#soursoil

my freaks my sickos...

“ lucky ? ” it sounds loud in their head. like the thunder of a drum or, as the sudden spark of pain suggests, the breaking of glass on stone. “ first i’ve heard of that. . . ”

they want to laugh. morninglord’s light above do they want to laugh, but when they try it comes as a shaking exhalation. the con of a half-stitched plan. but at least their wings were gone before they hit the ground, and the flying beast learned its lesson.

he's the only person she's ever met who says strange and means it, if not as a compliment, then with some measure of affection. she's been alone for... well, for her whole life, really, and strange and odd have been leveled at her by peers and her stepmother for as long as she can remember. she knows she's different, not only because of her horns and her fangs, nor only the spirits she sees, but something else deep inside her, some unnameable thing.

his fate is sealed the moment their eyes meet. it is happens quickly—the shine of gold in his own eyes, the glisten of yellow on the other's—and then arthur is looking away. tunic suddenly tight, shaking fingers tug at the open collar. he breathes as if he has forgotten how it felt to do so.

this other man, feeble and languishing, is not a man at all.

heat gathers behind the eyes the way a hearth starts, all rising embers, a flicker of long fire lashing up against the skin. arthur inhales sharply, the broadness of his chest rising, and exhales as though he has seen a ghost. he has—the curling of horns, the glimmer of a yellow eye. gods forbid a tail, its length curling around the pilgrim's body. but when the knight looks again, all is gone. replaced with the subtle, unsettling stare of an older man hidden behind the length of his dark robe.

the stranger smiles. arthur shivers.

“ you are not... who i seek. ” of course he isn't. arthur seeks no one but himself these days. he does not admit it. instead, he bows his head with a politeness that speaks to his training and tries to forget what he saw. he has a feeling the devilish man will not let him go. he is scared. he is also excited.

send 🧸 to find my muse as a child

@soursoil : 🧸 surely this can only go well…

the boy stops abruptly when he catches sight of the stranger, the stick which he'd been violently swinging at whatever tree trunk and undergrowth was on his path now hangs forgotten from his little hand. blue eyes stare up at the man in front of him, encountered in the middle of the forest. the other must be lost if he is here all by himself just where the swamp begins , where fish men and all manner of fey are said to hide — the last living remnants of the old creatures — after having been driven off the people's land.

the young prince snuffles loudly, impolitely, roughly shoving messy strands of hair out of his face with a dirty hand. it leaves smudges of mud on siegfried's forehead, but he pays it no mind. he has to better see who is in front of him, assess the potential danger. not that anyone could harm him. he is already stronger than most grown men he knows. and what's more important : he lacks neither the confidence nor the willingness to smash anyone's face in.

upon further inspection he realizes that what he'd thought were the big black eyes of a fish man are in reality just glasses. he's never seen black glasses before. and siegfried's mouth opens with his thoughts half formed, brow creasing.