_{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?

Once upon a time, it was a pensive occasion for the Grey-Eye’d prince to once more stalk the lands of his infancy and first fantastic series of daydreams—but this is not the case this day. He crunches through a field gently frosted, his heavy steps crunching with every fall of his massive hooves as he makes the trek down south. His vassals have been re-summoned, for it is permitted for them to keep his company now. Ka’Mate is not too far from where his master travels; he is grounded for once, pillaging a newly-discovered vole’s den, his savage beak dipping deep into the discovered den, finding infants, shrieking, shattered parents. He gorges on genocide, and he will surely leave the den empty, defiled. Ka’Ora stays in the master’s shadow, riding his wither as she is wont, her balance careful against the rocking of her master’s lope. She is no nuisance to the serpent, that is for sure; she will never make her presence a detriment.

He reeks of woman. It has been some time since his foray into the northern waste (his vacation) and yet her blue-eye’d scent lingers somewhat amongst the stale sweat that clings to him. He would smirk a the memory, if he were a creature to smirk at such trivial things; the everlasting fire in his belly simmers with a satisfied purr, subdued for the time being, a certain type of refreshment stealing over his bones as he makes is way down, down, further south, homeward where there is work to be done.

He could not bath in such a frigid place—and as such, his pelt smells in a way that could distract him if he were to allow it, and incriminate him if someone had a mind to charge him (although, of what crime, he is not so sure). He does not understand a mare’s mindset, not yet at least—and he knows at least one of his leads is such a woman. He has become cautious around the female, prodding them with small experiments, watching and waiting to see if the silly irrationality of their filly days lingers about in a mare’s psyche.

Beware, he says, and Ka’Ora flutters from his back as he falls to his knees, dropping his bulk to the frost-covered ground. He rolls there, snorting, using the sharp blades of dead, frozen grass to wipe away the outer layer of debris from his back. He doubts it will completely wipe away the scent of woman--no matter. He is not so bothered about that, anyway. He itches. 

"talk talk talk"