speak

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! ;_; )