05-22-2018, 02:57 PM
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror
It’s a tightrope they walk upon (he to decide when his moment of strike will be, them to decide when their moment of ending will be) and he feels the careful danger of it curl in his belly like a smoke-dragon. He craves it (chaos, that is) like a drug to his veins, and his arms would be speckled and bruised with many needle-points had it actually been a drug. They are the chess pieces in his movements now, and he’s been in the Meadow long enough to hear of Beqanna’s political climate (of shifting rulers and evil stirring in the west and tense, biting words) and work out a way at which he can further prod at the potential earthquake.
The older can sense him (he hadn’t covered himself up well enough, apparently) and the shadows he brings, but he hardly pays that a mind. She’s exhausted and, therefore, a likely target. But then the little girl is bawling (sobbing and begging and whimpering and he fucking loves it) and he pushes his tendrils deeper into the elder’s mind, all the way down to her heels. It should feel like she’s falling now, and if she were to look down there might be a sandpit beneath her feet (sinking and pulling and dragging her closer to the innards of the earth).
He has more important things to deal with, like the (now confirmed) princess. His bruised eyes narrow in on her, eyelids half-closing to scan over her young body with a frightening sort of calculation. Beside him, the tree-horse disappears into a thin mist so quickly that she might’ve been their imagination in the first place. “The Brotherhood, hmm?” His voice has changed (no longer sweet and sugary, but laced with a syrupy malice and firecracker excitement) as his eyes latch onto her darling little face.
Before she might be able to spring away (and with her protective sister firmly held in the clutches of his faux-quicksand) he springs from his position, ears pinning into his silver mane and allowing a bitter snarl to tear from his mouth. He whisks together a quick, wide sandstorm to block her path, pushing it wider and wider until it encircles the three of them. “Now I can work in peace,” he mutters, more a thought to himself than to them.
He decides it would be much more delightful to let the younger watch her ever-protective, mature sister pass away before her eyes. So the trickster pushes a trick into the winged filly’s mind (filling her eyes with darkness and centering her feet firmly on the ground so she feels as though she cannot move) and then makes his way closer to her tender little body. His teeth reach out quickly (one bruised eye moving to look directly at the mare) and snap down on the beginning of her wing appendage. There’s the sensation of muscle and tendon shredding under his teeth, along with a dull thud that indicates the creak of bones, and then he’s certain she will never fly again. The same is done to the other side (shredding and thudding and creaking) and his fingers release her vision from the darkness and back to reality.
She could try to attack him, the yearling, but her wings will do her no good and his strength against hers is insurmountable. He laughs as he releases the mare from her sandpit, only to force another trickery across her mind. This time she is witnessing her worst nightmares (in whatever forms they might be) over and over again. His hope is to make her scream and wriggle and cry and beg for it to end, and he will not relinquish her mind from these terrors until she does.
When the mare is weak under the pressure of the hell playing through her mind (each time quicker and more intense than the last) he will attack. He does not take his time with this mare (there is too much at stake, too much muscle, too little time) and so her end is brutal but merciless (and before her little sister’s eyes). He beats her and crushes her and pounds her and cracks her until she is a pulpy, disintegrated, fleshy mess of blood and gut and muscle and bone (his bruised eyes reveal in the masterpiece he’s created, even while blood and bodily fluids are painted across his body).
But he’s been careful to avoid truly crushing her chest, treasuring the gem that lies within her ribcage. His nose rummages around the remains of her body until he finds his treasure (slathering his muzzle with blood in the process) and he carefully grabs it between his lips, pulling it from between membranes and ligaments and fatty tissue. He walks to where the younger might be (perhaps pressed against the sides of their sand-prison, perhaps launching her own attack upon his scarred shoulders, perhaps grounded to the floor by the horror of the murder) with her sister’s heart in his mouth, blood dripping a trail of red.
He says nothing (watching her with those eerily blue eyes) and stands for a moment, letting her examine if she wants to, before he calls forward another sandstorm to secure the unmoving heart until he might deliver it. Then he turns (bloodstained and relatively satisfied) to face her. “Don’t worry, little doe; I’ll be much more gentle with you.”
In hindsight, he is. He doesn’t beat her until her face is a distorted pulp of tissue and bone, but rather dances around her for a moment, pressing dainty kisses to her tender, child-soft parts (to her cheeks, to her shoulders, to the curve of her hip, to the slope of her neck, to her forehead) until she might be crying, if she isn’t already. A laugh bubbles from the depths of his chest as he places his final lingering touch, this one equipped with a nasty bite behind it (“A love-bite,” he thinks).
Although he is a nasty lover of chaos, he comes with his (as he sees them) tender sides. So before he spills her blood, the trickster pushes her mind into a fantasy, one where she is flying high in the sky (so high the air is thin and Beqanna spreads below her, but she can neither sense the air change or the level of her height) and the sun is setting in the distance. Her sister is there, gifted with her own wings, and the pair are pinwheeling through the sky while the trickster is, meanwhile, slowly pulling apart her limbs and inspecting them with a surgeon’s interest (he’s never taken apart a yearling, you see, and his curious mind desires to know where her differences might lie in contrast to an adult).
But she should be happy and free, careening through the sky at incredible skies. The trickster wonders if he almost hears a tender, childlike laugh drip from her lips when she is close to the edge of death, and it warms the stone of his heart. She passes on before he’s gotten very far, but he continues his work until he finds her own (slightly smaller, he notes) heart and wraps it carefully in a separate sandstorm.
He buries the girl (call it age, but he can’t leave her young body parts spread across the trail) just along the side of the trail, using his storms to first dig and hole and then fill it. He leaves one of the bones from her ribcage there, a few strands of her dark mane tied around the length of it, atop the pile of freshly-dug soil. Her sister, however — he could shit on her body and not care less, so he leaves her there (pulpy mess already being feasted on by the bodies of many tiny insects) and twists toward the forest in the west, two slender sandstorms weaving between his legs and around his body, their masses tinted shades of pink and deep red from the cargo they carry.
The older can sense him (he hadn’t covered himself up well enough, apparently) and the shadows he brings, but he hardly pays that a mind. She’s exhausted and, therefore, a likely target. But then the little girl is bawling (sobbing and begging and whimpering and he fucking loves it) and he pushes his tendrils deeper into the elder’s mind, all the way down to her heels. It should feel like she’s falling now, and if she were to look down there might be a sandpit beneath her feet (sinking and pulling and dragging her closer to the innards of the earth).
He has more important things to deal with, like the (now confirmed) princess. His bruised eyes narrow in on her, eyelids half-closing to scan over her young body with a frightening sort of calculation. Beside him, the tree-horse disappears into a thin mist so quickly that she might’ve been their imagination in the first place. “The Brotherhood, hmm?” His voice has changed (no longer sweet and sugary, but laced with a syrupy malice and firecracker excitement) as his eyes latch onto her darling little face.
Before she might be able to spring away (and with her protective sister firmly held in the clutches of his faux-quicksand) he springs from his position, ears pinning into his silver mane and allowing a bitter snarl to tear from his mouth. He whisks together a quick, wide sandstorm to block her path, pushing it wider and wider until it encircles the three of them. “Now I can work in peace,” he mutters, more a thought to himself than to them.
He decides it would be much more delightful to let the younger watch her ever-protective, mature sister pass away before her eyes. So the trickster pushes a trick into the winged filly’s mind (filling her eyes with darkness and centering her feet firmly on the ground so she feels as though she cannot move) and then makes his way closer to her tender little body. His teeth reach out quickly (one bruised eye moving to look directly at the mare) and snap down on the beginning of her wing appendage. There’s the sensation of muscle and tendon shredding under his teeth, along with a dull thud that indicates the creak of bones, and then he’s certain she will never fly again. The same is done to the other side (shredding and thudding and creaking) and his fingers release her vision from the darkness and back to reality.
She could try to attack him, the yearling, but her wings will do her no good and his strength against hers is insurmountable. He laughs as he releases the mare from her sandpit, only to force another trickery across her mind. This time she is witnessing her worst nightmares (in whatever forms they might be) over and over again. His hope is to make her scream and wriggle and cry and beg for it to end, and he will not relinquish her mind from these terrors until she does.
When the mare is weak under the pressure of the hell playing through her mind (each time quicker and more intense than the last) he will attack. He does not take his time with this mare (there is too much at stake, too much muscle, too little time) and so her end is brutal but merciless (and before her little sister’s eyes). He beats her and crushes her and pounds her and cracks her until she is a pulpy, disintegrated, fleshy mess of blood and gut and muscle and bone (his bruised eyes reveal in the masterpiece he’s created, even while blood and bodily fluids are painted across his body).
But he’s been careful to avoid truly crushing her chest, treasuring the gem that lies within her ribcage. His nose rummages around the remains of her body until he finds his treasure (slathering his muzzle with blood in the process) and he carefully grabs it between his lips, pulling it from between membranes and ligaments and fatty tissue. He walks to where the younger might be (perhaps pressed against the sides of their sand-prison, perhaps launching her own attack upon his scarred shoulders, perhaps grounded to the floor by the horror of the murder) with her sister’s heart in his mouth, blood dripping a trail of red.
He says nothing (watching her with those eerily blue eyes) and stands for a moment, letting her examine if she wants to, before he calls forward another sandstorm to secure the unmoving heart until he might deliver it. Then he turns (bloodstained and relatively satisfied) to face her. “Don’t worry, little doe; I’ll be much more gentle with you.”
In hindsight, he is. He doesn’t beat her until her face is a distorted pulp of tissue and bone, but rather dances around her for a moment, pressing dainty kisses to her tender, child-soft parts (to her cheeks, to her shoulders, to the curve of her hip, to the slope of her neck, to her forehead) until she might be crying, if she isn’t already. A laugh bubbles from the depths of his chest as he places his final lingering touch, this one equipped with a nasty bite behind it (“A love-bite,” he thinks).
Although he is a nasty lover of chaos, he comes with his (as he sees them) tender sides. So before he spills her blood, the trickster pushes her mind into a fantasy, one where she is flying high in the sky (so high the air is thin and Beqanna spreads below her, but she can neither sense the air change or the level of her height) and the sun is setting in the distance. Her sister is there, gifted with her own wings, and the pair are pinwheeling through the sky while the trickster is, meanwhile, slowly pulling apart her limbs and inspecting them with a surgeon’s interest (he’s never taken apart a yearling, you see, and his curious mind desires to know where her differences might lie in contrast to an adult).
But she should be happy and free, careening through the sky at incredible skies. The trickster wonders if he almost hears a tender, childlike laugh drip from her lips when she is close to the edge of death, and it warms the stone of his heart. She passes on before he’s gotten very far, but he continues his work until he finds her own (slightly smaller, he notes) heart and wraps it carefully in a separate sandstorm.
He buries the girl (call it age, but he can’t leave her young body parts spread across the trail) just along the side of the trail, using his storms to first dig and hole and then fill it. He leaves one of the bones from her ribcage there, a few strands of her dark mane tied around the length of it, atop the pile of freshly-dug soil. Her sister, however — he could shit on her body and not care less, so he leaves her there (pulpy mess already being feasted on by the bodies of many tiny insects) and twists toward the forest in the west, two slender sandstorms weaving between his legs and around his body, their masses tinted shades of pink and deep red from the cargo they carry.
Lokii
lover of chaos
@[Alonwy] / @[Khaeli]
