|
Yes, the tundra is desolate, but must it always be so? Is self-pity really the best pastime to pursue while a herd awaits, in need of a leader?
The little stallion approaching may force Psyche to ask herself such questions. Then again, he may not. It is not his place to make such decisions. His role is simply to be, and perhaps impart knowledge or lead one on a philosophical journey. He is a whirling dervish of song and poetry, strawberry roan stripped with purple melding into a dizzying blur of bright colors, so out of place in this land of snow that he is almost surreal. Chester is well aware of this fact, and it amuses him as so many things do. Yellow eyes alight on the black mare, and this too amuses him. Curiosity brings him skipping over, absolutely brimming with suppressed mirth. He offers no greeting, simply stands and regards her with uncannily feline orbs that glint with hidden secrets.
Then, high-pitched shuddery laughter rings out over the icy landscape, laughter that taunts and threatens madness, declaring that he knows more than those who hear the sound, and that he revels in this fact. The eerie sound seems to drift in the air for longer than it should, though whether or not this is true or just an odd feeling cannot be determined. The candy colored beast is a riddle, one that none have yet managed to solve, and he has chosen today to grace(or curse, depending on how you look at it) Psyche with his presence. He could grant the mare a new perspective on her current situation, or leave her baffled. It will all be decided on how she treats the odd fellow, and whether or not she is clever enough to decipher his twisted way of speaking.
“You are lost, Wing-Hunter.” Lilting voice is smug, as if he is telling her something she could not possibly figure out on her own. Satisfied that his statement and strange behavior will lure the black lady into further conversation, he dances away a few steps, almost daring her to follow, to respond and question, to attempt to learn what she can of the lunatic. It is all a game, he has learned, a game of intrigue and half-truths, giving just enough to entice a new player into immersing themselves in the labyrinthine corridors of his mind. He plays well, and has yet to lose, though what is to be won or lost in such an endeavor is unclear. He pauses, a luridly painted statue, optics still locked on the figure of his newest interest.
This is what the other side of sanity looks like. Will she dare venture farther into his convoluted Wonderland?
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
a .f r o s t e d. heart is filled with cracks [open]
