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The Grey-Eye’d prince is decided: Fillies fucking bleed from the sea. He tries the ocean again, for it had been pleasant before the intrusion of the rusted child with the ugly yellow scar across that long, shapeless face. The sea breathes with moist, velvet air, tasseled in salt and the sleeping groan of some slumbering beast; it caresses deep umber sand with the touch of a lover, waves crashing upon the boundary between earth and some strange underwater domain. Reginald revels in the feeling of the world caving in on itself as he walks across the soggy dunes; the sea-kissed sand is cold against his fetlock, clinging to his feathers. Gulls cry; crabs are smashed underneath his hoof, some juvenile amusement rising in him like bile, pitched to and fro with the wild, grotesque merriment he has succumbed to—he remembers this game well. His fangs bare in a triumphant snarl. The light of the beach is flat, submerged as it is under the shadow of grey, billowing clouds. She is the same shade of white-washed lilac as the rest of the colorless beach; he does not see her at first, engrossed as he is in his villainous game of crustacean conquest. It is the music of her whispered philosophies that reaches him. Her words float upon the ocean’s gentle breath; he casts a glance over his shoulder, glimpsing a childhood memory, the image of glacial flowers that grew in the snow, despite the petals’ warmth. His wrath threatens underneath his tongue, a quick rage at the intrusion of this female creature into his little parcel of peace. Underneath his hoof a crab pinches at his feathers, battling the suspended appendage; it attempts to scuttle out from under his shadow; he pins one of its diminutive legs to the sand, and he feels the hazy grey skeleton crack. Pincers grasp and wave about in pain and fury, and the tiny creature’s protests are lost on a prince whose eyes have found a nymphet of flower beds. He remembers; she was a filly of words, and not the kind that belonged to his little spider minion. Those words were brash, stupid things; these were gilded lines of nonsense, a babble that he found curious and irksome. “You’re so far south,” he rasps, the whisper rough against the tender grace of the sea, “won’t you melt into the ground?” He lifts a brow; the cold of the northern reaches surrounds her like a cloud, clinging to her pelt desperately, for one cannot deny their heritage so easy. “There’s nothing to keep you frozen here.” He remembers how slender she had been before, a slight apparition of blooms; she remains infuriatingly thin-limbed despite whatever maturity she has suffered through. He never lied about her beauty, a useless thing in the past. It is useless now save for the curious way it tugs against something in the back of his mind, abrasive and invasive, a sensation that crawls and develops and grows in some obscure corner of his being. He wonders at it briefly; he kills the crab. "talk talk talk" R E G I N A L D Walk the razor's edge Cut into the madness Question all you trust |
--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!
--All force is allowed to be used against this character!
