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07-24-2016, 06:00 PM
The boy’s eyes only wavered away from the seraph at Orsino’s continued howling and hissing, grating sibilance brought on by discomfort, by disregard, by hate, by malice, unwinding and unraveling for the tiger (Mr. Teatime, he noted, and it made him smile all over again, a gentle calling for something bound to grow ferocious and savage). He watched them run, the jungle cat doing most of the chasing, as Orsino launched over piles of snow, gnashed his teeth, uncurled his tails and tried to whip them across the feline’s face. The sable fox might’ve glanced over towards his beastly companion, with a glare, with a sinister stare that spoke of just desserts and retribution, but Erebos said nothing to him over their connection. He merely allowed him the opportunity to be assaulted and assailed for once; a fine bit of revenge in its own way, for the cold, dastardly calculations of a kitsune and his Cheshire demeanor. At her laugh, his ears and features swerved back to her, brow arched, curiosity coiling a little further in his machinations, listening to the merriment bubble over the snow and rime (a trifle forced, perhaps, for his benefit? Or was she out of habit, never quite amused enough to explode into diversions?). The warrior leaned a little closer then, introducing his feral bonded from across the desolate plains. “His name is Orsino.” He wrinkled his nose a little, then shrugged, swindling his gaze over the layers of entertainment careening across the landscape. “He’s…always like that.” But, he admitted nothing more about the little hellspawn, the tiny infidel, the wrath and rage inside the bestial vessel, because he was more or less the same. They shared their strife, their hostility, and their acrimony. Orsino never saw the reason to hide his and Erebos covered the contempt, the treachery, with grins and warmth, politeness and composure.
Her apology brought him back, fixating his stare along her face, where feathers touched and fluttered, where ethereality kindled and some celestial adornments curled. In a way, she hadn’t erred, had no reason to apologize or wax regrets, because one moment his feet would be firmly planted, settled, rooted into the ground, and he’d known exactly what he was going to do, how he was going to do it, then somehow, along the way, it would get distorted, tear, rip apart, and he’d be left to puzzle out another path. In these instances, though, he’d been wandering, remembering, broken bodies in the snow, chasing an adventure, a glorious hallelujah, where he couldn’t see her golden form crumpled and bloody. Maybe it was lonely, when he stopped to think about it, but they’d been the last remnants of her, still, silent, gone. The prince did nothing to riddle her away from the building misunderstanding, only smiling a little deeper, losing a portion of his ebullience on a gentle gliding of snowflakes. “I come here all the time,” and he didn’t say why.
Then she giggled again, almost dreamy, almost consumed by an unattainable boundary, light and airy, eclipsed by Elysium complexities and whimsical, capricious delights. He wasn’t sure how to respond to her contentment at being lost, at her obvious enjoyment, at the soft, dulcet, mercurial intricacies of her venturing – perhaps her sojourn, her crusade, was far more amusing than his. He’d never believed going astray had been satisfactory or pleasant; when his motions, notions, were carved elsewhere, somewhere far beyond what he’d imagined, conjured, or hoped, he grew frustrated, irritated, annoyed, exasperated that he’d have to start anew. But the scion’s campaigns had taken him down so many other alternate alleys: from a lad who only knew he’d wanted power, who learned and scorched and loved, to a beast laden with primal machinations always coveting his throat, always crawling over his spine. There’d been days of innocence and joviality, and when they came crashing down, he’d had to make do with what he had: wits, determination, and endurance. The youth had no idea of what she’d seen, of why she’d want to be away from things she’d always known, and the inquiry rumbled from his mouth before he could stop it. “You enjoy being lost?”
The way she turned back to him, however, seemed almost incriminating, her eyes narrowed, speculating, examining him, maybe trying to find faults, to find misalignment, to place him from the shadows and demons escaped from their doldrums. He played with it, tilted his head absentmindedly, granting her the same fixation, except his glance was silly, mocking, features growing closer and closer until his breath could’ve puffed along her face (and he would’ve laughed if it had). His tone was in jest, but the words were devout and sacred. “Erebos, soldier of the Aurora Basin.” He even granted her a mock bow, folding his bearded chin towards his chest, before curling it back to its prior, regal position, son of a King, destined for uncertainty. “And who are you, exactly?”
Her apology brought him back, fixating his stare along her face, where feathers touched and fluttered, where ethereality kindled and some celestial adornments curled. In a way, she hadn’t erred, had no reason to apologize or wax regrets, because one moment his feet would be firmly planted, settled, rooted into the ground, and he’d known exactly what he was going to do, how he was going to do it, then somehow, along the way, it would get distorted, tear, rip apart, and he’d be left to puzzle out another path. In these instances, though, he’d been wandering, remembering, broken bodies in the snow, chasing an adventure, a glorious hallelujah, where he couldn’t see her golden form crumpled and bloody. Maybe it was lonely, when he stopped to think about it, but they’d been the last remnants of her, still, silent, gone. The prince did nothing to riddle her away from the building misunderstanding, only smiling a little deeper, losing a portion of his ebullience on a gentle gliding of snowflakes. “I come here all the time,” and he didn’t say why.
Then she giggled again, almost dreamy, almost consumed by an unattainable boundary, light and airy, eclipsed by Elysium complexities and whimsical, capricious delights. He wasn’t sure how to respond to her contentment at being lost, at her obvious enjoyment, at the soft, dulcet, mercurial intricacies of her venturing – perhaps her sojourn, her crusade, was far more amusing than his. He’d never believed going astray had been satisfactory or pleasant; when his motions, notions, were carved elsewhere, somewhere far beyond what he’d imagined, conjured, or hoped, he grew frustrated, irritated, annoyed, exasperated that he’d have to start anew. But the scion’s campaigns had taken him down so many other alternate alleys: from a lad who only knew he’d wanted power, who learned and scorched and loved, to a beast laden with primal machinations always coveting his throat, always crawling over his spine. There’d been days of innocence and joviality, and when they came crashing down, he’d had to make do with what he had: wits, determination, and endurance. The youth had no idea of what she’d seen, of why she’d want to be away from things she’d always known, and the inquiry rumbled from his mouth before he could stop it. “You enjoy being lost?”
The way she turned back to him, however, seemed almost incriminating, her eyes narrowed, speculating, examining him, maybe trying to find faults, to find misalignment, to place him from the shadows and demons escaped from their doldrums. He played with it, tilted his head absentmindedly, granting her the same fixation, except his glance was silly, mocking, features growing closer and closer until his breath could’ve puffed along her face (and he would’ve laughed if it had). His tone was in jest, but the words were devout and sacred. “Erebos, soldier of the Aurora Basin.” He even granted her a mock bow, folding his bearded chin towards his chest, before curling it back to its prior, regal position, son of a King, destined for uncertainty. “And who are you, exactly?”
Erebos
clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in
@Maren
