Desreal: HI, MY NAME IS KURAI AND I HAVE NO FRIENDS; ANY/YOU

Snow falls in gentle spirals from the white sky, drifting down between the gnarled brown branches of the forest canopy and coming to settle on his metallic silver-blue back and folded, torn wings.

The wintry forest does not hide the Nightmare so well; he is striking against the grayscale snow and trees, his pale eyes matching the drifts and blankets covering bough and earth. He does not feel the cold; with the loss of his equine form came also the loss of his mortality and his physiological functions. Lightning and mercury replace blood in his veins. If there is still a heart inside of him it is decorative, a formality, a vestige of some reality that has long-since faded away. He stands there without moving, bemused.

Alshain will soon have grandchildren. They do not know that they’re born into the malicious blood-feud that plagues Kyprioth, Kratos, Altair, even Aquila (though he recalls Aquila with something of satisfaction).

And they will contend, in time, with Kurai’s own grandchild. Cyan, child of enthalpy and reaction, curious to no end and bound by neither loyalty nor morality.

Can Kurai hope to control him?

He had hoped Mab would help him influence the colt, but Mab seems to have dedicated herself heart and soul to the Desert, and in doing so demonstrates what Kurai sees as a disappointing weakness of character that startles him. The power-hungry are often blind to power itself. Kurai has no nation and he has no army, but there are few that do that would contend with him. Maybe it’s the scales, wings, and fangs.

A twig snaps up ahead, and Kurai snaps to attention.

Whoever meanders down that path will see him – Nightmare, wings held half-poised at his sides, fiercely elegant head lifted in sinister, snarling pride, and a calculated malice in pale white eyes.

Kurai would like to welcome you to his Desreal.