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12-23-2012, 10:21 PM
"What are you doing trespassing on Foothills' territory?" I say, appearing out of the shadows like a wraith. My eyes settle, my stone eyes, on the horse bearing the colors of the sweet green land and earth; on the unicorn with the glittering horn. My coat ripples for a moment before I effectively shut off the magic given to me when I acquired this rank as shadow. Whether or not I keep it, or decide to advance, depends on later.
What does this unicorn think, exactly, he is doing, moving onto my land? Mine, which is what it is, even if technically it is under the rule of "Jackal" and my sons. My sons will obey me; my sons will not question my twisted motives and dark moves. I work in the shadows, and I also enjoy the darkness, embrace it; I know I am not a benign lover ready to play in the daisies and laugh out loud for pure joy. No, I am Mandrake, no fool to be toyed with. A mastermind, a leader, a conniving bitch.
I let my eyes toy over his body- his long, dagger horn, sharp and glistening leaf-green; his luxurious, long mane and tail, of warm umber and gold and emerald; his well-formed shape and form, his eyes he likely thinks all-seeing. My judgement, I decide, is reserved- I do not take to any horse, not really, except, of course, the stallions I have birthed. Whether or not he is worthy of my presence will be determined.
"Speak, horse!" I growl, softly, in the sort of catty voice I enjoy using- more of a purr with the edge of a snap.
What does this unicorn think, exactly, he is doing, moving onto my land? Mine, which is what it is, even if technically it is under the rule of "Jackal" and my sons. My sons will obey me; my sons will not question my twisted motives and dark moves. I work in the shadows, and I also enjoy the darkness, embrace it; I know I am not a benign lover ready to play in the daisies and laugh out loud for pure joy. No, I am Mandrake, no fool to be toyed with. A mastermind, a leader, a conniving bitch.
I let my eyes toy over his body- his long, dagger horn, sharp and glistening leaf-green; his luxurious, long mane and tail, of warm umber and gold and emerald; his well-formed shape and form, his eyes he likely thinks all-seeing. My judgement, I decide, is reserved- I do not take to any horse, not really, except, of course, the stallions I have birthed. Whether or not he is worthy of my presence will be determined.
"Speak, horse!" I growl, softly, in the sort of catty voice I enjoy using- more of a purr with the edge of a snap.
