It was a day made for adventure – crossing over narrow seas and devastating immoral enemies, slashing through jungle vines and thickets, crashing, rolling, and colliding with the best of the best. It held a collection of assembled recklessness, dashing and brewing, boiling and smoldering, down into the depths of his youthful cranium – so it became filled with sentiments of boldness, of audacity, of others trembling in his wake, of becoming a dastardly, gallant piece of the land. The hours soothed his restless soul and clambered with possibilities, so when he glanced over the horizon promises, assurances, and vengeance didn’t stare back, eager and fervent, biting and ferocious.
 
He ran because he wanted to. He rejoiced at the wind biting his cheeks, his eyes, his brow, and his mouth. He regaled at the ice digging into his daggers as he slid over their illustrious wake. He laughed, hooted, and hollered when Orsino chose to splash into a puddle, then scamper across leftover pieces of glacier. He burned away at the relentless chords of ebullience and enthrallment, piecing together the layers and lacquer of his scorching schemes. Together, they pierced the quiet, absolute stillness like sharp shards of predators and poetry in motion, one regal, refined prince, and the other a Stygian cloak of shadow and duplicity; interchangeable given the hour, the month, the season, the moment.
 
They would’ve consumed the Steppe, eaten, devoured, hoarded in avaricious pulls and ties, had another’s appearance not hastened his curiosity. The boy had launched precariously over an incline of snow, not bothered by what could be on the other side, too bold and wretched to believe anything else could puncture him beyond the ivory desolation. Before Orsino could even kindle their connection, to warn, to jibe, to twist or mock, the warrior’s eyes had narrowed to a distinct perusal – because there in the distance, was a mare garbed in orange.
 
The hues were too prominent, striking, and pronounced against the pale surroundings, out of place, like she belonged in rainforests or dunes, where a tigress could melt and mold into tall grass or sandy shoal without being seen. Even if her colors hadn’t given him an excuse to cease his movements and merely stare, the rest of her had. She was an entirely different figure than what he’d seen before – and the boy had traversed, over hills, over valleys, over cliffs and oceans. He’d accompanied friends along vast plains, conquered demons, felled monsters, became a savage, miscreant fiend, made companions from equines and Pegasus alike, and never had they been fashioned like her. Her wings were on her head! The youth almost had a notion to reach across the void to merely ask her how she flew, if they were wild, strong, and untamed, if they could lift her off the ground and soar into the clouds. Strange, Orsino remarked, shaking his foxy cranium, too bewildered to remark anything else.
 
Erebos thought they were magnificent.
 
Even as he crossed towards the stranger, slowly, encumbered by the deeper snow, he noticed other peculiar things – a shiny beacon (a halo?) resting just above her head, disappearing, then reappearing, then vanishing from sight again, like an angel distorted. Perhaps she tread thin lines, roamed between tainted darkness and beguiling light, had fallen from the heavens and became too brambled, nettled, thorned, like the rest of them, incapable of returning.
 
He instantly wanted to know more. He craved too often, gave in too easily to the flights of wisdom, sagacity, and inquisition, but he’d rather have been a curious beast than one mired in nothingness, in expectations of destiny, incapable of making his own fortune. “Hello!” The Basin prince bellowed from across the void, a winsome, charming smile sculpted along his lips.

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in