Her thoughts are spewing from her mind like vomit, ravaging his mind in ways he hates that he can’t control. They are fluid and one right after the other, leaving him to close his eyes tightly and to inhale deeply in attempts to merely remain in her presence. One part of her monologue - thought it is quick and nearly unable to understand - reaches him enough to where his lavender eyes flash to hers and his lips pull back from his teeth, that terrible black forked tongue sliding from between them. I do not speak for the trees, he seethes into her mind without a thought, blatant and intrusive. He doesn’t even care for the glamor he typically adds to his telepathy - that charm and ease that he takes pride in - because he can’t be bothered at this point. He’s not even sure it would have mattered to her, in this case. His face matches that undeniable tone of his thoughts into her mind - angry and bitter, all those sharp angles that are only made more prominent by the single ivory stripe of a blaze across the forefront of his deep green face, set aflame by those pale purple eyes that burn with something much more violent.
That deep-set rage on his handsome face is offset by the confused furrow of his brow, a shadow casting across his eyes as his golden forelock tangles into his gaze. “I don’t,” he says aloud, his voice thin, “care for moths.” He wonders if this would offend her and there is an ease in the angles of his face as he thinks it might. But that same hardness quickly returns, darkness somehow brooding in those pale eyes.
“Forever is a long time,” Molech mentions to her casually, his gaze flickering to her leg that is still twisted in the dark green of the vines, contemplating how long she would lie here until hunger or a predator got to her. He swallows, tilting his head slightly as if considering her offer. “You make it sound as if I need you,” the colt ponders, stepping ever closer to her with that forked tongue tasting the air, all ice and moth wings. “I assure you that I don’t.”
His voice is final, lifting his head with a sharp jerk away from her and then with a twitch of his golden nostrils. “It’s you who needs me, really. ” he pauses suddenly, relishing in the idea that even though she hadn’t really wanted him, that he is still needed by her nonetheless. “Let’s just say you owe me a favor,” he mentions to her casually with a roll of his shoulders, swiftly adding to her mind: and we’ll be the best of friends.
With a sudden movement, the tri-colored stallion steps forward to snap the vines tangled around her ankles with his teeth.
Molech steps back fluidly, careful to stay far from the swing of her hooves, the ivy torn and ripped as it dangles from the somewhat smile of his lips. He spits the vine from his mouth, before jerking his head in her direction with a tip of his chin upwards. “What’s your name, moth-girl?”
molech.
@[Wight]