It's all fun and games to tease a dead god ghost, until one actually shows up at your door. Typical of fables, legends, and the mystical. Makes for a fantastic bedtime story to send you off to dreamland, but gods forbid you ever get dropped into one. A reverse nightmare.
crackAlways a wonder that the shattering of silence can have such echoes through the soul. A small stick and leaf made louder than the slow churning river he stands at. A chained ear turns in the direction of the first mortal (hopefully) made sound he’s heard in hours. Unbidden cold seeps back into Locke’s body, but caused not by ice and crystals this time. Fear was an emotion the youth had long ago learned was only said to be conquered by fools and the dead, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed its vice grip on his spine.
The being's descent upon him came as torrent, wave, rising with his tension like the tide, storm-...Enough. Dead god ghosts or little harmless rabbit, he had wanted this right? Of course it didn’t sound like just a harmless little rabbit. Much bigger. Could ghosts make noise? Wrestling thoughts was never a thrill for the boy. So Locke does what Locke was always doing, and twists it all into something that suits him more. The cold he lets seep into his soul and pour over his head, baptizing his blood into an elixir of the most enslaving sensations. Adrenaline, electricity, and stubbornness seep through his skin so that when his head turns to the storm’s source, it is encased in the molten movement and aesthetic of the surety and twisted lips. Lies. Ever the lies. But when does the truth of fears ever lie down for any other master. Half dust covered body be damned with the rest of his worries, costumes and masks were necessary but could never replace a well crafted lie on your face.
For all the careless noise his dead god ghost makes, it arrives at a walk. Though as he well knew threats, the real ones, never need to arrive in a hurry to make their potency felt. And Locke sees- no, feels the talon dragging, head tilting, sinuously lethal movements in the slow marked time of any animal to ever have the misfortune of being labeled prey. The dark scent (like leaves rotting on a damp forest floor) brings nature’s roles of predator and prey to batter at the gates of his soul, but his lies hold him. Keeping his head up, emerald eyes bright with mischief, and stance steady as the march stops. Lies are a stronger fabrication than steel, and Locke has the black stained soul to prove he is no novice at the forge of their creation.
The dead god ghost speaks (can you blame him for the nickname?), and despite his salved manners, the feathers at his back raise slightly. Blasted things. A voice echoing low and slow upon his ears confirm she wasn’t here for tea, and the reality serves as confirmation of those whispered thoughts that dead gods were not the only reasons a wood could be silent. But though his feathers were not glamoured like the rest of him, he does not pause to let the eyes of his audience wander. “Not someone knocking at death’s door.” (Not your enemy. Not a lamb.) It drifts light, curling, warm, and edged- a hand in the night, which might hold a dagger- throwing the contrast to the other like the warning shot hers had seemed to him. Though it is a whitewashed line given his lack of weapon or threat, lies would have to serve.
Locke steps forward once, seduced to action by the rise of his heart and the tightness in his gut, and tilts his own head to the dark force in the snow. His expression throwing daggers at the tension which hung in the cold with that twisted thorny smile. “Just a...wander.” (for the moment) Only an unassuming nonthreatening creature. Though in the face of dead god, it was hardly just that. Eyes drift to the gem the plane of her head. Now that was a pretty piece. Wonder what it coul-
Best make sure he is likely to walk away first. So he moves again, a few paces to the side, lies smoothing his walk to a graceful I don’t give a fuck. “Do you seek something?” Might as well toss a lure out in the lake. Maybe it would be reshaped to a sharp edged splinter of metal at his throat, but Locke was ever filled with the blessing of youth to be blind to consequences, and cursed with curiosity: what raging reason drove such a creature so tightly bound with reverence. It could be that it was nothing more than his label as a trespasser- but dragging it from her lips would be the silently stolen coin from a purse. The dead god ghost could go hang himself in fictional irrelevance, this was much more entertaining.
OOC:: @Thana Sorry for the novel, I'm still figuring him out. Please don't feel the need to keep up. =]
