There was water everywhere.

The sight set before his eyes was magnificent; a declaration of power, majesty, and turbulence he’d never be able to harness, harpoon, or hold, but it made him venture towards it all the more. Seemingly spread out for miles, for fathoms, the everlasting blue, the spellbinding waves, the salty air, enshrouded, veiled, and emboldened his childish ruminations, his mischievous glee. His mother, who moved like rivulets, who swindled the storms, who spoke of Cinnoru and the potency manifested within all unicorns, of blood running and gliding, harmonizing, within lakes and streams, of influential ichor drenching, saturating their souls, had told him many things about the world, but hadn’t yet allowed him to soak his presence into its depths. Perhaps she’d been worried that his youth couldn’t defy the outreach of the tide, with its rolling dominance, its intriguing authority, its pull across the earth, along the dunes, upon valiant Atlantis and its fallen kingdom. However, without her presence, he’d slunk, sneaked, and slithered his way down towards its barriers, its colossal expanse, determined, despite all of her misgivings, all of her warnings, to seek reef creatures and taste the indignant brine, to chase after gulls and leap into frothing foam. Curiosity and intrigue forged, incised, a delicate balance of bravery and audacity, of imprudence and valor, of ignorance and boldness, and as his tiny hooves sank into the damp sand, leaving the imprints of his presence, (he’d been here within the curling waves, within the rising crescendo, in the wake of its enduring horizon), ruminations and oaths failed to falter, and more queries followed. If he could press his form into its scales, would it give him mastery? Could he swallow its layers of ascendency, pulse in its corporeal brow? Could he devour the claims of avaricious sharks and cretins? Could he become endowed, proffered, permitted, the opportunity, the taste, the savoring of superiority? For in each tale his mother, his father, spoke and wove, the ideals of triumph sounded like heaven.

The lithe, little scion drew one hasty, quaking breath as he stood one step away from the tide’s touch. Confidence faded for a single, decisive moment, because what if he was truly taken away from home, suddenly an ocean’s lost child? What if the waves crashed over his cranium, his body, and drove him to pieces, slashed him over rocks and left him with naught but a sudden, violent demise? Would his sire, would his dam, be disappointed by his actions, spurning and ruining his own bright future with a slip of valor, with a notion of grandeur? He swallowed, then pushed his motions, his movements, back into place, incapable of allowing himself to be a frozen speck on the shore, afraid and hesitant. He waited for the rush of the waves to take him under, or the cool, listless contortions of its idle touch, pressing and gentle.

However, instead, upon the strange notion that he hadn’t entered the sea at all (because the refreshing feel was under his hooves, and that couldn’t be right), he looked down and saw his daggers, his frame, his body was on top of the churning sea.

[For @[Faeanne] and @[Arya] (if time permits thee. ;D). Erebos discovers water-walking! o:]

The boundaries of sense and perception spiraled out of control and left him muddled. He should have been swallowed, devoured, consumed by the great, bestial waves and the churning seas, should have been engulfed in sea foam and washed back onto shore, or sunken down into the masses of wet sand and fish, coughing up water embedded in his lungs. He should have been grasped by the swell, the urgency, the terrifying power woven into each pulsating ebb and flow, sunken towards battered ships and skeletal remains. Instead, the avenues and storms washed and crashed around him, surrounding his hooves, permitting him to float and cascade on their back, following and gliding, upon the rivulets as they brought him back to the coastline. The lad’s features were a picture of surprise and befuddlement, brows twisted into furrowed depths, piercing eyes widening, then narrowing in speculation, confusion flickering and crossing his drawn lips. Perhaps he’d imagined it, buried it down into delusion, as though he’d mastered and mustered power and precision over the titans of the ocean, over Poseidon and all of his tridents, over the leviathans lurking beneath the dominating force. The limber scion shook his head, felt the cutting, salty wind whip along his long blade, and mustered one deep breath, slowly pushing it out from his lungs as he tried again. Surely this time would be different, and his frame would descend into the froth and surf, normal and ordinary, the standard, customary way one swims and churns in the bay.

But it wasn’t – on the second attempt, his frame returned to the surface, holy and devout – and his little body shook in panic, in terror, trembling, quivering, shuddering as each bellow of the sea churned him amongst its ricocheting murmurs. Instead of confidence, audacity, poise and self-possession, he thought he was an abomination, feeble and blighted. For a few moments, he choked back tears, frightened and scared to move (this wasn’t what he wanted, to somehow be unworthy of the ocean and shoved back upon its brim every single time, an undeserving echo and chime, and what would mother or father say, what would happen to him?), until the sounds of another grappled amongst the stirred sea and he blinked away the shards of his shattering ambitions. A girl, nimble and winged, bright and starry, puttered through the brine, extending her frame into the waves, regular, lyrics floating over the roaring foam. How did you do that? He sniffed, lowered his head to peer into the water, watched the sand shift in its outrageous force, in its paralyzing grasp, and then shouted back towards the filly, breeching further and further into the unknown, foolish and ignorant. “I don’t know!” Apprehension swelled and festered in his chest again, and he struggled to fight it off, but it grasped and tore at him, claimed that somehow he was inadequate, deficient, incapable, and all of the menacing whims and malevolent fancies he thought he’d have faded away. Boldly, and perhaps pleading, he gestured back to the dame, howled over the vicious tendrils of the ocean. “Do you think something’s wrong with me?”

[@[Faeanne] Let me know if you prefer not to be tagged!]

The waves continued their churning, wild and expressive, curling fronds of pernicious prowess, building and foaming beneath their newest champion, but the colt swallowed and flickered about in unease, wary and hesitant, because for all the things he’d learned in life, the world never spoke of children dancing across water, skimming over the surface like a spider or basilisk. The world beckoned beyond the horizon, of chilling, avaricious plumes and wonderful empires towering to the heavens, but all he saw were the torrential eaves and damnation crawling across his hooves, bereft, scattered, and worthless. His gaze struggled to harden, to relish in the impish gall he wore so well, but they remained apprehensive and clawing, staring back at the filly rising with the swells and lingering in their sousing touch, listening as she imparted her wisdom. You could be very sick… and the worry, the anxiety, clambered back into his throat, there was something awry with him, and others would laugh and mock, parade in their rampant cavalcades to where he stood amongst the frenetic sea – but then her last words, enlightening little barbs, washed over him, and clarity struck a poignant chord.

Or maybe…you are magic.

Enchantments, invocations, curses and blights, assembling and unwinding, beautiful threads of haunting outcries, crescendos of unsung, unholy magnificence, blending, bending, crisp distortions of reality, outlines of pestilence and perfection, precision and pernicious slates – his mother had told him so many things about charms, the fabric of opuses and orchestras, how the world was bound into their runes, how so many creatures held wondrous, amazing, daunting forms. She wove pictures of damsels rescuing themselves from towers, flying and gliding on lullabies, she painted tapestries of spellbinding warriors giving chase to their licentious crusades, and she lingered along the water’s edge, becoming part of the element herself. She strung together ballads of his father’s corruption and destruction, all of the reapers’ blades and silent, remorseless whispers of demise, of Loth’s singsong blossoms and unwilting form. But the colt never thought he could possess the same distinction, the same fluttering ambience, the same brooding, brewing force within his frame. The idea of power was an earnest nuance in itself, but the rushing, plunging, snatching coils of his own allure, his own finesse and talent sketched his ruffian regards back into place. Was this magic causing him to float and bask in the ocean’s lair without a shard, without a ripple, without a blighted notion? Had some portion of Huyana’s warm, kind-hearted, watery sentiments trickled into his bones, into his veins, whisked and whittled him into a corporeal form of virtuous requiems? The scion mumbled it back to himself, “Maybe I’m magic…” over the coursing rivulets and the salty brine, glanced from the gallows beneath his feet and the tendrils of the filly’s tail draped in its clutches; he had power, holstered and ready, built tenderly into his lithe, youthful frame.

Curiosity was suddenly an unending flame; ignited and kindled, the folds of his apprehension disappearing into the midst of the flailing platitude, and he bounded, leapt, curling his forelegs together, knees tucked, head between their knobby glow, towards the mighty tempest, only to plunge no further than the cool, veneer seams of the ocean. The worry assailed and flew off into the distance, and now he ran beside the winged girl, with her gilded plumage and midnight feathers, gesturing wildly, tossing his rapier skull like a king of the sea, Poseidon’s infernal descendent, devilish grin replacing the contorted air of prior tribulations. “Are you magic?” The yearning, the beckoning, for information seethed across his mind, eternally submerged in the symphonies of curiosity, alight and ablaze, wondering if everyone was gifted, if everyone was formidable, if everyone was influential.

@[Faeanne]

Immersed in fervor, in fractious, elusive temptation, his heart built in strength, in rigor, in gentle, exotic finesse as he pondered over the wake, the weight, of the gift he’d somehow received. Beside the filly, he tossed his grand, princely crown, felt the tide ripple underneath his hooves, cool, crisp, and imagined commanding the rippling ebb and flow, Cinnoru’s brewing trident and staff, parting waves and concocting sieges from the froth. He couldn’t be lost among the pernicious landscape, along the intertwining horizon, bound to the tempest roaming and curling in its swallowing grasp. Magic was an unearthly blessing, particles and sentiments carved, whittled, sculpted into his being for some reason, for some goal and motive, whether for war, for distinction, for honor or glory, he could only surmise, predict, and beguile his senses into augured decibels, and curiosity – so fiercely awakened, clambered to the brink of his youthful delight. He wanted to know, to see, to witness, to perceive each and every invocation crossing over the plains, sinking into the depths, exploited along the innocent, the sinners, the trapped and forlorn. Were their dangerous hymns, coaxed by the immoral? Were their weary, tumbling croons, kindled by the tired, the desolate? Were there healing ministrations by the gifted, assuaging souls, or ferocious machinations sparked by the corrupt, the merciless? Enamored and enchanted, his eyes became a steady, fixated gaze as the other foal told him to wait (though he had no intention of leaving, thrashing amongst the sea like one of its own; drifting above the fish, the rocks, the shells), every moment a whirlwind of wonder and inquiry. Perhaps she had sorcery of her own, an advantageous occurrence that blessed or blinded, mercenary regard into sculpted bliss or whimsical in nature, streamlined into vibrant glades and listless copses? Excitement chiseled and chained to his muscles, to his ardent pulse, and former tribulations, passing tides of despondency and melancholy, were forgotten for the sake of inquisitive bounty and another’s token bestowals.

Riveted, the scion watched as she implemented her wings, brought the gold and ebony plumes against her frame, then casually, effortlessly, ignited them. Like coiled tendrils, smoked, brilliant, ember feathers, they became scorching infernos, contorted, intense coals – lofting, lilting, potent, and he was immediately enamored. The boy’s jaw dropped for a few slender seconds, fascinated, enthralled, by the thought of her phoenix abilities, casting off ashes into mislaid cinders, infernal machinations, snatching and clawing at the air, consuming its repose with the tenacious swing of blazing might. Erebos’ voice clambered over the rush and swell of waves, over the glow, over the rush, of her power, impish appreciation. “Wow!” His lips curled back into a devilish smirk and smile, bewitched by the nefarious decadence of her dominance, if she could snatch and beckon the fronds of fire elsewhere, if the world had to rest and sink beneath her igneous assaults. “I think so!” He tilted his head, rippling along with the tide’s platitude, the sea’s palisade, and wondered more of influence, authority, and capabilities. Could she set her enemies ablaze as she flew over them, basking in mythos? Could she do any more? Could he? What were the locks and keys towards magic? How could they discover, achieve, beyond these first little steps? His query came out, light, inquisitive, begging for more answers to the multitude of questions building within his lithe mind. “What else can you do?”


@[Faeanne]

The filly’s question stretched throughout the salty air, and he entangled the notion throughout his mind, allowed it to simmer, to brew, to boil over in concentrated depths. Without fear or apprehension of enchantments, allure, and invocations cloistered within his heart, his veins, his bones, he wondered how far his influence could be flung. Were there other powers contained within his lithe vessel, waiting to be unraveled, kindled, incised upon his enemies? And if they stirred, restless and undone, ready, eager, fervent, carnivorous and wanton, how did he conduct or compose their influence, their mastery? Dancing and walking upon the water had been an intriguing, shocking discovery, but seemingly innate, a natural, instinctive trait amidst the cascading whims and rivulet particles – he’d only had to wander its containments to be thrust and tossed above its riotous waves and proclaimed its master. If there was something untapped, potential seething below the surface, how did he acquire it, pull the force out and permit it to thrive? His silent confusion was well worn throughout his features, a wrinkled brow, lips torn into a thin line, gaze steady and staring upon the horizon, lingering on nothing and everything, scouring for a sign, a piece, an insignia to symbolize he was more than a wandering babe given breadth of oceans and seas. He took a deep breath, mustered a central focus, cleaned his cranium of all other thoughts, and desperately craved another summoning, begging his figure to display some other wondrous skill. For a few scarce moments, he waited for a spark, a flame, tumbling rocks or another glorious sign he’d been blessed many times, a true scion of the ice and mountains. When there was naught, he released the cumbersome inhalation, and drifted his gaze back towards the girl drenched in fire. His voice had quieted, burdened by the grand age of ignorance and incomprehension, begging and willing for something to happen beyond the boundaries of his nefarious strides and bobbing on tides. “I’m not sure.” He didn’t want to tell her no, he didn’t want to be only capable of running across waves (because being a prince of the gulls, the ocean, the dunes, only meant he had Cinnoru’s benediction, and there had to be more) – and his little unsettled, tenacious yearning urged him to be something greater, grander. His sire held death in his touch, a scythe in his bones, and his dam transformed, transfigured into her righteous element, wished for rain and had it wash over them; would he only be known for striding across puddles and droplets, locked into rivers and streams?

But the other child spoke her name, and the manners his mother had drilled into him proclaimed his attention, wavering ears and ruffian stare, back upon her, Faeanne, and he offered his herald in turn through a nonchalant mumbling over the foam. “Erebos.” Another moment of curiosity emboldened him, for he remembered Adelric and his different choice of residence (four to choose from, or the outer plains for those who held no desires for herd life) – so, where did this fire-dame live? He’d certainly never seen her in the icicle reaches of the Basin, where the auroras drifted in midnight skies and winged beings hardly ever drifted; he would have recalled the glowing embers of her feathers and the light giggles. Inclining his head in brightening intrigue, the boy bobbing on the waves mustered his own query. “I’m from the Aurora Basin. Where’s your home?”


@[Faeanne]

She belonged elsewhere, into a time and mercy he couldn’t fathom or understand - The World’s Edge - a herd name that should have boiled and brewed in his mind at the mercy of his parents’ memories, for the brief stead of their lives there, for the bloody battle his father waged, for the desecration and relapse of their conquest, their inevitable downfall, the Moon Goddess’ betrayal – but none of these things simmered in his youthful glow, too bound by ignorance and newness. Instead, he imagined what such a realm would look like: perhaps covered and immersed in fog, like the reaches of Thistle Meadow, calculating and wary, treacherous and unnerving, like one wrong move could lead one to their doom. Maybe it was cloaked and regarded in specious awe, with dusky forests and nomadic wayfarers, eager to be able to touch the ends of earth, to look down into an abyss, to be rapidly swallowed up by the heartless, unrelenting gestures of the wilderness. He wanted to know more and more, every inch of every ground, and maybe Faeanne would lend him this knowledge before he had a chance, an opportunity, to see the kingdoms for himself. Curiosity was a constant nuance, spreading out over his face, as if consumed and devoured by the hungry enamel of its churning, boiling regard. His eyes caught hers and rounded, widened, and the light, little claws of his musing caught hold of her potential, of her capability, of her usefulness, and trapped his reverie into an outward daydream. “Oh! What’s that place like?” He’d offer her the same accord, for she queried over the sea winds, over the gull outcries, of his own home, and the lithe lad could have waxed poetical on each avenue of the icy chambers and cavernous depths. Erebos had explored, had journeyed, had sojourned into raw valleys and rime cliffs, had soaked his feet in brooding waters, had coasted and ghosted amongst the diligent framework of an earthen palisade that stood the test of time. He took whimsical steps across the waves and gallows, tied knots in the rivulets, and stared across the ambience, the open, wide sea he’d suddenly been thrust in power of, and like a long-lost Neptune, regarded the beautiful, treacherous expanse of the North. “We have all kinds of mountains and caves, and a lake that never freezes. If we get cold, we can go to the hot springs. Sometimes at night you can see the auroras in the sky.” He hummed quietly, thoughtfully, then drew his gaze back to the flaming flicka, pride chiseled in his voice, as if the cards and the gods had always played correctly, had given him a home, a family, a world he could always return to, could always seek, could always embark within and challenge the merit of his strength.


@[Faeanne]

He imagined the fringe, the borders, of the World’s Edge as Faeanne described its pathways and passages; a forest shrouded in fog, long, glorious, illustrious meadows as far as the eye could see, then the sudden drop off, the lingering treachery sinking in the fathoms of mist, and he realized perhaps all the kingdoms had their pitfalls, their threatening boughs to alleviate others from treading into their ramparts. The Basin had its cold, its mountainous boundaries, its constant, archaic walls, shielding and prosperous from one side, disastrous from another, coated in ice and protection – the Edge with its unyielding, relentless cliff side, unwinding shoals and jagged rocks piercing through the watery void. Erebos nearly pictured the other lands, though not having journeyed to them yet, through name and song, stitched together fabrications of their deceits and fortifications, perhaps the Throat had its overbearing heat, lying in the southern regions, boiling and blistering, and maybe the Falls had its drowning pools, pulling in the foolish and unbidden. Eventually he would have to see the entire world for himself, crusade and sojourn along these hazards and snags, overcome the paralyzing snares the world offered and bestowed; but for now, he grinned, content for the kingdom he lived within and all the boundaries he’d seen until the present. A little, prosperous idea sparked in his head, curled in eager fondness through the surf and sand. “The World’s Edge sounds so cool! Do they allow visitors? I’d like to see it sometime.” The notion of playing in the mist and midst, digging into labyrinths, becoming lost in ancient tombs and temples (not to mention the scars and wounds of prior battlefields), appeared effervescent and wonderful, and he very nearly became consumed with the notion, had Faeanne not uttered her own query about the Basin.

It was a question he’d oddly never asked himself, and he stood amongst the gulls and the waves, pondering over the nuance, furrowing his brows in wild speculation. Perhaps the lake stayed warm like the hot springs, boiling and bubbling plumes in the dead of night, heating up tired, aching bones and muscles; but for all the times he’d pressed his muzzle and drank its depths, it’d always been a chilling swallow. Was it because the Time God made it so, knowing his citizens would need ample drinking water when the freezing temperatures turned and chiseled the world into a glacier wonderland? Then, of course, he figured upon another notion, chuckled and laughed into the salty air as their conversation came full circle. He furnished one feral, impish wink, and clamored through the untamed vestiges. “Maybe it’s magic!”


@[Faeanne]