Hello! He hears her call, he feels the joy and shudders against it. How did he get to be like this? Was he born this way? Twisted tales wind through labyrinthian years of torture and damnation, hiding what was his past even from him. All he knows now is darkness, his soul blackened by the hand of the devil, promising eternal salvation in the fires below. And he will go there eagerly, but not until it is his time, and then he will challenge Beelzebub himself for the throne in the kingdom of liars and thieves, rapists and plunderers, marauders and cheats. But that time is not now. That time is in the future, and it will come, but he is not ready yet. Today, he lives.

Screams crash against his ears and he revels in the fear that taints their voices. He can feel their life forces draining, sucking away from their bodies, siphoning from them and entering into him. He feels his weakness begin to turn to strength, his hunger begin to wane, his arteries begin to pulse with life. The devil's watchdogs begin to turn their eyes from him, content that he should not fall into their hungry grasps this day. He has been close to death, but he always walks the line. He tip-toes to the edge of his strength, begging Atropos and her sisters to take his life-line and severe it, plunging him to the Well of Souls. Still, one of Hades' minions keeps an eyes on the stallion. He does not trust the beast to know his own strength. Too many times he has tested the Fates. Too many times he has tripped and not fallen. The odds are against him.

As the girls writhe, crashing into one another and one falling to the ground, he sees their nightmares. He sees the girl jumping from the cliff, he sees the wolfs biting and ripping, he sees the fire burning the overo's beloved brother and hears his name- Fuhrer. He hears Ciro, Rika, Rena and he knows the girls pain and he prods again into their minds, trying to strengthen the hold he has on them. And then a new sounds comes, and he turns his head, attention to the girls waning for a moment, as he finds the source of the bellow.

The stallion. Quilyan. He has not expected the winged one to attack, not expected him to come to the aid of the girls whom he will soon commit to an asylum. It is a flaw in his plan, a miscalculation, and he hardly has time to tense his muscles before the pegasus comes down upon him. He is hit, hooves scrambling to find purchase against the stony ground to no avail. “Idiocy has found its grasps upon the synapses of my cranium. But, alas, it shall not cling to my pelt any stronger than a dying bird's claws can carry its last feast.” He curses his failure as his right side crashes against the edge of the stony cavern that he has been hiding in. Bruises, pain, bones aching and demanding reprieve. He is caught between a rock and a hard place, the stallion.

His concentration is broken for a moment, the girls set free from his trick for a few seconds and instead he stares down at the pegasus, trying to send a pulse of his terror-inducing magic Quilyan's way, if only to give himself time to squeeze out of the recesses and into the open. His brain works quickly, taking in the area, and he revisits the minds of the girls, needing their strengths now more than ever. He is meticulous this time, not just searching for a memory, but digging into their minds deep and picking out the worst thoughts he can find. Real or imaginary does not matter anymore. The worse it is, the stronger he can become, if only he has the time.

All the while he is moving, working against the poor traction to position the writhing girls between himself and Quilayn. Behind him, the clear wall with the bubbling magma stands tall. “Strength does not befit you. But, allow the winds to taut your wings and drag you in a different direction. Attempt to dig your flints into my chest - but be warned, the porcelain figures before thou's eyes are easier to snap than an ice-covered branch in a windstorm. Just try and yank them from the memories and fears which are only of you. Yes, dragon, I can see these spiraling fears and pains - all the dances are creating is a paled image of the winged beast before me and the death it reeks on their souls.” He taunts Quilyan, though in his movement he has found that more than bruises mar his right side. Blood dribbles down his shoulder, running along his leg. It is the least of his worries.