_{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?

"Ignorance is weakness,"

A beast unfurls within the prince’s breast; it breaths smoke. “I—“ he mutters a broken phrase, severing it before it reached its impudent completion. I know. He knows to keep his impatience at bay when in the presence of those older, greater in age than he is now. It does not stop the rush of frustrated flame that sears within his gut—for he knows his own limitations. He is a child—and whoever told him tales of demons and angels, anyway? In his indignance he becomes unruly in his thoughts, a sour taste blanketing his tongue at the cold inattentiveness of the monster-stud.

Water rustles in the quite that follows; the only sound comes from the drip of stalagmites, the stud’s heavy breathing and the prince’s own pensive wheeze as he looks from the water, to the monster, and back to the shadowy obelisk of his father, waiting for their speech, wondering if he will ever be given an adequate answer. His temper flies; he catches the end of it, securing it back into his breast, keeping his grey eye cool with poise and curious as a child should be. He is starved, and the runes do nothing to help his hunger; it is only when the monster finally speaks, his voice rasping in the echo of the vaulted chamber, that light is shed in the darkness of the prince’s mind. Grey eyes snap to the beast; they drink in the words of archaic, evil wisdom.

Reginald frowns as he listens; he cannot help his mouth, for he ponders the monster’s words and his thoughts sail away from this realm, this time, this universe into something different entirely. The laws of a child are chaotic indeed—and here Reginald has written his decrees.

*"Angels are light, the forces of sky. They ride through the Heavens with swords of flame and righteousness…”*

*"Demons are darkness. They are the reason why fools skirt away from the dark, why fear clings so tight to the back of your heart…"*

Reginald has decided: this explanation of things is distasteful indeed. He listens, and listens well, yet his counsel is conflicted in the sureness of the monster’s tongue; Reginald does not know fire to be righteous and good. It is not. His mother taught him things that are good; a child alone and sobbing in a burning plain, their flesh being eaten by blazes while the sky looks onward, mocking in its obstinately dry darkness, is not good. Just the same, he cannot claim his demon-hood by these terms—for demons lie, and the darkling colt cannot ever remember a falsehood to ever escape his tongue. He discovers the reason for his disquiet: these are rules and guidelines, stipulations with which to live his life. A model, an apparatus, a mold within he must comport himself.
No, he decides. He does not care for good or evil—he only cares for his ever burning hunger. To complicate it with tags and titles is a waste of his precious energy, his valuable time. Fire he said, because it destroys as he does, starves as he starves, and rages in a fury that matches the fervor in his breast….

……however. The monster does not ask of that. Like a rusted automaton whose artificial skin gleams wickedly in the twilight of this hallowed ground, the monster asks angel or demon, and Reginald must give his answer, for he is a child, and the adult is not. “….Demon,” he says quietly, speaking into the waters before him, almost hissing his assertion as though his spittle would poison the immaculate pool.

He glances behind him, at his father, wondering what the obelisk would think of his choice.


@[Archibald]
@[Belial]
"talk talk talk"