this isn't mischief
In his years of chaos-bringing and adventure, he still looks exceptionally good for his age. Perhaps the illusionism helps with that a little (pulling at the minds of those around him, unconsciously twisting their eyes to view him as that young stallion he had been once, even manipulating his own mind), or perhaps he is just rather good at taking care of his body. The gray hasn’t escaped him, however (it is beginning to show through around his eyes and muzzle, against his knees, in his silver locks), and he has to force himself to recognize that years are ticking by and taking his youth with him.
However, the Jungle still remains a constant river of life. He notices is it as he stands among the undergrowth, listening to the symphony of the Amazon’s forest sing about him. The birds nearby quieting their song (listening for, perhaps, the earth-wielding mare’s steps or in fear that the tree beneath them might give way if they don’t notice her presence) cause the trickster to turn his eyes toward the approaching shadow.
Speaking of age, he can tell the golden-eyed warrior has received it plentiful. Although her eyes still blaze with that fire and her magic still proves to be strong (the earth trembling and the trees quivering speak of that), her body is withering. Although muscle still hides beneath her coat, her spotted body is sprinkled with gray and the natural slenderness of a woman is receding into the sharp angles of an elderly mare. When she speaks, however, her voice is strong and familiar.
Her question is a simple one (although he finds himself pausing at the thought of it), compared to the myriad of words she had for him the last time he came creeping after her. His head tips to the side slowly, angular cheekbones stretching as his lips slip into that ever-present smirk of mischievous amusement. “I came to see if you were dead yet,” he admits. Sure, he was here to check up on her (did that, in itself, admit the small amount of care he might actually hold for her?).
The trickster forced the thought from his mind. He didn’t feel anything for the golden-eyed Jungle warrior (he never has, he never has, he never has, he never has…) and he never would. Besides, she must not feel anything for him, either. He can tell she has tried extra time at parenting aside from their failed daughter (he can see it in the lines of her face, in the sharpness of her hip bones, in the strength of her eyes, in the crease of her lips) and part of him wonders if she found love outside the tide-like (first arriving, then receding, in constant motion) presence of him.
A new edge took over his tone of voice, as if he were convincing himself of the words. “Unfortunately, you showed up and dashed my hopes.” Bruised eyes scanned the Jungle forest behind her. “Who’s queen of the Jungle nowadays?” he says, forcing a change in topic so she couldn’t have time (although he knew she would find it) to analyze his word choice and tone.
lokii
this is mayhem
