The false flame watched, listened, blended into the melee of gathered troupes and friendly faces with an amicable grin, a menacing snare, and a pounding heart. The latter formed and conspired through the edges of the fabricated moniker, but when no one refuted it, when companions hastened towards the trap, when the unknown flickered into further enigmas, his smile grew, gaze twinkled, and the slightest Machiavellian convictions kindled deep into his chest. The lies spilled across the void, and the taste, the relish, the nourishing tang it provided the lad, with its strange, toxic endeavors and addicting elation, brindled, bristled, and swept through his veins, drenched and wooed, swindled and enticed. If this one worked, how many others could? His friends continued the small, infantile deceits, sprinkled more finesse and intrigue into the mix and fold, so as they continued, Erebos bit into the rapture, the reverie, of their silly game, forgot he wouldn’t be worthy of touching upon his grandfather’s herald, he wouldn’t be deserving, merited, or entitled to the bursts of fiery stories or impassioned wars, settling into Cheshire designs, a stone thrown into a hole – the pit and pendulum, swinging his foolish dial. But while he burned, while he glimmered and flared, his comrades continued to spiral into queries and conundrums, and as a silent opus, the child absorbed everything, from the silver newcomer wavering towards them, companions with their wondrous names, dragons no longer cloaked or soaked in the idle glory of the desert, to the sprinkled wiles of the Oasis, and all of it was an overwhelming avenue of curiosity and intrigue; it spilled over in the widened snap of his gaze, blending through the streamlined contortions of his embellished smile, and his vocals pierced into the void again, cherishing information granted and conformed into his mischievous mind.

The first, granted to Ilaria and her illustrious bonded, flowed through his lowered cranium, stare fixated and riveted upon the little panda, not owned, not possessed, not seized, but willing to stay with the gliding stag. “Hi Ilaria!” He swished his tail once or twice, tilted his head in further examination, thought over souls intertwining, woven, braided and plaited together, then pieced together the inquisition in endless factions, inclining his gaze back towards Cera in hopes of uncovering all the answers in one venue. “Where did you find her? How do you become bonded? If you’re bound to one another, does it hurt when the other is wounded?” Throughout the flurry, he wondered what it’d be like to have one, to always have a friend at your side, to eternally cherish and protect something or someone. Could he do the same, like Adelric and Tobias, growing and nurturing, side-by-side, pursuing adventures in constancy? He mulled over it through the silence, glancing towards Sacre’s red fox as well. What a confusing world they lived within, and the more steps taken, the more mysteries welled, billowed, and frothed before him.

He was only mildly disappointed about the lack of dragons in the surrounding area, but he made a note to seek out the smaller ones (pictured the leathery wings, the flames curling from their mouths), and allowed his next set of queries to spiral towards the King of Spies. You have a mighty name, little Lord - the guilt beat another tempo in his chest, and he tried to smother it through the spun spirit of inquiry, glancing wholeheartedly upon the brujo who claimed to sit upon a throne of furtive observations and deceptive intelligence (and he wondered if the beast could see through their subterfuge), another soul to emulate in the vast realm of artisans, warriors, and bestial contortions. The little scion nearly daydreamed about becoming some grand sovereign of deceptions and falsehoods, sometimes battling his way through chess pieces, moving pawns through force or fiction, when Sacre mentioned his previous homeland – the Basin. He furrowed his brows briefly, confused, because he’d never thought to venture out into the unknown and seek out some other cadre to make his home in; to visit was one thing, to live within an entirely different nation was something else altogether. Without preamble, Erebos spout out his befuddlement. “Why did you leave the Basin?”



@[Rikyn]