Erebos, unfortunately, didn’t have the notion, wherewithal, or motivation to become a mender. He was far too immersed into the world of crusades, campaigns, and toy soldiers, running amuck over the herd lands like wicked cavalry, conspiring to slay monsters, demons, and blackguards. Juvenile intrigue and curiosity held his stare upon Adelric’s wounds, but he contained no noteworthy way to care for his friend’s ailments, and he pondered over them with a furrowed brow and crude examination. His mother would know what to do, because she was wise and omniscient, caring and benevolent. Maybe she’d croon and tell a story about a time she’d acquired bloody knees too, in the days beyond Helovia, in some other foreign land he’d never seen. He inclined, slanted, angled his noble crown and cutlass, offered his sentiments in the best way he could with the audacious spring of a new memory. “I fell across some rocks once on the shore.” The lad nodded good-naturedly, then mulled over the threads of thereafter, how Huyana, with all of her worldly knowledge and kind words, praise and merits, had gently coaxed him into the sea, to wash away the foils and tribulations of the day. “My mother took me into the water and had it wash the blood away.” He wrinkled his nose, remembering the slight twitch of pain as the waves’ salt had cleansed the wounds, but bit and tore at the skin, as if healing always carried a small amount of discomfort and torment to solidify the occasion, choke and smother it into memory. “Do you want to do that?” The little prince, with his hidden cloaks and daggers, his infidel smiles and cretin looks, could only hazard a guess to a location of a spring nearby, but it was worth a shot – and perhaps it would make Adelric feel better. There was always a chance the other colt wouldn’t bother; maybe he wanted to wear the battered, broken bits of skin as badges of courage, fired upon and dragged away in the line of duty, forged in the bracken and decay of the earth. Eventually, the youthful indulgences of play would fade away from their frames, and true, real, corporeal scars would cross over their figures, etch and sketch stories, myths, strengths and honor alongside swooping lines and bloodied trails. For now, these little marks counted just as much. I bet you’ll bleed a lot then - he didn’t know whether to be proud or weary, ponder if the Reaper had through the stitches and seams on his argent pelt – so he didn’t answer, the words trapped in his throat.

The colt, instead, chimed and listened to the sudden reverberations of Adelric’s interest, and because he wondered about his homelands, the lissome scion could nearly wax poetical upon the subject. He thought about the mountains reaching for the sky, the narrow, icy trails, the glowing, glittering caverns with so many wonderful things contained inside (one held a mirror, mother had said, a reflection to the Gods), and he wanted to tell the spotted figure everything about the fantastic world. It made him proud, content, pleased, to think about the empire he was born into, with his father leading their bladed countenances and aurora highlights dancing in the chilled evenings, the lake that never melted, the hot springs steaming into midnight tendrils. He nearly exploded with the thought of it, his little heart pattering wildly in his chest, untamed and reverent to the cold, to the glaciers, to the vibrant walls encased in mystery and awe. Instead, his vocals concocted and composed the notion for him, fervent, ardent, and passionate in his extended excitement, eyes widened, bright. “I live in the Aurora Basin! Have you heard of it?” Others must have known something so grand, and then he thought over the sovereigns beyond, where Adelric must live (because he didn’t smell like the Basin, didn’t coat himself in snow and rime), what other paradises and utopias could be found along murky mists and tempting seas. “What about you?”