Summer was a ripe time for discoveries, and Erebos hastened to each one like an avid dreamer, coaxed and enticed with simplistic venues. He listened to the haunting cries of nocturnal vestiges, he witnessed feats of grandeur by the fish in the cool, breathtaking lake (sometimes joined them in a jubilant run – dancing across the surface, a mess of lanky limbs and bold, intrepid youth), and tiptoed through the remaining portions of frost before they disappeared for the season, exhausted and melted into the ground. Each moment was beckoned by a series of wonders and investigations, questions fostered and fueled by the effervescent glow of a child’s mind, scouring the sights, the sounds, of their world and pressing closer to gaze into its fathoms. Could he alter his form into water, like his mother, lose limbs to the power and sway of the ocean, become liquid, domination, and audacity (no, his mother had told him before he attempted to drown himself in a small pond)? Could he bring damnation to the corridors of life, craft demise into an art, devilish, macabre monstrosities, like his father (the Reaper had visibly stiffened, grown taut and nearly weary at the query, and the colt didn’t dare ask again)? What were other enchantments and invocations of the earth like? Did everyone hold a power? Did everyone possess a gift? Was the world constantly encased in these shrouds of contorting control: did one blessing lead to another, were empires and sovereigns possessed single-handedly by the Gods Huyana told him about, the paragons and pedestals forged by immortality? His curiosity forged and fueled the incitement of his long legs to sprint across the valley, search parlors, corridors, and hallways for answers, to cherish and hold the information, the calculations, firmly in his grasp and not let them go – enthralled with the concept of wickedness, of virtue, of the precarious balance between the two and where he fell along its pinnacles. Every moment led him down particular roads and pathways, but he didn’t know which held firmer indentations, the ferocious, the predatory, the mighty, the strong, or the gallant, the brave, the valorous. Could they be intertwined? Were they linked? Was this land, this threshold, another one that bore so many twisting stories, anomalies, strangers cloaked in daggers, newcomers flanked in smiles?

Even more tempting, beguiling, and alluring, was the notion of meeting others. He’d come across several inhabitants, besides his family, and flown to aspects of social interludes as if he were born to them – he could play, he could grin, he could impart devilish mischief, he could become unbound and undaunted! The prospect of more creatures, more figures, prompted his explorations into deeper trials, gliding across the Basin’s portal like a shadowy fixture, laden with all the opulence of a scion’s predilection for speed. His eyes poured over the horizon, until he noted two figures swaying beyond, unfamiliar (though mostly everyone seemed to be, but he pledged that it wouldn’t be for long; new faces would soon change into old, recognized ones, fire-forged friends), and he changed his direction so that as he grew closer, he was a barreling, quick menace draped in grins and glory. A boisterous shout was unleashed from his lungs, noting his entrance with all the exuberant, wild etchings of a barbaric emir, touched and scorched by the finer molding of his impish smile. “Hello!” He stopped when he was mere feet away, noting that he’d managed to not crash into the darker one, and perused the other beings in the mountainous presence. One couldn’t have been much bigger than him (another babe, another child nestled in the tundra!), lightly feathered (were those wings mother had spoken of?), and lion-tailed (he had one of those too!). Erebos was immediately fascinated, she was such a collection of things and trinkets, but made sure to share his preoccupation with the stallion, because he too was an alluring cretin. His horn was not like the child’s at all, it curled and whirled, and his eyes were spooky, evocative beacons that, had the beast not seemed friendly, Erebos surely would have been unsettled and frightened at his appearance. Instead, he granted both of them his calling (he’d been practicing, figured Adelric would be proud of his proper pronunciation). “I’m Erebos!” Then, tilting his head, he prospered a set of queries to the dame, noting her ivory hare dashing amongst the bracken, and stag, wishing to seize, to possess, some noteworthy knowledge of their existence. “Who’re you?”

Excitement remained chiseled in the limber, lithe junctures of his movements, of his presence, jovial and pleased to be meeting new faces, content to make this a constant luxury, eternally eager to grasp newfound friends or entangle the world in his bright curiosity. The ivory filly spoke, and he yielded his fixation upon her, listening, conjuring, and attempting to piece together the heralding she offered in return. Aithniel - he thought it was a bit of a mouthful, tougher than his own calling, something requiring more practice and dedication. He attempted to proclaim it across his tongue, butchered it once or twice in his soft, quiet mumbling. “Aith…Aithknee…Aithniel.” He granted the final gesture with a nod, politely encouraging more of her speech, glad to have been given the small token. At the very least, he was glad she wasn’t shy, raising her head like he did, bold and intrepid, brave and audacious; perhaps she’d make a great playmate, and they could go exploring or discovering things. His attention was briefly rerouted back to the stallion with the eerie gaze (he seemed far more otherworldly than a lot of the creatures he’d met; possessing some unearthly qualities within those pale eyes). The stag seemed to even know of him! His jaw dropped for a moment or two, in disbelief his presence warranted any of the head bobbing or grand affection, before he scraped it back to its prior position and tried to resume his princely countenance, more regal affects: a proud frame, mighty and strong, gallant and stalwart, an open chest destined to become wide and strong, chiseled with muscle. His words betrayed him though, trickling and rolling with jubilant surprise. “You know my father?” He was well aware of his sire’s title, the merits of a Lord, but the Reaper was also not a braggart, didn’t boast his accomplishments upon his children, and his mother seemed to keep those stories to herself (when you’re older, dear, and he wondered how much blood, death, and annihilation were worn and etched into those tales, wanted them all). But this Zikar-Sin told stories, knew things, came with wisdom and knowledge, and the little colt, brash and cunning, longed to harbor, grasp, and absorb the proclaimed. The words pouring out of his mouth came without lie or deception, he truly relished in them. “Pleasure to meet you, Zikar-Sin.”

But he was no longer the center of attention, and both he and the story-teller, a keeper of sagacity, flickered their gazes towards the pale Aithniel. However, while Erebos could think of naught more than tales and mythos, playing and discovering, Zikar seemed to have other notions and ideas, sparking and inciting further intrigue, more curiosity. The elder’s stare remained upon the bounty of tiny feathers springing from her back, little plumes and quills destined to allow her to soar over mountains and cliffs, journey along the horizon, drift and swoop until the sun went down. Erebos thought they were wonderful, brilliant gifts of tufted birds and divine gods, but the other did not. In delight, semi-sweet verbage, he asked if she wanted them removed, unfortunate appendages, as if she were damaged goods, lowly and soiled. The lad’s brow furrowed together in confusion, tangled bits of uncertainty and bewilderment. Huyana had always proclaimed wonderful narratives of regal gliders and fliers, Pegasus crooning over summits and fields, and Zikar-Sin thought they weren’t of any value, unsightly. The differing opinions hardly settled over the youth’s mind, but for a moment, he gestured in dauntless, daring exploits, formed his speech against their expulsion with an influential tongue. “What’s wrong with them?” He tilted his head, offered murmurings of the infantile mind, incapable of seeing the swarming pestilence, hate, menace, and loathing roaming amongst his world. “I like them. She can fly and soar when they get bigger!”

The world was full of fascinating venues and intriguing forms, and his mind was riveted, tossed, fixated on multiple things all at once, so the little, lithe creature was ruffled and convinced to slide his gaze back and forth, over the rampaging ruminations and gleaming prospects. Aithniel, with her illustrious feathers, with her ivory hide, with her quiet sentiments, would be an ideal flier, gesturing across the moon or the sun, embodying the sullen grandeur of repose, dulcet and extraordinary – wondering if she could possibly soar. If it were the colt’s whims, she would have done so already, gallantly showing them her supreme command of the earth and sky, rummaging across vast horizons and beckoning towards them with the vibrant chirps of songbirds. If it were the colt’s determination, she’d clamber and show the Haruspex the power and domination of her influences and capabilities, not allowing them to be prodded or poked apart (what would Zikar-Sin say to him? Mumble about his lack of control over his newly discovered enchantments? Surely there was some weakness to utilize and harness in every individual). He sculpted his rogue features into a chiseled, stubborn, resolute fixture, and if someone looked at him quickly, swiftly, perhaps they’d see the regal conjectures of his sire in a younger state, the brooding, indifferent lines of his brow, reticence brimming beyond the long, lanky limbs or the grave conviction of a adamant, tenacious mind. But, before he could say anything more, for the lad had every intention of speaking his juvenile piece, the storyteller spoke again; and he was momentarily distracted by the whirlwind mythos of the Reaper, of Deimos, of the deathbringer and his crusades. It seemed he would have to gamble with his exploits, his rushing, his plunging into someone else’s defenses, if he hadn’t bent his crown to listen to the lilting tale of his father’s exploits, he wouldn’t have heard their regal encasements, their fortuitous, augured statements, or the following lines prescribed and administered by the monocled stag.

The narrative and anecdote unraveled from the Seer’s mouth was one Erebos hadn’t heard, and his ears became keen, absorbing, encompassed, emboldened, and delighted, capturing the essence of the tale as it flowed in airy, whimsical tones. The earth belonged to the birds, to the auroras, to the Gods, and he understood the notion, how he’d never be able to touch the clouds or the heavens, and he nearly gave Aithniel a giant grin (because she had the chance, the opportunity, so many did not!). Yet, the word abomination rolled across Zikar’s tongue, and it sounded horrid, blistering, scathing, a barb or a thorn, rattling and rankling back over the tufts of the girl’s feathers. Pegasi are savage creatures…; the statement stirred a slow draw, a languid, listless broth and brew in the scion’s mind, stayed, nestled, conjuring so many more anomalies and questions. The Pegasus and uncrowned brought destruction and devastation to them? Is that what his father and his followers fought against seasons past and in the portended future? He wanted to ask, to query, to throw out numerous quandaries muddling his thoughts, his sights, his aspirations, but something rattled at his blood, at his core, and with a contrary shield, he fixed himself back into place, bold and audacious. “But she hasn’t done anything wrong – she wasn’t one of those creatures who brought disease or ruin.” After all, she was a child, just as much as he, incapable of lavishing and languishing annihilation upon their world (and something haunted him in the back of his youthful convictions; wondering if she, like so many others, would eventually be capable of those terrible onslaughts). He spoke again though, vigilant and commanding, narrowing his brows in careful consternation. “Why should she be punished for something she didn’t do?”

The pale dove erupted, burst, and his juvenile mind understood all the nuances of her rage – if someone accused him of being an abomination, like a plague gliding over the earth, smiting and destroying with no rhyme or reason, suffocating, strangling, devouring, perhaps he too would have exploded, furious and ferocious, ignited by unjust cruelties and malicious slander. There was no justification for the censure and derision, the consignment and alignment towards oblivion, for the Haruspex knew she hadn’t committed any of these alleged crimes. Was this a fair trial? Was she to be subjected and punished for erroneous materials? If the only thing altered from their frames (and truly, there were all so alarmingly different, no sword the same spear, no tail the same length, no body the same shape) were the tiny sprout of her wings, intricate feathers promising to bloom and blossom into gliding features, how did it affect her behavior, make her corrupt? Wasn’t it their experiences, the brutality, the carnivorous onslaughts, chiseling, sculpting, molding them into presaged alignments and augured sentiments? Erebos continued to frown, so bitterly confused and torn between Zikar-Sin’s patient cajoling, constant insistence on the dangerous whims of a Pegasus, and Aithniel’s distortion and brooding calamity. The storyteller’s queries were perfected knots and rapiers, cutting deeply into the scorn, into the ignorance, into the bliss of his childish interior, as if he saw through his blood, his skin, his hide, and contorted how the little scion cherished, beloved, presided over his home, his land, his friends; drove the knife in deeper, bent it towards his brazen, emboldened frame. Would you allow her to wreak havoc and bring sadness and ruin into our peaceful little basin? No, but he wouldn’t permit anyone else either – so did it matter who the perpetrator was? He’d march and seize, harness and harpoon, whoever sought to annihilate his haven; and the slight inkling, the saddening, maddening image of a Pegasus swarming into the icy spears, wreaking havoc and terror in its wake pressed against his eyes. The child grew weary, tired, vexed and frustrated, until his features were naught but a blank slate, an indifferent stare his father likely mastered in his own youth, and the tight, rigid undulations of his frame promised naught but brazen platitudes. “It should be her choice whether she wants to keep her wings. Not ours.”

The speech littered and coaxed, and Erebos listened, frenetic and torn. “Oh, I do not want to see her become an enemy...” A sudden rush of determination claimed his impish soul, and the cretin ambience, the fiendish deliverance, the dominating regime of his archaic blood stormed, turbulent, echoed and rioted over the statement. Irreverent certitude pierced over the bounty of his taut lips, blue, sharpened gaze slashing towards the monocled beast, speaking through his teeth, emboldened resolutions framing searing endeavors. “She won’t.” Absolute certainty crossed and meshed amidst his boyish, pernicious pursuits, confidence and convictions without the words of the future, presaged, portended lights, too far gone and kindled, incised, by the rigorous thirst to prove the world wrong. His eyes glanced over to her retreating form, ivory and ash springing away, towards the brink of horizons, auroras, wondering if his new friend would eventually become his enemy, or if the earth behaved in generous factions, preferred children to live out their dreams in color and hopeful whims. His voice bled over the scene with infallible assurance, plunging through behemoth potency, brutal finality, feral, protective generosity from one child to another. “I’ll make sure of it.”