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Something smells. The air turns putrid—it was not offensive originally, but Reginald feels the air spoil, detects the curdle of the wind as though it has decided to go sour. He stops in his tracks. There remains a waft of warmth from the lava pit some ways away. Something stirs regardless of the field of ashes. He listens. The peace of his mind is shattered; the memories that surround this place are broken. It is now time for action.

*“Looks like I’ve caught you.”*

He turns to meet the voice—for he does indeed know it. She is there beside him, as though painted from the black dust from the hot breath of the lava. His eye is contemptuous as he turns toward her—the contempt turns into a grimace. She is not a thing to fear; this was demonstrated while she foolishly gamboled with him in his home, ignoring the bite of his eye, the hiss of something very real and dangerous. No, she’s not fear-worthy in the slightest; she is a foolish little girl who happens to not be scrawny. What she is at this moment is a disgusting thing indeed.

The pull of his nose is a disdainful one as he drinks in her appearance; the eyes that leak black puss, the tiny, jerking legs that reach out from her torso. These last send a thought of faint amusement sparking through his mind—she did not lie after all when she called herself a spider. It tickles him in a grotesque display of childish gaiety, and yet the decay of her flesh, the stink of her hide, the drip of her fluid and the reveal of the ivory bone remain distasteful. Reginald does not like what he sees; he stares at her, drinking in her appearance as greedily as he is wont, though there is no pleasure in his gaze.

She speaks of eating his flesh; her words crawl in an arachnid’s fashion indeed as her teeth flashes for his flank. Grey ears pin as he leans away from her, but his movements are slow, his reaction hazy and distracted as his eyes continue to inspect every detail of her horrid appearance. Then her teeth clamp down on his skin—quickly, yes, but it is very sharp, very real pain that penetrates the bubble of his observation. The grey-eyed prince snorts. He is done observing. He has decided he does not like this creature with her presumptuous teeth and gross eyes of black tar—she was better looking as a sleek, beetle-backed mortal. This world does not need more monsters.

“No,” he growls as her voice slithers toward his ear, an irritating fly, a daring spider dangling from her brittle web. She shrieks madly; he roars in unison, his voice straining against chords that are used rarely above a murmur. His mother has taught him how to use his body; how his horn is as much a shield as it is a sword. It is minimal effort to shift his body, to face the insolent puppet of decay; it is not a face she lunges toward, but the smooth, crystalline edge of his horn, poised to break the skin of the interloper. He does not even need to lunge—she lunges for him, diving onto the immortal spear of her destruction. Or embarrassment. Reginald does not care, but he is done with this unbridled insect. She will be tamed.


@[Jorogumo] --(Sorry it took so long! ;_; )

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His horn slides in much easier than he expects; the weight of the filly is great as it presses down upon his form. He backs up hastily; the smooth surface of his weapon pulls out without a sound, sleek like the fox as it plumbs the black, tarish blood from her decrepit body. It spews forth from the wound. The black ass of the ground becomes congealed with the dark substance, a sinister puddle indeed. Yet she laughs; she moans in most indecent pleasure, and Reginald stops his retreat from her, intrigued and disgusted by her reaction. The intrigue grows beyond his disgust—it is a curious metaphor to him, for her to enjoy the destruction he brings to her flesh.

“What’s wrong with you,” he murmurs, a subdued command for her tongue to move, the curious lilt to his voice burdened with the hint of a tremble. He begins to feel anxious—her sickness is worrisome indeed. He wonders if he, too, should catch the virus that causes her fits of giggles, her carelessness to her person; he wonders of the blood sliding down his horn onto the bridge of his nose will creep into his veins and poison him as well. Yet he feels perfect. All things about him are as they usually are—even his feeble heart begins to grow in tempo, for the excitement of their encounter infects him, even if her plague does not.

All this speak of devouring him; all this talk of being mutilated by his horn. He does not comprehend her desires—he cannot fathom her pleasures. He grinds his molars as she thrashes at him wildly, begging for his horn again, beguiling him into battle. He does not rise to her bait; he backs away from her advances steadily, his walk calm even as his heart beats furiously against his ribcage. A pant pulls at his lips; he ignores it. “Come for me,” he croons suddenly; inspiration has hit his tongue. A fit of indignation grips his mind, a young boy’s irritation. He’s done with whatever game she has decided for them—she always gets to choose the game.
It’s his turn.

“You want to eat this?” he whispers, a hiss, a growl and a laugh rolled into one; he practically bears his teeth at her, the leer dripping from his eyes, falling from his lips. “Come here. Catch me.” I double-dog dare you. He backs away from her; the air behind him grows ever warmer. Fear threatens behind his eyes, but he is excited.


@[Jorogumo]

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*”The darkness devoured me.”*

Reginald listens. The words that fall from the lips of the spider are the only words that matter—the only ones that are not dripping with the venom of her own foolish ego. The darkness, she says. The darkness that threatens on all horizons, the imminent destruction that sends curious sensations throughout his body, the reverb of terror that affects him so little nowadays. He feels it, yes—but the scream of the dying child in the fire cleansed his soul of the emotion, the flames of his blind enjoyment searing it off of his bone and sinew so that his apathy is complete. He should run; he does not. The black blood slides down his face, a river etching itself into his hide. He is here now, and it is here that he has business.

The spider seems to regain her decorum—which is sad. Her decorum is irritating, loud, uncouth; she is a filly in the extreme, a flimsy creature with vices that threaten to sour the prince’s mouth. The shame lies in her potential, for she was not some frail, ugly creature who wandered too far and got her head stuck in the serpent’s den. If only she would focus, there could be strides made—or he could just kill her if that sort of focus is beyond her. Reginald does not believe this. The darkness devoured me, she said. And now here she stands, a smelly, awful beast who talks on, and on, and on about some childish games of hers. Here Reginald stands, now the only child of their company, and the crown of branches sits firmly on his brow as the black blood drips from the side of his face, rancid and weak against him.

She chatters on; her voice grows annoying. Reginald pins his ears and his tail lashes. His anger is kept in check—but he allows the irritation to spring forward, for there are things to be done, and she must listen. “Enough,” he says, his voice rising above the custom of his whisper; he opens his eyes wide as he stares at her, no longer playful, no longer reserved and calculating. The grey of his iris splinters like granite and his horn remains poised, though the spider demonstrates a peculiar trick. Smoke engulfs her for moments; she materializes before him, reaffirming her monstrous nature. Reginald snorts, upset by the sudden movement; he feels the impulse to back away. He does not obey it.

“No more games, spider,” he spits into her milky eyes and into the blood that pools at her feet, into whatever egotistical bug has crawled into her presumptuous little brain. “You played with the darkness,” he accuses evenly; it’s not a question, “You toyed around and now you are a ruined freak. Enough playing.” He stares into her eye; he lifts his horn to do so, speaking to the one who spoke to him moments before, relaying her fate. “Rip the flesh from my bones if that’s what you want,” he dares, taking an exaggerated step backward; his chest stretches, his neck is taut, and whatever muscle he inherited from his father’s blood is apparent, displayed for her, an offering to her madness,“Go ahead and act like the disgusting creature you turned yourself into. Go on,” he snaps, and his voice rises as the fire burns in his eyes, escaped from the kiln of his heart, and he is suddenly mad, “GO ON!!”

Or run, and leave me be, you idiot spider.


@[Jorogumo]

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She screams at him, and he laughs. Her venom spits in his eyes and she curses the air he breathes with hellfire; and gleefully the amusement does come to him, because he knows the wisdom in his words by her angry outburst. For her anger comes from the wound he has twisted--the wince and the hurt is evident in the foreign oaths she shouts at him. True, her mouth runs intolerably once again--If only she would stop talking, he muses ruefully, and learn to listen-- he is glad in her reaction to his accusations. It only means he is right, as he knows he is--and he lets her unleash her spleen against him, uncaring for her words, for they mean nothing. Her faulty ego, her stubborn pride and fear--they mean nothing.

And so, as she lunges for him, he throws his head backward in reaction to her fantastic, grotesque speed. He does not try to escape--for he knows it's futile against her monstrous abilities; she has been made powerful by abomination. There is more to it, however. That black, sickly-looking horn of hers catches the hide of his chest, grasps his skin, traces a thin line there across the cavity of future brawn--it attacks him, ruins his flesh, causes his blood to bead, then trickle, then spill down his fur onto the ashen ground because he commanded it.

Go ahead and act like the disgusting creature you turned yourself into. He gave her his law--and she obeyed it. Something wild erupts in the colt's kiln of a soul, dangerous and erratically excited despite the pain of his wound.

He knows what she's for.

The wound of his chest is shallow--but it does not stop the pain or the fear of his beating heart. It pounds rapidly in his chest; the imminent pant catches in the back of his throat. He stares into the dead white of her eyes, and his own grey irises smile in knowing triumph. She can talk and talk and talk all she wants: her jargon is dead in the water. "Jo-ro-gu-mo," he tests underneath his breath; it is a foreign name like the strange tongue she speaks in, a cacophony of syllables that tie together in a clash of displeasing harmony: it suits her just fine. "You are done being the victim?" he asks her, louder this time, for she has run from him and his words are meant for her ears now, "Break from the chains of this disgusting form. You are done being left behind? Stop running away. You wish for me to burn?" His eyes widen once more, blazing again with the light of his restless, angry, voracious spirit, "Too late. I'm already on fire."

He takes a step back--his chest screams in protest. Blood oozes from his shallow cut. Black tar continues to cling to his face, framing his eyes, his luminous horn. "Don't listen if you don't care to, Jorogumo," he says, quieter, his voice disappearing in the wound, "Call me stupid--disappear in smoke. It doesn't matter. Blood does not lie, and I bleed red."

He turns; he's done with the fire and the gem-studded ash. He needs the cave. There is a spring there, and he will wash his cut. "Come on," he says to her. He does not request her presence; he does not ask of her obedience.

He commands it, for now he knows her.


@[Jorogumo]

(Selkie, whether or not Joro follows is up to you, of course ^^ But either way, Reggie OUT)