“ 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 , 𝙽𝙾𝚆 ? ” guttural tones ooze the kind of insouciance gleaned from honeysuckle, splaying melody from beast - chords in the languid gloom. 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢, his flesh slithers like gossamer - spun phantasmagoria beyond a shroud of brume, a trick of the mist clouded in moonbeams. a streak of fog. unbidden scrutiny does not unveil him, 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 ! he is unseen : materialized mythos, all that fear and fable hath consummated, one monstrous shade marred from divine. all the while the serpent shall perceive only what he wants them to. a countenance contrived, meticulous and mercurial, pretenses scintillating luridly in the light. 𝙰 𝚅𝙸𝚂𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈 𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙰𝙼𝚈 𝙰𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙴, amalgamated by the eras he hath afflicted, amassing his horde of sordid names. erl - king, alder - king, goblin - king ! a hundred grief - laden tongues in a hundred languages have cursed him and called him child - stealer ; the unholy terror reaping upon the hillside, the shape of a shadow edged with black talons, the touch of lunacy in the twilight hour. his aspect remains too ephemeral to be gauged, but know that he is not fool enough to think this flattery from a silver tongue, only indulgent enough. head tilts gently, his crown shining like pale gold, quicksilver pulsing in the gelid pools of an avid gaze. “ yet still you have come here. ” / @goblnking .
survey like prey. like the starving. “ .. hm. why, appears that way, doesn’t it ? ” he gleams, his madness a conflagration stitched in full. together, they make remnants of a being, paradigms of a living, breathing thing. constellations plagued in decomposition, 𝙼𝚈𝚃𝙷𝚂. the serpent shall perceive only morsels of what he’s allowed, but never doubt his fangs gnaw against ashes and barricades. molding the clay of him into the shape of chaos, swooned by it in the way 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜. the goblin king plays the flutesong, swaddled in temptation and it guides the serpent. silver tongue to lay bronzed and still, bark and brawn the same. inhale and exhale with nerve pulled and taut, his blood circulation vortex-like. ardently. he reduces the inches he inches between their terror, a monumental delicacy. his words are to be spoken as sweet as 𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎.
“ perhaps my knowings are precisely why i’ve come to visit. ” faux - adoration is garnished in saturated recollections and pictures of grandeur, assembled with practiced ease in the dip of his spine, before he starts to curve. 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐. he tilts in mimicry, just the opposite way. and this cheshire grins, “ see, i find myself quite dauntless in dire situations. nasty habit, it is. ”
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