The infernal boy stoked the embers of his incensed composition, raising his head only to listen to her proclamations, the fine, scorching wiles of his eyes a blatant decree of subversion and rebellion. His jaw clenched as she ruminated over further insults either directed at him or his dam, and while he didn’t respond to them as he did previously, he didn’t forget either (willed it into the breadth of his mind for the future, for the mare and companion of Essetia and Romul, when vengeance coiled and locked itself into further play). He didn’t even enjoy the pious smirk she laced across her features, far and above his one moment of trickery, his one acrimonious effort, and the surge in his veins, the ire in his bones, yearned to harpoon the sanctimonious snicker. The little scion didn’t, however, and was left only to stare, to glare, to seethe and smolder in the fires of his own making, throwing more and more kindling upon its infernal, hazardous proclamations. Were he older, more powerful, more potent, maybe she wouldn’t have even trifled with his pernicious existence, and the notion coaxed those ambitious desires all the more, avaricious plumes and coveted, grasping claws; because then no one would cross him for some simple child’s play, no one would bother him, no one would deign to utter derisive scorn towards his mother.

Yet, she apologized thereafter, and he narrowed his gaze to study, to examine, to poke holes into her regrets and remorse – and only discovering she was a rather frustrating creature to behold. He snorted, just once, to express his discontent, but folded the innocence back into his gaze and inclined his head in juvenile intrigue, as if expressing concern for her lack of mischief or feeling of excitement. Maybe she was just boring. Perchance she grew up without knowing the feeling of freedom, the sensation of ebullience, the coursing, vibrant pull of delight and amusement. Perhaps she spent her days with the wolf, staring at icy walls, drumming up visions she couldn’t express. Erebos, ne, Ignatiuss’ vocals rolled from his riotous lips, uncurling and uncoiling without inhibition. “You don’t play any games?” He conjured various decrees of merriment and mirth with his friends, rampaging through the frigid loam of their empire, coasting and ghosting through shadows, embarking on makeshift quests, finding inspiration in lessons, in musings, in stories and songs. The prince’s days were spent wiling away the hours, growing and developing, morphing and altering, chasing new enigmas, wandering through foreign labyrinths – and if poor Essetia, with her inability to find joviality, was a hallmark of all adults, he loathed the idea he’d eventually become one. The miniature beast almost felt sorry for her, but the notion was gone in the next instant, pushed aside and away, so that he may gnaw on his feelings of discontent instead. Nevertheless, at her next query he shrugged his shoulders, a picture of his father’s juvenile nonchalance, and gave her one of the few honest quotations coaxed from his thoughts and ideals. “Exploring.”

@[Essetia]