EREBOS

Birdsong’s renewal came with light, indifferent showers. He watched from the depths and shadows of the Rotunda as the sprinkles came glancing down glass and colors, sprinting for ground, for ruin, for enigmas and deliberation. Amidst the grotto, he and Orsino were just another team of assembled mercenaries, wielding nothing but ample ministrations and fickle fractions of time. The fiend had an inclination to join the miniature squall, with its mercurial winds, with its tranquil features, with its foggy, abyss contortions, but remained, brooding along the inner chambers of marble and stone instead. His eyes glanced towards each aperture with careful calculations, as if sizing them up for future opportunities instead of wondering what had become of the girl who’d played Queen while he acted as soldier, if she was off somewhere reinstating her role while he wandered through the world courting his. He wouldn’t know what to tell her, what to say, if they ever met again anyway – and he resumed his pensive state while staring out into the swirl of mist and fog.
 
Sounds ricocheted from outside, another winding and wielding their way through the copse, perhaps, taking their time and strolling amidst the patterns of light, hues, and mysteries. He would’ve left them alone altogether if he wasn’t a restless contortion of curiosity and inquiry, devilish assortments all aligned into flesh and bone. His ears flicked right and left, and his hooves grazed against columns, idle, easygoing, perceived and punctured only by the notion of anomalies. Orsino barely batted an eye, fixating on other notions, other regimes to topple, other ruins to vanquish.
 
But the prince advanced, sticking his head out of one of the entrances, allowing the soft, dulcet plumes of the rain to drift down his features and stick to his eyelashes, narrowing his gaze to settle upon a frame near the pond. He expected nothing and no one, of course, there were too many strangers in this great, wide world to presume he’d see someone he knew –
 
Yet, there he was.
 
Not the Colossus, not the painted Giant who would always be the first on his list of future victims – no, this had been the beast who’d sauntered into the Basin, to sneak peeks at Enna’s child, to hiss and threaten, to bludgeon and destroy – he was never entirely sure what the reasoning had been.
 
He wouldn’t forget the markings, the strange blend of bright hues culminating in a massive frame, large, curled horns, or the warnings barbed, laced, down his throat.
 
He wouldn’t forget the feeling of rage, of brutality, of barbarity, searing and simmering down between his lungs, out throw his chest, down deep into the pulsing marrow of his soul.
 
The prince bristled then, dampened and soused by the rain, becoming ignited and touched and tainted by the pinnacles of inner fire. Somewhere nearby, Orsino pervaded his soul, and they both caught alight, an intertwining mess and mass of treachery and damnation.
 
If you just say the word, I’d hunt them down for you, he’d promised, even when she gave no oath, no proclamation, and ultimately ignored his requests. He was going to do it anyway.
 
“You,” he roared into the midday rain, lionhearted and avaricious all at once, pushing past the thundering of cascading rain as it came pouring down (as if his mother was crying, begging him to cease, and he ignored her too, like he did everyone else who told him to stop). “You owe me a fight.”

[Erebos vs. Misael Training Spar
0/3. 580 words.
Setting: Ancient Rotunda, midday. Light showers with a fine mist, starting to pour.
* Erebos calls out Misael.
* You may have first attack!]