11-21-2017, 10:36 PM
The trickster had been past the borders of Beqanna a handful of times (when he grew bored of the dramatics, when his legs were itching to see more, when the world lulled around him and he craved something new). He always made his way back to his homelands eventually, but the outside world was equally as interesting. He’d seen dragon fire (nothing different from the Valley’s wars) and violence (nothing different from the blood and gore of his daily life) and beautiful, sloping lands (nothing different from the wide variety of biomes in Beqanna).
The only thing they lack is the familiarity.
He finds himself winding through thick forests. The shadows that pool beneath them remind him of the Valley’s own darkness and he feels himself relax comfortably. Although his home (dare he call it a home?) has since been swallowed by the gaping, hungry jaws of Beqanna, he finds a bit of familiarity in the thickness of the woods near Taiga.
The sounds of quiet sobbing draws the trickster from his imagination. Her form is easily spotted among the deep greens and rich browns of the forest (she is ivory dotted with alabaster) and with time he knows she will blossom gracefully and beautifully. The trickster moves out from the depths of the shadows, his bruised eyes searching her face with a look of warmth (it’s almost surprising he could pull such a thing off, yet there it is).
“My dear! Why do you cry?” His tenor tune is comforting as he steps closer to her side. He pulls the image of a large blue butterfly to her mind’s eye, floating lazily on the spring breeze until it lands on the tip of her rosy nose. “I’m Lokii. What’s your name?”
The only thing they lack is the familiarity.
He finds himself winding through thick forests. The shadows that pool beneath them remind him of the Valley’s own darkness and he feels himself relax comfortably. Although his home (dare he call it a home?) has since been swallowed by the gaping, hungry jaws of Beqanna, he finds a bit of familiarity in the thickness of the woods near Taiga.
The sounds of quiet sobbing draws the trickster from his imagination. Her form is easily spotted among the deep greens and rich browns of the forest (she is ivory dotted with alabaster) and with time he knows she will blossom gracefully and beautifully. The trickster moves out from the depths of the shadows, his bruised eyes searching her face with a look of warmth (it’s almost surprising he could pull such a thing off, yet there it is).
“My dear! Why do you cry?” His tenor tune is comforting as he steps closer to her side. He pulls the image of a large blue butterfly to her mind’s eye, floating lazily on the spring breeze until it lands on the tip of her rosy nose. “I’m Lokii. What’s your name?”
LOKII
@[Zella]
