The world was full of fascinating venues and intriguing forms, and his mind was riveted, tossed, fixated on multiple things all at once, so the little, lithe creature was ruffled and convinced to slide his gaze back and forth, over the rampaging ruminations and gleaming prospects. Aithniel, with her illustrious feathers, with her ivory hide, with her quiet sentiments, would be an ideal flier, gesturing across the moon or the sun, embodying the sullen grandeur of repose, dulcet and extraordinary – wondering if she could possibly soar. If it were the colt’s whims, she would have done so already, gallantly showing them her supreme command of the earth and sky, rummaging across vast horizons and beckoning towards them with the vibrant chirps of songbirds. If it were the colt’s determination, she’d clamber and show the Haruspex the power and domination of her influences and capabilities, not allowing them to be prodded or poked apart (what would Zikar-Sin say to him? Mumble about his lack of control over his newly discovered enchantments? Surely there was some weakness to utilize and harness in every individual). He sculpted his rogue features into a chiseled, stubborn, resolute fixture, and if someone looked at him quickly, swiftly, perhaps they’d see the regal conjectures of his sire in a younger state, the brooding, indifferent lines of his brow, reticence brimming beyond the long, lanky limbs or the grave conviction of a adamant, tenacious mind. But, before he could say anything more, for the lad had every intention of speaking his juvenile piece, the storyteller spoke again; and he was momentarily distracted by the whirlwind mythos of the Reaper, of Deimos, of the deathbringer and his crusades. It seemed he would have to gamble with his exploits, his rushing, his plunging into someone else’s defenses, if he hadn’t bent his crown to listen to the lilting tale of his father’s exploits, he wouldn’t have heard their regal encasements, their fortuitous, augured statements, or the following lines prescribed and administered by the monocled stag.

The narrative and anecdote unraveled from the Seer’s mouth was one Erebos hadn’t heard, and his ears became keen, absorbing, encompassed, emboldened, and delighted, capturing the essence of the tale as it flowed in airy, whimsical tones. The earth belonged to the birds, to the auroras, to the Gods, and he understood the notion, how he’d never be able to touch the clouds or the heavens, and he nearly gave Aithniel a giant grin (because she had the chance, the opportunity, so many did not!). Yet, the word abomination rolled across Zikar’s tongue, and it sounded horrid, blistering, scathing, a barb or a thorn, rattling and rankling back over the tufts of the girl’s feathers. Pegasi are savage creatures…; the statement stirred a slow draw, a languid, listless broth and brew in the scion’s mind, stayed, nestled, conjuring so many more anomalies and questions. The Pegasus and uncrowned brought destruction and devastation to them? Is that what his father and his followers fought against seasons past and in the portended future? He wanted to ask, to query, to throw out numerous quandaries muddling his thoughts, his sights, his aspirations, but something rattled at his blood, at his core, and with a contrary shield, he fixed himself back into place, bold and audacious. “But she hasn’t done anything wrong – she wasn’t one of those creatures who brought disease or ruin.” After all, she was a child, just as much as he, incapable of lavishing and languishing annihilation upon their world (and something haunted him in the back of his youthful convictions; wondering if she, like so many others, would eventually be capable of those terrible onslaughts). He spoke again though, vigilant and commanding, narrowing his brows in careful consternation. “Why should she be punished for something she didn’t do?”