Excitement remained chiseled in the limber, lithe junctures of his movements, of his presence, jovial and pleased to be meeting new faces, content to make this a constant luxury, eternally eager to grasp newfound friends or entangle the world in his bright curiosity. The ivory filly spoke, and he yielded his fixation upon her, listening, conjuring, and attempting to piece together the heralding she offered in return. Aithniel - he thought it was a bit of a mouthful, tougher than his own calling, something requiring more practice and dedication. He attempted to proclaim it across his tongue, butchered it once or twice in his soft, quiet mumbling. “Aith…Aithknee…Aithniel.” He granted the final gesture with a nod, politely encouraging more of her speech, glad to have been given the small token. At the very least, he was glad she wasn’t shy, raising her head like he did, bold and intrepid, brave and audacious; perhaps she’d make a great playmate, and they could go exploring or discovering things. His attention was briefly rerouted back to the stallion with the eerie gaze (he seemed far more otherworldly than a lot of the creatures he’d met; possessing some unearthly qualities within those pale eyes). The stag seemed to even know of him! His jaw dropped for a moment or two, in disbelief his presence warranted any of the head bobbing or grand affection, before he scraped it back to its prior position and tried to resume his princely countenance, more regal affects: a proud frame, mighty and strong, gallant and stalwart, an open chest destined to become wide and strong, chiseled with muscle. His words betrayed him though, trickling and rolling with jubilant surprise. “You know my father?” He was well aware of his sire’s title, the merits of a Lord, but the Reaper was also not a braggart, didn’t boast his accomplishments upon his children, and his mother seemed to keep those stories to herself (when you’re older, dear, and he wondered how much blood, death, and annihilation were worn and etched into those tales, wanted them all). But this Zikar-Sin told stories, knew things, came with wisdom and knowledge, and the little colt, brash and cunning, longed to harbor, grasp, and absorb the proclaimed. The words pouring out of his mouth came without lie or deception, he truly relished in them. “Pleasure to meet you, Zikar-Sin.”

But he was no longer the center of attention, and both he and the story-teller, a keeper of sagacity, flickered their gazes towards the pale Aithniel. However, while Erebos could think of naught more than tales and mythos, playing and discovering, Zikar seemed to have other notions and ideas, sparking and inciting further intrigue, more curiosity. The elder’s stare remained upon the bounty of tiny feathers springing from her back, little plumes and quills destined to allow her to soar over mountains and cliffs, journey along the horizon, drift and swoop until the sun went down. Erebos thought they were wonderful, brilliant gifts of tufted birds and divine gods, but the other did not. In delight, semi-sweet verbage, he asked if she wanted them removed, unfortunate appendages, as if she were damaged goods, lowly and soiled. The lad’s brow furrowed together in confusion, tangled bits of uncertainty and bewilderment. Huyana had always proclaimed wonderful narratives of regal gliders and fliers, Pegasus crooning over summits and fields, and Zikar-Sin thought they weren’t of any value, unsightly. The differing opinions hardly settled over the youth’s mind, but for a moment, he gestured in dauntless, daring exploits, formed his speech against their expulsion with an influential tongue. “What’s wrong with them?” He tilted his head, offered murmurings of the infantile mind, incapable of seeing the swarming pestilence, hate, menace, and loathing roaming amongst his world. “I like them. She can fly and soar when they get bigger!”