"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
There are children scampering about and bleating desperately for their mothers to feed them. They're so innocent and so ignorant of what this world has to offer them. In silence Estela regards them with piqued curiosity while trying to remember if she was like that. As far as she can remember her demeanor has been more placid, unusual for most foals. She remembers the stare of her parents as they tried hard to mask their disapproval and disgust. Their beloved children were tainted by a dark history, bathed in the sins of their ancestor. Jinn and Estela didn't know it then. They didn't realize why they made father cringe, but at least she knows it now even if her sweet brother does not.
A love child is to be perfect in every way. They aren't supposed to be monsters.
Jinn looks as though his tomb spat him out decades after his life had slipped between his fingers.
Estela, although physically whole, lacks the tenderness of her family. She is more predatorial, more egotistical as she takes into regard the curved talons on her feet.
Unlike her brethren, these horses scattered in the meadow's waning light, Estela moves with uncharacteristic silence. She doesn't have dense hooves to crack every twig and leaf; her paws meticulously plant themselves as she scrutinizes her own stealth. With her family away, the girl is alone, The world unravels in front of her and invites her into its midst, but she pauses. Where to begin, she doesn't know.
Nightfall descends on her and cradles her in its arms. She would be nearly concealed by its curtain if it wasn't for her porcelain points gleaming like the moon's smile. Frozen, the archangel lies in wait and listens to the chirping of the crickets.
He supposes, once upon a time, he was a relatively normalized version of a child (in the days between birth and his mother’s first blow, in the hours that he craved the milk his dam provided, in the weeks between lingering near her side and adventuring into the forest nearby). His mind shudders upon thinking he might have once cried for his mother during his immature life. Such dependence is a weak, pitiful thing. The trickster is thankful none of the sluts he filled ever brought back the result of their standings (he doesn’t know what he would do even if they did).
Children are life-sucking, frightening creatures and that’s supposed to be his job.
The darkness soothes him. He’s been missing (yes, missing; as surprising and weak as that sounds) the constant shadow and devilish silence of the Valley. Despite lying in constant slumber for the past nine years (cocooned against the security of a bundle of tree trunks, shrouded in the protection of decaying leaf matter and tangled brush, hidden by preprogrammed tricks to make passing travelers unaware), the trickster much prefers the cool and quiet of the nighttime to the warm hustle-bustle of the sun’s life.
He doesn’t appear to be the only one with the same thoughts. The sun has well since succumbed to the temporary death of the hills when he spots her. She stands alone, nestling against the chilly arms of the darkness. The trickster wouldn’t have noticed her in her silence if it hadn’t been for the light of her markings. He considers pulling a trick on her (he considers shrouding her eyes in darkness and killing the light from the moon and stars) but decides against it.
Instead, he slides up beside her. Skinny legs (legs not yet recovered from starvation for nine years) come to a shaky halt. His long side brushes against hers and he grins at her out of the corner of his eye. “You look too pretty to be out here at night.” He’s ever the original one, we all know.
Estela knows she isn’t alone. The meadow is too full, too alive, to ever grant her solitude. There are many that stay awake beyond the setting sun. An entirely different world reigns when the moon ascends its nightly throne. It’s exhilarating and hypnotic, eerie and alluring all at once. Like many others Estela thrives in the cool temperatures that the nightfall brings, but it also cloaks her and makes her less of a spectacle. It’s funny how she loves the darkness but controls the light.
The faint crack of a twig draws her from her thoughts.
She was watching those in front of her, but nothing behind or next to her. With mild amusement Estela allows the stranger to edge closer and to remove the distance separating them. There is no reason to fear or to shy from any conversation; of them Estela is the more fearsome, the deadlier (but she doesn’t say this aloud). A long, drawn out breath expels into the cool night before she finally turns her head to look at him. The way his voice caresses her ears ignites a deep curiosity in her, but then she laughs it away. ”That’s a first,” never has she been regarded as pretty; she’s a monster much like her siblings. They are all cursed in some way. It’s the touch of their grandfather. The strength of his genetics has bled into them to create a lasting legacy.
”You’re bold to make an entrance like that,” her porcelain tail sweeps across her sides although there are no bugs pestering her. There are only the lightning bugs hovering above and the crickets chirping below, but she doesn’t acknowledge them anymore. Her attention has funneled onto the stallion. ”With how scrawny you are I feel like I could eat you,” he would be a bony meal, but considering she isn’t carnivorous it doesn’t exactly matter. Having blunt, normal teeth inhibits her; her weaponry is for ripping in other ways. In that moment she glances down to where hooves should be and quietly admires her claws before looking up at him again. ”Is that how you always announce your arrival?” There is a sharpness in her tone meddled with an ounce of humor.
The nighttime is indeed a cloak he wraps around himself (he is like many others in that sense). There is a sense of familiarity surrounding the hours after sunset (a sort of home-like feeling, a foolish aura of security, a gentle warmth like a mother’s bosom to her child) that he does not feel when the sun kisses this side of the earth. He is not the only one to wear the darkness of night like a daily outfit. There are several others out and about, but he steers clear of them normally (he has sated his intentions in chaos, at least until he sees her).
She laughs and he darkly wants to place his teeth delicately close to her throat (just enough to feel the vibrations of her amusement tickle the bones of his jaw, just enough to enjoy the potential of ripping her skin open, just enough to tempt his mouth to close and her vocals to shred). The trickster blinks and the thought vanishes, good right ear twisting to catch her words. He wonders what sort of family she belongs to (certainly not one that admires the chaotic beauty from a monster, such as her).
She admires his boldness and now it is his turn to laugh (it is high and slinking, like a strange mixture between a tiger’s growl and a cat’s meow). “Oh babe, that’s a bit of an understatement,” he purrs out. He is bold in everything he does (the tricks up his sleeves, the words that he says, the actions that he takes, the plots that he’s involved with) and it’s no new thing for him to slide up to a random mare in the meadow and interest her with his unique ways.
He laughs again at the comment about his scrawniness and her eating him up. Nine years of sleep (nestled between aging tree trunks, slumbering beneath a thick blanket of decaying leaves, shrouded in the warmth of a trick to hide him) had eroded at his body, but he knew it would soon bounce back. Killing an immortal mare and gaining her longevity did that to him. Her glance down draws his attention to her talons. “Wholly shit,” he crows, angular head dipping down carelessly to inspect them closer.
They are replicas of his teacher’s (of the trainer to his murderous ways, of the heart-eating monster, of the one who taught him in the darkness to gnaw at skin with dulled teeth) and bruised eyes move to stare directly into her eyes. He shifts her vision slightly, forcing his body into the shape of her grandfather for a millisecond. “Well you just got a bit more interesting, sugar babe.” He completely ignores her other comments; he already knows he’s badass and doesn’t give a flying shit about anything and she doesn’t need to remind him.
He wants to touch her, to feel her dismissive laughter, and she can see it in his starving eyes. There is an empty desire in him, a means of satisfying himself and leaving the girl needing (ever needing) more. The idea of succumbing to him flickers but it’s immediately turned away and dismantled. Unlike most, Estela has no lust for the touch of a man. All she wants is the company of her sibling (a fellow monster spat into this cruel world), but he is not here and Lokii is. Her jaws clench together, frustrated, and she diverts her steely gaze while he croons to her. His voice, trailing like a ribbon of satin, hangs between them and she, for some reason, cannot entirely ignore it. Their eyes meet. There is angst and frustration, but he has humor as well as though this is all a part of his game. ”I’m not your babe, idiot,” the attention is choking her, but she isn’t one to run.
They should run from her, no?
The soil is delicate beneath her, shredding underneath her claws as easily as skin. It peels away to expose further layers of dirt and debris. He notices them then and his eyes widen is surprise and awe. While he inspects Estela cannot help but smile. Her weapons, her beauty, all stems from her danger. The grin does not diminish, however, when he raises his head once more to look at her. ”Why, yes, I am.” There is nothing boring about her, or so she takes to be a personal truth, but no one knows her. They don’t know her capabilities, her ambitions, her own wants. She looks on in curiosity and inclines her head. ”What is your name?” A paw lifts and she moves each of the toes, admiring her talons individually, threateningly.
But in the back of her mind, she assumes he wouldn’t tell her quite so easily.
He loves to unnerve them. He finds deep satisfaction (almost instinctual, almost guttural, almost animalistic) in watching them squirm under his eyes. He likes to pick apart the insides of their minds (the wormy, rotting, soft, delicate insides where their deepest joys, largest hopes, and darkest wishes are bred and raised) and chew on the tendrils, watching as they roll and hide and cry in pain. He is not only a trickster of tricks, but a trickster of the mind. He feels as though he could do just as well torturing their brains as he is with their bodies.
She hisses out a retort against his nicknames and his bruised eyes dance with suffocating amusement. He uses the word (“babe,” a name he once used to conserve primarily for that golden-eyed warrior) among a wide variety of woman, even those who might not deserve such a title. Yet no one had called him out on it; this talon-footed girl is the first. The trickster’s angular head tips to the side, multicolored eyes dancing with mockery. “Then what are you?” he nearly purrs. His voice drips in honeyed lime and slurps into her ears like a song about firecrackers.
She admires her weapons with a bitter sort of joy. It sends a tendril of interest in his mind. She would be a wild one to spend a night with (talon claws and sharp laughter and terrible banter and perhaps a bit of blood to soak into the sweat) and the trickster’s mind transports itself elsewhere. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten worked up over a woman, but he is back into the swing of things within hours of his revival.
Her voice asks for his name. He once cared about giving out his name (he once used to turn it into a game, to see how far they were willing to stretch for such a simple thing), but as years roll past the meaning of a name becomes less important. So he shrugs his sharp shoulders and it rolls off his tongue like an ancient curse. “Lokii.” His fingers twine into the soft mush of her brain and he resists the urge to toy with her.
Oh, how he would love to toy with her.
But he doesn’t. Not yet. First he needs to know her name. “And who exactly are you?”
