[Author's Notes: Many apologies for the shortness of this one and the lack of congruence with TheeMaddHattter's most recent chapter. We'll be co-writing the next one to avoid that. Also, I would like to inform everyone that chapters will likely be uploaded once a week, give or take a few days.
Without further ado, Chapter 4. :) Enjoy~]
As the days passed, the Boogeyman considered the strangeness of his new discoveries. The young girl and the mysterious "Koz" seeped into his mind like a plague, demanding his attention and enraging him. They felt like memories, but he could not place them on any timeline or give them any reason. He tried to write them off as nothing more than nightmares, but the Nightmare King himself could not fall victim to his own strength. If he gave close thought to it, even though the images that pretended to be memories sent him into fits of anger and discomfort, they weren't exactly bad. In fact, they were rather nice. Which would make them dreams. Pleasant dreams.
Smooth brows cinched together and lowered over a long, sharp nose, now flared in anger. A well-practiced snarl tore through Pitch's throat, deepening the creases of his face and making him appear as some form of horrific demon. He stalked from one of the many off-kilter bridges littering his home and into the black abyss below, the faintest breeze whispering in his absence. Pale nails bit at the flesh of his palms as he travelled swiftly through the dark.
When he emerged from a rare shaded corner in the ever-changing palace that belonged to Sanderson Mansnoozie, the sun had just slipped below the horizon, draining the cadet sky to black. The owner of the fortress would likely be out for many hours still, watching over the precious children in the immediate area (Gothenburg, Sweden, as it turned out). Pitch took the opportunity to acquaint himself with the room he had arrived in. It seemed to be some sort of sitting room, with a few tables and chairs scattered about in random fashion, an empty elaborate fireplace, and no discernable exit or entrance.
Pitch swallowed the violent anger that twisted his lips and made his hands shake. One aforementioned skeletal hand ran over a rough wall, its dark ashen skin in stark contrast with the golden surface. He seemed a smudge of charcoal upon an eggshell in this room, and he found it rather pleasing. That was how he should have appeared. He smirked to himself and approached one of the several full bookshelves that lined the walls, selecting a volume at random. Thin shrouded feet carried him to a short armchair, and he sunk into the plush cushions as if he owned them. The shade flipped the book open and made himself comfortable, a soft darkness falling upon the sand around him, dulling its normal polished lustre to a tarnished bronze.
He chuckled quietly and waited.
