Impertinence and insolence faded off into the abyss, another slight and barb molded into the child’s cranium for perusal and exposure. Should he constantly watch where he’s going, instead of driving his heart, his soul, his malevolence, his spirit, his essence, into the terrain, carving out a niche and sculpting out a purpose through his cataclysmic interludes? The notion was intriguing, having to be always aware of one’s surroundings held potential for forgoing the finer things in life (brooding and mulling over states of affairs, washing away the spells and snares of the day), but he also had no wish, no yearning, to always find his face in the dust. He held no wanton plea to be embarrassed and ashamed. The ruminations were cut short, his attention diverted from one thing to the next, cataclysms of knolls and rolling hills giving way to sights, to sounds, to newcomers hastened over the horizon. No sooner had he risen from his shallow ground, no worse for wear, no bones jarred out of place, lanky columns soothed and ruffled over as if naught had happened, then another appeared, jettisoning his gaze towards a creature who bore distinct similarities and differences between the pair. The other child was spotted, rimmed with dots and hues, and even some wiring marks across his neck (a scar, perhaps a birth-right, like the little lord’s skull, borne of might, fear, and condemnation?). The most alarming thing was the horn faceted and growing out of his brow, much like his own! How many existed like them, fueled and brewed into swords, rapiers, and cutlasses, mighty, dashing, and powerful? He almost coveted the idea of comparing their sizes, but on the reality of the growing silence, the blue child merely shifted his weight from side to side. What did one do in situations like these, where the world opened and other lives were tossed before them? His mother would have nodded, all gentle tranquility, tender rain, showers and droplets cascading from the generous plume of her smile. His father would have worn a blank visage, entirely masked and indifferent, speculative and devouring, Machiavellian and pressing. Erebos didn’t know how to mold either one to his face, and instead, attempted some form of charisma, turning his lips into a juvenile grin, all boyhood and impishness. “Hello!” His voice seemed to boom over the little bank, rounding over the mound as a flock of gulls with little leisure, presumption, or finesse – too much candor, too much boisterousness. However, the lad attempted to nurture his dam’s kindness, his father’s calculations, feeding the waves of enigmas with foundling queries. “Who’re you?” Then, forgetting his prior experiences, he forged ahead in a light dash, swift, ignited by wonder, by companionship, rising to meet the other colt mere yards away. The smile elongated, and his cranium tipped in an infantile tilt, speculative and sincere, before drifting in lively, exuberant tones again. “You have a horn like me!” He swung his head to and fro, appealing to the senses of his blade cutting through the short thralls of wind and breezes, waiting for the day when its serrated edge became useful, beneficial, a short slip into decay and demise.