The Vixen of Prophetic Impulse

August weeps like the breeze of summer’s lost faith. With the desolate warmth of rejection that flows within his veins he threads himself amongst the decay of nature’s first hue. It’s a juxtaposition of his inner turmoil, as if spiders crawl beneath concealed insecurities. An itch he cannot conceal. He walks along the fray as if he belongs, as if his home is not within a sky worlds away. As if he isn’t a God to these mere mortals. A ruse that no one, but himself, can bare witness to.

It’s poetic with how he seems as if a citizen of the few and not a stranger within their midst. Deceit that settles amongst his visage, complete with the prayer mask that obstructs his identity. The wings adorning the side a symbol of the messenger of the Gods. Surely seraphs would cry at the absurdity with which he carried himself. The picture of a faithful worshipper, with how beautifully adorned his guise is. He seems to love Hermes, but his truth is in the trickery. For his mask symbolizes death rather than the life he chooses to live for.

He’s a walking tragedy to become with time, ability to shift so easily, pretending he isn’t breaking on the inside with his own turmoil. This is all worth it. The lies will amount to so much more. Yet, it’s comical with how he enters Lament. He seems to be a sheep within the lion’s den. The few surrounding are not of his kind, not of those he passed within the streets beyond the building. These ones, they’re immortal like him but they’d sink teeth into his flesh without a second thought. Although, they may regret the chance of taking a taste of him. The crimson he contains would be but bitter honeysuckle sweetness to them. A doubtless virtue to make them both plead for more while writhing in disgust, for he bleeds poison. And maybe, just maybe, they would feel how rejected he was from his throne with that simple vile of his blood. The veil forgone to show just how alone he was. How his family turned their backs to him, leaving him no choice but to seek such retribution.

It’s a melodic contrast, the epitome of his emerald to the neon of the club. There’s life amongst the dead with how the beat carries his steps. Peripherals casting their judgment or wonder upon his form: mask clad despite the lack of such attire within this area. It shifts the atmosphere, draws attention to him. Yet he doesn’t mind it. In fact, he lives for it, a coy smile spreading across his features as he takes a rightful seat at the bar, as if he owns it, himself. A flash of his porcelain teeth, contrasting so nicely to those gathered around him, pinning his breed as that of a stranger. However it works, awarding him a drink. Whether it be from another or compliments of the house, he doesn’t bother to find out. His confidence shines with how he precariously gathers the glass within his hand but doesn’t allow whoever the joy of watching him indulge himself.

This is all business, or rather, an attempt of seduction. His true intent to indulge within the aura of another like-minded individual, as they find solace within the other’s dreams. He knows of the dangers of looking within the eye of another whom shares such intricacies as isolation like his own. It’s a feeling he masked behind snarky behavior, behind promises of murder hushed to himself after their first parting.

It’s a lie. For a prince to be so lonely and unkempt, like him, it’s stands as the epitome of his fall from grace. As if he were Icarus with his wings clipped bear, because his devotion was nothing but a flawed symphony. One to which he would always be the principal conductor of.

“It’s rude to deny a drink from the host.”

Voice like the onslaught of a chilled breeze cuts through his melancholy. Sweetness he’s come to know that still results in fracturing his poise, as if embedding a knife through his heart. It’s symbolic, with how his covered visage meets the embodiment of night that cloaks itself with pristine beauty. A sight that awakens a raise of Loki’s interest.

He watches, silently, as Dracula acknowledges him, face morphing to one of disdain as he takes the seat right of his. There’s a pause to which he takes to drown himself within the visage of the immortal. How they sit, so similar, yet his current attire puts him at a disadvantage: posing himself as a mortal rather than himself has that effect. One that is not taken kindly by the other, evident at the resounding click of the vampire’s tongue.

“Do you find yourself satisfied with the sickness of adorning our target’s likeness upon your face?” Comes the voice that sends chills spiraling down his body, despite how he doesn’t move an inch.

Loki is no stranger to the disgust that rolls off the prose the other bequeaths. His ears ring within the sounds of the syllables, batting an eye to the obvious hurt it’s meant to leave. Yet he discards the mask, emerald instantly looking into the vampire’s gaze as if hungry for his attention as he purposefully downs the drink within one single motion; an answer to Dracula’s earlier statement.

The liquor courses down his throat, burning the flesh as it travels, but he revels within the feeling as he places the glass back against the bar. His motions are so fluid, graceful even, with how he rests his head against his palm, his tongue chases the traces of wine amongst his lips, an action dutifully caught by the watchful immortal’s eyes.

“Your years have made you so stiff. Perhaps you need help relaxing.” The words fall so poetically from his lips, as if their own personal brand of alcohol to sway the other’s mind. It’s useless with how Dracula doesn’t budge, barely spares a reaction to the other’s mindless play.

Yet he shifts, pendant glinting within the low light of the club to catch Loki’s gaze sparingly. A gift, he was told. One that represents far more than he ever would to the vampire. It almost mocks him with how close it is held to a heart that beats no more. It’s beauty is unmatched as Dracula reaches outward, drawing Loki’s gaze to follow the action. It seems, fleetingly, that he’ll cup his face as if to engage in what could be the inklings of a gentle caress. Although, perhaps the god is not the only trickster within the proximity. Instead, Dracula takes his discarded mask instead.

Loki watches, steadily, at how the immortal toys with the material within his hand. Emerald catches upon the action, only looking away to meet dark blue at the sound of the other’s voice.

“You enact in such childish woes…” as if to emphasize his point, Dracula’s hand easily snaps the mask. The action so quick it nearly takes the god off guard, if only in wonder, “don’t allow yourself to forgo our vision for your games.” One piece sparingly falls to the ground, as if to represent their goal: a crushed, defenseless Hermes underneath them.

It brings a smile to Loki’s face as he rises in his seat to cunningly place his hand over the remaining material in Dracula’s hand. It’s intimate with how dark blue mixes with emerald seamlessly. There’s a moment of understanding that passes between them. It’s easy, how honest and yet sly the trickster can be with such bold movements. His voice woven amongst the space between them like a solar flare to the great outstretch of cosmos, painting red within the bleak expanse of the void, “what good is war without laughter?” His syllables complement the canines, almost identical to a vampires, that apparate within his telltale grin. They speak wonders of his chaos and only help to emphasize his words as he leans ever closer to whisper a promise in the other’s ear, “my devotion is far greater to you than a false god.”