[Reginald CRASH!! I hope you don't mind! <3]

Reginald stands in the shield of the tree-line’s shadow, out of the full glare of heat. He does not like what he sees; a dark mare who is not his mother, two children who wade across the river towards her, a furred thing that rides upon the backs of the interlopers as though they were his vehicles of war.

Interlopers--that is what they are to Reginald. He does not understand that these lands are free terrain, open to every soul who happens to wander across the verdant, if sunbaked, soil. No, all that Reginald knows is that he was born here—he has called it home since the very first breath of air tickled his nostril, slithered in his lung. It was the rain-kiss air he was bred in, that he was baptized in; it is here that he knows his mother and father to reside when they are not called to the corners of the world for the sake of duty. Even if his parents do not deign to call this realm theirs, then dammit, he will claim what they will not. He has claimed the meadow. These intruders are not allowed.

But he does not charge into battle—no. Reginald knows himself now, and anger will undo him. So he studies them for a time; his eyes linger on the white-lightning that adorns the large mare’s neck and sides. She is big-bodied, but not as tall as mother is; he casts her thought aside, for he is unimpressed. Next, his eyes slide to the smaller female, a dainty little thing who seems very near his own age. Fillies—are they all so frail and sickly? Reginald snorts, taking in her speckled appearance, her dirty, rust-colored mane and tail, and decides she’s ugly. His standard for beauty is high; he has seen the epitome of it borne in the body of the little girl of the north. This…peasant holds no candle to it, and yet he is oddly drawn to her, intrigued with the discovery of another filly. Ugly or not, Reginald ponders the idea of approaching just to get a better look, for he wants to look at her.

He waits, however, and gazes on the young boy instead. Golden—larger—older, it seems like. Reginald is large for his age because of his bloodline—Abraham is larger still. This golden interloper seems taller in comparison, but Reginald knows it is only the age that makes this so, for if they were born in the same month he knows the fire-clad lad would not hold a candle to the twins. Reginald thinks this to boost his own arrogant swagger; he succeeds.

Stepping carefully over the underbrush, Reginald approaches the group, his pace steady, a bit hesitant, yet deliberate in its drive. They do not know of his weakness—and so, if he hides the pant deep in his breast, they will never know. Besides, he only wants to look at them for the moment. He plans no ill will for them—his intentions are as pure as the boyhood he lives in.

For now.



walk walk walktalk talk talk