The mist and fog pervaded and surrounded, locked and absconded, and the little princeling’s curiosity became an unfounded, bolstered juncture all the more. What controlled the strange, incorporeal labyrinth? What conjured the mysterious haze? What laid it down to their level, corroded and corrupted, diabolical and machinating? He stretched his maw out to its seemingly substantial surface, waited to feel the soft, dulcet stroke of puffs and smoke, but the closer he got, the more it streamed away; intangible, ghostly, ethereal hints of otherworldly pawns. The questions failed to cease, unrelenting and juvenile, pondering and wondering of the state of his world. Were they trapped within its confines forever more, destined to live out their lives in the strange, exotic bliss of murk and gloom? Did it hold hidden treasures for them to find, or would it lead them towards damnation and destruction, yield them to cliff ramparts and fallen valleys, allow the ground to consume their flesh and rattle their bones? Was Adelric lost and tethered amongst the unearthly endeavors too, just as confused, just as muddled? The answer was postured a few moments later, crying out through the anarchic vapor, spotted hide seemingly uninhibited by the spellbinding fingertips and haunting poignancy of clouds and plumes. The dark scion didn’t know if he should have felt foolish, ashamed, or inept at how Adelric wasn’t bothered in the least by the sudden, swift change in the atmosphere, or if he’s truly just read into the rolling tempest too much. Maybe there weren’t any strangled offers by siren nymphs coiled amongst the bracken, and perhaps there were no treasures laden amongst swords and stones for them to discover. He nearly hung his head in vacuous claims, bewitched and blighted by supernatural prowess, weather patterns, and imagination (mother would smile, Loth would laugh, and father would try not to smirk).

But then, Adelric provided a whole new layer of exploration; familiarity brewed and brimmed within his mighty chest and valiant heart at the sight of the crimson stain flowing along the other boy’s knees. Ethereal, wraithlike, spectral hymns and terrain were almost completely forgotten by the notion of ichor and the flow of blood staining his companion’s frame. With no further misgivings, he drew forwards, lowering his head to inspect the newly gained wounds. Erebos had received many in his short time of life, either by previous rites (it wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last, he’d tumbled down a hill): tripping over sticks and brush in his dam’s favorite thickets, stumbling over rubble and stones gathered on beaches. He considered them scars of the vigilant, of the courageous, of the intrepid; enjoyed picturing them as blights of wars and sieges, when generals and their valiant armies asked him to join in their potent crusades, arriving back home with his sword and shield intact. Tools of the trade and ailments of the folly, doomed to be gained over and over again. His crude examination heralded another impish grin, and his rogue gaze settled back upon Adelric’s. “It’s blood – weird stuff that flows inside your body.” The lad tilted his head in further inquisition, tiny tendrils of mane flapping in the breeze. His tone took on a playful regard, mockingly serious vocals cascading and rippling about the feral, bleeding blemishes. “All good soldiers eventually bleed.” He laughed a moment later, reaching out to pat the spotted child on the shoulder good-naturedly. “At least you’ll have a cool scar?” Then, tangling his buoyant attributes with some personality traits his mother must have stamped into him, he etched his features into concern and apprehension. “Does it hurt?”