Mother has left; she always does when the sky grows dark. Sometimes she stays near, other times she may travel to some other place to graze, to leave her sons in peace—but always she expects them tired and worn, and lost in the labyrinth of sleep. She does not know how Reginald rises with the moon; she is unaware that he slips through the shadow of the night, his body burning too feverishly to allow him peaceful rest. He is not peaceful.

Reginald loves the night—and it is love of its own kind, because he is passionate. Something shaggy and heavy sits atop his head, something degrading and infuriating—but Reginald does not mind its presence, for his mind is for other things. The hills melt underneath his progressively steadying gait, his strengthening limbs. Even so, he cannot run; he chooses not to. Running is only a short spurt of speed, which only leads to hours of shackling weakness that leaves the young child breathless and wheezing, his heart fluttering dangerously in his chest. His passion erupts; he hates his weakness, but it is hidden in his calm, inquisitive pace. He learns regardless; he wanders despite this faulty body. He has found his own freedom.

The air grows oppressive; the darkness becomes alive and sentient. Reginald feels it in his nerves, in his feeble vessels of blood; it is a chill that is most unbecoming in the Tallsun season. Reginald does not feel fear; he doesn’t know it. No, he feels only burning, differing kinds of fires that scald his insides at any given time. This particular blaze that rears inside of him is a curious one, fiercely enquiring in its white-hot flame. Why does this place breathe like this? he wonders, eyes of grey peering from behind his black locks, scanning the black in front of him; his hooves become caught in a mire of decay, and another flame leaps inside Reginald, though this one is borne from vengeance. He is in hate with this sticky ground; he wants it to leave.

The spiders fall, and the fires erupt. Reginald shakes his mane, jostles the thing that sets atop his head. As the great beasts approach, headed by their obvious lord and master, Reginald is empty of foalish terror. On his tongue is acid; in his heart are nettles. He hates all the more, but the kiln of enquiry wins out, and he stands innocently, frozen in the gaze of the king spider, Silas. His grey eyes are gentle and wide; befit for a child his age.

*"Do you dare - click click - asssk me for a prize?”*

And what does this spider offer? Avarice is the new fire that sparks inside of Reginald’s chest; it is a new sensation, and he learns it. He cannot hide it from the spider, however. It leaks into his eyes, into the set of his mouth; he speaks, words falling like dried, lifeless leaves that float in autumn air, the growl hidden in his throat unused, unneeded in his feint of childishness. “I do not ask.”

I demand.


[Reginald is dressed as Huey Freeman]
walk walk walktalk talk talk