It had been ages since he’d ventured out into a public setting. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d done so without a disguise, or a hood to cover his face. But now he walked among the humans, unafraid and undaunted by the roaring of their cries or the pounding of their cheers. He stood just a little ways off from the crowd, red eyes observing them as they cheered on their perspective competitor. Truth be told, he was keeping his eyes as far from the arena as he could. Fighting sickened him; it made his stomach roll and his heart ache, and he didn’t dare raise his gaze farther than the edge of the raised platform. Laufey kept his arms folded tightly across his broad chest; he was glad in normal, traditional human clothes. A business suit in black, a tie in blood red, and dark, spade shape marks just over his eyes. It was something he couldn’t get rid of, no matter what form he took.
He supposed it was a mark that showed who he truly was; in the ancient days, long ago, it had often been enough to betray him, but there were many people ignorant of who he was, and so he traveled the countryside unmolested and free to go where he wished. Now it was more difficult; people were a lot more accepting of oddities, but he found that it was getting harder and harder to blend into modern society. His old age cultures and mannerisms made him stand out even more starkly than the markings over his eyes, or the fact that he had long, chocolate brown hair tied in a neat, prim ponytail at the back of his neck. Whenever he spoke, people would often give him strange looks, wonder why he said ‘my lord,’ and ‘my lady’ when addressing them, or why he bowed to women and courteously stood whenever a woman would leave or enter a room. He was strange, he knew that, and he was working hard on becoming more modern, but he found it ridiculously difficult to ‘stoop’ to their level, as he called it.
A particularly loud roar from the crowd made him flinch, and in a moment of weakness, his gaze darted up to the fighters who danced around one another in a whirlwind waltz of fists. He felt his heart stutter in his chest, his eyes widening as he took a subconscious step back, into the shadows of a parlor. Laufey lifted a hand to his forehead, his breathing harsh and ragged as memories and visions flashed across his eyes, blood and death and destruction, and his hand crafting all of it, commanding legions, armies, men to kill each other and the women and the children. He gripped his chest, fingers clenching in the fabric of his expensively tailored suit and he closed his eyes and leaned over, gasping for breath and forcing himself to remain calm.
That was the old me. I’m not like that anymore. I’m not…a pawn. I am not a tool of war. That was the old me… he chanted over and over in his head, desperately trying to calm his aching, racing heart.
((And now here's his human form as well.
Click.))