EREBOS

He chose the evening to whittle away his time, conjure up bits and pieces of paltry trifles, insignificant drumming, listen to the wind rustle through pine needles, curl ripples through the lake. His eyes drank in the horizon, the colder, effervescent glow of the auroras, of the galaxies, of all the illustrious hues painted across the sky – and he wondered what it would take to become another legend, a bright blistering constellation, dotted amongst the stars. The world could look at him, centuries from now, and see what he’d been, what he’d done, what he’d become (a vicious, marauding warlord, a charming, charismatic deity, a fool only fueled by hatred, by wrath, by vengeance?), want to follow his justified oaths and paths, or distort the measures and find their own.
 
But goodness, how long was it going to take?
 
The prince had never been as patient as his father; the Reaper was capable of calculating and delving into machinations for what felt like eons. The boy, however, was too audacious, too bold, in his youth, craving and longing and yearning before the sun rose, pondering how he was to arrive at the next interval of his journey when he hadn’t finished the first. He’d always been that way, since the day of his birth, watching others and hankering, coveting, for what they had. Now, in his mission for retribution, he’d seen strength, power, and domination from other beasts, from other savages, and from friends.
 
Did they see him in the same light? Was he as powerful? Was he as strong?
 
Or was he their means to an end?
 
The thought bristled against his skull, and he let it go with a shaking of his head, a glance to the soil. They wandered further, kitsune and scion, along the folds and openings of the fir and groves, when they caught sight of another –
 
Ah, Sjal.
 
The daughter of Psyche’s presence restored a kindling, an incensed ember beginning to burn all over again. What if they were to test each other? What if they were to see which lineage was mightier, more brutal, more savage? The inclination wound a smirk through his lips, entangled its way through his voice, so as he called out to her the suspense, the intricacies, the flares grew, and the wickedness distorted, contorted, along his infernal mind. “Sjal!” He rushed to her side, drenched and draped in midnight canvas, alive and smoldering beneath the madness of twilight and the cool, sharp raptures of a Tallsun evening. “Want to spar?”


[0/3. 422 words. Teaching Spar with Sjal.
Timeline: Normal
Setting: Aurora Basin, evening, near a grove of pine and fir, just yards away from the hot springs. The northern lights are shining overhead.
You may have the first attack!]