I SHOULD HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A KNIFE
the times without blood on my hands, a weakness.
When the kelpie emerges from the forest, Locust is almost unsurprised.
Almost, because this island seems to attract all manners of predatory, sharp-toothed creatures, and a kelpie is certainly a predatory, sharp-toothed creature. Almost, because, since the incident with the tree, she has decided it is best to expect the unexpected. Almost, because she is so close to the sea and a bright red sky.
But there he is, striding out from the trees like a pale shadow. The knife, suspended in mid-air in front of her, stills abruptly. It drifts to her side, then holsters itself smoothly at her leg.
She sees his teeth before anything else, but she does not allow her gaze to linger on their sharp points; he is bold, to be grinning so easily, so unwarily. Perhaps he thinks that he has her cornered. Perhaps he simply hasn’t realized that there are hungrier things in this world than water-horses, and she is among them.
She is between the devil and the deep blue sea, Locust thinks, with a hint of amusement – though this sea is far from blue, and the devil is as mortal as she.
A red morning means a storm, he says, and Locust smiles back at him. It is almost an intimate thing; the toothless curl of her lips is deceptively warm and welcoming, in spite of the cold, hard thing taking form inside of her throat. Her eyes trail slowly – deliberately – along his frame, taking in the extent of his coat.
He is a beautiful creature, with a coat like some arctic seal; if she weren’t sure that his coat would fetch a wonderful price at market, she would be tempted to keep it for herself. (It looks soft and sleek, so wonderfully plush.) His mane is a cascade of tumbling sea-foam, riddled with braids, and the long, long horn which spirals from his forehead is like a spear of ice. He is powerfully-built, and much taller than she, and, if she weren’t just as much a predator as he, Locust might have been cowed by his superior strength. As things were, she is more interested in his eyes.
They are such a bright, cold blue that they strike her even from a distance.
She pretends that she does not notice their carnivorous gleam.
Her lashes dip low over the oceanic blue-green of her eyes, and she inclines her head, the white coils of her mane falling across her forehead. The pearls which dangle from her skull rub together and clink sharply. “So,” Locust says, still eyeing his grey, grey coat, “are you supposed to be the storm?” Her voice could almost be a lover’s, in the way that it comes out all deep and breathy and seems to want for something.
And oh, she wants for something – a killing can be an act of intimacy, too. She draws a bit closer, her head still cocked at that inquisitive angle. “You look a bit like one,” she adds, her tone as chipper as it is innocuous. Those teal eyes narrow abruptly, scrunching up with something akin to confusion. “Your teeth,” she says, then, as though she is noticing them for the first time, and it comes out as a question rather than a statement. “Are you one of the island creatures, too?”
She takes another step forward. Then another. Rather like, she thinks, a girl who has never seen a wolf before, and hasn’t realized that she should fear its teeth.
@Amaroq || or, Locust plays dumb while thinking about how best to butcher his carcass.
"Speech!" ||
