_{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?

*"No need for such looks. I have not done a thing to you."

Interruption. Reginald’s thoughts hold; his contemplations on the ugly, interesting lady of dragons are dashed against the pitted rocks of the Pegasus’s words. He turns to look at her fully, this mare who smells of rock and sand and warmer places—a scent he unwittingly despises by association. He has never seen this mare before, this lady so quickly affected by the rhythms of his body, the tempo of rage that beats steadily beneath his skin. Things leap within; sudden anger, quick, dashing, yet it spars also with a savage joy he has never recognized, a depraved satisfaction at her reaction to him. Do his emotions really hang about his visage so easily? Is his wrath so physical, so present and tangible, that one can feel them radiate outward in molten, sickening waves? He learns. His hatred of another filly—one he cannot even contemplate without his lips curling in disgust—has seeped into the regard of this nameless speckled wench. He had not noticed before; he will be vigilant.

Does he care for her distress? No, not truly; he refuses to believe such foolish falsehoods. He is curious, though, for he has heard the name of a strange place, an unfamiliar territory blotted against an acquainted plan. She must be from there; this Pegasus hails from there as well. It would not do to try and fabricate something horrible with her so that he may see these mystery lands—but this mare? She is an opportunity. He does not want her to leave. Not yet.

So his brows rise as he looks at her—truly looking at her for the first time. He decides she’s ugly. He discovers that he detests spotted creatures. “You startled me,” he says plainly; boyish voice soft, explaining his plight. His tongue is smooth; it speaks no lies. Feathers had flown everywhere, suddenly. “If I’ve done the same to you, I apologize….It was not my intention.” His anger is not, was not, for this spotted creature. There are greater fools for vexation. He smiles again, quickly—becoming accustomed to the action, making it easy and genuine. Females seem so careless, so flighty; they move across the earth with abandon, leaving a wake of restless destruction, crashing into others, creating mischief—then whine in your ear if your eyes are not correct, or your smile is not easy and genuine.

His attentions are drawn back to their guest: the lady Reyna, sitting regent and pointedly sapphire in her confessed misperceptions of Helovia’s dragons. He does not know what she means by the magics she claims not to feel; her concepts are lost to him, utterly senseless. He blinks; his shoulders shrug. “I’ve never known a dragon to be large,” he says slowly, chewing on the thought that guides his tongue, “They breathe fire, but they’re small, flitting through the skies on leathered wings…” He thinks back to his Abraham’s dragon, she of white scales—that serpent that adorns his brother’s sable, corded neck. She was a tiny thing, he remembers; he still remembers her egg, and how its intrusion had puzzled him greatly.

He accepts her dry praise with equanimity; the swell of pride is evident only within the burbling cauldron of his inner passions. If there is greatness in his name, he will be the one to place it. He listens to her fantastic stories, stories of dragons and their roosts, their machinations, their fanciful architectures and evidently superior cultures. All of it falls on Reginald’s ears the same way as his father’s dragon fire--something long lost, something best forgotten; a relic of greater times, or perhaps the dream of something superior to life. She claims to have lived hundreds of years; he believes her a liar, and smiles in those orange eyes, excited by it.

Words return to home and a quandary that returns to the forefront of his mind. “I was raised in the wilds of this land,” he explains quietly, “I’ve never known a herd. I began to wander these hostile climes the moment I was able to wander from my mother’s tit.” Hmm, and now he cannot find her again; what cruel irony fate has decided to fall upon him. He looks again to the speckled Pegasus. He remembers that her name is Rei; he supposes it’ll be polite to address her as such. “Rei,” he begins, careful, hesitant, almost sincere, “You say you hail from the Dragon’s Throat? I’ve…never heard of such a place. I’m…curious.”


@[Rei]
"talk talk talk"