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They folded together, one by one, on strides of glacial enterprise and cool indifference. Excitement, a keen sense of devilry, diversion, and amusement settled along his spine and down through his senses, overwhelming and glorious, funneling and brewing their way through his ebullient mind. The thought, the essence, the glory of seeking out a land his family had once belonged to – because in each and every one of their stories there was a hint of fog, a dusting of mist, a shuddering, shackling mystery and entanglement with the abyss – was a whirlwind of sentiments, all bounding and leaping along his chest. Too many concoctions and not enough experience, he couldn’t quite wear the mask of his father (shell and lacquer a foundation of nonchalance across his features – his contempt hadn’t yet become his masquerade), and instead wove an easygoing grin along his lips, effortlessly winding his way along the summer-lined pathways. He likely would’ve chatted and made small-talk throughout the sojourn, had his mouth not been occupied by clips and bundles of herbs nestled between teeth and tongue; Enna surely wouldn’t have been able to carry all of them, and Deimos’ incantations would’ve mauled the plants before they’d left their icy sovereign. Even Orsino, wretched and grumbling across their connection, stumbled his way through the underbrush with a parcel of flora and a few selected curses on his tongue.
The growing, incensed instigator and provocateur had no reason for acting or pretenses today: there was no need to play the energetic, enthused beast upon their arrival – he was the token character, limbs springing off the terrain, eyes widened at the allure of the World’s Edge entrance, expecting cliff tops and mist and labyrinths full of nettles and thorns to claw and scratch at them, and seeing only the dusky hollow of trees and outstretched limbs, hearing only the commanding call of his sire. He stilled beside his father, taken in by the eerie surroundings, beguiled by the aloof qualities of the realm before him; he only knew the Aurora Basin well, had played in the sand of the Dragon’s Throat as a child, and knew naught of this kingdom beyond stories of a long-long empire, before dragons and peacekeepers and refugee expansions. His head swam with visions, with images, with fantasies and riddles of the past, and the little beast swung his skull towards Enna, the folds of his lips still embracing a smile, a grin, eyes adrift with the notion of mischief and esteem. What players still ran here? Which kings and queens still made their maneuvers? What notions of myths and legends still lurked, deep within the shadows and splintered, glassy walls? Were all the tales poignant, fleeting, and gone, or were there still the remnants of yesteryear, when contempt was strong and serenity a fleeting concept?
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