EREBOS

They blended seamlessly into the artificial evening, a perfected cacophony of demonic, infidel intrigue and nefarious exploits – because they were bored, because they were restless, because something plagued at them, gnarled, combing through their veins in matched, Machiavellian savagery. The pair, foxy, cunning and incensed, preyed and skulked, slithered and wandered, purely for the sake of hunting, glancing amidst the thick columns of bloody leaves and beckoning pools, enticed by everything all at once. One wanted to delve into the murky waters and claim the treasure rumored to reside in its ghostly, horrifying wake, and the other wanted to simply loom, a large, powerful force on the brink of sinister incantations and gallant interludes, and when neither agreed, they merely remained, fastened together in the sinister silence.
 
Then there was more, stored and lodged in the boy’s brain, sparking off a roll of confidence and intention – for power lurked in the great, grand halls, where gods had screamed and fallen, where dragons were supposed to have crashed, landed, decayed and burned, where the earth made everyone mortal. Would he be able to conquer something, someone, an unknown entity, if he challenged it’s sanctity? If he grasped and held the opportunity, the chance, to stoke the flames of his avariciousness, of his need, of his thirst, to triumph over the rest of the earth? Would they remember his name when he relished victory in the heart of the bleeding mountains? Or would he be one more claimed by its savage whims, where everyone was exploited, where every soul became a beast, christened and crowned in ichor?
 
He’d never know until he tried.
 
A challenging invitation split from his lips, and he listened to Orsino chuckle through it, as if his leering eyes had become the warrior’s too, and they burned together, too greedy, too allured, too beguiled by the stretches, by the reaches, of treacheries and deceptions. “Is there anyone out there willing to spar?” He asked the clustered twilight, with its crimson branches and brambles, with its haunting avenues, with its eldritch capriciousness simmering on his bellows. Someone would come. They always did. There would always be another like him, waiting in the wings, yearning for the rapture, the reverie, of violence and disaster.
 
He’d wait for them, with his companion blended into the background, with his undulating muscles poised, ready, and eager for the fervency, for the frenzy, of bloodshed and devastation. 

[0/3. 403 words. Training spar with Ru.
Setting: Blood Falls; artificial evening. Early Orangemoon, so relatively cool. Erebos is standing in a clearing, somewhat close to the pool.
You may have first move!]