The stretch of morning, with its crisp hues and spellbinding colorations, was met at his father’s side, drifting in the callous wake of the Reaper’s fortress and border tending, enfolded and tucked in his shadow, yawning and unwinding from midnight dreams. As the sire, lord, sovereign moved, the child basked in his veil, in his cloak and daggers, thought of all the ways power was sought, claimed, and grasped – but then a summons echoed and bellowed, like a bird’s warble, and with silent gestures and wholesome grins, the child was off – curiosity emboldened and alive. He thought he recognized the structure of the fading nuances, the tumbling phrases and syllables ricocheting from an eerie, but not unkind creature lurking within the Basin’s shades. The Haruspex, deliverer of stories and myths (and how he loved tales and anecdotes; silently hoped there would be narratives of war and triumph, conquest and validation), reigned supreme in the dawn’s early rivulets and the lad’s clambering hooves followed the murky depths and intertwining sunlight towards the glistening lake. For a moment, he wanted to show off his latest discovery, brazenly approach the water’s edge and leap into its haven without a splash, without a sound, skimming over the brim and froth and foam, but in his haste, and notice that someone else had beat him to Zikar-Sin, he simply drove his impish features into the land, swift, strong, quick. His approach, seemingly always harried and a bit impudent, spilled over the snippets of a drove with candid, genuine delight, a ruffian smile, a Peter Pan grin, a Cheshire platitude and sentiment bounding over his lips. Erebos carefully noted the other individuals with a toss of his head, a light stretch and bend of his crest downward his mother insisted on teaching him, first to the instructor as a rapt, eager pupil, then to the opposing prince, Rikyn. Truthfully, he was much more ignorant of the latter than the former, with all of his gilded prowess and mother’s highlights, gave him a few tilts to his intrigued little skull before uttering warm welcomes and audacious splendor. “Good morning!” He stretched a little closer to the shoreline, drawn to the strange objects gathered amongst the embankment, pretty little flowers christened from the mountainside, and the other a much more fascinating appeal, a skull - horselike, without added appendages. No horn, no blade, no rapier, no dried, bleached feathers or tufts of hair, perfectly simple. He had a strong desire to poke and prod either artifact, but deciding that it was rude and far too impulsive, the boy settled back beside Rikyn – yet, the brazen tips of his soul still reached into fascination, beguilement, and trampled in fervent, avid tones. “What are those?”