_{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?

He watches them, those babes he had decided so swiftly that they should die in their feminine crime; he watches them squirm about, tiny black bodies breathing regardless of his hasty wrath. Hasty, he decides; his actions had been rash, filled with passionate anger with the foal, the detestably inconsistent tendencies of the woman. She is not the first he has had in his lifetime—and yet her body is the first to choose, inexplicably, the hard frost of the frozen months to quicken his seed, and deliver them in this world. His seed. His children.

His children. Ka’Ora holds her breath. She feels how those words, that idea, shifts in her master’s brain.

They wiggle beneath them as best as they can—for, of course, he must concede their newborn status, and allow them that weakness of newbirth. There is one covered in blood by his doing, and he sees how she refuses the feeble ministrations of her mother, how defiant she is, even in the new spirit of her life. He watches how the younger sibling, despite her near-death, craves the side of her sister—and stands to see her, to walk over to the other dark filly. The struggle is evident in a newborn’s bones, yet she proves herself determined, and, regardless of the danger presented in the shape of her own father, she risks it anyway, and takes what it is she desires—that is, the side of her sister.

Defiant. Determined. They build their character in his mind, so soon. They both look up at him—with fierce eyes of blue grey, with soft orbs of inquisitive gold. They become more than fillies in that instant; the potential is seen there, in their souls. He recognizes.

Something in his mind becomes certain, and Ka’Mate bursts into the canopy of the trees, screaming his impatience, his disappointment, his hunger-- while Ka’Ora cannot stop the trill from breaking from her throat, her talons releasing the foreleg of her master. The decision has been made.  

The mother scolds him, uselessly, for he cares not for the irritated warble of her ruined corpse. His ears train only on the names she had already christened his—his children.

Oizys; goddess of misery. Enyo; goddess of war.

He turns the names in his mind; he caresses them between his teeth.

“Oizys,” a dark croon, “Enyo,” a wicked hum. It is phenomenal, what she has done in this time of charged, electric hatred flowing between the two of them: he finds his ego stroked sensuously once more by her skilled ministrations, his pride purring with daughters named as goddesses. Could he mold them into goddesses? Could they be reared in his image: great, glorious monsters, rich with blood and the legacy of legends?

His eyes—they soften somehow, resting upon the daughters as they feel their bodies, train themselves, even in that moment, for greatness. “Hmm,” he says, and that is his only sign of approval. Yes, she has named them well.

“Are you dying?” he asks—blandly, the care and concern pointedly missing from his words. He only wonders if he needs to take charge of their wellbeing, or if she will be strong enough to rear them passed the milkteeth. His interest is clearly waning; he will be gone, soon, if there is nothing he need do.


"talk talk talk"