EREBOS

Strength and diligence, fortitude and might - a ceremonial plunge of words and phrases that haunted his sleep – because in them he saw his father’s figure, a ghostly slate of power and domination, and it was all he yearned for his herd to be again. It echoed through him now as he searched out for his newest opponent, drowned himself in the wake of the incoming onslaught. He wanted their hearts painted blaze rage red, he wanted their souls etched for abominations and abhorrence, and he wanted them to feast on their enemies, know, understand, and comprehend the feeling of triumph.
 
Most of them didn’t know the stories of the Basin. Most of them didn’t know the history, the faltering steps, the refugee days, the essence of loss and the feeling of the unknown. He’d only heard them too, in his mother’s songs and laurels, in his sire’s impassive features, but didn’t want to relive the notion of defeat, of collapse. Initially, their foundering had formed the Basin’s perseverance, their overwhelming need to conquer and avenge; and nowadays, there was naught holding them back but listlessness, laziness, and complacency.
 
But not them, not his soldiers, not his troops, not his comrades - he’d make sure of it.
 
They would dominate and reign supreme. They would climb the tallest towers. They would march on the highest peaks. They would choke and stab, mutilate and devour, protect and scald. They’d be the lifeblood of the mountain air. They’d be the mercenaries, eager and ready for their missions.
 
So he sought out another, deep in the denizens of the Basin’s valley, where the clouds poured droplets of cascading rain and he smiled in its watery abyss, at home with the tempest, at home with the storm, a pervading piece of the temple himself – born and bred to fight for its empire. “Weaver!” He shouted out in the rain, narrowing his eyes to look upon her painted edges and winged abilities, pondering how far she’d go, what she knew, and what experiences were nestled and tucked between her plumes. “Let’s go!” It was a hastened outcry for violence and vigilance, a skirmish, a practice, a plea, and his companion wisely said naught, irked and irritated by being caught out in the showers, settling by his hooves.
 
Do you trust me today? Erebos thought to ask her, but instead sketched it across his Cheshire grin; wondered if she could read his inquiry there, or ignore it altogether the way he should’ve at her lashings.

[419 words. 0/3. Erebos vs. Weaver Teaching Spar.
Surroundings: In the heart of the Aurora Basin, mid-day. Mild rain, some puddles and mud nearby.
Weaver may have first move!]