[He stiffens, alerts with that weird hyper-awareness tension when you approach. Then again, how many would actually approach? Would squint at his carnival painting without fear, without deference, with simple curiosity--dumb ignorance.
The twinge of pity thrums through him like a chord. The only thing this apocalypse has infected him with thus far is mood. One day, he can hate you passionately, the next he'll pity, the next he'll feel nothing at all--you're just a fluke, something to be ignored.
His fingers twitch, rise, half-stretched towards your throat. They stop. He lowers the hand, considering.
If you were green? Would you stand so close? Offering yourself like a sacrificial woolbeast led innocently astray?
His lips peel back in a growl, appetite for violence gone in a flash of mood, in a twitch of pity. All hesitation is pity.]
Don't talk to a fucker about luck. Ain't no motherfucking THING as luck.
[He can smell the weird, alien animal smell of you, the bite of your clear-drink-sopor, something strange and flowery he suspects is your hair.
Abruptly, he wants to paint your face, discards the thought in a splash of self-directed anger which rises into the thought that perhaps you want to be sacrificed. That you want to be destroyed.]
Luck isn't green. Don't know WHAT color that mythic MOTHERFUCKER is. It isn't indigo...maybe. MAYBE.
no subject
The twinge of pity thrums through him like a chord. The only thing this apocalypse has infected him with thus far is mood. One day, he can hate you passionately, the next he'll pity, the next he'll feel nothing at all--you're just a fluke, something to be ignored.
His fingers twitch, rise, half-stretched towards your throat. They stop.
He lowers the hand, considering.
If you were green? Would you stand so close? Offering yourself like a sacrificial woolbeast led innocently astray?
His lips peel back in a growl, appetite for violence gone in a flash of mood, in a twitch of pity. All hesitation is pity.]
Don't talk to a fucker about luck. Ain't no motherfucking THING as luck.
[He can smell the weird, alien animal smell of you, the bite of your clear-drink-sopor, something strange and flowery he suspects is your hair.
Abruptly, he wants to paint your face, discards the thought in a splash of self-directed anger which rises into the thought that perhaps you want to be sacrificed. That you want to be destroyed.]
Luck isn't green.
Don't know WHAT color that mythic MOTHERFUCKER is. It isn't indigo...maybe.
MAYBE.