I was born sickbut I love it
As a child, the trickster took after his father rather than his mother. His dam was a once pure soul tortured by the devilish deeds of her rapist (he remembers her shaking in her sleep and then rearing upwards, he remembers her lips stretching into a high scream, he remembers her hooves flying toward his young body as if he were his father). Her duties of parenting were severely misguided and ignored (perhaps that was part of the reason he turned into the personality he is now) and it bled into his ambitious tricking of the woodland creatures.
Nonetheless, the youngling took after his illusionist of a father. Playing tricks on innocent rabbits and squirrels began the lifelong desire for ruthless murdering (something perhaps deeply rooted from his sire). However, the trickster quickly evolved into something completely different from his parents (something neither bred from his mentally-scarred mother or from his mare-torturing father) even further developing his own uniqueness. At this stage in his life, the trickster is a potent concoction bred more from the elements of chaos and bloodlust.
She feigns innocence and he sees right through it. Too often he has seen the faux ‘good girl’ portray their preconceived role with horrible acting. His lips curve up into that achingly familiar smirking grin (thin lips stretching, angular cheekbones becoming even more obvious, bruised eyes brimming with amusement) as he twists his skinny body slightly. “Really? Maybe I’m just getting old. But damn, back in the day, the ladies used to flock to me like you wouldn’t believe.” He tosses his head and paws the ground (stirring the miniature sandstorms around his ankles, as if they were asleep and suddenly disturbed), showing off whatever thin, angular muscle there is left.
He looks more like he’s been decomposing for the past nine years than the handsome, gangly stud from the past.
Her name is a curious one (it tingles at the back of his mind, sounding familiar and yet foreign at the same time) and his bruised eyes look her over more carefully than sexually. “Heartfire, huh? And where’d you get a name like that?” He shuffles into a more comfortable position, tossing his own answer to her question hazardously into the conversation. “Lokii.” However, he is convincingly more interested to hear her side of their words, perhaps simply because his curiosity has been caught.
LOKII
