_{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?

It is too large to simply call it a stone; a small boulder suffices as a title. Moss grows on it, tempering the edges of the rock, and it is agreeable to the touch. The green skin glows, like the rest of this wretched room; it is a soft, calming glow, a gentle blue that the grey eyes cannot tolerate. The light isn’t harsh to his iris—it is too soft for him. He does not like weakness in all its forms, and it does irritate him to see this calm place, when inside he burns with his boredom, his festering restlessness.

He nudges the rock, for it is small enough for him to shift with his hoof. The moss rolls easily on the spongy earth of the underground; the bluish rock shimmers as it sails away from the grey-eyed prince. Reginald follows behind; he ducks his head down and touches the rock with his lips. He tastes the glow of the boulder; it’s bitter, and he quits it. He nudges it once more, and again, it reacts to his touch willingly and readily, moving across the sodden green of the underground forest. He catches up to it; he nudges it again, trying to change its trajectory. It obeys his curious wish; he knocks it into the bubbling stream that flows its way in the twilight. He goes to the rock; he stretches his jowls, picking it from the mineral-infused, crystalline waters. He gives a jaunty toss of his head; he releases it from his teeth. It sails in the air, a bluish comet in the dusky shadow, and as it falls to the ground Reginald runs after it once more.

Something shifts within the darkling colt’s mind. His feverish, calculating mind becomes preoccupied with the small, glowing boulder rock; all his scheming, his irritations, his contemplations of his brother and that frail white dragon, of the Jorogumo who swore herself to him—all of it vanishes in a different kind of coltish frenzy. He becomes obsessed with the boulder, but this obsession is a thing apart from his usual passions. Those are evil things, gruesome in their contemplation; this rock stirs something else, something that is curious and excited with the trivial pursuits of a child. He forgets his annoyance; he plays,and indeed, he can play. True, he is not viciously powerful in his movements—but he runs, for now he is able to run. He tosses his head, for it does not cause a headache. Abraham is not here to demonstrate the proper strength of a foal his age—and therefore, he is the most powerful in this domain.

He plays an unknown game, but it’s fun to him, for the ball goes where he tells it, flies when he wills it, and glows continuously, drawing his eye away from the irksome gentleness of the world within which he has stumbled. The Son of Hellion is at play, and for a time he does not hate; right now, he has forgotten how.










[Once again, Foals Only please! No posting order, but please wait a few days between posts to give others a chance to get involved! I'm tagging everyone who expressed interest in the thread, but any foal/yearling is welcome!

@[Abraham]
@[Amani]
@[Azarel]
@[Jorogumo]
@[Kari]
@[Lothíriel]
@[Memphis]
@[Orka]
@[Roux]
@[Sacre]
@[Tandavi]

"talk talk talk"