_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

Reginald wonders in the pale moon light, if this is by the Sun God’s design: that the night should be heralded by a piercing chill creeping along the velvety blackness, that the stillness of an early morning and late, late night should be framed by frost, even in this, the most boiling of places. He patrols despite the hour; his hooves fall heavy and mechanical, stalking well-worn grooves in the sandstone, that well-marked path of patrols of long-past. It grows easier, he finds, to do these menial, trivial, idiotic things if he uses the time to muse. There is much he must muse.

Gods, is what crosses his mind. The ponderous Four that so clumsily governs the world in which he lives skates across his mind visions frequently, these days. The cold incases him, frosts his breath even as Ka’Ora’s wingtips cuts through the thin, stardust air. Reginald cannot locate Ka’Mate at this moment. It does not matter; he is unneeded.

Ka’Ora’s ponderings fall on starlight, and the strength of a full moon even as the darkness begins to break. Sunrise, he feels her thinking to herself, an unintended reminder for her master. Until sunrise. He will be relieved upon that hour; he will go rest in the warmth of a morning sun. So it had been ordered. Orders, orders.

They are becoming boring, quickly. He wonders if he is becoming master of is rage—if his cunning matures—or if the predictability of his days only numbs the blood. The serpent inside rustles, of course, but it is subdued and satisfied, in the meantime, by the occasional nightly hunt (for, he learns, a serpent needs not consume very often). He factors this boredom into the plot that curdles in his mind, the fantastic daydreaming tendency he had never completely shed from his colthood. Will he abide by boredom? Is there any capacity for a kingdom that is not predictable, and boring?

The sunrise is quiet when it arrives. It pierces through the dark horizon gently, calm, nudging it softly to the side so that the sun may reign supreme once again. It will take some time for his warmth to permeate the air—but the light continues to climb, bronze and brilliant and forcing the stars to compete for excellence in the heavens.

He stands to ponder the sunrise; the morning is still, and calm, and boring as he waits for his replacement. Just as he is ordered.

"talk talk talk"

_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

You.

His eyes look upward far too quickly for his liking (it is, after all, her line).

It is not an ugly, rust-colored creature that awaits him, heralding him with the light of the rising dawn upon her heels. No, it is another mare altogether, one with whom he had shared a twilit evening with in a world that had reflected the sunset in all corners. The edge in his eyes softens (he does not know his eyes had gone hard, eager) as he recognizes the pale grey body, the slim, gold-laced wings, the messy tail that nonetheless weaves behind a well-formed haunch with appropriate grace.

“You,” he says, and the difference is marked; it is pleasure that slips through his tongue, a smooth surprise lingering there, right against his teeth. He had guessed before that she was a follower of the Dragon’s Throat, by the way the sunlight wreathed her frame, highlighting a coat and a shape he found pleasing. It would’ve been a fine jest of irony if she were not, in any case. Here she stands, and he assumes himself correct; his shoulders relax from the tension of tedious, moonlit patrol. He continues to assume. She must be here to relieve him.

“The sun was setting the last time I saw you,” he breathes, and he’s not sure if the words are for her ears, “and now, it rises with your appearance.” He appraises her, as he appraises all mares with that quick, lazy rake of his eyes (they aren’t so polite, those things). He snorts, a subtle laughter, and for a moment those grey irises are hidden in the shadow of his brow tangled locks. “You’re built for the sun, it seems.”

Or, maybe, it’s built for you.

He does not notice the edges of her body, the rigid eyes that watch him. There's no reason to suspect her anger. Their last meeting had been…memorable, to say the least, and pleasant enough. He shakes the night from his mane, rolls the exhaustion from his shoulders, reminding her of those pleasant twilight things by example, for his pride refuses to allow himself to be lost in the possible shuffle of many nights (she may be a whore—he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care). He wonders if she is seeking a reprise; he supposes she has work to do, orders to follow. The possibilities are endless—but he is careful to play his part (always).


"talk talk talk"