01-05-2016, 06:03 PM
His mother didn’t think him capable of living on his own, so she carelessly forced her memories inside his head; it made him cold—but it made him strong and though he grew up far quicker than he should have, he has managed to outlive them all. Even her. Rather than grow old, or sick, immortality has been kind enough to keep him relatively young and fit. Tall with dense bones and thick with muscle, Tarnished is permanently frozen in his prime—as he should be; the would-be soldier, the almost-King, the cult member, the murderer, the rapist.
“You.”
The girl should be afraid, but she isn’t.
Tarnished lowers his golden eyes to the little chestnut-and-white creature, pausing mid-step; she’s brave, he supposes, for one so small. He was brave once, too. It had gotten him into a lot of trouble. Smiling, rather than bend down, the shapeshifter stretches his neck; it twists like a vine and his head slowly spins like a large, eager bud down to her level until they are eye to eye. Black creeps across the gold of his eyes like tiny eclipses, eats up the pupil until it’s no longer distinguishable from the rest; she should be afraid, but she isn’t.
He can gobble her up, make her disappear and her parents would never know.
Doesn’t she understand that?
Probably not.
There’s another breath of smoke and then, with that same smile and that same mouth full of sharp teeth and a forked tongue, he echoes back: “You.” His neck winds back up, then; up and up until his eyes are all clear and he’s back to normal—well, as normal as he can be, at least. He hopes he’s frightened her, chased her back off to her mother where she belongs (he can smell the milk on her breath, look at her and know she’s well cared for), but all too often such isn’t the case. Children are often too brave for their own good.
It makes him worry about his own.
“You.”
The girl should be afraid, but she isn’t.
Tarnished lowers his golden eyes to the little chestnut-and-white creature, pausing mid-step; she’s brave, he supposes, for one so small. He was brave once, too. It had gotten him into a lot of trouble. Smiling, rather than bend down, the shapeshifter stretches his neck; it twists like a vine and his head slowly spins like a large, eager bud down to her level until they are eye to eye. Black creeps across the gold of his eyes like tiny eclipses, eats up the pupil until it’s no longer distinguishable from the rest; she should be afraid, but she isn’t.
He can gobble her up, make her disappear and her parents would never know.
Doesn’t she understand that?
Probably not.
There’s another breath of smoke and then, with that same smile and that same mouth full of sharp teeth and a forked tongue, he echoes back: “You.” His neck winds back up, then; up and up until his eyes are all clear and he’s back to normal—well, as normal as he can be, at least. He hopes he’s frightened her, chased her back off to her mother where she belongs (he can smell the milk on her breath, look at her and know she’s well cared for), but all too often such isn’t the case. Children are often too brave for their own good.
It makes him worry about his own.
equus mutatio, immortality, disease manipulation, trait immunity