Her confidence drowned out the vicious noise of his doldrums; the assertions, the resolve, the notion that he wasn’t alone and that at least two of them could conquer the heavens, the stars, the void, the world, made him chuckle, made him laugh. It boomed and ricocheted, warm, bright, and jubilant, as if it hadn’t been heard in such a long, great while, between the measures of sadness and wicked departures, spiraling here and there against the rubble, echoing as he closed his eyes. He shook his head, and still the chuckling came, resounding in grand reverberations, a child again, lost to the wake of amusement and diversions, as if everything wondrous and triumphant had come together again (when it hadn’t, not by a long shot). When the youth opened his gaze again, he pretended the tears curled and collected along the corners of his eyes had been caused by the sheer, silly outbreak of mirth, and not the sudden outpouring of emotions, the way he’d wanted to fall apart but no one on this godforsaken, desolate plain allowed him. “What a thought,” he laughed again, quieter this time, bending his head so that the edge of his sword laid against his father’s stony tomb, and he could feel the cold, lifeless ambience sinking into him, tying him back to the chilling aperture, ensuring he stayed, resolute, adamant. The ambitions formed within his heart, mind, body, and soul then, nearly tangible, bursting from the seams with vivid colors of blood red fervor and blistering animosity, acrimony in the most illustrious of hazes, glory on their hooves, daggers in their speech, triumph in their hearts – they’d be the best, an echoing tale spun from legends, another generation renewing the crisp, frigid power of the Aurora Basin. His voice was warm, rekindled, and fervent, a zealous slide away those moments where he’d only sputtered and crumbled, pieced and hooked together by the sheer determination nestled in his refrains. “Perhaps, one day, I’ll be enough to convince them too,” and the General’s stare returned to her then, adamant and blistering, a scorching, piercing shade of blue – thrown from the ocean or the ice, one conviction after another held within their depths.
 
Erebos wanted the world to see them as more than a cycle of creatures, sprung from the loins of greater ancestors – and the longing fueled his motions, his movements, away from the shadows of their prior giants, shifting from the collected tales of the Dark Empress and her rancorous refugees, towards those beasts who carved their way into the mountain, into the throngs, into the rapture and reverie of condemnation, of perilous, wicked strife, of living beyond their losses and devastation. They’d learned how to thrive, how to reshape, how to outmaneuver, how to alter, morph, and transform – and now they’d do the same, uniting, conspiring, outlasting over and over again. The resolve, the perseverance, the persistence, bled its way through him, chiseled and adamant, mighty and staunch, proud and stalwart, a means of charisma and presence; an appeal, an allure, a vicious, tenacious hold on the realm bestowed to him by Reaper scythes and rainy endeavors. “What else should we do?” He asked her, then and there, of other things to be done – beyond patrols, beyond meetings, beyond clustering together and forging onward like tempestuous snakes – honored her insight, her abilities, her capability of harpooning his shell and plucking at the hollowed, worn out tides and veils until he could see again, until he could spot what was directly in front of him.

Erebos

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