_{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 words of this colt are curious things indeed. The clouds pay no heed, of course; they float on atop their transparent highways, oblivious, careless in their trek across the sky. Reginald glances at them once more, but this spindly red-eyed creature has intrigued him most, surely. He has almost forgotten the fatal slightness of the boy’s body, the infuriating youth that clings to the slender bones, the knobbed knees like the fists of a newborn cub.

Questions erupt in the prince’s mind as he contemplates this stranger; who is he to assure Reginald of the inevitable? Who is he to lay claim to this place so young, so fresh and new, already with this instinct for dominion settled smartly in his psyche? Reginald had believed he was alone with his brother in this fiery need, unique in a colony of average, piteous ants content with a way of things he has deemed obsolete. This experience of meeting one who’s words and desires interest the darkling colt is novel, and the map of the world is forgotten for a moment.

The colt mentions his home in the north—Reginald restrains the snort that threatens. He has seen the north; he has met a resident of it, a curious filly indeed despite the irritation of her gender. Perhaps this is the key difference between this meeting and those of days passed. Reginald has entertained nothing but a long procession of dumb fillies, untrained, inelegant, scatter-brained annoyances of flesh and blood. There is one colt he has glimpsed, once, but he fled from his home on the heels of his ugly mother and even uglier companion before he had a chance to pick his brain, hear his speech. Are all colts this way—born with an inherent desire and demand to bring all those who breathe around him to heel? Reginald doesn’t know friendship, but that is because he has never been faced with the possibility; whether this is a possibility remains to be seen.

“Who are you?” Reginald asks; his tail attempts a curl despite its diminutive length. A breeze rolls through the shock of mane that has begun to grow in his eyes; he shakes his head and neck. The scent of clover falls heavy on the wind, and Reginald inhales it, deeply, as he waits for the colt’s name. It is all he desires—for this is the first time he ever really bothered to learn the identity of a strange child. It’s an instinct he cannot name, a perception he doesn’t know he possesses yet; he will hear this name again. This child who shares a vision of a chaotic world will spring forth once more, and Reginald will know him. If they are indeed destined for the same path, they shall either walk on it together—or cut down whoever dares to block the other’s way. Reginald does not understand fate--but he knows it, for it molds the world regardless of understanding.

For now, he only wants a name.


"talk talk talk"