I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
Once, his father has taken the Forest as his plaything.
He had asserted his dominance over it, warping it into a kingdom of his own (a kingdom that was later replaced with the desolate wasteland of Pangea—a shame) and twisting the trees into nightmares of his own making. His golden father has since disappeared, chasing the Fear to some end, so perhaps it is fitting that Bruise has taken up pseudo residence within these trees. Perhaps it is fitting that he has begun to haunt these foggy lands, winding his slender form around the massive trees, weaving the Fear.
He can still taste the dregs of his last playmate in the air, the terror sweet on his tongue, and he relishes it as he walks, stopping only at the loud crack (a deer, perhaps) and the whip-quick voice. There is enough of a edge to pique his interest. Enough of an arrogant swagger that the goat-horned does not immediately dismiss it and disappear into the shadows. For a moment he presses his lips together in thought, oil-dark eyes peering out to where she stands. He lifts his chin just slightly to sniff, thinking.
With a dismissive shrug, he makes the decision to approach—his motions too quick, too graceful to be anything natural. He emerges from the shadows on the side where she is not looking, his handsome face done up with amusement. “What does it matter to you?” He contorts his expression into something cavalier and casual—charming even—and shrugs elegantly. “This is my forest, after all.”
Like father, like son.
