He remembers how it had stormed once upon a time; how the earth had throbbed and pulsed with the darkness of a pregnant cloud, how he had been drenched in the typhoon of rage, soaked in its waters, baptized in a blaze that continues to raze him to this day.

Eagles swoop above, radiant with the mist that obscures a land that has been freshly ravaged by spring rain; the air is damp and hangs heavily amongst the marble pillars that stand ever lovely and vigilant in the blooming glade. Ka’Ora marvels at the beauty of rainbow glass; Ka’Mate revels in the abundance of vermin, for everything has emerged and begun to breed now that the earth has thawed out once more. Food—so much food, so much BLOOD to be had! The Insane is wild with his youthful jubilation.

Reginald remains untouched by his bonded; their content does not affect him. He is alone in his passion as he stands in the pale shadow of the rotunda, his eyes scanning the kingdom he once laid claim to as a young boy. He remembers how the piss had flowed from him, etching itself into the cracks of the stone, a lace filigree; he remembers the mare that had approached him, then, when he was too small to appreciate the fullness of her scent and the promise that lurked beneath a ruined tail, despite her ugliness.

He stands there, and thinks of mares.

It will pass soon enough, as he emerges from his shell as an adult, hard and focused, glorious in his brawn and power. He thinks himself so mighty now, and yet the truth is far more humbling; he is naught but a child given the urges of nature, and he is a slave to it now, addicted to the way of nature that grips his loins like a vice. 

He thinks of mares.

He thinks of one, and it sets his whole body ablaze with  f u r y.

For he cannot stand that she is a mare, and that the sex has so much of a draw on him. It used to be he was impervious to the stupidity of the female--they were so weak! So useless!  All they ever did was stand around, bumbling and ludicrous and so proud in their speech. Princesses, temptresses. What good does it do to name and rename a useless thing? For that is exactly what a filly is—useless.

But then she blossoms into a mare, and nature forces him to understand what that means, and crave it. He craves the fillies of his childhood, wondering if they have blossomed in the way that nature has deemed fit—and the fire maiden is one such filly that is impossible to escape. His hate is strong for her, and it lingers in his body, just as the touch of manhood caresses the ideas into shape—

The Grey-Eye’d serpent widens his stance; his hips tauten, and once again a thick, golden stream escapes him, and he reaffirms his stake on his domain ( and conceals the lust in his blood as he does so).


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