this isn't mischief
He watches her from a distance. The trickster can see her mother in her (in the way she walks, in the womanly curves of her body, in the splashed coloring of her frame, in the look of her eyes, in the Amazon tattoos that slither along her) and he knows. He always knew the golden-eyed warrior had tried her hand at parenting aside from their failed daughter. He didn’t know whom the father was to this girl (although he might be able to guess with the orange color of her eyes), but he could guess easily who her mother was.
The golden Jungle princess left a trail for the trickster to follow, despite her attempts to hide it.
She grazes relatively peacefully (at least as peacefully as one can when in the meadow) and a smirk rises to his sneaky lips. When he walks toward her, he doesn’t hide his gangly frame behind a more muscular one. He doesn’t reach his tricky fingers into the nerves of her eyes to transform his image (to add heavy muscle to sinewy muscle, to change his eyes from bruised to coffee, to paint over the lightning markings, to blur the angularity of his cheekbones into smoother ones). His tricks are tired of playing that game, for now, and he aches to reveal to the girl who he truly is.
He wonders, as he steps closer, whether her mother told stories about him.
He pauses a respectable (for now, at least) distance away from her. “You look so much like your mother,” he says, tenor tunes floating through the air toward her. His pets (those miniature sandstorms that curl against his ankles like comforting cats) circle around him in a mildly threatening yet entirely casual manner. “What did she name you?” He doesn’t give his name, nor how he knows her mother. She will ask those questions, he’s sure.
lokii
this is mayhem