09-22-2015, 09:24 PM
He hasn’t forgotten her. They are too much alike for him to forget about her (their eyes sparkle with mischief, their hearts are like siblings – both craving the thrill of chaos, their worries are limited because, really, what harm can be done to them). She could travel through time and place and yet remain the same; he could travel through time and place and yet remain mentally the same. Perhaps their only, true difference is the fact that she is a pretender and, well, he is not.
Nonetheless, he cannot forget her. He cannot erase the image of the world stopping around them (of time and movement and space bowing to her knees), or the way her voice lulled him toward a different, better path of chaos, or the prospect of something exciting tingling at the edge of his tricky mind. Despite his best efforts to blur the memory, the flaming burn of an interaction with a magician cannot be so easily covered.
So, with that in mind, it is no surprise he finds his gangly legs leading him toward the Desert. He knows where she is – he knows who she is – and he is not afraid to seek her out. Perhaps she might still have an offer available; he certainly screwed away the last one. The worst thing she could do, however, was kill him – and he would have plenty of fun continuing to wreak havoc in the afterlife.
The heat of the Desert warms his skin after being stuck in the nippy weather of autumn. The trickster can feel the sand thrumming under his hooves (he isn’t a stranger to magic, nor is he a novice at wielding sand) and it thrills him. It prickles at his mind and causes his heart to beat faster and sends a tangling cord of electricity to dance through his veins. Oh, how much he missed the aliveness of magic.
He doesn’t call for her. He doesn’t search for her. He knows she can most likely already feel his presence; she’s gotten inside his mind before. Instead, he waits just inside the border (trespassing in a casual way, yet clearly showing he is rebelling – or, in the mischief-maker’s case, simply ignoring rules because he doesn’t care) for the magician queen to show up.
Nonetheless, he cannot forget her. He cannot erase the image of the world stopping around them (of time and movement and space bowing to her knees), or the way her voice lulled him toward a different, better path of chaos, or the prospect of something exciting tingling at the edge of his tricky mind. Despite his best efforts to blur the memory, the flaming burn of an interaction with a magician cannot be so easily covered.
So, with that in mind, it is no surprise he finds his gangly legs leading him toward the Desert. He knows where she is – he knows who she is – and he is not afraid to seek her out. Perhaps she might still have an offer available; he certainly screwed away the last one. The worst thing she could do, however, was kill him – and he would have plenty of fun continuing to wreak havoc in the afterlife.
The heat of the Desert warms his skin after being stuck in the nippy weather of autumn. The trickster can feel the sand thrumming under his hooves (he isn’t a stranger to magic, nor is he a novice at wielding sand) and it thrills him. It prickles at his mind and causes his heart to beat faster and sends a tangling cord of electricity to dance through his veins. Oh, how much he missed the aliveness of magic.
He doesn’t call for her. He doesn’t search for her. He knows she can most likely already feel his presence; she’s gotten inside his mind before. Instead, he waits just inside the border (trespassing in a casual way, yet clearly showing he is rebelling – or, in the mischief-maker’s case, simply ignoring rules because he doesn’t care) for the magician queen to show up.