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09-28-2014, 01:22 AM
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He remembers her so forcefully it is almost gut-wrenching; she is beautiful, yes, but her condescending demeanor is what makes her, that self-possessed air of almost domineering entitlement that makes her stand out in his memory. Her head held high; her pose against the misty sky, delicate and demure; her eyes as they slide across him, daring to judge him, his greatness, his newfound power. He sneers at her under her scrutiny, flashing white teeth in a visage that would have been handsome if only his eyes were softer, warmer—something humane. It amuses him, her self-possession; she is naught but glass and pretty flowers, but there is something that gives her blind confidence, something over her shoulder perhaps, on the horizon, a brother, a father…? Certainly it cannot be that white vermin of a tweety bird that flits around her, red-eyed and suspicious; Reginald eyes the creature, and he feels something pinch his fetlock. He looks down briefly; the crab remains valiant in death; it clings to his feathers nobly, continuing the fight from Hades. His question is answered before long. He starts to wander toward the lapping, groaning waves, aiming to wipe the crap carcass away from his leg, when she begins her wispy monologue. Of course, it is a filly thing she says—something long-winded and self-serving, underlying what awesome bloodlines she may or may not possess. Yet, curiously, her speech is not simple or slow; she does not seem the utter idiot that her sex demands. Foam bubbles around Reginald’s shins as the waves wax around him; the murky water is sluggish to him, the salt sticky as it sifts through his feathers. He paws the water, flinging the crab carcass off his hoof, through the air, stealing all dignity from the fallen warrior. A dark ear remains cocked toward the aloof little fairy: he listens. *"It was all destroyed, you know—they're all dead and gone.”* He cannot help himself; he snorts into the salty waves, shoulders shaking slightly with the rumble of his soft laughter. “Dead and gone,” he repeats, whispering to the ocean—sparing a sidelong glance toward the maid of glass. “How great could they have been?” The name Cinnoru means nothing to him; the titles of the Raindancer and the Firesword lack whatever grandeur she believes them to possess. Perhaps in another country they are whispered before bed, to frighten children of grand monsters who prey upon the disobedient; perhaps they are spoken with reverence at the round-table still, in councils old as time that still congregate around the crumbling stones. It does not matter to Reginald; the Grey-Eyed Prince was raised in the wild, and everything dies in the wild. His tail drags into the sea; he weaves it behind him, a serpent cutting through the seafoam. He must lift his legs now, for the water surges the further he wanders in; he lifts a hoof, and a grimace of distaste disfigures his brow: seaweed clings to his leg. “Tell me something, Princess of Flowers,” he croaks; the Prince throws the seaweed off and away from him. He turns to the filly, a great boulder in the sea, gazing once more with burning eyes of grey. “What is greatness to you? What makes something grand in your eyes?” @[Lothíriel] "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!
