_{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 visions behind Reginald’s eyes are interrupted by the echo of hooves against the vaulted ceilings. His ears cock backward; he scowls easily, at once outraged by the desecration of his private state of peace. He knows it would happen—he expects other souls to wander here, captivated by it darkly glittering beauty. He knows it would happen, yet it still enrages him when his predictions come to fruition. He sighs softly; he sucks in his control through the gap of his teeth. His shoulders fall, and he is at reluctant peace again.

Initially the darkling colt refuses to look on this new comer, trying to keep aloof, disconnected. He fails in his endeavor, for the heart of a child is a curious one, and his inquiry is a voracious holocaust bursting forth from his chest; he cannot help his eyes. They wander toward the powerful body of chestnut gloss, the pillars of onyx feathers and the whip-like, frosted tail that brings up the rear of this ensemble. His gaze lingers on the dangerous sharpness of those horns three, the daggers and dragon’s teeth protruding from the stallion’s bone in a manner that Reginald has not seen before. On the pale face there he sees the tint of the brute’s eyes, his interest piqued sharply, for they resemble the eyes of his brother in their unevenness. However, instead of a shy, indecisive greenish hue, his other eye resembles Reginald’s own irises—save for a curious gleam to it, a gem-like brilliance that whispers silver in the mind instead of grey. It is too bright to be a perfect match for Reginald’s eyes—for his eyes are properly subdued, its harshness likened to atrocities instead of riches. He gazes on the world with proper wretchedness.

The monster speaks to Reginald. He thinks monster because that is how he appears to the child; large and thrumming with malignant energy, his voice ringing forth like the boom of a war-drum. Reginald knows he demands an answer to his inquiry; his ignorance of those terms fails to humble his tongue, and from his mouth bursts the desires that roil in his mind at that moment. “Fire,” he whispers, eyes falling back to the fountain and the strangely-marked walls before him. Fire, he says, because it excites him, soothes him, bellows forth on his command and captures the fancy of his destiny. It destroys; it starves for destruction. Fire is a good thing, indeed.

He looks up again suddenly into the monster’s face. He is a child; he cannot help his ignorance. He cannot stop his hunger. “I don’t know what those are,” he confesses quietly, and for a fleeting moment he is vulnerable before this stranger, bearing his childish obliviousness forward on a silver platter, begging it to be devastated. In his words the question lingers: What is an angel? What is a demon? What do they mean to him? What should they mean?

Something looms behind them; Reginald turns around, the snarl evident on his features, for he is tired of the interloper; he will bring an end to this. However, the scowl dies on his face as he looks into the gold of his father’s eyes, and he freezes. He does not know the significance of his father’s presence. Is he here to reprimand his son? Is he here to take him home, to safety, and bar him from this place of secret diamonds and fire-water? He keeps his gaze steady as he waits for his father’s tongue—it does not come. In the silence of the cavern, Reginald’s inquiry surges from his mouth, unable to keep his curiosity in check. “What are angels and demons?” he asks the room at large—careful to keep it a question and not a demand, as he is wont to do sometimes. He must not demand from these behemoths—this monster and his father. He must play the child. He must wait for the future, for haste will only tie the noose with faster fingers.

He does not care who teaches him; he only wishes to be taught.

@[Belial]
"talk talk talk"