EREBOS

He knew he wasn’t supposed to wonder, wasn’t supposed to drift away from the battle, from the arts of machinations and swordplay, but the youth couldn’t stop his mind from whirling, from pondering, from bypassing the siege. Curiosity was a weighty thing, coiling distinctly over the roughened edges and corners of his membrane, like a web, like a vice, conspiring only to corrupt and condemn the channeling of his muscles, the fire and brimstone of his desires.
 
He wanted to know if she, if all his soldiers, felt him inept, felt him foolish, felt him a poor example of a military commander – if everything he ever did was all for nothing, if she could see how stupid, how ineffectual, how absolutely disastrous he truly was.
 
It distracted him in the midst of showers and droplets, no matter how much Orsino spit, hissed, and howled along their twisted, gnarled, knotted bond, because he wanted to be so much more than what he’d already become. He aspired to greatness, to grandeur, to lofty, brilliant heights, where the Basin would reign and dominate all over again. He wished for them to topple towers, bludgeon enemies, destroy opponents, obliterate, obliterate, and obliterate until the icy columns and glacial chambers were something to be feared once more.
 
Erebos bore the pain, the anguish, the torment just beginning its winding assault, for them. Maybe they did the same. But he feared they’d eventually look upon him in utter disgrace, see his worthless follies, his hopeless ambitions, shake their heads, and leave him for naught on the cold, hard floor. So many had fled, and he’d never asked, never pleaded, never begged for them to stay, but he poured it out of his soul now, as he clambered about in the mud, as he seared and seethed, as he dreamed and grasped. His teeth had barely grazed her, but her assaults affected him far greater, far deeper, than he longed to admit.
 
Her words were just echoes across his ears, and in the thick of his thoughts, he gave her nothing in response. Orsino’s tenacious clutching was finally enough to reignite him (something about fools, and then in sky), so that when he twisted his head to glance along the clouds, he found her above him, using those wings and feathers he’d admired so much to attempt a brutal annihilation of his bones, of his figure, of his valorous efforts.
 
The scion hastened forward, as much as his aching, left haunch dared permit, but in the end, he knew it wouldn’t be enough. The ground was too soft, the world was too slick, and no matter how far he stretched, she’d still have the advantage.
 
He didn’t give in even as her hooves crashed into his hind end, sending him reeling, viciously bruised, barbed, trying to smother a sharp outcry (to no avail, he could hear it drum through his vocal chords, harsh and fast) as he stumbled forward. The General dug into the earth, shifting so he didn’t flounder face first into the dampened terrain, so his eyes couldn’t look into hers, so the shame mottling their surface didn’t reflect back into the rain.
 
The prince only glanced up when he heard her land, gaze hardened now, illustrious and brutal, striving to reach deep down into that stupid, noxious part of his soul, yearning to bring out the warrior from within (not the boy, not the lad, but the General, hardened from his years immorality and recklessness). He reached forward again (but so much slower, his strides lessened by the stroke of assaults, pouring through his mind with throbbing aches), striving for her right side, offering nothing but the glint of his sword, inclining his skull towards her right haunch – hoping, somehow, someway, he wouldn’t always be the jester, the dunce.

[2/3. 635 words.
* Erebos attempts to get out of Weaver’s flight path by running forward, but due to his previous injuries and the ground, he’s far too slow and gets a nasty bruise along his hind for his troubles. He stumbles forward, but rights himself.
* When Weaver lands, Erebos tries to reach her right side and cut along her right haunch with his horn.]