12-19-2017, 11:05 PM
He’s seen worlds fall apart too many times. He cannot deny he loves it (the way the trees split and ache, the way the ground rumbles and groans, the way they run and cry, the way the fire sets in to melt away their homes). It sends chills down his spine and it sedates the most greedy of his inner workings. He loves destruction (and the chaos that follows it); he’s loved it his entire life.
As Sylva is melted (from the chopped, bitter pieces of the white wraith’s laboratory) and reconstructed (into the cheery, warm place it might become, god save them), the trickster leaves without a word. The situation of Sylva’s undoing is the very reason why he finds himself not-so-involved in many matters, at least where it counts. He will always serve chaos, but kingdoms mean little to him. He’s seen them destroyed and rebirthed differently, he’s seen them torn apart and put back together similarly — but he will never hold affection for them.
Perhaps he once considered the Valley to be his home, but his shadowy foothills are only found in the past.
He stumbles upon her in the forest, heading back toward the more social corners of Beqanna after departing Sylva. The splash of deep red against her lips interests him (he stops there, where he might have otherwise side-stepped) and his angular face dips down to run a tongue over her lips. Blood. His touch might wake her, but he nudges under the softness of her throat to considerably shake her from her dreams.
“You might want to clean that off,” he says, bruised eyes staring down at her with a mischievous grin. He’s had more than a few murders himself (too many to count, in fact) and he knows his way around the process of the aftermath. “If you don’t wipe it off soon, it’ll stain. And then your ass will be dead.”
As Sylva is melted (from the chopped, bitter pieces of the white wraith’s laboratory) and reconstructed (into the cheery, warm place it might become, god save them), the trickster leaves without a word. The situation of Sylva’s undoing is the very reason why he finds himself not-so-involved in many matters, at least where it counts. He will always serve chaos, but kingdoms mean little to him. He’s seen them destroyed and rebirthed differently, he’s seen them torn apart and put back together similarly — but he will never hold affection for them.
Perhaps he once considered the Valley to be his home, but his shadowy foothills are only found in the past.
He stumbles upon her in the forest, heading back toward the more social corners of Beqanna after departing Sylva. The splash of deep red against her lips interests him (he stops there, where he might have otherwise side-stepped) and his angular face dips down to run a tongue over her lips. Blood. His touch might wake her, but he nudges under the softness of her throat to considerably shake her from her dreams.
“You might want to clean that off,” he says, bruised eyes staring down at her with a mischievous grin. He’s had more than a few murders himself (too many to count, in fact) and he knows his way around the process of the aftermath. “If you don’t wipe it off soon, it’ll stain. And then your ass will be dead.”
LOKII
@[Anastazja] Sorry this took so long! My Lokii muse has been blegh lately <33
