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Rock slide and scattered down the mountain as the cloven hooves danced down the summits. In leaps and bounds the sun chases after the wolf pup, but their moods could not be more different. While desperation, starvation, and exhaustion coat the poor wolf, the gold looks full of life, a charger of the line, bursting forth with some long kept spirit. For he had spent too many days in the prison bars wasting, too long moaning over aches, now he could run, now he could laugh, and no one on this earth could stop him. Of course, there was a price for this freedom. A little excuse for his absence, he tells himself. But it is clearly more than that. While his spirit may now be strong enough again to bar unkind thoughts from his head, they were there, locked away him his heart: the truths. That he would not have done this for any other. That this wasn’t just an excuse. This was something more. Something that woke a thousand more terrors than anything the pup was leading him too. The dog turns and they charge up the slopes. Only here does the gold finally feel the aches of his battle with the Haruspex. His wounds, and especially his chest aches at the exertion, but how on earth could he yield. Had he not just tossed aside all that cretin had meant? Had he not just remembered how foolish it was to dwell on such things? So the gold grinds his teeth, but moves on, for his light shone too bight today to be diminished by such petty things. The dog raced on like mad, but the gold slowed. He knew these lands, for often recently had he come here, loathing the trip up the mountain passes. What ever trouble lay ahead, there was short distance between he, it, and the cliff. It was because he slowed that his senses at last awoke through the blind brilliance of his mood, and noticed not all was right. About this place there hung some odd tension. None grazed about on this side of the fields, and the birds, usually quiet annoying was ill. Some dark shadow perhaps? Alice quickly disappeared on further, slipping out of view so that now the golden was quiet alone. Still nothing much really changed about him, until his path crossed that of a struggle through some undergrowth. The dirt was tossed and cut through. The Laurelin pauses, his earth eyes looking over this path with care. That is how he finds it. A small drop of crimson wiped in passing upon a leaf. Two unseen eyes watch the reunion in the clearing. Only the golden’s tail lashes at his sides as he takes in this sight. Of the unbreakable broken, of the strong brought low, and the ruin laid upon that lovely frame. He was later than he wolf. As soon as he had found the blood he pulled from one of the pockets of the blue cloak another black shapeless one, and as he threw it over he back his figure shimmered out of sight. From there he had paced around, if only for a moment, but though another clearly was about, they were not immediately by. So he had drawn in to the sound of the panting dog, and the sight had frozen him. She was just another mare. A pretty little thing, fun to spin around, to keep up with, but nothing more. Yet those lies, even in his new strength, were getting hard to tell as he saw the blood stained upon her coat, and her gait broken. No other pretty little thing in this place ever paced before the iron doors to his heart as much as she. Sure many invited him in, opening their doors wide, but rarely did they come to his. And for a moment he almost turns back. For it reminded him that he was angry with her. She didn’t have a right to so selfishly ask such things of him. To call forth things she did not understand, and bear it all upon him when he was already wrought low. The wounds upon her back she deserved. Everyone made to match those she had slashed upon his iron doors trying to get in. Yet for all the anger that rumbled in him, not all was directed at her. Though he felt no more ties to the mountain vale, and none of those of that place did he collect among the hoard of his treasures, there was still a rosen figure. The guarded treasure of the Basin herd was abandoned. Yet when he looked upon her wounds there rose a seething anger at their maker. Who had done this to her? Who had broken the war maiden of the north? The iron storm? Who had done this to his keep? Bring forth vile cretin who had dared take something of his and worse, dared destroy it. It wasn’t love, but a maddening possession. Yet, so close were the two that perhaps….That piece, and the wild lingering of before, pumping him with adrenalin and endorphins hold out, so the golden does not leave. Instead he lets his mind set to work, and in its creation reveals just how deep and dark a future trap he was setting for himself. Though the gold felt strong enough to take on a bear, the violent taming of the rosen storm before him warned him. Moreover, he could not risk her here. Whatever power held its sway, it kept her deep in its grip. Be it her foolishness, or the other’s power, to let her remain so close would do no good. Not to mention were he to keep with her, that would mean returning to the Basin (for her life depended desperately on a healer), and the gold would not go there. He would not even dare it, for the stubbornness of this mare he knew well. So she would have to go. And yet that decision more than any other drug him down. It threatened, if he lingered on it, to put weight upon his back once more. Like a fighting beast, the golden would not have his burdens return so quickly too him. He brushes the decision away as done and nothing. He lies rallying in his mind, for the rest of the plan was made, and as always in the tension, when he held the upper hand, his blood pounded quicker, and his lips gave way to a wicked grin. Good gods how he had missed this feeling. This utterly undeniable feeling of being a done right, no-good, terrible wonderful golden thief. The brush breaks through on one side of the clearing, but no sound is made, and no creature seen. The invisible golden slips forward, his mind set, and though barely contained, the twisting of his gut to see her spilt blood ignored. Closer the invisible creature steps, and though his body lay under tension, his lips held a grin as he steps up the side of the girl. His. “You look terrible.” Comes the sly, wicked voice as the gold let his breath brush against her neck and his tassled tail sweep over her lower legs, in the strangest gentleness. But he also inhales her sweet, blood stained scent as well, letting gears click within him. “That won’t do at all I’m afraid.” He says it with such tease, such a lightness, but it contains more darkness and clinching of his gut and chest than she could possibly guess. It was spoken for his love of the tension. Like his jolly good mood during the mystery of the murders. Yet unlike then not all was completely well, and it breaks only once. One crack, coming out in a quivered whisper, hesitating, “Hotaru…” But instantly it is corrected, his head shaking silently under his invisible cloak. And it comes soft and quick, a little too obvious (a rare mistake for him) that he was moving on. “-this should be fun.” And though her name had been spoken from a true feeling, so too was that next phrase. For he would give the world a fair warning here, that he was unbound and unchained, and nothing was beyond his reach. And gods he was going to enjoy every minute. "talk talk talk" Thranduil
His words are clever and bright
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@ Hotaru
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