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Distance daydreams pressed kaleidoscope enchantments across his eyes. The pebbles were his subjects, the insects his jesters, the ivory, colossus marble his throne, and he presided like a prince, like a king, staring over his land with a mighty head and a noble crown. He pretended the world was his, and dreamed of the future, where power reigned, where prowess went noticed and noted, where he already knew what he wanted, what he consumed, what he devoured, could grasp and hold tight over granted gifts and invocations. He had distinction, intimidation, endless threads of wisdom and knowledge, collected and gathered segments of business, of politics, of merchants, of sneaky, clandestine cloaks and daggers, a demon-of-all-trades, neither a fool nor a priest. He embarked on the story, the tale, of a rotunda built for him, honoring his prestige, his potency, glimmering in grandeur, dipped in decadence, crooned and carved in opulence. The wind drifted against his blue coat and the little darkling imitated command of its wickedness, begged it to alter its path, narrowed his gaze and stared past the shaking tree limbs and the scratching boughs, but amidst the damnation, the pretenses, the illusion faded. His smirk faded, and he was left to ponder in the silence, to wonder and wander, over enduring empires and cracking facades, of sovereigns riddled with chipped buildings and unraveling tapestries, busts and statues sliding into salt and sand. Were he not distracted by another’s approach, perhaps he may have whittled away the bones of discarded monarchs and their fallen crowns, clenched and tightened with the images of their glory days: hoof to stone crisscrossed over his ears, and any enduring apparitions hastened back into the ruins. A mixture of gold and singsong thrummed against his ears, familiar, so the notion of alarm, of distrust, of apprehension didn’t mar his features, and only forced his brow upward as he struggled to place the name, the calling of the filly – Asch, hadn’t it been? She’d been a part of their school days, lessons murmured by the eerie Zikar-Sin, the press of a mirror and glass, and the ghostly callings of instruction (and how he’d wanted more, answers, answers, answers, the genesis of information and experiences, one more reason to embark upon crusades and journeys). Anything more than that was lost on him.
Despite the absconding of his boyish chimeras, the lad still fastened a rogue smile across his lips, gave forth a hearty greeting when silence was broken, when his name embarked over the stone and rubble (and did it quake, did it shudder, at the sound of his calling?). He chiseled back over the finery, against the colored glass and the impenetrable monument, gathered the raw, wry exuberance glossed over his menacing, mischievous heart. “Asch!” He maneuvered closer, plucked against the seams of rubble and ruin, mighty emperor for a few seconds more, pondered at the length of her cheeky grin, as if she had something planned for the future and it involved stray threads of wickedness. Erebos followed at her instruction, and defied it moments later by elongating his movements down a different path, pervading his curious airs towards a corner of the structure, dipping his muzzle towards the cold, chilling surface, chuckling when a puff of dust crept out of its corridors. The burst, the boom, of his voice flickered against the walls, stare segmenting towards the golden flicka. “Who do you think built this? Why is it here?”
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