The Lost Islands
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we're the trash in your bed


He didn’t want to leave. Psychedelic knew he was going to have to leave eventually, Asche wouldn’t let him stick around forever, but damn he could get used to a place like this. His head swung and his gaze made for the long line of golden sand down the shore and he came up with an ingenious plan. Rather than swimming back for Crossing Isle from the Ridge, Psychedelic would take the long way around, that way he could pop into the other territory and get a feel for how friendly (or not friendly) the guy was that lived there. If he managed to make semi-acquaintances with both of them, maybe he could find some way to cheat the system and spend most of his winter basking in the tropics rather than freezing his ass off in the snow on Crossing Isle.

Little did he know his dearest cousins would soon be making their home here, which meant he’d have even more of an excuse to visit.

Just as he began to turn his attention back to the Ridge (looking for Asche to see if the stallion was bearing down on him yet with ears pinned, ready to drive him off) he noticed a mare who had just noticed him. Psychedelic’s ears pricked forward as hers turned back, and in response his turned back, but more out of wariness than aggression. When she spoke they swung forward again and he frowned, hard. “Uhhh, just enjoying the sunshine…” Asche had been cool with him hanging out, but if one of his mares suddenly wasn’t, Psychedelic knew his time here was short-lived. “Hey it’s, it’s all good! Your buddy Asche said it was okay for me to chill for a bit! I don’t want anything to do with you.”

But her reaction had been interesting and Psychedelic was intrigued by things that were out of the norm.

Tread carefully, idiot.

He flicked his ears at the voice and snorted, avoiding rolling his eyes (though he wanted to) and looked back at her. “You’re not going to freak on me, are you, lady?”

we're the drunken gods of the living dead
WE'RE THE VOICE, WE'RE THE VOICE, WE'RE THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD


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