It was nice to see old friends, especially when they seemed to be growing and thriving. He’d been so used to disappearances and bumbling excuses, for chasing dreams of conquest and villainy with musketeer regard, and watching it unravel so bitterly, so ruefully; for trying to encompass and hold something no longer in place. He considered the princess a piece of the past and an edge to the future; she was a mystery, but also a token of what had framed and eclipsed their great empire, even if she had no wish, no will, to claim it for herself. But the prince had managed to coax a smile out of her, and he wanted to entice more (more and more; always his way, too bold and too greedy). His eyes, however, floated to the companion first, for he remembered the days of endless searching, eternal yearnings and cravings for a beast of his own (and he had one now, but where did the covetous beckoning end?). The griffin, Ansgar, was intriguing, cat and bird combined, and he enjoyed the length of her wings and the conspiring lilt to her stare; his ruffian smile widened, captivating and beguiling, appealing and unwinding, a devilish torch intertwined across his rogue features. Orsino rolled his eyes in the depths of the darkness, hostile and obnoxious.

She’d been exploring Helovia, and the little beast, intending to pursue and hunt whatever track, trail, she chose, cast his curiosity, ignited his senses, to mischief and rumination. “What’s been your favorite place so far?” Where had she traveled? Had she puttered down primrose paths, chiseled and swept paradise, run between shadows and demons, tucked herself, secluded, forsaken, and alone, amidst the depths of winter, or the underground caves? He yearned to know, to relish, in sights he may not have seen, and to proclaim the venues he’d investigated (the rotunda, with its beautiful, kaleidoscope hues, the peaks and valleys where he’d brooded, where’d he found death and hate and malice, the hollows of the Gods, where he prayed and preyed), to share in the spectacles of Helovia and its mastery. Perhaps one day he’d know everything about every nook and cranny, hide his snares, wares, cloaks, and daggers amidst their layers, and no one would notice until it was to late. He could brandish arms one moment, and alms the next - a contradictory barb of scion and devil.

She’d asked about him though, and a part of the truth stuttered, swallowed and consumed by the depths of silence. He’d been biding his time, calculating and warring, playing skirmish and campaigner against members of his herd, or complete strangers, desperately trying to become stronger, more powerful, a force to be reckoned with. He didn’t want her to know he’d begun his quest for vengeance, for justice, for requital, enraged and alone, attempting to be an individual worthy of savagery and sinister arts; a bellowing, cackling minstrel of war and defiance. He didn’t want her to realize how utterly weak he’d been, fumbling and stumbling and losing to one of his own. He didn’t want her to think him silly or stupid when he’d somehow managed to lose all his friends along the way (how Aithniel had yelled in the midst of all that chaos, how Rikyn had become all the more enraged, how swiftly everything tumbled out of his reach). So instead, the boy wove something simple, effortless, gliding eager, prying hands from the depths of his resolutions. There would be a time, and a place, where everyone would know who he was. “Oh, I’ve been exploring too.” He paused, and lowered his voice to a whisper, as if in possession of a great, grand secret. “I took up the rank of soldier. I’ve been sparring. Hopefully it’ll make me stronger,” he finished with a wink in the funnels of darkness.

Then the topic shifted, and the bundle of sibilance poised and scowling between his limbs was rendered his opportunity to reign. Erebos laughed, dipping his head to stare at the petulant barb of foxy convictions and building hatred. “This is Orsino.” His muzzle pushed the hissing kitsune out into the open, so the depths of his gilded eyes could be seen amidst the Stygian refuge; like he belonged to the tainted, wailing whims of the fiends and monsters – and perhaps he did. Perhaps they all did. “I found him here, actually.” Maybe that was why they preferred the haunt, both were so intricately tied to the crows, the cretins, the carrion building, festering, and withering in the decaying veils.

Thereafter, out of place but touching nonetheless, the demon glanced at her again and smiled. “You’ve grown.” In heart? In mind? In body and soul? His meaning was enigmatic, distorting, and shaped by the lacquer of his allure.