And so it begins, once again. He thought himself in control of his passion. He thought himself master over the anger in his breast that threatens daily to break through the prison of his abdomen, a starving blaze looking for kindling, for the kind of destruction that nourishes. He thought he could handle himself since the asinine spider of a filly intruded on his home that day, playing a game choreographed to the time of an aberrant rhythm. It’s all for naught; the grey-eyed prince is mistaken.

A foreign scent comes upon him, and he closes his eyes for a span of moments. He tries to calm the boiling blood in his veins. He eases his over-worked heart, trying to slow its rapidly growing pace. He breathes the bitter air of autumn-time, the breeze that carries the hint of moisture and future rainfall. The sun tries to stream through the break in the velvet grey clouds—he does not see its warmth and comfort. Try not to hate,, he hears his mother say. And he tries—he tries desperately for that woman.

He contemplates his actions; he could walk away. He could go to the river and drink from it; he could wander off and graze upon what’s left of the meadow’s greenish grasses to try and ignore the knowledge of this intruder on his door-step. He asks himself: Does he truly wish to be slave to his base desires? Does he want for mindless blood-shed, to be shackled to an impulse he knows he cannot act upon? This is a fruitless anger of his; Reginald is wise enough to know it. He knows his weak heart and brittle bone. Is it so hard for him to grow and wait for the time he will be old enough, large enough, strong enough for others to fear his shadow, to avoid his scent—to heed his demand for privacy and permission, for the right to breathe the air he happens to inhabit? Can he let it go?

“Abraham,” his voice raises from its customary whisper; he opens his eyes. He cannot let go; he cannot abide by this. “Abraham, come here. I need you; there’s a stranger.” The limit has been broken; his patience is worn. He subdues his anger, though, because he does not attack based on the fires of his blazing fury. No; his actions are according to principle. He has decided to uphold his own laws, and if his dam and sire refuse to aid him in his endeavor—so be it.


@[Abraham]
@[Kiara]
Speak

The white streak moved across the bleak landscape, wings spread as she glided just above the ground. Abraham stood at his brothers hip, his head resting against the grey's solid, youthful figure. The colt's eyelids were dropping rapidly over his oddly colored eyes, the sweet whisper of sleep teasing him gently. The youngling felt the knife of fatigue pluck at his hide while his bonded and his twin seemed to be stepping into liveliness. Every move Reginald made brought the onyx prince back to reality. After being shaken out of his sleep one too many times for his liking, Abraham lifted his crowned head. The hybrid colt shook his dome, forelock twisting around his horns greedily. A sigh escaped his dark lips. Abraham looked out towards Gwyn, now with a small, unlucky mouse between her young jaws. Abraham wished for her to join him, and she obeyed by the pull of his spirit. She tilted her own crowned head back and swallowed her morsel whole. Turning to look at him, Gwyn chirped and blinked her fiery eyes.

Shifting gently, she spread her wings and lifted off the ground, pumping herself to glide back towards the twins. A light song twirled from her lips as she landed on Abraham's withers, grasping onto his mane and highest measuring point with her draconian, clawed fingers. Abraham flinched at the sharpness of her digits scratching at his skin, but the colt bit his tongue. He would become numb in time as the scars took shape of her figure, and she would learn to become more skilled in managing her dangerous daggers.

Softly, then, Reginald spoke. It was louder than his usual whisper, and it grasped Abraham's attention fully. Abraham's dark ears flicked up, alert and erect, and a red flash of danger danced across his mind for the sake of Gwyneverre. "Where, brother?" Abraham asked, chin tucking slightly with the training of Circe a beacon in the back of his consciousness. Reginald had always told Abraham that strangers were not welcome in their meadow.

Neither mother nor father were in close range, and so the young knights would have to avenge their home from the bastardous hooves of whatever was coming. "What shall we do, Reginald?" He asked, tail flicking behind him in an annoyed manner. Gwyn, atop his crest clinging to his mane, growled lightly, even already in her young state feeding off of the emotions of her bondmate.

The clouds darken; the air becomes heavier with moisture. It will rain soon, and indeed, the grey-eyed prince hears the distant rumble of thunder. In the bleakness of the flat shadow, he stands atop a hill that overlooks his grand meadow, his luscious home; he sees there the wandering child of a spotted mess, the sex of this creature unclear as eyes of grey glare and scrutinize, stabbing into the flesh of the interloper. Reginald does not care if this is a colt of a filly who intrudes upon his homeland—he doesn’t care. He does not want this insect. He is done with the infestation of insects of his home, and he has decided a carcass will be his warning, instead of his words.

A white shadow follows his brother as Abraham heeds his brother’s call. Reginald does not turn to look at his brother’s dragon—he does not need to. He knows her well enough; her pale scales, her fiery eyes, her delicate-and-powerful wings as they glide on the rain-bringing breezes. He does not look upon her again; he is irritated enough. “Look,” he says to his brother—he speaks harshly, but the bite is caused by his growing wrath; he indicates the intruder, pointing with his cruel, sharpened horn. “Not today,” he growls, and were he a wolf, his hackles would raise, his fangs would be bared in his snarl. “I’m done with this, brother. It will end.”

He marches down the hill; he hopes his brother follows. The curses in his mind double, for his heart already beats timidly in his chest, anticipating the attack, panicking at its master’s ire. That wretched pant pulls at his throat, and he swears, hard. He grows frenzied; he’s lost his calm. He is a trapped predator, his claws reaching from between the bars of his ribcage, his jailor. “…Abraham, help me,” he says, and it pains him to ask for help—the shame is physical to him, hot swords cleaving into his very real, visceral pride. But he asks, because he does not hide from his dear brother—he does not need to. “Tear into him,” he spits his poison, his tongue lashing, his words bitter knives, “Rip him up, make him bleed. Split up his—slice open his throat, slash out his windpipe. I want him squealing apologies, I want him gargling his own blood, I want him DEAD!!” He shouts his words near the end of his litany of death; he nears the peasant, but he does not care if the child hears him. Let him know of his mistake, let him know the identities of the angels of death that bear down on him.


@[Abraham]
@[Kiara]
Speak