this isn't mischief
He wakes with the voice of chaos singing in his ear. His night had been another one spent lulled by the dreams of his past (of the pink queen’s lips stretching wide after he impressed her, of the lightning bolt falling from the sky to strike the orange mare and cover him with her innards, of the frightened captive trying to escape the blood bath, of the Valley burning around him yet he remains safe, of the dark magician breaking his forelegs and forcing him to bow). His past haunts him just as much as his future – perhaps more so. But chaos is an ever-present song among the chatter of life (a song that lives in his past, present, and future) and he enjoys listening to it.
Chaos is a song that demands to be heard (it is a strong gust of wind, the sound of a scream in silence, the unsettling sound of one’s own heartbeat, the heat of a forest fire, the frozen shattering of peace in a snowstorm). The trickster is simply the one to answer it – always answering the song. He doesn’t ignore it this time, either, as he moves away from the shelter of a tree.
The meadow has been his hideaway lately – it is a place where many different personalities can clash together into a big mixing bowl. It is the breeding grounds of chaos. It is a place where dealings can be dealt, bargains can be struck, souls can be lost, lives can be destroyed, and danger can be born. Although the meadow is the place where his mother birthed him (as, he is sure, many colts and fillies have been born before), it is also the place where he has received many fortunes (the mischievous magician seeking him out, finding tail during breeding season, and – more recently – diving back into the chaos-making business after his leave).
Today, the trickster is hoping that fortune will find him again. The sight of an odd-looking stallion draws his attention. In his years of life, the mischief-maker has seen many sights and many frightening things – but never has he seen anything quite like this… creature. For a flicker of a moment, he wonders if the creature might be who he thinks he is (the undead, meat-eating monster told in the stories a mother might whisper to keep her babe close to her side at night) – but the flicker turns into a full flame quickly.
However, the creature looks like his days of feeding frenzies have been few and far between. Thin bone stretches from underneath a canvas of skin with little muscle or fat to fill in the empty places. The trickster slides closer, unafraid of the hungry beast (perhaps he should be – the creature is starved, after all – but the trickster hardly thinks he is worth anything besides a few stringy bites). A tenor chuckle escapes his crookedly-smiling mouth.
“You look like you’ve seen better days…” he croons. Miniature sandstorms (a constant decorative feature of his) swirl at his ankles, his bruised gaze scanning over the creature’s thin body. “I’d be willing to help you out, if you would like.” He shrugs carelessly, as if the matter didn’t bother him one way or the other. But, in fact, he had been curious to know how much further he could improve his, ah, murdering skills.
lokii
this is mayhem