I was born sickbut I love it
The nighttime is indeed a cloak he wraps around himself (he is like many others in that sense). There is a sense of familiarity surrounding the hours after sunset (a sort of home-like feeling, a foolish aura of security, a gentle warmth like a mother’s bosom to her child) that he does not feel when the sun kisses this side of the earth. He is not the only one to wear the darkness of night like a daily outfit. There are several others out and about, but he steers clear of them normally (he has sated his intentions in chaos, at least until he sees her).
She laughs and he darkly wants to place his teeth delicately close to her throat (just enough to feel the vibrations of her amusement tickle the bones of his jaw, just enough to enjoy the potential of ripping her skin open, just enough to tempt his mouth to close and her vocals to shred). The trickster blinks and the thought vanishes, good right ear twisting to catch her words. He wonders what sort of family she belongs to (certainly not one that admires the chaotic beauty from a monster, such as her).
She admires his boldness and now it is his turn to laugh (it is high and slinking, like a strange mixture between a tiger’s growl and a cat’s meow). “Oh babe, that’s a bit of an understatement,” he purrs out. He is bold in everything he does (the tricks up his sleeves, the words that he says, the actions that he takes, the plots that he’s involved with) and it’s no new thing for him to slide up to a random mare in the meadow and interest her with his unique ways.
He laughs again at the comment about his scrawniness and her eating him up. Nine years of sleep (nestled between aging tree trunks, slumbering beneath a thick blanket of decaying leaves, shrouded in the warmth of a trick to hide him) had eroded at his body, but he knew it would soon bounce back. Killing an immortal mare and gaining her longevity did that to him. Her glance down draws his attention to her talons. “Wholly shit,” he crows, angular head dipping down carelessly to inspect them closer.
They are replicas of his teacher’s (of the trainer to his murderous ways, of the heart-eating monster, of the one who taught him in the darkness to gnaw at skin with dulled teeth) and bruised eyes move to stare directly into her eyes. He shifts her vision slightly, forcing his body into the shape of her grandfather for a millisecond. “Well you just got a bit more interesting, sugar babe.” He completely ignores her other comments; he already knows he’s badass and doesn’t give a flying shit about anything and she doesn’t need to remind him.
LOKII
