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A powerful, harsh gale blew the colt and his companion back into their homeland, and he was stuck between maneuvering and playing across the unfrozen lake, a ready, worthy distraction from his worries, or taking shelter in one of the caves, bedding down for the evening. Another unrelenting, ferocious bout of wind made his decision for him (or Orsino’s grumbling, seditious puffs), and he arched over various pathways, attempting not to bog his lanky limbs down by the cumbersome amounts of snow, towards several sections of untouched caverns. Play could wait, he supposed, for another promising day (but in the back of his mind he remembered his childhood moments and junctures were getting shorter and shorter, eventually, he too would grow up, thrive, be amongst those ranked instead of those hesitating, balking, and bumbling) – perhaps in Birdsong, before he chose which trail to take, which road to traverse. His head swam with too many notions, too many thoughts, to give the latter sentiments any other cues or clues. The lad wanted to fight and he wanted to lie, he wanted to lacerate and he wanted to deceive, and he’d committed to vengeance, to absolution, to power and potential. He’d know when the time was right.
So the duo clambered onwards, skating and skirting along icy filaments and vestiges, laughing or giggling despite the late hour, until a familiar presence, a distinct essence, crossed over his senses. Orsino, perhaps wise beyond his years, ceased his movements abruptly at the awareness, at the perception, of the nearby beast; Erebos, however, long since entreated and entrusted to the particular being, marveled and speculated and carved wonder, exuberance, and contentment into his motions. With a fully-fledged smile, with a tone of mirth and amusement, the Lilliputian heathen twisted his lengthy frame towards the distinct outline of a monster, of a cretin, of a potent, legendary demon standing amidst the rime, snow, and storm, guarding, brooding, mulling or speculating from the layers and lacquer of darkness. Had he heard them coming? Had he stepped out of the catacombs to welcome them in?
Within an instant, the child hastened an abrupt halt at his sire’s feet, grinning, nefarious, wicked and compassionate, glancing at the larger infidel’s features (the stoic traces, the infidel graces, everything he could be one day and more) before giving credence and oaths in a zealous haze. “Father!” And without even prompting, he maneuvered as close as possible, sidling next to the abhorrent menace, staring out into the void with him, paired and matched into the denizens of time, of power, of menace and oeuvres. He tilted his head, inquiring, curious (for he’d been at the meeting, for he’d heard the rioting crowd, the bellicose veins spouting and shouting), a disciple of the observant. “How are you?”
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