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)
He walks like a King. It does not matter that this land does not belong to him. It does not matter that this is a crown he has cast off, a responsibility he has waved away with the fluttering of lethargic fingers. It matters little that he has no home—let along a kingdom—to call his own. Despite the fact that he is a vagabond, a nomad, he walks with the dripping arrogance of royalty, what he considers his birth right draped across his sooty gold shoulders as he moves through the forest with ease.
His current predicament aside, royalty ran in Bruise’s blood.
From the Krampus King of his father, the sickly call of Pangea ringing faintly in his ears, to Yael and Vanquish, the kingdoms of old dripping through him, he was born of royalty. It doesn’t matter to him that he has done little to earn it in his own lifetime. He is acutely aware of the strength of his grip and the sharp edges of his mind. Were he to apply himself—were he to reach out and grab it—there is nothing that could not be his own. There is nothing that he could not claim and simply take.
So the formalities matters little.
In the end, it is simply paperwork.
Thus, Bruise does not attempt to hide his arrogance, for now. Instead, he slips through the trees, cloven hooves silent as they hit the underbrush. His regally horned head dips and sways, his nostrils flaring pink as he drinks in the scent that permeates the air—the promise of the coming season, the faint cool breeze of autumn beginning to whistle. Here, the King slips away to reveal the hound beneath. Here, the arrogance gives way to fatal focus, his eyes narrowing, his ashy nose skimming the earth as he catches onto a scent.
It’s only when he realizes the source of it, the winged mare, that he pauses, mouth rising into a cold smirk before washing away to be replaced by a faux pleasant smile. Shaking himself, he picks up the mantle of gentle stranger, his face deceivingly handsome and kind. Walking toward her, he presses his lips together, hesitant and shy. “H-H-Hello?” his voice lifts just a little at the end, the stumbled greeting turned questioning. “I’m afraid I’ve g-g-gotten lost.” A frown furrows his brow as he pauses a respectful distance away, dipping his chin in an awkward greeting. “D-D-Do you know where I—I-I-I mean w-w-we—are?”
@[Lucrezia]