Anarchy drips from his lips, cunning bleeds from his eyes. He hunts with irises of melted gold, he draws you close and takes a bite...metaphorically, most of the time. His muscles surge as he gallops through the forest, weaving through trees, leaping over a fallen log. The usual demon has control of his mind, and he's trying to outrun it.
He stops only when his nostrils flare red, and sweat glistens his bright chestnut coat. His nose dips towards the ground, chest heaving. He finds himself in a fully secluded, dark part of the forest. But his tormented thoughts remain. What does he want? In his experience, all he needed was to answer that question, and he would obtain his desire by any means necessary. He knew he'd been alone with his thoughts far too long, and on the brink of mental collapse. He knew he wanted to forget his past. That's why he was here in the land called Beqanna. He wanted something new.
He straightens, head held high. He takes a deep breath, and his nerves are steeled; he's good at faking.
What he wants is to spread chaos like confetti.
Azmere
you've got your demons, and darling they all look like me