_{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?

The slight, shadowy colt turns to look at him. Reginald’s attention is momentarily captured by the foaling’s eyes, which seem to bleed something red-hot and fiery. He is intrigued for a span of moments, silent as he freely inspects the only lick of color on an otherwise blank, obsidian canvas. The interest wanes rather swiftly; he has sated his vain, coltish curiosity for the time being. His interest now lies in the words that may float in the young one’s head, in what tumbles from those tiny, tiny lips of his. So far, he only speaks as though he is young. He does not indicate yet that he is an idiot.

Reginald approaches the cliff’s edge, fearless in his presumptuous proximity with the fine-boned, nameless colt beside him. He sees what the red-eyed boy sees; he observes the same glorious vista of the world, the clouds flowing passed on invisible plains of wind, a curve just discernable on the pale, bluish horizon. It is a soaring sensation of greatness—Reginald understands it well, for he himself often stands on the edges of these soaring peaks and schemes. Dreams. Expects. Demands.

*"Are you so sure? How do you know?"*

“From experience,” he answers simply—for it is the simple truth. “Things don’t bow unless you make them,” he explains quietly, words falling from his mouth as snow might descend gently from the billowing, darkening clouds above. “Words of a child don’t mean much.” A smile creeps into his eyes as the colt speaks of a mother’s assurance, a mother’s love for her son. He’s familiar with such coddling. “Mothers want everything to bow for their children,” he says, his eyes still cast towards the sprawling map that is Helovia opened below him, “but you must make them bow with more than words and wishes.”

The child asks if he is a part of the kingdom here—and Reginald ponders this for a moment, wondering how best to answer the inquiry. If the child asked, he must not be a piece of this vibrant mountain kingdom. “Not now,” Reginald finally answers, deciding on the truth as being the best response, “but I will be, one day.” Not as a peon, though. He will be lord and monster, perhaps, but he will be through with this peon business.

“Where are you from?” he rasps suddenly, cold grey eyes turned toward those ruby gems inlaid in the ebony cut of the foal’s face. It’s a question of sincere interest and curiosity—for though evil things twist within Reginald’s mind, he is but a child, with a child’s inquisitiveness.

"talk talk talk"