_{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?

Rocks tire him; the time spent away from the sun’s life-giving rays drain him. Yet the heat sparks his bite and his venom, and his body is confused—for he doesfeel himself grow restless in the darkly dripping caves of his prison. He years to escape the clamor and the stench of all these bodies, all these nations piled together in his domain, in his kingdom. He shudders and attempts his escape—and always there is his mother, defending the exit, scolding her ambitious son while she leads him away for a feeding.

Many a time he had found a way to slip passed his mother—yet she always found him, scowling and smiling at the same time, striking him with her harsh words while he felt her heart hammering violently against the chest he clung to. She failed, though; finally the grey-eyed prince ascends to sunlight and heat, but not the oppressive stifling of others. He looks behind him; none follow. He is free for now, and he runs.

His ambling gait is faulty indeed—yet the prince does not feel the pressure of his own physical failure. He runs, and his power comes from the running. His frolic in the underground forest has shown him his own growth and strength, and he wastes no time in shaping his new-found abilities. Does his heart hammer? Of course; the darkling colt does not believe that he will ever be rid of the insufferable blight on his ventricles. However, before now his chest would clench itself into painful bleeding, while now it only races, beating hard to keep up with its excited master. Reginald runs, and his fatigue is no a knife burying itself into his lung. He leaves behind the caves and his family. They will live without him for a night.

Grey eyes long to see the meadow that served as a home for him and his kin—in the next instant, he changes his mind. He does not feel like going home yet—not while he can still run. He slows sometimes, panting heavily, gulping the air as a parched man quaffs water. His body shakes; it does not collapse. He triumphs and laughs, oh does he laugh, and finally he is a colt. The prince continues to run.

He angles westward, a small detour from his proper resting place. He finds a curious vista; his grey eyes widen hungrily as he discovers. He does not know architecture, and yet the sight is pleasing to him; this apparatus that carries fluted, colored glass that bends the light to its fanciful will. With echoing steps, the grey child does step into the middle of the arid temple; he kisses the smooth stone, and he likes it indeed. His mind races; how does one make an object such as this? How is the glass formed—how is color applied? Who raised it to such a height? The foaling wanders around this place, heatedly pensive and feverishly excited. He decides to have it; the colt stretches, his hocks taught under the falling glare of the rainbowed sunlight, and a thick, golden stream splashes against the marble finery of the ground. Reginald shudders and growls, his tail aloft as he imperiously surveys the gentle rustle of the stream rushing passed as an afterthought; he is pleased. He laughs.
"talk talk talk"