_{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?

[OH NO OH NO WE'RE VEERING OFF-ROAD WE'RE GONNA--]


He is angry with Ka’Ora.

Poor, unfortunate harpy as she is. She is disgraced, ashamed and chastised; she hides from her master now, deep in the shadows of some unknown sky, to heal from her affront to his senses. She had sent him a visual from the air, the image of two dark stallions stamped across the tranquil serenity of the grove. She had sent the questioning thought--Who is?-- with the image of the red-eared demon child man splashed all across her words. It is Öde, he had been gracious enough to teach her. He is a friend.

Friend, she had preened, gliding on wide, powerful wings as she surveyed the other stallion, And he is Brother?

Oh, poor, poor harpy fool. Mistaking such a stranger for the master’s beloved twin. Oh, how great and terrible his anger was, laced within the calm, cutting mental voice. Does he look like Abraham? he asked cooly, and Ka’Ora could feel the pulse of his rage behind his words. Master was furious; master was dangerous.

She fled.

It is hard for Reginald to dispel that anger so quickly; he snorts, hard, and his breast expands, his edges and curves taut with the fury. He decides to see Öde and the stranger whom his bonded dares to call ‘brother’ with his own eyes; he is as curious as he is angered by her innocent, luckless slight upon his character. He descends, then, unto a place of quiet, hapless romance, where the odor of sex and passion is always cloying, always clinging.

He comes upon those two shadows—so very male, the air thrumming with the heat of it. It is automatic: he stops in his tracks, the white heat of the piss overtaking him as the thick, golden rope splashes upon the earth, draining the spitting rage even as his bladder empties. Ah, that is better. He is soothed in many ways.

*”…get's lonely this time of the year, and this time of the year has just started."*

“Öde,” he hails, finishing his trek and seeing that it was indeed the Red-Eye’d stud he had met that fateful day, discussing the nature of clouds. He sees the line of his chest, the fullness of his form; he remembers how rangy the boy had been, and Reginald is pleased by his health, how he seems to have grown from the weed of a colt he had been previously. “I interrupted,” he says, and his voice is ever that dark whisper, that slight ribbon that seems to curl almost unwillingly from his breast.

His eyes—they do not cut to the other stallion, more like trail to those dark features, those bloodied eyes, the line of his neck, his powerful, powerful legs. He studies him, wordlessly, and the thought is born in his skull: Should I have to know this one as well? The basilisk is thorough; he does not like wildcards.


[--CRASH]
"talk talk talk"