A tad impulsive, a smidgen uninhibited, he absorbed the tone, the appearance, the presence of the other colt as one would a newly discovered friend, fresh from the hilltops, copses, and canopies. He traced the foundations of the other like an artist’s master-hand, crafting brushstrokes, queries, sketches, inquiries, fascinated, engrossed, captivated by the wonders of curiosity and the brilliant pulse of a child’s mind. He wanted to know everything, and started from the brink of companionship, toying, playing, curling and coiling into manifestations of brethren, of fellow beings, with as much gusto as he glided upon the wind. Even if the other, Adelric, seemed hesitant, unsure, reserved through the unveiling of his name, questions sprung and leaping, or the buoyancy of the hour, Erebos paid almost no mind. If he should have been ashamed, repentant, or rueful, he was still neither of those things, unrestricted, unbarred, fledgling interest and abandon swallowing the inadequacies of his adamant sentiments. He tested his own voice again, lowered it so the pitch, the decibels, the rise of his tone wasn’t such a sharp keen, or massive carillon that alerted a watchful dam to come looking. “I am Ere-" The name itself was a tongue twister, formed by several syllables and diction hard to form across an unpracticed tongue (after all – he hadn’t had to introduce himself before – an exciting venture on its own!), and he ducked his head to nurse it quietly, muttered and toiled, practiced and tumbled, until he could properly finish. Proudly, he tried once more, lifting his cranium, dignified, arrogant cutlass-child. “Erebos.” His grin took on more boyish interludes, content with the formation of his name into proper letters, sounds, appropriate pronunciation lingering into depths of power and desolation. Because it meant gloom and dusk and darkness, it simply couldn’t be displayed or prospered without the proper weight, the right balance, or the most potent of calculations. It was an augured herald, and he wanted to encompass its syntax, its significance, its implication.

Except, in a childish haze, in a wondering plume or fanning abyss, a scion, a babe, had no need to appear sinister, nefarious, or malicious – even with the right fortitude and tools to embolden the opportunity. So his mischief faltered, and instead he took to listening to the hesitant Adelric, who didn’t seem empowered or liberated by his name, who asked questions to which Erebos could only tip his head once more and gloss over his own experiences. What if I didn’t? Would he be like those horses Huyana conjured with her bedtime stories, when the dusky droves haunted the moon and laid him to sleep, where she rustled and wove drumbeats of his ancestors vanquishing, conquering (and seeing his enlightened expression on the hymns of war, suddenly altering her fables into subjects of repose, tranquility and serenity for days thereafter, which weren’t nearly as interesting), old Gods and the new, and species dividing. Species - others dressed in equine garb but so different, so altered, from the formation of horns, of swords, of rapiers erupting from their brows. He’d heard sagas of flying beasts breathing menace and rue, and plain barbarians with their dragons (dragons, another subject worth ruminating upon), following, devouring, or dreaming, but he’d yet to meet any of them. Their home was composed entirely of bladed individuals, and even their scimitars, foils, and sabers were all constructed divergently. He pressed Adelric’s question with one of his own, layered it with the same excitement, vigor, fervor, and enthusiasm as before – sea-blue eyes widening, entranced. “Would you have wings? Mother says there are some horses with wings!”