_{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?

—It looks up at him, even as the beast takes his hoof away.

She looks up. A filly. His daughter. He cannot deny those eyes; he cannot deny his blood within their veins.

His daughters.

Ka’Ora’s heart thunders in her chest; she knows her work is not done. Master, listen, please, listen, her thoughts are quick to form, and she is careful with her words. Young babies. Your babies. Grow big, grow strong, train! Train, train, train!

Reginald is furious indeed with Ka’Ora’s antics—but he cannot help but be impressed with her daring, with her cunning words, regardless of her mercy for the abominable sex. He had not told her about his heart-sickness as a foal; he had told no one of his weaknesses since becoming a man. He would will himself to forget them completely if he were a perfect, soulless creature—but Ka’Ora, she is the keeper of his spirit, and he supposes she had gazed upon the memories of his suffering childhood through his subconscious, through the waking dreams he cannot design. He wonders how long she has known, how long she has kept those secrets of his past tucked in her breast, careful to avoid his notice and his wrath. Smart, smart harpy she is, wily in her passionate love. She knows how he feels about his childhood.

She must be desperate indeed to use such a weapon against him.

The battle between their wills clamors within him; he does not notice how the stunted white lion attacks Ka’Mate, willing him to flee from those alabaster claws. Ka’Mate leaps into the air, indignant, for it is his meal to savor! His wings beat furiously as he endeavors to escape the lion’s pounce; claw-tips raze his tail feathers, though he dodges the shot, even as he leaves the foal’s ruined face in the dust. Master has not said to kill this lion, yet, nor has he allowed him to eat the filly. It is strange, how preoccupied master is.

And yes—he is preoccupied. These babies cry shrilly, their lungs powerful even as their limbs and body are nothing but baby-fat and cartilage. He is gazing into the golden eyes of the filly he was so close to killing—and all the while, Ka’Ora is speaking quick, well-timed words into his ear.

Blood is good, good blood, lovely foals—your daughters, master, master’s daughters!

Daughters, Ka’Ora, he spits at her. The filly is a failed creature. You know this.

‘Cari failure? Mother failure?

He could’ve wrung her neck for such offense—but she is quick to talk.

Your blood, good blood, they your blood. Train blood—good, good kin!

He considers her implication. Every worthless, spineless, complaining, gross filly he had encountered in his youth had been the spawn of some weaker bloodline; he does not remember having ever encountered a female of his own kin, besides his mother, his beautiful little Macaria. Perhaps it is all in the blood? And he has seen how useful the mare could be, with her fiery (albeit naïve) passion, her dedication to the cause, and those warm, warm lips. The filly is a nuisance, the mare is a tool, and these children—they are of his blood.

His eyes tear from the filly; he turns his gaze away, pensive with the implications, the possibilities, the choices he is faced with. Ka’Ora goes silent, still; she knows it would be unwise to over-press her master. His teeth grind in the back of his mouth, thinking, thinking—and it is only when the Mother of his daughters speaks to him, all kind of fiery harpy-fire, that he is brought back to earth.

*”What sort of a man are you if you would slaughter defenceless children? Your own children?”*

His eyes widen—manic. The grey pierces into her blues, and something dark comes into the set of his mouth, the edge of his fang. “I am the sort of man you fucked,” he hisses, and there is a deep pleasure there on his tongue, knowing how he anguishes her with his actions, his words—knowing she can do nothing about it, ruined as she is from giving birth to a monster’s children.

His children. The thought settles in his mind in an eerie way.

His eyes study his children once more—the daughter with a face ravaged by the great harpy, though she still breathes; the daughter who he so nearly crushed, with eyes of a gentle gold he cannot stomach straight. There is a pause; Ka’Ora holds her breath; Ka’Mate is waiting for order to feast.


“…Are they named?” he says roughly to the silver harlot.


"talk talk talk"