05-25-2018, 08:20 PM
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror
He’s never been best-suited for the ranks of a kingdom (they’ve always rubbed at his shoulders and hips like an uncomfortable jacket, blistering and reddening his skin until he wants to scream). Perhaps the only kingdom he’s served (and even then it wasn’t serving the kingdom, but serving the queen who sat atop it) is the Valley, but it is long gone. His time in the Sylvan forest with the white-king hardly counted as service (nor did he consider himself serving, rather looking for an opportunity to pleasure chaos) and he had been there for only fleeting moments in the first place.
Yet he doesn’t wonder why his hooves take him here. Perhaps it is the call of chaos (whispers sweet against his skin, calling him deeper into the darkness) or perhaps it is the call of boredom (clawing at the insides of his mind, drawing blood from the force of its dirty talons) or perhaps he is just curious (the least likely of the three, yet still possible). Nor does he wonder why he is covered in princess-blood with princess-hearts swaddled in the cradles of his storms.
He does, however, wonder why anyone would follow a king with a bright-red bunny tail plastered to his nose (or why anyone would follow a king who could burrow himself into a rabbit’s hole to match that nose). Despite the fact that he’s in a supposedly-evil kingdom (trespassing on the kingdom’s territory, nonetheless) and despite the fact that he might or might not be here to stir up more shit, he laughs. His tenor voice drips with wild amusement and it takes him a moment before he can control his laughter enough to speak.
“Oh” — a chuckle — “my” — another reckless laugh — “god, they actually listen to you?” The trickster heaves a big sigh, feeling the sickening emptiness that often accompanies a good laugh. “No wonder you’re fucked up; your momma must have hated you.” His bruised eyes (blue and white, blue and black) dance with unbidden mischief before his metaphorical fingers release their grip on the sandstorms.
Two sandy hearts (bled of color and life, yet it is still just as obvious what they are) drop before the clown-king’s feet. The trickster hadn’t managed to catch the girls’ names before he’d murdered them (first mercilessly bashed the elder until her body became a pulpy, disregarded mass of blood and tissue and bone, the second slowly pulled and pinched apart while drifting through a mind-sky) but he knows who they were, at least. “Princesses of Ischia, may they rest in peace.” The end is just for his own amusement, yet no laughter trails from his mouth this time.
“The name’s Lokii.”
Yet he doesn’t wonder why his hooves take him here. Perhaps it is the call of chaos (whispers sweet against his skin, calling him deeper into the darkness) or perhaps it is the call of boredom (clawing at the insides of his mind, drawing blood from the force of its dirty talons) or perhaps he is just curious (the least likely of the three, yet still possible). Nor does he wonder why he is covered in princess-blood with princess-hearts swaddled in the cradles of his storms.
He does, however, wonder why anyone would follow a king with a bright-red bunny tail plastered to his nose (or why anyone would follow a king who could burrow himself into a rabbit’s hole to match that nose). Despite the fact that he’s in a supposedly-evil kingdom (trespassing on the kingdom’s territory, nonetheless) and despite the fact that he might or might not be here to stir up more shit, he laughs. His tenor voice drips with wild amusement and it takes him a moment before he can control his laughter enough to speak.
“Oh” — a chuckle — “my” — another reckless laugh — “god, they actually listen to you?” The trickster heaves a big sigh, feeling the sickening emptiness that often accompanies a good laugh. “No wonder you’re fucked up; your momma must have hated you.” His bruised eyes (blue and white, blue and black) dance with unbidden mischief before his metaphorical fingers release their grip on the sandstorms.
Two sandy hearts (bled of color and life, yet it is still just as obvious what they are) drop before the clown-king’s feet. The trickster hadn’t managed to catch the girls’ names before he’d murdered them (first mercilessly bashed the elder until her body became a pulpy, disregarded mass of blood and tissue and bone, the second slowly pulled and pinched apart while drifting through a mind-sky) but he knows who they were, at least. “Princesses of Ischia, may they rest in peace.” The end is just for his own amusement, yet no laughter trails from his mouth this time.
“The name’s Lokii.”
Lokii
lover of chaos
@[Modicum Mortem]
