this isn't mischief
For a moment, there is silence. The heavy sounds of bodies hitting the door fade in an unnatural way, leaving an eerie peace. A choked sob breaks the glass (a sound that replicates the feeling of a heart tearing from a body) and the trickster finds his bruised eyes swinging toward the blonde. Her hands are to her mouth and her liquid gold eyes are stretched wide (in terror or dismay or grief or worry or shock, he isn’t sure). One’s immediate response might be to comfort her, but the trickster hardly refers to his immediate responses.
nbsp; Instead, he finds himself turning around toward the scene in front of them. They are someplace new (a new world, a new beginning, a new location, a new day). The sky above his head is a brilliant shade of crystal blue (seamless aside from the star of light high in the heavens) and the ground below his feet is a soft hue of green (dotted with happy daises and small boulders). The place is not all clear and open, however; the trickster’s vision is limited by the placement of tangles of thorny branches. For some reason, a story comes to his mind. A sleeping princess, a dashing knight, and a fire-breathing dragon once witch – all which comes to the forefront of his brain when seeing the thorns surrounding them.
A narrow trail leads straight ahead of them – the only way out, he supposes. The blonde’s symphony of sobbing and gasping has become momentarily reduced (although he can still hear her sniffing and grieving; how pitiful). The trickster turns toward her, harsh eyes scanning over her face. With her hands removed (hands which look rough and bruised and bloodied and dirty) from her face (a face which looks bruised and bloodied and smeared with dirt but still hiding a fierce sort of beauty), he can see where the streaks of tears had fallen down her cheeks.
“We need to go that way,” he says. One long, slender finger points down the trail (a finger he stares at for a moment too long, mostly because he forgot he had it). But then his eyes take notice of the door (or lack of it). Just like before, the doorway between locations vanished, leaving behind only a wall of thorns. The blonde’s eyes narrow, staring toward the (now the only) way out of their situation. Suddenly, the voice of the one who brought him here shatters the thoughts in his head. He grits his teeth, resisting the urge to shout for her to leave.
But she holds valuable information (whoever she is) and so he lets her stay. At the mention of another change to his body, he begins to feel the effects. He can hear the sound of her heart beating within her chest. He can feel the blood rushing through her vessels (and also the overwhelming urge to have that blood spill into his mouth). His tongue involuntarily licks across his lips (causing him to notice the way his incisors prick and feel sharper) at the thought of ripping open her chest and drowning himself in her life.
The trickster forces himself to blink away the thoughts of murdering her (he’s done it before; ignore the feeling to guiltlessly kill) and focus on their challenge instead. There could be any number of dangerous and deadly things in this so-called ‘maze,’ he could easily sacrifice her life for his. She also provides valuable inside information; she’s survived thus far in a zombie apocalypse, so she must be smart.
Coming to the conclusion that he must ignore the ache in his belly and the acute awareness of her heart pumping, the trickster grabs her forearm. “Come with me.” The blonde follows in a (dare he say it?) trustworthy manner, but he supposes her shock from seeing someone she cared about die would do that to her. The narrow opening between thorn branches is a tight fit, but thankfully his hoodie protects him from getting serious cuts on his arms. One thorn does, however, nick the back of his hand. Blood begins to seep out of the wound and at the sight of the red liquid; the trickster can feel his hunger intensifying.
Pu-pump, pu-pump, pu-pump.
“Which way now?” The blonde’s voice breaks him away from his thoughts. They are at crossroads. To the right, the trickster looks down the trail and sees the ground covered in an expanse of smooth water. Aside from a thin plank of wood to cross between lands, he supposes they might have to swim. To the left, however, there is nothing barring their way aside from the thorns crossing over the top of the road, blocking out the darkness. The blonde speaks again, turning her body toward the shadowy path. “There could be any number of wrongs with the water; let’s go this way.”
Nodding, the trickster follows the fierce-eyed woman as she leads them between the thorny tunnel. The light of day begins to dim more and more until the shadows overtake it completely. With only a breath of light to see, the pair follows the path in a drunkenly clumsy manner until they find a break in the darkness. The trickster pauses for a moment, bruised eyes turning toward the hole among the otherwise thickly-woven roof of their thorn tunnel. A sound echoes in his ear, causing him to turn toward the way they had come.
An enormous, giant man barrels after them, letting out an animalistic growl. It speaks of a primal enjoyment to kill, specifically those who’s bones are able to crack and grind together. The trickster shrinks away, then turns and begins sprinting toward the blonde. “Run, run, run!” he gasps, racing past her as she stands shocked at the man coming toward them. Glancing behind his shoulder, the trickster notices the woman’s lack of running as well as the man’s singular eye. The word comes to him before he can think much: cyclops.
“Hit his eye!” is the trickster’s sudden call. Take out the creature’s (he’s decided it isn’t a man at all, but a creature – a monster – instead) only source of sight and it will make everything much harder. The blonde pulls out, suddenly, an object she holds in her hand and aims toward the running creature’s sole eye. Again, a word shoots from the trickster’s mind without him searching for it. A gun. The sound of it firing causes him to jump (it is loud, like a crack of thunder, and vibrates in his bones even seconds after the noise ends), but the blonde stands still against the harshness.
He hears her whisper only because his senses are still finely attuned to her heart pumping and her blood rushing and every fiber of her body relying on the steady pu-pump in her chest. “Got ‘em.” The cyclops falls like the giant killed by David, just before it could reach the blonde. He falls toward her, however, and the trickster sprints forward to try and move her out of the way (like a predator might protect his prey from other predators). It is all in vain. The one-eyed monster’s head lands atop the blonde’s legs with a sickening crunch, followed by a shrill cry of agony.
Oh, that sweet sound of agony.
The noise curls against his mind, sending an erratic pulse of excitement through his nerves. He jumps to help her, anyway. The monster’s head is heavy deadweight, but when he lifts up (straining, panting, heaving) it is enough for the blonde to drag herself away. The damage is done (her legs are not twisted at odd angles, but the dark red of blood – blood caused by her bones breaking through her skin – is already soaking her pants and the stark, creamy white of bone pokes through the material of her pants) and her mouth is still open in gasps of pain.
The monster from the meadows lessons suddenly sprout to his mind. In what way could he seal the blonde’s life? She’s of no use to him anymore and her crying will only further draw the attention of any more creatures looming in the shadows. She is a woman. He is a man (a horny, always-looking-for-some-tail man, at that). He wonders if she’s ever been with anyone.
He seals her sobbing with a kiss.
Incisors ache to sink deep into her lips, to draw blood and stain her teeth red and make her drown in her own life so that he might bathe in it. Instead, he trails his mouth down her jawline and toward her neck. The sound of her heart beat in his ears increases, growing stronger with mingled agony and desire. “Ohhhh.” Her voice groans out softly. The trickster can feel her blood rushing just underneath the dirty and tan of her skin. It calls to him in a way nothing has before. “Pip, you said?” he whispers, almost to himself.
His hands trace circles across her collarbones and down, feeling out the womanly curves of her body. So different, from an equine, yet so alike in the response. The blonde’s back arches (whether from pain or pleasure, he isn’t sure; nor does he care). Then, his lips find the best river of blood in her throat. “Aha,” he mutters, just before his teeth lay claim in her precious skin. The response is immediate. He drinks from her lifeblood, feeling her heart sputter and then slow, enjoying the thickness that trickles down his throat into his belly to warm his insides.
Even after his craving is satisfied, he lingers. He rolls in the pools of her blood until it is splashed against his ivory skin and angular cheekbones. He bathes in it until his hands are soaked red and his hair is sticky with drying blood. He breathes in the salty scent of it, like it is a drug he cannot abstain from.
He enjoys every second of her death and past that.
Until the sound of another creature echoes in the distance and he must climb to his feet. Although her companionship was comforting, the life of a loner suits him much better. The trickster heads off to continue the thorn tunnel and it isn’t long before he reaches the end of it. Sunshine blinds him for a moment before he regains his sight in the daytime. A tall wooden wall stands before him, impenetrable unless he wished to push aside the thorns and risk getting severely injured. Suddenly, the trickster remembers the gun once held by his dinner.
The trip back to the bloodbath is short, considering the trickster runs back, and he finds the gun lying not far from her ash and blood-colored face. Thanks to his meal, the feeling of hunger has dimmed and forced his mind back into a sense of normalcy. But, despite this, the trickster still remains guiltless and comfortable with his killing. So he abandons the scene with little regrets and only calm in his chest.
He uses the butt of the gun as a club striking at the thorn branches until they give him enough room to wiggle between the wall and the opening. Although he receives many minor cuts and scratches oozing blood (as well as one severe one cut near his eye along his cheekbone), he walks away from the wall otherwise unscathed.
A wide clearing sits before him, circled by the thorny branches. Standing in the middle of the clearing, is a pedestal. Atop the pedestal is a simple drinking glass. Clear liquid swirls within the glass, sparkling in the sunlight. The trickster, thinking over the fact that it could be poisoned, raises the glass to his lips and allows it to slide down his throat. The clear drink is thin compared to the blood, but as it swirls in his stomach he feels his incisors dull and the blood become heavier in his belly.
Shrugging off the last remains of the change, the trickster looks around to see what might be next.
lokii
this is mayhem
