06-04-2018, 01:09 AM
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror
“Loyalty means shit in our business, baby.”
He’s been around the block enough times to know (with the war of dragons swarming the skies and lightning slicing limbs off and pink queens disappearing into the great wide nothingness) that when you deal with the craftsmen of the devil’s work, you should never rely on loyalty. It will always come back to kick you in the ass and anyone who believes such things (loyalty or trust or faith) will recognize their error in some fashion.
Regardless of loyalty or religion, his gifts (the two sister-hearts, sandy and free of blood and pulse) are well received. A smirk drips across the trickster’s mouth as easily as rain falling when the clouds are thick, twitching at the corners of his gray lips and darkening his bruised eyes. Despite his age, his angular face is still handsome beyond his years and the smirk only further enhances those features (he’d say he ages like wine, if he knew what wine was).
The clown-king says a name (“... Brennen… ” amid laughter just as humored as his own had been moments before) that pricks at the corners of the trickster’s memories. He chuckles along with the pony, but it is for his own reasons (how ironic that he would murder the children of a stallion who saw the days of the kingdoms of old, just as he had) and he is easily able to rein it in when a spotted boy slips away from the shadows.
His question causes a smile to fall across the trickster’s face (a smile dripping in mingled amusement and darkness). “Well, boy, it comes with decades of practice.” His bruised gaze looks over the colt again, this time slightly more critical. “I can teach you, if you want.” His own techniques were taught (partially by self-teaching and partially by Infection, a monster whose name has faded with the times) and then mastered over the years, perfected under the shade of the forests and in the darkness of the night.
His fingers (slippery and shadowy and slender) prod gently at the colt’s mind. If he gives into the nearly invisible pressure at the back of his skull, an image will flash in his mind’s eye (brief but so tangible it is as if he is actually living it). The metallic taste of blood is in his mouth, but it tastes nearly as good as the freshest grass. His hooves and chest too, are slathered in the maroon of the liquid and a perfectly-dissected heart lies before him. It’s still beating, bright red in the emerald grass, although there is no other body to be found.
As the boy is re-oriented back into reality (assuming his tender, young mind slipped into the fantasy the trickster pushed upon him), the silvery trickster turns his chilly gaze back upon the clown-king. He’d offered him payment in return for the gifts, but his scarred, angular shoulders roll into a casual shrug. “You’re the king in these parts; you decide what to do with me.”
He’s been around the block enough times to know (with the war of dragons swarming the skies and lightning slicing limbs off and pink queens disappearing into the great wide nothingness) that when you deal with the craftsmen of the devil’s work, you should never rely on loyalty. It will always come back to kick you in the ass and anyone who believes such things (loyalty or trust or faith) will recognize their error in some fashion.
Regardless of loyalty or religion, his gifts (the two sister-hearts, sandy and free of blood and pulse) are well received. A smirk drips across the trickster’s mouth as easily as rain falling when the clouds are thick, twitching at the corners of his gray lips and darkening his bruised eyes. Despite his age, his angular face is still handsome beyond his years and the smirk only further enhances those features (he’d say he ages like wine, if he knew what wine was).
The clown-king says a name (“... Brennen… ” amid laughter just as humored as his own had been moments before) that pricks at the corners of the trickster’s memories. He chuckles along with the pony, but it is for his own reasons (how ironic that he would murder the children of a stallion who saw the days of the kingdoms of old, just as he had) and he is easily able to rein it in when a spotted boy slips away from the shadows.
His question causes a smile to fall across the trickster’s face (a smile dripping in mingled amusement and darkness). “Well, boy, it comes with decades of practice.” His bruised gaze looks over the colt again, this time slightly more critical. “I can teach you, if you want.” His own techniques were taught (partially by self-teaching and partially by Infection, a monster whose name has faded with the times) and then mastered over the years, perfected under the shade of the forests and in the darkness of the night.
His fingers (slippery and shadowy and slender) prod gently at the colt’s mind. If he gives into the nearly invisible pressure at the back of his skull, an image will flash in his mind’s eye (brief but so tangible it is as if he is actually living it). The metallic taste of blood is in his mouth, but it tastes nearly as good as the freshest grass. His hooves and chest too, are slathered in the maroon of the liquid and a perfectly-dissected heart lies before him. It’s still beating, bright red in the emerald grass, although there is no other body to be found.
As the boy is re-oriented back into reality (assuming his tender, young mind slipped into the fantasy the trickster pushed upon him), the silvery trickster turns his chilly gaze back upon the clown-king. He’d offered him payment in return for the gifts, but his scarred, angular shoulders roll into a casual shrug. “You’re the king in these parts; you decide what to do with me.”
Lokii
lover of chaos
@[Modicum Mortem] / @[Rajanish] / nilla, let me know if you need me to change anything. you can opt out of the illusion, if you want to, don't feel pressured to have him accept <33
