Grey ears flick; a grey hide twitches and jumps. He says nothing; he continues to stalk the land, spider clinging to heel, trekking for the northern reaches of the realm. He is no stranger to those forlorn ranges and accursed caverns; he pounds the earth underneath feather and hoof as he marches, steadfast and sure, save for the whisper of flies deep in his ear, on his skin. He stifles the urge to glare at his black mistress; this is no fault of Jorogumo. She is no slimy cut of fetid meat—and besides, these flies are built of wind and evil whispers. He grits his teeth against the pounding of his skull; even there, fly song manages to penetrate.

The climb is long and certainly cold. Even the mountain sun is thin and colorless as they finally emerge amongst a field of hardy, merry blooms of winter. Memories begin to assault him, unbidden, of a time where the world was so new and fresh, when he clung to his mother’s hip and the larger twin always, always accompanied them. Tempering these memories is the sharp pain of lung, the heavy drag of short breath, the constant hammering of a pounding heart. He sheds these recollections immediately; he wanders from his Jorogumo, eyes of grey sharp and alert, resisting the aroma of vegetation that manages to escape the frost of mortals.

Abraham’s scent is a phantom; Reginald hasn’t witness so much of a hair of his brother, save for that instant not too long ago, the instant of passion fruit and buzzing lies. He knows not which path he has taken, where the ample beast and his dragon might’ve wandered to—he wonders if Abraham himself knows of this place, the mountain garden of gods. He stalks the weeds and flowers, trampling all without prejudice; his mind wanders. His father’s words threaten to echo in his mind, and he burns them with a snarl before they come to fruition behind his eyes; the chastisement turns to ash upon his tongue.

“Black fur,” he rasps, more to himself, as he continues to stalk back and forth; the image of the dead, feathered harlot’s mouth crosses his mind, her teeth clamped upon something dark, ragged, and ugly. Eyes glance once toward his spider. “It wasn’t you, was it?” he asks; the tease falls flat amongst the storm of his impatience. He does not know where his brother is. “Tell me,” he says, changing his mind, switching thoughts; legs move as pistons of some treacherous, ravenous engine, pounding through the thick vegetation of the lush field, “do you know of the boy Öde?" The name rings strange and familiar all at once upon the serpent’s tongue. He remembers that child from long ago, most certainly grown just as the Grey-Eyed prince was; he remembers how the cold had clung to that hide as well, a hide of a deep, deep blood-splattered midnight. Flowers c rumple underneath his hooves; he continues to pace.



@[Abraham]
@[Jorogumo]
@[Öde]

”Watch for Circe.”