06-18-2018, 07:31 PM
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror
He’s bored in Sylva.
While it’s amusing to watch their frantic attempts at wrongdoing (their hyena-cackles into the shadows, the regality of their eyes, the blood-splatter across their chests) he has lived among the best of their chaotic community and their attempts at fear do not impress him. Perhaps if his pink queen (rosy in color, bitter in heart, murdering dozens in order to speak with her god-like sire) had been their ringleader, he wouldn’t linger between the autumnal forest and Taiga as he does now.
His thoughts spin with dazzling thickness like hers. The trickster had been immediately promoted to the council-position among the devils and hounds (not only a councilmember but also the ringleader of their circus when the master is away) upon his arrival to Sylva’s borders. It had proven his reputation precedes him, his name holding power among those who know of its history, and it had brought a twisted smile to his mouth.
The trickster might love chaos, but he also fucks narcissism when the opportunity presents itself.
The sweet smell of a female mingles with the bitterness of decomposition. It draws him away from his swirling thoughts, pulling his mind into the present with a slow, gentle tug. He’s never been one to turn away from that tell-tale feminine aroma and he won’t be stopping that tradition (or hobby or obsession or religion) anytime soon. The trickster waits until she is near before stepping purposefully on a stick, snapping it under his weight.
Just as he had predicted (women have such reliable, scripted minds), she stops and peers into the darkness of his shadow. His fingers (slippery and sinewy, laced with magic and entirely hypothetical) slide into the comforting crevices of her mind and he nearly laughs amid the echo of her voice. There is strength behind her womanness, one that he’s only felt a handful of times.
Yet still the shadow begins to bleed (inky darkness falling from the face of its caster to drip in rivulets along the forest floor toward her feet). There’s a sound that greets her ears with this movement and it’s a messy, suctioning one as if the shadow were trying to suck the ground into an unforeseen mouth. Just when the tendrils of darkness might kiss her hooves, it rapidly drags itself back into its original place.
He walks out of the very same shadow now, scarred and marked body moving agily (he hopes she is startled, if not confused, but none of that shows in his bruised gaze). “I do, babe.” His voice is suave and tenor, but he doesn’t censor the lust for mischief that shimmers in its depths. His eyes slide along her leopard-spotted body (a memory of a jungle-warrior walks hazily through his mind, but it vanishes before he has the chance to catch it) for a moment before they return to her face. “And what might you be doing here?”
While it’s amusing to watch their frantic attempts at wrongdoing (their hyena-cackles into the shadows, the regality of their eyes, the blood-splatter across their chests) he has lived among the best of their chaotic community and their attempts at fear do not impress him. Perhaps if his pink queen (rosy in color, bitter in heart, murdering dozens in order to speak with her god-like sire) had been their ringleader, he wouldn’t linger between the autumnal forest and Taiga as he does now.
His thoughts spin with dazzling thickness like hers. The trickster had been immediately promoted to the council-position among the devils and hounds (not only a councilmember but also the ringleader of their circus when the master is away) upon his arrival to Sylva’s borders. It had proven his reputation precedes him, his name holding power among those who know of its history, and it had brought a twisted smile to his mouth.
The trickster might love chaos, but he also fucks narcissism when the opportunity presents itself.
The sweet smell of a female mingles with the bitterness of decomposition. It draws him away from his swirling thoughts, pulling his mind into the present with a slow, gentle tug. He’s never been one to turn away from that tell-tale feminine aroma and he won’t be stopping that tradition (or hobby or obsession or religion) anytime soon. The trickster waits until she is near before stepping purposefully on a stick, snapping it under his weight.
Just as he had predicted (women have such reliable, scripted minds), she stops and peers into the darkness of his shadow. His fingers (slippery and sinewy, laced with magic and entirely hypothetical) slide into the comforting crevices of her mind and he nearly laughs amid the echo of her voice. There is strength behind her womanness, one that he’s only felt a handful of times.
Yet still the shadow begins to bleed (inky darkness falling from the face of its caster to drip in rivulets along the forest floor toward her feet). There’s a sound that greets her ears with this movement and it’s a messy, suctioning one as if the shadow were trying to suck the ground into an unforeseen mouth. Just when the tendrils of darkness might kiss her hooves, it rapidly drags itself back into its original place.
He walks out of the very same shadow now, scarred and marked body moving agily (he hopes she is startled, if not confused, but none of that shows in his bruised gaze). “I do, babe.” His voice is suave and tenor, but he doesn’t censor the lust for mischief that shimmers in its depths. His eyes slide along her leopard-spotted body (a memory of a jungle-warrior walks hazily through his mind, but it vanishes before he has the chance to catch it) for a moment before they return to her face. “And what might you be doing here?”
Lokii
lover of chaos
@[Kagerus] / let me know if i need to change anything
