Malekith the Accursed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
arcanely) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
primordials2015-01-25 05:20 pm
arcanely) wrote in primordials2015-01-25 05:20 pm
(no subject)
[He came in the depth of the night, a creature of shadow, the very figment of the legends spoken of his kin. The fae steal babies, some spoke, and replace them with children of their own! Malekith would not deny the accusations. It had been the fun sport of youth, stealing away human children, and now a sport left to his lessers. Every action of Malekith’s had purpose, and this night was no different. It was no child he came to take, and he had little intention of leaving an elvish spy in his victim’s place. Truthfully, the less Malekith left of his presence within the city, the better. Had his escape been a pure fluke? Perhaps. His return was intentional, though, and his time limited.
So limited, though, that he cannot momentarily admire the peace of the sleeping prince before him? Hardly.
It is a short lived admiration, of course, for Malekith cannot deny himself the pleasure of taking his target, and it is the ensuing panic that will truly give him his satisfaction. His moves are quick - a hand firmly placed over Clovis’ mouth to start, followed by his other hand finding grip upon the prince’s shoulder, yanking him forth, undoubtedly both from sleep, and physically. With no impairment enlisted upon him by the city any further, it’s with little effort that Malekith pulls the other man from bed, and finally he breaks the silence with a quick laugh. The experience must be terrifying for Clovis.
But just as quick, he pulls the other man back across the room, and flairs of red lick at the both of them, reminiscent of the magic Malekith had managed to use that once-
It happens in a blinding flash, their transfer between worlds, a pathway forged by Malekith’s abilities. How quick it happens, though! One moment, in a quiet room, the next - the next…
The air is thick with the smell of damp earth, and the sounds of unfamiliar insects sing about them. For just a moment longer, Malekith keeps his grip upon Clovis’ upper arm, but as the magic dissipates around them, returning to the ether from which it spawned, Malekith’s hands removes themselves, leaving the prince to support himself. There’s no backwards glance from the elf to see how the other man fairs. Instead, Malekith steps forward, mindlessly treading through the shallow mud of the swamp they’ve appeared within.
There’s a quiet hum from him, though, the low hum of satisfaction, tinged with a sharp grin. It’s then that he twists his head to direct a sharp stare towards Clovis, and in that moment, Malekith fits. He is not the elf alien among humans, he is not the king displaced among naysayers. In that moment, every bramble of crooked tree seemingly reaches for him and every waft of murky swamp fumes pull in towards their master. Here lies the environment that let Malekith grow his thorns. Here lies the dark elf’s home.
It’s with flourish that he then turns to face Clovis in full, arms spreading in welcoming gesture.]
Welcome to the realm of Svartalfheim, little prince. I do hope you find it to your tastes.
[And almost as if on cue, the howl of a strange beast calls out in the distance, reverberating off the strange depths of the swamp about them. Behind Clovis, the trees press in dark, line of sight cut before too long. To the right, a large bubble pops at the surface of murky water - from a creature beneath the surface? Or merely the shifting of mud? And then, all about on small patches of dirt, grasses in deep purples and weird shades of green, mushrooms colored so toxically that seemingly the very sight of them would poison, and above it all, Malekith and his relentless, malicious grin.
This land would kill Clovis. Malekith could only hope the prince begged for the proper protections.]
So limited, though, that he cannot momentarily admire the peace of the sleeping prince before him? Hardly.
It is a short lived admiration, of course, for Malekith cannot deny himself the pleasure of taking his target, and it is the ensuing panic that will truly give him his satisfaction. His moves are quick - a hand firmly placed over Clovis’ mouth to start, followed by his other hand finding grip upon the prince’s shoulder, yanking him forth, undoubtedly both from sleep, and physically. With no impairment enlisted upon him by the city any further, it’s with little effort that Malekith pulls the other man from bed, and finally he breaks the silence with a quick laugh. The experience must be terrifying for Clovis.
But just as quick, he pulls the other man back across the room, and flairs of red lick at the both of them, reminiscent of the magic Malekith had managed to use that once-
It happens in a blinding flash, their transfer between worlds, a pathway forged by Malekith’s abilities. How quick it happens, though! One moment, in a quiet room, the next - the next…
The air is thick with the smell of damp earth, and the sounds of unfamiliar insects sing about them. For just a moment longer, Malekith keeps his grip upon Clovis’ upper arm, but as the magic dissipates around them, returning to the ether from which it spawned, Malekith’s hands removes themselves, leaving the prince to support himself. There’s no backwards glance from the elf to see how the other man fairs. Instead, Malekith steps forward, mindlessly treading through the shallow mud of the swamp they’ve appeared within.
There’s a quiet hum from him, though, the low hum of satisfaction, tinged with a sharp grin. It’s then that he twists his head to direct a sharp stare towards Clovis, and in that moment, Malekith fits. He is not the elf alien among humans, he is not the king displaced among naysayers. In that moment, every bramble of crooked tree seemingly reaches for him and every waft of murky swamp fumes pull in towards their master. Here lies the environment that let Malekith grow his thorns. Here lies the dark elf’s home.
It’s with flourish that he then turns to face Clovis in full, arms spreading in welcoming gesture.]
Welcome to the realm of Svartalfheim, little prince. I do hope you find it to your tastes.
[And almost as if on cue, the howl of a strange beast calls out in the distance, reverberating off the strange depths of the swamp about them. Behind Clovis, the trees press in dark, line of sight cut before too long. To the right, a large bubble pops at the surface of murky water - from a creature beneath the surface? Or merely the shifting of mud? And then, all about on small patches of dirt, grasses in deep purples and weird shades of green, mushrooms colored so toxically that seemingly the very sight of them would poison, and above it all, Malekith and his relentless, malicious grin.
This land would kill Clovis. Malekith could only hope the prince begged for the proper protections.]
no subject
He remembers threatening Malekith; he remembers telling the elf that he would figure out his magic, his immorality and present to his father. His palms feel sweaty -- and he blames that on the swamp and temperature, even though it is more his anxiety.
Not even that humid as it is cold, if he is honest. Or maybe, he has a chill because of everything that he's realizing and seeing.]
Kill me!
[The prince cannot help but squeak out those words, like he is being strangled. What little comfort that he got from seeing the castle is lost as he continues to follow after. HIs legs move him forward even though he feels so weighed down. At the very least, he is proud that he keeps his whimpering to a minimum.]
Ah!
[Jumping backwards, he did not expect the sight of the fae. It helps to jolt him out of the truth that Malekith speaks. (The situation is the same -- either he bends the knee to him or dies. Even his own world, he starts to fear that they would not be capable of standing against Malekith.)
Yes, the sight of those winged fairies help to give him something else to focus on. He cannot help but tilt his head from side to side in awe. Purple, even-- Clovis does lift his hand out to grab onto Malekith's wrist to try to stop him from shooing them. They're tiny and you'll hurt them!
He stares up at the elf and where his hand is and drops it away like he did not.
Clovis wants to take a step back. He wants to holds is hands against his chest to stop the frantic beating. To apologize for trying to act out of turn. He flinches -- flinches at knowing how little his title still means. But he looks to the fae and feels like he's being expected of something.
His eyes scan the ground as he decides that he should, at least, try to not appear like some beaten dog. Tossing his hair back, he tips his chin up. Pretending he is not in pajamas, pretending he is not covered in mud, not barefoot, so many things that he pretends that he is so that he could speak without his voice shaking:]
You say such in an attempt to shame me, but I see no shame in taking the courtesy of a king.
[Really. Did he have a choice?]