Stranger and stranger still, he watched the way they circled one another – not by movement, but by voice and hushed intonations, the things left unsaid. He skated and slithered away from the brooding temptations of unfurling the death of his father, how it ruined him, how it bled and fueled and corroded him from the inside out because all he wanted was the Reaper back, and he wasn’t allowed to have those things. The dragonmare seemed to be spun into nothing but a few fine bits of air and promise, and his eyes almost narrowed, trying to piece and puzzle together the unspoken regards, the name without a herd, without a place, without an empire ensconced (perhaps none at all). So when she prompted Kiada, he followed suit, completely unaware of the unseen ties and the implied notations of a history lined and harpooned, incapable of formulating the pieces and shards together without an exact line smoldered into the ground. “And yourself? Where are you from?” He asked, not unkindly, the amiable gesture of his mouth still rounded and content, Orsino a molten, seething wall behind him, pondering, wondering, an exultant siege of ruin and might. How did a dragon wander without something to call home – gold and gilded treasure, castles to burn, or maidens to scorch?
 
Then Kiada’s tale caused his focus to rivet back to her – and he almost wished he hadn’t turned his ears or swiveled his sights back along her embers, brutally reminded of time he’d lost and events that could never occur again. The prince didn’t flinch, but he wanted to – yearned to crumble and fall away right then and there, as she described a sire that wasn’t around much, an Elephant King who had other children, the nothing more and that’s it making him bite his tongue. She didn’t cherish the beast who’d given her life, but perhaps that was because she hadn’t known him enough, or he’d been pre-occupied by the role of monarch – the sentiments sizzled on his lips, almost begged her to give the other beast a chance, because one moment they were there and the next moment they were gone, and she should’ve pressed every memory together like a fire-laden book to look at later, when the rest of the pages were blank, empty, and embittered canvas. Maybe he hadn’t been everything she’d wished or granted, but at least she had him, and that was more than Erebos would ever be able to grasp again. “Were you disappointed?,” was what came along his mouth instead, tilting his head, missing the way she flinched at attacking griffins (the way Enyo’s beak opened for just a moment, then snapped shut again), and then his gaze slowly turned back to the trees, to the labyrinth, puzzling just how far he’d have to go to evade everything once more. He didn’t know what to say thereafter, because his mind was a mess and she’d asked how the Basin fared; if he said anything of leadership altering she’d question why the Reaper no longer stood on his throne, and anything else pulsing and pervading through his lips would settle on one more lie. So when his steely gaze segmented on her fire and ash again, recalling simpler days when he’d told her about queens and rulers and how to make the world bow (it felt like he knew even less since then), he only conjured a simplistic venue, hiding, coaxing more suppressed versions of the truth. “The Basin is strong and mighty,” and then he winked, hoping to steer her off-course, away from the hows and whys.