It is dark in the swamp tonight.

Of course, it is often dark in the swamp, massive trees rising up and obscuring the sky, casting a perpetual gloom over the murky waters and banks of mud. But tonight is darker than normal, for clouds fill the heavens, a thick blanket hiding the moon and stars. There is still light, enough to see by anyway, though it is not safe. Swamp gases ignite into will-o-the-wisps, dancing temptingly over hidden bogs, daring one to follow. Eyes gleam in the trees, their owners shrouded in shadow and curtains of moss. Somewhere, deep in the marsh, there is a patch of glowing lichen, poisonous but beautiful.

This is the light in the swamp.

And near a thick patch of corpse lights, stands the ghoul. He is not alone, not tonight, for he is surrounded by bones and scraps of flesh, arranged neatly in a half circle. Most of his companions are skulls, grinning eerily in the dim illumination, fire and shadow granting them the illusion of movement. They watch sightlessly, focused on the unicorn stallion standing before them, the perfect audience, silent and captive.

The ghoul is speaking.

Stories flow from his midnight mouth, one after another, a never-ending flood of them. First, he tells the bones of the Boogeystallion, who comes at night and steals away foals to eat. The Sandcougar, that fierce monster who will scratch out the eyes of those who won't sleep when it sings. Blooddrinkers and cannibals, giants and fae, angels and devils, he has tales of all. Even eldritch horrors are spoken of this night, and the ghouls eyes are shining with excitement as he shares his legends.

But then he comes to his favorite, and he leans forward, looking firmly at each of his dead listeners, daring them to speak. None do, and he is satisfied, settling back again. For he loves this tale, searches endlessly for it's star, and will tolerate no ridicule. "Look for the mare with a tan coat," he starts, deep voice filled with adoration. "Her pelt the color of sand, and mane the color of midnight. She only walks at dusk, and only in shadow, and she is beautiful. And when she comes to you, she will ask if you think her beautiful. But before you speak, she releases her glamour, and you see her mouth is ripped apart, all the way up to her eyes, with her tongue lolling out and teeth razor sharp. And again she will ask if she is beautiful. And though she is, you mustn't say so, because if you do she will use her magic to rip your mouth the same way. But if you say no, she will cut off your head, and if you run she will slice you in two." Smiling, he pauses, building suspense for his imagined rapt listeners. Then, in lowered voice, as if imparting some great secret, he continues. "You must be brave, and you must lie and tell her she is average. Then, while she's confused, you can run, run until you reach home, for she cannot follow you there."

In the swamp, it is dark.
In the dark, the ghoul is telling stories.
All of his stories are true.

"Within the confined walls that I was kept, I was able to escape more often than not. My cloven hooves carried me away from sand to snow, to the soft bottoms of forest, and even further till I reached a place that I did not know. It was night, and it was a time where a young filly could go out and be mischievous. What better time to be out playing than now? But it was scary out, and it was something that I soon found out. A voice drifted through the cold night, and it was whispering words of terror to my eardrums. Though I wanted to run away, I continued. The quest ever in my mind, and I knew that the light of the Sun would lead me onward, even if I was under the protection of the Moon at this moment.

And there he was, the vessel that embodied the voice; talking to a semi-circle of skulls and other dead things. I was scared, and I listened to him talk for a while, and I hear the last story, all to clearly in my mind's eye could I see her, and all I wanted to do was run now. But he was all alone, and it was perhaps that I could help. All he seemed to have was a bunch of dead things for friends. Who wouldn't want something living to be friends with? I carefully strode towards him, being careful not to knock over any of the skulls that were so carefully placed, and I spoke with a soft voice, a little bit of terror seeping through.

'Um, exxcuse me...are you out here all alone? It's not good to be out alone on such a cold night. Who are you mister?'

Speaking | Thinking | Doing

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Credits;;
Image; http://moonchilde-stock.deviantart.com/a...-141140702 | Table; Frostie because she's amazing <3

The ghoul is stunned.

For the briefest of moments, he believes the girl to be her, the mare with a ruined mouth. In the darkness, colors are warped, dulled or silvered until it is impossible to know the true hue of something without close scrutiny. Even his night-adapted eyes are fooled, and already expecting myths. And so he when he sees her, shadows darkening her mane into black, coat some brownish color, and beautiful, he believes. She has come, lured in, or perhaps brought into being, by his story.

This is her saving grace.

Any other to intrude, one who did not happen to look similar enough to trick him, would have been met by an angry charge, would have been forced to fight. But not her, not tonight, for he thinks he loves her. Even when she steps closer, pale foxfire showing her to be chestnut, he does not attack, convinced she is simply wearing a glamour, hiding her true self from him. Unneeded, in his mind, but understandable. He knows well how cruel the world is to monsters.

Even her words, innocent as they are, convince him of her. So simple, and so threatening if looked at right. Of course she would want to know if he is alone, would insinuate he should most definitely not be out here by himself. But he is, and he knows how to escape the things roaming the night, things like her. He can outwit her and flee, lose himself in the swamp he calls home, run and run and hide until she gives up on chasing him. He is quick, and he is smart, and she will not catch him.

But he does not want to leave.

Instead, he thinks over her question. Who is he? He is the ghoul, the zombie. The undead, unholy abomination. He is a monster, but that's alright because she is too. He is the son of a corpse and a witch. He is wrong, and he is cursed, and he is profane. He is a thing that Should-Not-Be, but he exists anyway. He is so many things, and it would take all night to tell her everything, to inform her of who he is, and he doesn't think she cares.

He simply speaks his name.

"Slaiter."

And he waits.