Oh, there were secrets lurking between the folds of snow and shadow. He didn’t know where or when or how, but the unknown was a brutal, chilling blast brooding and brewing at his ruminations, winter’s last tilt before the great thaw. The scion’s ears twisted back and forth, skull processing the quandaries, the queries, laced and layered within. The other glanced off to the side, but the warrior’s eyes didn’t follow the meaning, the hollowed vessels of paranoia or lack of refuge. He was simply curious, inquisitive, and diving into schemes, snares, and ruses, untying threads and digging pitfalls. Too much intrigue, too much speculation bounded and leaped and enticed; and he suddenly wanted to pluck, to unravel, to unwind everything. The questions drummed a merciless serenade, back and forth, back and forth, in a restless, Machiavellian shade, disastrous and deceitful, blistering and barbaric. He knew about hidden wares, cloaks and daggers, had pressed and played with so many pretenses that sometimes he forgot who he was supposed to be playing (Ignatius - his fiery grandfather, who led tempests and wars? Nepdon - a calmer, more composed ancestor? Belial - a demon, a piece of forgotten treachery, a fallen bit of Lucifer regime?). He lived them all at once and then none at all, using their names and callings because no one knew who they were. Hardly anyone could recall the depths of their prestige, of their mythos, of their stories, and so he acted them out in ruthless deliberation – making enemies, making friends, exploring and reigning with many names and only one face. It was a different kind of danger, alluring and tempting and inveigling all at once, lighter than vengeance but dastardly and vicious just the same. Eventually, perhaps, it’d catch up with him and he’d be forced to simply remain Erebos (and he was proud to be that silly little boy from the Basin, born from the Reaper and the rain, but sometimes it was so much more amusing to be another beast, another burden); but those moments had yet to come.

However, he wasn’t the one delving into the masquerade today. Another shuffled into the masque, donning his disguise, and the soldier played along – allowed him to lead the game. I am no one the stranger said, but Erebos wanted to laugh, to chuckle, to grin like a Cheshire cat, preening from the darkness and hedgerows. Oh no, you’re someone he smirked, snickered, from within his mind, and Orsino hissed there too, and together they were conniving, eldritch infidels, pondering over the length of how much this one wanted to hide. What lay buried underneath the markings, the unknown accent, the noble sway of his words? There was more to Bull than he was willing to reveal, and perhaps given time, given patience, given charms, the boy could extract the mysteries held within. Whether he’d do anything with them was another set of circumstances altogether – but he was a behemoth of intellect, study, and calculations. The prince thought naught of conspiring to disentangle surreptitious strife, to slink past covert missions, to unthread precious, cryptic, arcane rhythms. It sounded wildly entertaining.

There was an acceptance to his breath, a permitting of lies to his grin (how much was true, how much was myth, how much was concocted, conjured, simply to survive?), and the regal, defined notion of innocence slipped along his features, past the indentation of his brow, of his sword, until his eyes settled back on the blended beast and his easygoing smile turned into words and phrases. “What do you seek here, Bull?” Then, he immersed himself back amidst the threads of silence, waiting, dedicated to patience, to perseverance, to determination.

[Thank you. -blushes- But don't sell yourself short, dear. Your writing is sublime. <3]

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want