_{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 ocean breathes blue and salt. It caresses the cliff side, a soothing lover; gulls cry above, indignant vermin, feathered rats riding high among the thermals. Sun glints off the ruins of what seemed to be a great structure of pale glass; it litters the ground, a sparkling field that heralds the arrival of the Grey-Eyed prince. He supposes that it is salty too. All things here are salty; the memory of the ocean burns the wound of pride branded against the sinews of his neck.

He remembers. She was a golden filly, an ugly one, larger than what he’s used to, peculiar in her power. He thinks of her relentlessly, of the stone that encased her form and the inexcusable crimes she committed against his form. He was smaller then, new to the elements, strong in his gait though the wind still only haltingly entered his lungs. It is different now. A complete cycle of the seasons was enough to chisel the outline of something great from the useless lump of failed baby flesh. There is muscle, a strong lung, a spark of demon’s fire in his tendons that carries him regally, imperiously, impudently across the field of glass, closer towards the broken wall, into a territory of strangers and undesirables.

He is angry--but this anger is no longer a childish residue of boyhood. It is a controlled poison, poised in his tooth, ready to lash even as his eyes burn grey coals. His presumption has gotten the better of him--for now, his mother is lost. Frequently he wandered from her hip, discarding his need for her service, her protection, her love. He grew out of that shell; he can run now, and away he ran from his mother’s embrace. Now, however, she is gone from him; and here he stands, the scent of his goliath of a father, strong and heady, present amongst the pitiful ruins by the sea. He does not sense his mother’s person here; his eyes burn ever stronger.

He makes to go through the wall, though it is a land and haven for strangers. He cares not. They mean nothing to him in the greater scheme of things—he goes in search of his father, his voice dead in his throat, for he does not need it. His new height has made him daring; his growing chest has made him arrogant. He will learn the fate of his mother regardless of the wishes of sea-side pests, and woe be unto the one who presumes to block his path..


@[Archibald]
"talk talk talk"