_{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?

Reginald wonders in the pale moon light, if this is by the Sun God’s design: that the night should be heralded by a piercing chill creeping along the velvety blackness, that the stillness of an early morning and late, late night should be framed by frost, even in this, the most boiling of places. He patrols despite the hour; his hooves fall heavy and mechanical, stalking well-worn grooves in the sandstone, that well-marked path of patrols of long-past. It grows easier, he finds, to do these menial, trivial, idiotic things if he uses the time to muse. There is much he must muse.

Gods, is what crosses his mind. The ponderous Four that so clumsily governs the world in which he lives skates across his mind visions frequently, these days. The cold incases him, frosts his breath even as Ka’Ora’s wingtips cuts through the thin, stardust air. Reginald cannot locate Ka’Mate at this moment. It does not matter; he is unneeded.

Ka’Ora’s ponderings fall on starlight, and the strength of a full moon even as the darkness begins to break. Sunrise, he feels her thinking to herself, an unintended reminder for her master. Until sunrise. He will be relieved upon that hour; he will go rest in the warmth of a morning sun. So it had been ordered. Orders, orders.

They are becoming boring, quickly. He wonders if he is becoming master of is rage—if his cunning matures—or if the predictability of his days only numbs the blood. The serpent inside rustles, of course, but it is subdued and satisfied, in the meantime, by the occasional nightly hunt (for, he learns, a serpent needs not consume very often). He factors this boredom into the plot that curdles in his mind, the fantastic daydreaming tendency he had never completely shed from his colthood. Will he abide by boredom? Is there any capacity for a kingdom that is not predictable, and boring?

The sunrise is quiet when it arrives. It pierces through the dark horizon gently, calm, nudging it softly to the side so that the sun may reign supreme once again. It will take some time for his warmth to permeate the air—but the light continues to climb, bronze and brilliant and forcing the stars to compete for excellence in the heavens.

He stands to ponder the sunrise; the morning is still, and calm, and boring as he waits for his replacement. Just as he is ordered.

"talk talk talk"