_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

Where is his brother?

It’s a question that sneaks its way into Reginald’s mind from time to time as he wanders, as his feet lead him to places explored, places unseen, places magical in their veiled mystery. His heart wonders for Abraham, it asks this question, it yearns for his womb mate. All this happens. Yet the princeling knows damn well where is elder brother is located.

Not with me, he answers himself.

Is it bitterness? Does he resent his brother’s absence? How can he—it his own fault that Abraham does not frolic at his side, leaping into the air in the powerful way that only he could achieve. Reginald is sure of his brother’s ability to explore the world himself, so he lets him. He lets him and continues on his own lonesome way, for Reginald can think by himself, and he likes to hear himself think.

He daydreams.

What plays behind his eyes? He his tall—large—grand as his father. His eyes flash silver in the breathing darkness, piercing, beautiful, the eyes of a shadow-god himself. Every step causes the earth to shake, and indeed, the darkling prince walks as though rocks and mountains tremble in his terrible presence. All fall before him; warriors of all shapes and sizes do not compare to his grace, his might. Stallions scream in their defeat—foals cry as that ugly filly had, their tears fat pieces of crystal added to his treasury of conquest—mares—

Mares?

The daydream has taken a different turn, a queer turn, and Reginald is confused by the implications, the way in which his chest clenches at the thought. He blinks suddenly, conscious once again of his surroundings; he recognizes the place he has stumbled into in his wild stupor. He had been here with his mother and brother before, eating the impossibly sweet grasses, watching her fight a strange winged creature in the bowls of this very meadow. He is without their presence; he is free to observe at his own leisure, to eat of the sweet clover for as long as he decides to.

His foalish, fickle nature prevails against the vulgar imageries, for now. The fields have erased the troublesome thought from his brain; he walks into the verdant green, eyes sharp, the myriad of aromas in this place painting a picture, presenting a puzzle he is desperate to solve.

@[Memphis]
@[Lothíriel]

"talk talk talk"