this isn't mischief
They are an odd pair. The trickster notices them easily (it’s hard not to, with his knowledge of things evil and chaotic) – the purple and the bay, the girl and the boy, the surgeon and the nurse. He’s always had a knack for noticing kindred spirits (although there are many similar to his, none are quite so demandingly mischievous as the kindred spirits tied to him might be) and this time is no different. However, he pretends he didn’t notice them as they draw closer. They are still young (still inexperienced to the shadows of life, still cocooned in the protection of relative innocence and mothering, still unharmed by the harsh lights of the world), something he notices as they stop close to him.
She speaks of fish and submitting and he already wonders just who she might be. Does she toy with the minds of simple creatures like he does (grunting with delight as they contort and squeal in terror)? Does she train in the middle of the night until she is sharpened to kill like he does (deep in the darkness, when only the nightcrawlers stir, with sweat rolling down his sides)? Does she smirk with immense pleasure at the thought of tricks and mischief like he does (enjoying the thrill of death and destruction and chaos almost too much)?
“Lokii,” he offers for his name, glancing between the pair of them curiously. Bruised eyes (black and blue in the right, white and blue in the left) linger on the colt for a moment when he only offers one word. Then his lips slide into that devilishly familiar smirk of mischief. “Would you like to see something more impressive?” he asks. Without waiting for her answer, it happens.
At first, there is silence. Then there is a loping shaking of the earth (a three-beating sound of something beating toward them). As the thing gets closer, there is a panting and a low growling. When the thing breaks the tree-line, it is taller than any of three of them, covered in hair, and colored a deep, russet brown. A bear. The trickster’s mind works with a practiced ease to trick the bear into thinking there is something comforting for it here (perhaps a home or its cubs or a safe haven) so it doesn’t eat them. But then he smirks and gives the bear the image that the filly and colt are its cubs.
“Looks like Momma Bear found her cubs,” he says casually, just as the bear steps across the stream and pads close to the pair. The bear’s teeth are bare from running, revealing pink gums and sharp, creamy white teeth very capable of tearing through their hides like butter and a knife. “Don’t worry, she won’t hurt you.” Rather than shredding the pair, the momma bear goes to curl around them and pull them close to her body, emitting generously warm grunts to ensure they know they are safe.
As long as she doesn’t know they are really equines, not bear cubs.
lokii
this is mayhem
