this isn't mischief
He hasn’t ever truly had a home. Perhaps the only thing close would be the Valley (with its sloping hills and comforting shadows and tall, reaching trees); after all, it’s the place he lived the longest. He’s never run away, either. He’s chased those who’ve run away, plenty of times (tricks brimming, sandstorms swirling, lips laughing). But he’s never run away from someplace because they didn’t accept him. Quite frankly, he’s never given a thought whether someone accepted him or didn’t; he simply was who he was.
Although, when he spots the mare grazing peacefully among the tall grass of summer, his tricks itch to explore her eyes. They start slowly, before she can see (creeping along within her nerves, tangling against the lines of her nerves, settling in the recesses of her brain and taking up residence), like an unknown parasite to her mind. His dark little fingers of trickery morph his image (adding bulk and perfect muscles to his otherwise sinewy build, hiding the sharpness of his cheekbones behind a smooth and handsome plane, coloring his bruised eyes a dark and warm coffee shade, giving his overall look something desired by mares and pleasing to the eye) in her eyes, hiding away the true look of trickery that accents his normal features.
When the infestation is complete, he steps within hearing distance. Her head raises and he takes note of her features, placing them next to his true image (already comparing the compatibility of their genes and what sort of offspring they might produce). When he speaks, his voice is a deep rumble of reassurance, tinged with the sound of far-away waterfalls (a faux voice, but she wouldn’t know the difference, considering most everything about him at this point is fake, fake, fake). “Greetings, miss. I’m Kii. It’s a fine summer day, isn’t it?”
lokii
this is mayhem
