10-23-2017, 06:31 PM
He’d seen his fair share of faux bitches over the years (the ones who think they’re bad, the ones who spread their legs for any man, the ones who consider themselves foxes in the night). He’d been trying to piece together their thought process for a long time. The trickster’s conclusions had boiled down to a few different options (either they had an abusive childhood and being “bad” made them feel better about it, they thought that being sexy and naughty would get them good dick, or they just generally wanted to annoy the hell out of everyone).
There were a few cunning mares in Beqanna who actually held up to their aesthetics (those were ones he could point out easily). They were the ones who didn’t flaunt their hips or spread their legs or put on that goth black lipstick to look more sexily cunning (they were the ones with blood under their fingernails, with titles to their names, with dangerous lies on their lips). The trickster preferred that breed of women over any other.
He’d spent the morning hunting. He never hunted for meals (the meat and blood didn’t settle well in his stomach, leaving him tossing and turning throughout the night), only for personal enjoyment. The trickster took a special sort of pleasure in performing the various methods taught by the infection. He rarely slept (spending the dark hours and much of the mornings stalking through the shadows) as he struck a precise, bloodless blow or a bloody massacre or a surgical picking-apart of the anatomy.
The blood was still painted across his face and splashed against his knees (though most of it was dry) when he made his way toward the more habitable corners of Beqanna. The wildlife had been active the night before, though they would be much less active the next night. The smell of her caught his attention before her appearance (the trickster always had a knack for smelling that sweet perfume of female) and he wove through the trunks until her savory frame came into focus.
He circled around from the shadows, prepared to angle himself so he’d enter from her blind spot. While she might have been a sight of lusty beauty, he was a sight of historical charm. His gait was rugged and slanting (his front forelegs bowlegged and scarred from a break and a botched heal), his hide was peppery and scarred (with lightning-strikes cutting through his neck, back, and gaskin), his face was angular and charming (with his right eye a swirl of clear blue and inky black, his left eye a swirl of clear blue and misty white). The smear of blood across his knees, freckling his chest, and drowning his face only added to the entire ensemble.
“Well aren’t you just looking for trouble.” His voice is a gentle tenor, charismatic to the core. It could be the sound of a loving father (in another life, perhaps) but it’s gruff with cobwebs and dust bunnies after living in the shadows for so long. “Usually if a pretty girl goes into the forest, she doesn’t come out.”
There were a few cunning mares in Beqanna who actually held up to their aesthetics (those were ones he could point out easily). They were the ones who didn’t flaunt their hips or spread their legs or put on that goth black lipstick to look more sexily cunning (they were the ones with blood under their fingernails, with titles to their names, with dangerous lies on their lips). The trickster preferred that breed of women over any other.
He’d spent the morning hunting. He never hunted for meals (the meat and blood didn’t settle well in his stomach, leaving him tossing and turning throughout the night), only for personal enjoyment. The trickster took a special sort of pleasure in performing the various methods taught by the infection. He rarely slept (spending the dark hours and much of the mornings stalking through the shadows) as he struck a precise, bloodless blow or a bloody massacre or a surgical picking-apart of the anatomy.
The blood was still painted across his face and splashed against his knees (though most of it was dry) when he made his way toward the more habitable corners of Beqanna. The wildlife had been active the night before, though they would be much less active the next night. The smell of her caught his attention before her appearance (the trickster always had a knack for smelling that sweet perfume of female) and he wove through the trunks until her savory frame came into focus.
He circled around from the shadows, prepared to angle himself so he’d enter from her blind spot. While she might have been a sight of lusty beauty, he was a sight of historical charm. His gait was rugged and slanting (his front forelegs bowlegged and scarred from a break and a botched heal), his hide was peppery and scarred (with lightning-strikes cutting through his neck, back, and gaskin), his face was angular and charming (with his right eye a swirl of clear blue and inky black, his left eye a swirl of clear blue and misty white). The smear of blood across his knees, freckling his chest, and drowning his face only added to the entire ensemble.
“Well aren’t you just looking for trouble.” His voice is a gentle tenor, charismatic to the core. It could be the sound of a loving father (in another life, perhaps) but it’s gruff with cobwebs and dust bunnies after living in the shadows for so long. “Usually if a pretty girl goes into the forest, she doesn’t come out.”
LOKII
disclaimer: lokii has illusionism and he'd love to play a few tricks if you'd like. he doesn't do anything that would physically harm krone, but he can mess with her mind in some mental ways if you give me permission to slightly powerplay (: