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Boisterous and exuberant, they crossed over wires of fallen branches and launched across berry bushes, avoiding thorns and nettles (even when that’s all they ever were – rancorous little beasts with barbs cloaked deep into their lacquer), brushing past the feral interludes of the Tallsun indulgences; seizing shadows when they could and laughing all the way. Their triumphs and dastardly deeds echoed over fronds and pillars, great, large oaks with massive boughs, widened pines who’d never dared to shed their hues, and at some point the boy and his fox stared up at the sanctum of giants, wondering if they would ever be so tall, so strong, so mighty, and gallant. Orsino knew what the woods would answer, but Erebos still dared, still pondered, still questioned how far determination, strength, and iron-clad will could push, could pull, could convey all he’d aspired to be. He simply refused to live in the grasp of Fate.
Eventually, they slowed down, walked silently and diligently through the copses and groves, tucked and cornered into the avenues of serenity and tranquility. They fought against it, of course, because they were infidels and merchants of wilderness and savagery, tamed only on principles, honor, and justice, hunting and stalking, refining and cultivating skills they’d both need throughout their lives. All cloaks, all daggers, all fine sinew and flesh; there was no room for being soft, for being light, for being anything more than their blackguard convictions and their sworn oaths (assurances made in blood and bone, wrath and ire, fire and brimstone).
Yet, something dulcet and spotted crept into the corner of the prince’s vision, and he ceased warlord motions and movements to stare at it.
It hadn’t been the femme herself that had first caught his eye – but the fabric she laid upon, foreign to the mist and shadows of the Threshold. At first he believed it to be ichor, a lifeforce drained, another being bled out and gone before he’d had a chance to save them - but as he gazed more and more upon it (the color was wrong for spilled, beating fluid), the object reminded him of Johnny’s methods and talents for weaving, and he pondered how she’d come with it, where she’d gotten it, if there were others like their candy-stag, capable of utilizing the world for their crafts. She had other things around her too, little trinkets and bulbs that curiosity lent itself vividly to (what were they? What did they do? Why did she have them?), and he’d stepped closer out of interest, out of intrigue, before he’d even realized there’d been no introduction or words exchanged. Orsino shook his head, and the boy dropped his, intending to lower his gaze towards the stranger, so blue stared at the other oddities she’d managed to convey (horns, but one curling and coiling where an eye should’ve been), bright and gentle, brilliant and calculating. “I wouldn’t doze off here,” he noted, allowing his voice to pervade with the wind, regal and defined. “I’m Erebos. Who are you?”
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