"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
He watches her from a distance. The trickster can see her mother in her (in the way she walks, in the womanly curves of her body, in the splashed coloring of her frame, in the look of her eyes, in the Amazon tattoos that slither along her) and he knows. He always knew the golden-eyed warrior had tried her hand at parenting aside from their failed daughter. He didn’t know whom the father was to this girl (although he might be able to guess with the orange color of her eyes), but he could guess easily who her mother was.
The golden Jungle princess left a trail for the trickster to follow, despite her attempts to hide it.
She grazes relatively peacefully (at least as peacefully as one can when in the meadow) and a smirk rises to his sneaky lips. When he walks toward her, he doesn’t hide his gangly frame behind a more muscular one. He doesn’t reach his tricky fingers into the nerves of her eyes to transform his image (to add heavy muscle to sinewy muscle, to change his eyes from bruised to coffee, to paint over the lightning markings, to blur the angularity of his cheekbones into smoother ones). His tricks are tired of playing that game, for now, and he aches to reveal to the girl who he truly is.
He wonders, as he steps closer, whether her mother told stories about him.
He pauses a respectable (for now, at least) distance away from her. “You look so much like your mother,” he says, tenor tunes floating through the air toward her. His pets (those miniature sandstorms that curl against his ankles like comforting cats) circle around him in a mildly threatening yet entirely casual manner. “What did she name you?” He doesn’t give his name, nor how he knows her mother. She will ask those questions, he’s sure.
Lokii. His name slipped past mother's lips a time or two but it was taken back and muddled with other memories in desperate attempt to erase him. Nayl recalls those moments of staring at her mother wondering who this other man was; he certainly wasn't father. As much as she wanted to know - her curiosity nipped at her heels - Nayl never pressed into Myrina for answers. The child assumed his name would arise again and she could more easily pinpoint it and ask, but it hasn't since. Perhaps mother has nearly succeeded in dismissing that regretful (but such a playful) time of her life. Covet made her realize how much more to life there was. He gave her affection and three children that she still cherishes. Nayl wonders what Lokii might have ever given mother.
He doesn't cross her mind until the poisonous voice slithers into ears and lifts her attention from the grass. He knows of mother and mentions her. Nayl looks at him placidly without ever turning her body to face him. "Excuse me?" She asks with a dismissing scoff. Perhaps this is him, her mind wonders and laughs; maybe this is the man that mother has tried to forget. The idea of it clouds her mind and she finds herself drawn into this little game of Guess Who, but he has already an idea of who she is. Still without turning to face him, she answers dryly. "Except eternally young," a coy grin plays on her lips. If only mother had the ability to live forever, but alas, age has quickly crept along Myrina's body. "And beautiful," she adds as an arrogant second thought followed by a short chuckle. For years Nayl didn't know of her immortality. How could she? However, as she watched others mature she began to realize how slowly she crept along. Although five isn't anywhere considered aged she somehow holds the innocent face of a three year old. In an experiment she had scraped her shoulder against a thorn. It was enough to draw blood but by the morning it had faded with little to no remnant of the incident ever happening.
"You look about old enough to be a suitor for my mother," she remarks on his age with a lifted brow before addressing his question in a mildly cold tone. "And why would I give you the satisfaction of knowing my name so soon?" She blinks slowly and stares distantly toward the trees and open meadow.
Guess Who is, admittedly, one of his favorite games (he plays it often, especially with the girl’s golden-eyed mother). It took them several interactions (even past the one that resulted in their daughter) before he gave his name away. His name feels like a secret, something to be whispered with carefulness, rather than a simple word. A name holds identity and purpose and reputation, all of which the trickster has (at least he thinks so). To give it away so easily is to give away who you are.
The girl’s arrogance sends a generously chaotic smirk to dazzle his lips. She is exceptionally similar to his own personality (despite being the daughter of the warrior and some other stallion). Arrogance, ego, and an abundance of confidence. If only she had a dash of uncaring, she could almost be the feminine version of him. “You might be Myrina’s daughter, but you aren’t anything like her in personality,” he admits, bruised eyes scanning over her face with carefulness.
She points out his age and his lip curls in a snarl. She is brutal, as well. Although he personally thinks he looks incredibly well for a stud of his age, the girl seems to think otherwise. Although, what does she truly know of the world? She is practically a newborn to the world compared to his knowledge. He forces his anger away (no need to get irrationally pissed about the fact that time has moved and swept him with it).
“Well, I’m certain I’ve experienced far more than you, so I wouldn’t be so quick to judge,” he says smoothly, bruised eyes resuming the look of carelessness. Then his lips quirk into a smirk again. “Why wouldn’t you?” he asks. However, this girl might as well know his name (perhaps it will instill some sort of respect in her bones for him, after that last retort). “I’m Lokii.”
He is the one that mother warned against. He is the one that fathered Nayl's sister, the one whom she has never met. Mother has tales of Lokii tucked away in her memory with only some being relevant enough to share. Like an obedient child Nayl had listened but still yearned to rest her eyes on this tricky illusionist. Now that he is standing in front of her the cloak of the Boogeyman has been pulled away. He isn't as frightening as she had anticipated. Age is peppering his eyebrows and cheeks and slightly dulling his bruised eyes. With close precision she drinks in the sight of him and memorizes every curve and edge of his face. A coy grin stays visible on her velvet lips while her hip tilts casually. "Complimenting me already, sir?" Her head shakes slowly, enough to lift her forelock from her autumn eyes. "Slow down there, tiger." Nayl has never wanted to be like her mother; she wants to be better. Myrina was - is - weak. It has led to her turmoil and distress which Nayl has witnessed firsthand. Her heart ached for mother but she quickly realized it was because of how desperate Myrina was to be loved.
Love is such a folly thing.
There is love for family such as she has for her father, but not for a complete stranger that can leave in the blink of an eye. There's a reason for opposite sexes - procreation. When she mentioned that to mother she was told that was Echion's frame of mind; the girl laughed, comfortable with being similar to her fierce grandmother.
She blinks slowly and her brow lifts when their eyes meet. "Experience," she repeats thoughtfully, "is that what you tell yourself when your bones creak when you try to sleep? Not old, just experienced." There is venom in her voice but even then, that smug grin doesn't fade. She has prepared herself for this moment. She knew it was only a matter of time until they crossed paths or until he grew bored of mother and sought her mirror image.
"The tricky Lokii. Such a pleasure to finally meet you." The comment is spoken dryly. Her attention flickers away briefly but she feels his eyes burn into her, waiting for the gesture to be reciprocated. "I'm just a game to you so there's no need for names." She makes this grand assumption but holds steadily to it as though hoping that she's right.
