The clouds darken; the air becomes heavier with moisture. It will rain soon, and indeed, the grey-eyed prince hears the distant rumble of thunder. In the bleakness of the flat shadow, he stands atop a hill that overlooks his grand meadow, his luscious home; he sees there the wandering child of a spotted mess, the sex of this creature unclear as eyes of grey glare and scrutinize, stabbing into the flesh of the interloper. Reginald does not care if this is a colt of a filly who intrudes upon his homeland—he doesn’t care. He does not want this insect. He is done with the infestation of insects of his home, and he has decided a carcass will be his warning, instead of his words.

A white shadow follows his brother as Abraham heeds his brother’s call. Reginald does not turn to look at his brother’s dragon—he does not need to. He knows her well enough; her pale scales, her fiery eyes, her delicate-and-powerful wings as they glide on the rain-bringing breezes. He does not look upon her again; he is irritated enough. “Look,” he says to his brother—he speaks harshly, but the bite is caused by his growing wrath; he indicates the intruder, pointing with his cruel, sharpened horn. “Not today,” he growls, and were he a wolf, his hackles would raise, his fangs would be bared in his snarl. “I’m done with this, brother. It will end.”

He marches down the hill; he hopes his brother follows. The curses in his mind double, for his heart already beats timidly in his chest, anticipating the attack, panicking at its master’s ire. That wretched pant pulls at his throat, and he swears, hard. He grows frenzied; he’s lost his calm. He is a trapped predator, his claws reaching from between the bars of his ribcage, his jailor. “…Abraham, help me,” he says, and it pains him to ask for help—the shame is physical to him, hot swords cleaving into his very real, visceral pride. But he asks, because he does not hide from his dear brother—he does not need to. “Tear into him,” he spits his poison, his tongue lashing, his words bitter knives, “Rip him up, make him bleed. Split up his—slice open his throat, slash out his windpipe. I want him squealing apologies, I want him gargling his own blood, I want him DEAD!!” He shouts his words near the end of his litany of death; he nears the peasant, but he does not care if the child hears him. Let him know of his mistake, let him know the identities of the angels of death that bear down on him.


@[Abraham]
@[Kiara]
Speak