All my life I’ve been searching for something
He watched, waited, a presence of inquiry and stalwart, staunch interludes – his ears flicking back and forth, ignoring Orsino’s infernal statements haunting them both; gaze focused entirely on the situation at hand. Commitments and convictions passed, but then lengthened to a strange degree when not a single soldier was commanded to escort the omniscient Mountain, leaving him to the decision.
His father had always been direct, sometimes demanding, but usually conveying a sense of certitude, an essence of finality. Each and every choice he’d ever made had been ensconced in methodical schemes, brutal calculations, aiming and harpooning to be efficient, compliant, and chiseled into compliance, authority, and vigor. But the Ocean’s Light left it up to the prince, allowed and permitted him to reel in commands, dictate where to go, what to do – and he’d done so with his own beasts (competently, he’d hoped, at least he hadn’t led them into total disaster and ruin yet), but the situation seemed stranger than most, and no one seemed eager to set forth their own plans. His gaze swept back and forth, from one femme to the next, brow arched only a segment in brief, swift, cursory perusal (if this was some sort of feminine test, and he was about to be brutally sieged) – wondering if Weaver actually wanted to give a short tour of their mountain range, or if he’d be more suitable because he knew the once-raven (barely, just passing youths). When no one really executed or murmured anything helpful, he was left to pick up the pieces with a rogue, dashing grin, and a charitable, amiable demeanor. “I’d be happy to escort you,” and here he played in a little bow, a sweeping incline of his skull towards the direction of their hot springs, inviting her further into the glorious heights of their kingdom, ever the regal scion bursting at the seams.
(something never comes)
erebos
never leads to nothing—nothing satisfies
but I’m getting close
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[O] Miles to go before I sleep [questing]
