_{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?

So the harlot will survive, then. The Grey-Eye’d nods once, acknowledging her fortitude. She has proven herself to be vexing of the mouth and the mind, like all others of her sex—although, it seems, the strength he had seen in her previously proves itself sure. For her to be his first dam is not such a disgrace as it could be.

Ka’Ora’s heart beats easier as she surveys the calming of her master’s waters. The more he contemplates the situation at hand, the more his mind churns with ease, with something gratifying coming to rest upon the idea of his children. He has ever been the daydreamer; even then, in his mind’s eye, he imagines the lives of the fillies before him, those lives he had been so eager to snuff, and he sees promise in them, a grand design he had missed in the abhorrent error of their sex. Ka’Ora sees what he contemplates. Her heart gives a weak, futile flutter of worry; she knows better than the hope for more than the spared lives of the infants. The horrors of the future bellow only in the future, and for now they are given the chance to grow and be children. She must be grateful for that.

A grey ear cocks forward, and Reginald’s eye cuts to the dam even as she speaks of her place in the Edge, of the ambiguity of the children’s paternity and her role in it. The Edge--Reginald knows this place as the kingdom where his Father reigned as King, before the tides of battle swept the land and his warlord sire chose to seat himself instead on the throne of the Hidden Falls. The politics of the herds are lost on Reginald; he does not know how he feels about his daughters associated with that land.

He continues to gaze down upon the silver woman—contemplating her, wondering who she is that she must renounce her role as mother. She is no common mare, that much is certain, the knowledge pacifies him, as well as the knowledge that no one knows whom it was that sired these children. It is a detail he did not anticipate, although he suspects that it will be beneficial later down the road, to set up his children as ghosts—poltergeists. “You have my word to secrecy,” he says, and his gaze locks upon her own, “if only I have yours.” No, no, he does not think it would do well to broadcast to the Dragon’s Throat that he has sired children outside of the herd’s boundaries. He remembers how Gaucho had pried and hemmed and hawed over Reginald’s decision to remain a part of his family—he does not need that sort of righteous snooping now.

He surveys the scene, how his daughters curl themselves against the warm side of their mother, weak with sleep—how they lay there in the deep emerald forest, how, if it weren’t for the blood and the thick, cloying air of distrust, it could’ve been a happy scene of a new family, their first, bright portrait.

He turns, and walks out of the frame.


[Reginald OUT! Good game! :D]
"talk talk talk"