of chaos a front seat to watch earth burn
so you wanna play with magic? She knows it, too.
She can feel it in the way he speaks. She can read it in every line of his thoughts, every curve of his memory. She is the master of puppets, and he is the one longing to become the perfect tool. He is not necessarily the mastermind; he is the silent blade, deadly in the hand of one who can see his potential (her). He is the sharp point, the pointy end that sticks it to the world, driven with the force of a grand vision (her).
He had looked for it from the pink queen, the anti-glory, the fear and the terror that he sought to become. She hadn't been able to give it. Was there ever a question? Her father, the dark god himself, perhaps he could have given it.
But are we ever the equal of our parents? No, we aren't. The black magic-mare is certainly not; she's far surpassed everything that Chernobyl and Verily ever sought to be. That's the way of it: if they reach impossible heights (and who is higher than Carnage?) their children are forever doomed to fall. And if they are nothing, insane, scrabbling, whores among the dirt, then their children rise to heights so dizzying that they must become immortal or they must fall.
And so she knows, she knows before Lokii ever speaks, what it is he wants. It's written in the lines of his bones like his memory; it's written in the story of his destiny, just as surely as it's written in the lines of his body. His charm, his showiness, his explosions.
But in the midst of it all, he is confused, unsure. And she can't help but smile. Not because she considers him weak – oh no, he is not weak. But he is something that yearns to have guidance. He is that knife, and knives do not stab on their own. They are wielded, they are weapons, and they are powerful.
But they are always, always wielded.
His words pour, matching the feelings in his breast. She can almost feel it, his thirst for chaos, all the words that he isn't quite saying (but that she hears anyway). And her smile continues, a sly grin, the Cheshire cat watching Alice as she dives deeper down the rabbit hole. Is it strange, Lokii, to know that you're a chess piece here? To know that you're the one about to be used – and to know that it will be incredibly glorious, in the most chaotic of ways?
He finishes, and she laughs. "And what on earth can a queen of the lights do with that information?" her voice is thick with mock seriousness, but the smile on her lips makes it clear that she isn't serious. They both know she rules the light kingdom, but they both know that her soul is every bit as dark as his.
Around them, the world grows still as she seals them off from everyone, from everything else. Maybe she even sets them outside of time – who knows. But the seal surrounding them is absolute; their conversation is now as private as it gets. "Luckily for us, I'm a little bit more than just a queen." her smile is sly now, her velvet-smooth voice rich with humor. She's more, so much more, so impossibly much that it could never even be described. I can make you that, and you know it. she speaks directly into his mind, and his head is flooded with images that prove the truth of her words. I can, and I will. she smiles. You will be the first of a new breed, my own personal agents of chaos.
She breaks the mental connection with the suddenness of a lover wrenching away from a deep kiss. "And with that will come additional power. But there are rules, too." her face is serious. "Quid pro quo, if you will." she smiles now, small and wry, but it fades quickly and her face is serious as stone.
"You will swear to serve me. Live wherever you like, do whatever you like, I don't care. But when you are needed – and you will always know when you are needed – you will come to me and you will do as I ask." her voice is still velvet, but her words are crisp, urgent. "And above all, you will never indicate that you know me to any horse who does not also bear my mark." She pauses, letting him absorb what she's just said.
"Interested?" she says, the wry, wicked smile back in place. He is, of course he is – and they both know it.
And with his interest, the creation of her merry band of chaos has begun. CAMRYNN co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery
born to be a king, I ask for one thing He decides he likes her (he likes the way she is a wolf hiding among the sheep; he likes the snake-like charm in her swirling eyes; he likes the way her voice purrs out like an enchanter of his desires) and it makes him thoughtful. The trickster often finds those he likes, but rarely those who like him. He often walks the world with the sharp gazes of those who don’t understand or appreciate him following him. Her gaze isn’t sharp (at least sharp in the manner of anger and hurt and disgust and pointed knives aimed toward his chest) and it draws him in.
Although he is great and tricky and unlovable, there is still an inkling of that little boy deep inside just yearning for someone to care about him.
There is a roar in his ears, suddenly, like the entirety of the world is running away and leaving them behind. Turning his bruised eyes (blue and white, blue and black, both mixed with a concoction of curiosity and mischief) toward the world around them, he senses the impending seal crash over their heads. They are hiding in a chamber of secrecy, now (and his lips dance into a charismatic smirk upon finally reaching the main event).
And then her voice is in his mind, velvet smooth bouncing against the folds of his brain and against the back of his eyelids. He’s performed the trick before (casting his own voice into the mind of another, although the trick is a sensory illusion and his voice never came across just perfect – because he is not a master of magic, but of illusions, and he can never seem to reach seamless perfection) so it doesn’t startle him, but then his eyes are seeing images of the future. Fire and chaos and destruction and things that should not come from the mind of a light kingdom’s queen and yet they do.
His smile increasingly grows.
Her proposition reminds him of the Jungle’s secret service (and he pictures the golden-eyed warrior’s scarred and burned chest) but it doesn’t scare him. It thrills him, terrifies him in the way that a suicide might terrify a murderer, sends chills down his spine. His lips curl into a ruthless, excited smile. The sandstorms around his ankles begin to grow, snaking around his forelegs and growing in size in response to his adrenaline.
“You’re not exactly the light-hearted queenie everyone thinks you are, eh? That’s sexy.”
And then, “Count me in, queenie.” Lokii the tricky god of chaos a front seat to watch earth burn
so you wanna play with magic? Deep inside all the best ones are just little boys. Camrynn is at home among them, able to weave her charm into something that seems earnest, authentic, interesting. She is able to pick out their little flaws, play to their every weakness, give them everything that they never even knew they needed.
That's because, at heart, she is nothing but heartless. She will do whatever needs to be done to accomplish her goals, to seek out and find the knowledge she craves. That is her ultimate goal, always: to push the envelope, to do more, to be more, and she doesn't care in the slightest who she has to destroy to make it happen.
But she is calculated. She is careful. She doesn't risk too much too soon; that is a surefire way to lose it all. She plays her cards close to the vest. She sits back and lets them dance, lets them dance to their deaths – always to the tune that she's devised, to the drum that she beats, to the song that she sings. It's so much better to be the puppetmaster.
She listens to his hopes and dreams, to the songs of his chaos, and she knows that he is hers. She knows that she could have him dance any tune she likes, and she is glad of it. He is a formidable thing, nothing compared to her or Eight or the magicians of old, but as far as the horses of Beqanna go, he's really quite something. He almost reminds her of her – had she not once been an illusionist much like him? She had, although she'd always had more of a gift for winning. No scars, no marks on her body. Oh well, no matter: she'll teach him how to sew chaos, how to bring his lover into the world with grace.
She listens to his words, her lips a mirthless smile. No, she's never been accused of being light-hearted. She's not fit to sit the Deserts throne, except that she's a perfect fit for a throne because she's put her mind to it. She is the queen of pragmatism, the tidal wave that falls across the lands of those who would threaten the Deserts. And perhaps these horses, her spearpoint, will become an implement to help in that goal too. In fact, there can be little doubt – but they won't be simple retainers, a little personal army that she can call on in case of invasion. Oh no, her plans for them are far more grand, far more sinister, and far more underhanded.
"We never are what we're thought to be, are we?" she asks him, her smile softer and teasing. A mark appears then, nestled on his girth area, low on his barrel, behind his left foreleg. It appears as little more than a ruffling of hair, but to those who are looking for it, it will be obvious – and it will appear in its true form, as a black hole, swirling inexorably inward into a sharp point of nothingness. Because they will be like a black hole – swirling ever inward, destroying, and never – never – reaching the event horizon.
Because it's no fun when it ends, is it?
"Now you bear my mark, Lokii." her voice is husky, warm velvet. "And that entitles you to bear my gift." she walks around him then, so close that she is almost touching, stopping every so often as though to appraise. When she has reached his other side, she turns back to face him again. "Any requests?" She offers an impish grin. "Although I can't promise I'll honor them."
CAMRYNN co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery
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