03-06-2017, 05:13 PM
feast.
death inspires me,
like a dog inspires a rabbit.
He gives no thought to the fact that he heeded her summons, only that she looks innocent but isn’t. How he knows she is not is a mystery, but something in the too wide smile on her lips might have told him as much.
“Often enough,” he muses, because strangers like her do not scare him.
Little does, really. Sons of the Krampus-king are almost born lacking a sense of fear (though he’s tasted it, suckled painfully from fear’s terrible tit more than he has his own mother’s dried up teat since she cast him and his twin off of it).
“Yes, you know him?”
His black eyes turn up to meet her pale ghost-gaze; he is curious now, as to how she knows the Krampus-king and could so easily pick out his children from all the rest. Feast could have toyed with her and lied - lied that Pollock was not his sire but some other stallion that managed to throw cloven hooves and golden skin. Palominos are plentiful from what he’s seen. Not all of them are Pollock’s strain of gold and goat.
He laughs;
She is being coy and womanly and it has no effect on him. He is likely too much of a colt still to react to her natural feminine charms, so he ignores her look and her curious patience as he answers her. “No, nor do I think he’d care. He has other matters to address than the wanderings of a wayward son.” It occurs to him, that she might be a spy - a gatherer of intelligence and the more she gleans of him and Pollock, the more harm she can do to Pangea, that angry sore of a land that he and others like him, call home.
“What’s it to you if he does or doesn’t know?”
Princes are a hefty coin amongst the realm; this thought occurs to him, a little late, but she looks harmless enough (like he does, like they are not).