I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
He should have known.
He’s been here too many times not to know.
But he knows denial so well, my Sleaze – familiar as a lover’s kiss. So when he walks, when things shift – when the light grows silver and eerie – he does not notice. He should have, but he doesn’t. Was it willful, this denial? Sleaze has never been the brightest thing, he is average at best.
He stops at the lake, at the bodies. The things shifting about. Finally, his skin prickles, a too-late warning sign. Go back, it says, go back. And he should heed it. There are no chains at his ankles dragging him forward, no magic compelling his movements.
It’s just one step, at first. To better see what’s going on, he tells himself. He’s paid little mind to the shifting of lands, even though he had his own hand in it (the nightmare cloud, the reason wings jut now from his shoulders, the reason he sometimes twists into a shadowy, nightmarish thing).
He hears the noises. Wordless little sounds of encouragement. Encouragement, not commands.
You don’t have to do this. Don’t do this.
Another step. The portal is clear now, spinning over the sand.
Oh Sleaze, will you ever learn?
Another step, slow, as if he’s walking in a dream. Or a nightmare. His hooves leave faint impressions on the sand. The air smells thick, almost damp, and he thinks of sea-creatures washed up on shore.
Sand whipped up from the portal stings at his skin, but he walks forward – the fool, the fool – and he moves past the sprites, no longer hearing their noises, only hearing the rush of impossible wind as he is enveloped and taken, once again, to another world.
Sleaze
