Unseen motions and moments transpired – Erebos could feel it through the tucked away insinuations, the barbs and thorns kept close at hand, the riddles floating through manic giggles. He tilted his head and bore his pretense well, because it was all he could do to stay present in the world of furtive, specious secrets, too many unsaid notions and schemes, and if they intended to wield deceptions he’d do the same; duplicitous and mercenary until the bitter end. The newcomer offered her name (Weaver - and he almost laughed because of the symbolism of the mountains and the title prospered across her lips; then imagined she’d take up knitting the cloth and become Weaver the Weaver), and his smile deepened, not Cheshire, not smirking, but kind, friendly, composed, seemingly genuine when all he yearned to do was bow his head and be left alone in a cave to shed his mask and sulk. We haven’t a clue what she is good for came Beloved’s reply, and his brow remained arched, intrigued, cursed with the notion to chuckle once more simply because he didn’t know what he was good for either, and maybe they could all bask in the equanimity of nothingness and ineptitude. He could drown in its weight and no one would notice until it was too late, and they’d shake their heads, clamor something about worthless princes and too young, too stupid and he’d proven them right all along – he wasn’t meant to be anything or anyone.
 
But the boy failed to sink now. He swallowed down the lost senses, the guilt, the apprehension and confidence eating away at his bones, at his marrow, at his flesh, at his schemes, wallowing delicately between the unknown and the foretold – piecing together chosen words and phrases, pretending he had a notion glimmering between his teeth, tongue, and grin. “Perhaps we have a rank suitable to your talents.” The scion shuffled closer, gaining ground along the lake, nearly daring himself to run across its surface, but pondering over it a moment later as a means of escape, if the whims and mercurial exploits turned back upon him. His voice was charismatic and appealing, granting choices, options, on the hinges of the prominence’s icy peaks and valleys, eyes sliding back to the painted mare, to his demonic warrior, curious, intrigued, interested. “There are soldiers, crafters, healers, scholars, and sleuths to pick from.” Endless opportunities and the needs to fill them were an eternal demand; with the Basin’s strengths faltering, they’d all had to step into roles (maybe some unsuitable and here he thought of himself, of the boy General who conspired to ruin and devastate but only his own targets). What she yearned, craved, and wanted to do could be instrumental, monumental to their empire, or designated to flicker away, like so many others before her (and here the youth seemed to pinpoint his hopes on her being incapable of disappearing, pleading, begging, that she’d be one of the strong, one of the determined).

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want