_{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?

What a bright little sunray she is.

She speaks—and speaks, and speaks, and Reginald’s eyes widen, his brows rising as the words tumble from her (admittedly pretty) little lips. He normally detests such divulges of speech: irksome, womanly things it is, for someone to bare themselves so quickly, so willingly, and always about absolutely nothing. He forgives this woman, easily, because, for once, the things that tumble from the lips of a whore find themselves useful.

The former Queen of the Edge. Something tightens in his haunches.

He watches and listens—dutifully, regarding her with a complacent mask, for her demeanor is light and breathy, a bubble floating upon the sunset air, the now-mild chill of a dying season. He imagines her—Queen, sitting regent upon a throne of salt and seashells, her hair adorned and her eyes dripping with the crystalline tears of a fairy. It is a caricature of a Queen, surely. He knows they are not the ethereal spirits of a child’s fancy, as many fillies might believe. They are women of state; they must be hard of tongue, forward of mind and intent. There is a doubt lingering in the back of his mind, that such a frothy individual could have lead a nation (under the murderous shadow of the Moon, no less).

He wonders if she’s a liar. He wonders if she’s insane, especially with her talk of running.

His smile is dazzling and handsome, set as it is against dark lips. “Indeed,” he answers, for he knows what it’s like to be away from home for long (it is essential that he agrees, to put her mind at ease), “Perhaps, I could—“

He is interrupted.

By dessert? he wonders.

It is another mare—this one marred by dapples, but it’s is a slight disfigurement, nothing drastic to mar the otherwise full body that is useful indeed. Even better; this scent clearly hails from green hills and sparkling waters, and the tip of a lion’s tail curls ever so much, so pleased he is with the appearance of a second helping.

“There, now,” he says with a sly playfulness, those grey eyes resting upon the painted lady of insanity, “You don’t seem to be forgotten at all, do you?”

Old friends. He’ll watch for some time, this history lesson playing out in front of him as the mares embrace; Ka’Ora lands nearby, perched high in the treetops, watchful, alert. She smells scales. “Kahlua,” he breathes, “Brisa. A pleasure. It seems you won’t be so lonesome after all, huh?”

"talk talk talk"