_{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?

A storm rages; the sky is black. Lightening arches throughout the billowing clouds: angry, ceaseless discharge across the heavens. The storm-heads are swollen with rain, though it has yet to fall; the earth below, the scorched, parched, dusty earth, begs for the imminent downpour, its hands outstretched, its mouth opened wide, wide, wide. The air has yet to carry the relief of the storm-wind. The breeze is still a bitter one, one of heat, one of dust that clogs the lungs. The sky teases tenuous relief—and it is only a tease.

Animals flee. The storm is here to destroy. Birds flutter off, foxes dig into their burrows to escape the oncoming fury. Reginald feels this instinct in his childish bones, his want for his mother, his need for her safety, for the protection of their sheltered meadow. He is not so far away from home, and yet his body begs him to turn around and bolt, to escape the open fields of dry brush. It is dangerous; it is time for shelter.

He ignores this plea in his blood, for he is amused by the sight. He has never seen a sky so angry before in his short life; the clouds are magnificent indeed, billowing about, blowing in shapes of angry gods and their hammers and swords cleaving the sky in half. The lightening is precious to behold. It snakes about, flashes deeply in the clouds; it shines a blinding violet, an enraged magenta, a white-hot, piercing blue. It is the ornament of the sky’s hatred, the armament of its oncoming assault.

Few trees are found in this place—Reginald sees one, dried and dead, standing lonesome atop a small, raised outcropping. The sky smites this tree; it explodes; flames burst onto it, engulfing the dead trunk and its naked branches. The darkling colt’s eyes are wide with the spectacle of lightening. His ears are deafened by its crackling lash. It is a power unlike any he as ever seen; it is raw and passionate, unleashed in all its fury, a maelstrom unfettered. His utter joy spills from his mouth in warbling laughter, breathless, enticed. He has never been so excited before—the storm compels this passion from him.

He approaches the ruined tree, the pyre of the sky’s rage. He picks up a dried branch between his teeth and approaches the roaring fire; he dips the free end of it into the orange flames, and the tip catches almost instantly. His face is heated overmuch by the flames that lick at the branch in his mouth, trying to kiss his cheek in much the same way. He ignores his discomfort, for the sky’s destruction has inspired him.

The fields so far south are nothing but tinder; the golden grass is little more than dust standing erected. He knows they will burn far too easily. The wind starts to howl; he keeps upwind as he bolts into the sea of kindling. The grasses catch the instant the flame has touched their delicate skin—the blaze that blasts forth almost sucks the wind straight from the prince’s lungs. He lopes for a few lengths, letting the grass catch fire as he goes. When he finally drops the branch, the fire has acquired a soul; it is a living entity, a part from its master. It is a creature of fury and destruction, and it engulfs the field; it travels swiftly southward, away from the Meadow, away from the colt who stands and watches in mad glee. It will blaze until the sky decides to weep for its suffering child—and until that moment, Reginald is free to watch the flames grow and lay waste. He is free to watch and laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.


@[Kovoden]
"talk talk talk"