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No one rejects, dislikes, or avoids pleasure itself, because it is pleasure.

If she was still dreaming, then he had been awake for far too long.

He stood there when she opened her eyes, almost but not entirely hidden by a large flowering shrub. The petals of the soft cream colored blossoms were coming loose now that their prime had long since passed, one by one and by the handful every time he breathed, every time the wind decided to steal past and shake the branches on which they perched. It was a time of spring, but going towards summer. They days grew longer, the sun glowed warmer, and in the crook of the trees most eggs had hatched. It wasn't the same kind of choir as during spring; by now it was one more frenzied, greedier and decidedly more hurried, as yellow beaks opened wide and craved more, more, constantly more. Anxious parents responded with their own voices, flitting back and forth between nest and hunting grounds, fighting a constant battle against the stomachs of their offspring.

The cacophony was immense, his headache magnificent.

Gray ears lay back in a cranky way over the cascade of black silk that flowed from a noble crest, an arc drawn from living marble - seemingly perfect, cold, petrified, but capable of spilling crimson wine on the ground should the perfect surface be broken. He stood there, still and quiet like a statue, a carving made to highlight all things harsh and brutal. Like the beauty of a well wrought knife, or mercury glittering in the sun before vaporizing; a work of art made fore the sole purpose of causing harm. There were tired wrinkles around the eyes - large, deep eyes blacker than the gravest sin, lit only by the eerie blue glow of the iris. Not unlike hers, actually. Electrical, enticing... Unpleasant.

The jinn wasn't laughing today.

Unblinking orbs watched the winged girl where she lay, without purpose or intent other than to simply behold. It was an empty stare void of emotion, as if the mind behind that broad, strong forehead had long since ran out of metaphor's to liken the filly, the day, the whole situation to. Did he care about who she was, where she'd come from, or why she lay there in the forest; a sleeping beauty ripped from the pages of a story book, tossed into the brutal reality of existence?

No. Not really.

It was more interesting to ponder why he was there, watching over this stranger as she slept, as if he were a chamberlain tasked with safe-guarding her. Ha, what a thought. He who wouldn't hesitate to slit her throat with the blunt blade that protruded from the brow, the pale crystal sword that had taken so many lives before. If only he had something to gain from it. Power, food, delicious drink and delightful company, interesting conversation or answers to some riddle. The treasure at the end of the rainbow perhaps. Whatever he desired, there would always be someone willing to part from it, there would always be a price to pay.

Always.

Perhaps he was more like a guard. Tall, strong, capable of great harm if he so wished, the unicorn stallion stood within the Threshold like a doorman ready to question weary travelers for their business in these strange lands. A normal guard of the gate would actually be interested to hear the answers though, and would try to stop those without purpose or good intent. Djinn couldn't care less. In fact, he would be as quick to invite the trouble makers and the warm mongers, just to lean back and watch as chaos broke out. Maybe then, he'd find someone in need of his sword, someone capable of entertaining him at least for a while.

The sudden sting of a fly biting at his flank broke the stillness of the statue that was Djinn. A big rear hoof lifted and stomped into the ground, thick ebony tail swished and unleashed a shower of sweet smelling flowers as it got caught in the tangle of twigs surrounding him. Some caress the pale back and withers on the way to the ground, others came to rest in the black tangles of mane that hung over broad shoulders. Like the noble prince from the story conjured forth to rescue the distressed damsel, dressed in finest garb and adorned with gilded flowers...

Ridiculous. Enough of this.

With a snort he pressed forward, sturdy legs carrying the bulky body forward and out from the thicket. But instead of being accompanied by the rattle and snap of green twigs, showered by even more flowers, there was naught but silence; a silence during which the big stallion passed through the bush without disturbing it further, step by step moving towards the now awoken, risen and peacefully grazing midnight maiden.

He didn't say anything. He just watched.

Nor is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain.

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No one rejects, dislikes, or avoids pleasure itself, because it is pleasure.

Maybe dreaming was altogether a better thing than to awake to this kind of reality.

The cover was blown, presence detected. It pleased the pallid ghost somewhat though that it was himself that caused it and not some detective skill on the part of the girl.

If only she had been quiet too, and not just oblivious.

Her voice, as she shouted words that could be names or nonsense spoken in a strange tongue, along with her small stature and many feathers reminded the unicorn of a squawking bird. A fledgling just fallen from its tree in the midst of branching, turned into a horse without also being given a horse's voice. The ears flattened tighter against the poll to try and block out the loud noise, and as he slipped out from the foliage the filly was given a grumpy look.

"Your taste in art must be awkward then" he grumbled from the very bass tones of the voice's register. He then shook the head vigorously, sending the long black mane flying in a cloud if spider silk and gilded flowers - not stopping until all the petals were gone from his body. Any other day, the big bad stallion might have been jumping in delight over finally finding someone to exchange jokes and distasteful banter with, but alas. Today was not a good day for the Demon-eye, and her poke at his appearance pricked a nerve. Not that he was vain or anything, it was just... just.. okay, so he was vain. Anything wrong with that?

"You better watch your tongue if you're gonna continue south" he continued, thoroughly unimpressed with her 'threatening' display. "The horses - and everything else - in the place is notoriously lacking a sense of humor. They're all so uptight and serious that it's almost comical in and of itself."

There, now wasn't that better? It was almost a joke, albeit a gruff and halfway unintentional one. Keep it up, Djinn, keep it coming. Perhaps you'll be able to forget about the throbbing of the skull, the brightness of the sun and even the midget that glared up at him as if he'd disturbed her in some awfully important reverie.

May all story book princesses go to hell. And take the princes with them.

What was he even doing, talking to this birdkin when all he wanted to do was sleep? Maybe they could trade places. A dream for a horribly boring reality.


Nor is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain.

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