The eager scion was brought into the stretches of winter as a gallant, though gangly, counterpart to the wicked winds and the subtle wiles, playing, rummaging, unfolding into curious depths and unending dreams. Where there was once crisp, light, baby fur, he’d become fully entrenched in thickened layers of pelt, another being deemed capable of surviving the hostile throes of Frostfall and its trenchant disputes. His mane had lengthened, no longer bobbing threads of whimsical hair, now flopping delicately over the arch of his nape, waltzing ever so slightly with the ruffle of a breeze. His leonine tail, with its once tiny tufts of mane, had blossomed and bloomed into a ferocious puff, capable of scaring away enemies with its tangled knots and embittered lowlights. All the while, as he grew, as he gained height and weight and awareness, the little beast traversed the grounds of his home, wandered over hither and yon, capturing bliss or rendering inquisitions to those who would hear them, not yet a menace, nor completely encased in innocence. He seemingly appeared to wait and bide his time for the ripened opportunities of discovery and mysteries, yearning to be woven and plaited into those boiling sectors of intrigue and mystique, following his father amidst the boundaries, guarding the sacred glaciers and hallowed walls, tiptoeing after his mother and painting her portraits of stories and silhouettes. On days where he couldn’t find beloved Zikar-Sin and his wondrous tales, the colt chiseled his way through ice, or flew across the never-frozen lake, practicing the one magic he could control, pretending to be Poseidon’s long-lost descendent, king of the ocean and master of the seas.

An idle moment passed over him, and had he not been paying attention to the sights, the sounds, the air, it may have disappeared completely, never allowing him the opportunity of reuniting with his friend. The familiar scents whittled their way through his nares first as he played alongside the Haruspex’s cave (today he hadn’t dared to stare at his reflection in the reflecting glass; but tomorrow, perhaps), almost trumpeting, bellowing, in their zealous outcry. Adelric! The notion of his visit carved a swift stride into the babe’s movements, no sooner had he been still and wary, did he cast off into the distance, leaping in the burdening snow, leaving behind massive footprints of rugged, haphazard launches. Excitement and glee burned its way through his veins, hastening his arrival before fully understanding any other reason behind Adelric’s appearance (for surely, a companion was always welcome in the Basin; after all, he’d invited him), winding his way amongst the hearty sector, born into the role of Siberian inhabitant, chasing along the scenic routes and icy valleys. Adelric’s sister, whose name he’d caught once before but was ultimately forgotten, seemed to be there as well, and so too was the GildedBlade, the dam Rikyn always complained about. He bestowed her the respect of going first, of pledging her words into the fray, but then quickly thereafter burst from behind her, a fledgling of power and domination unaccompanied by finesse or anything other than the bright, stalwart candor he’d prospered within. Erebos, quick and eager, grinned and careened, luminescent and uplifted, vocals burgeoning on the heightened sentiments. “Welcome to the Basin! Are you here to visit?” Like a rampant bumblebee or a cloaked sparrow, he chattered and chittered, exhilarated, thrilled, at all of the things they could do. He’d have to show them everything – the lake, the caves, the high, stony trails that led to doom or beauty. He took heed to wink at Tobias, who was still quite awe-inspiring, before turning to Illynx and addressing her queries as best he could; a twinkle of his mother, and no sign of his father. “This is my friend, Adelric!”

The notion his friend yearned to find a home, to stay within their wintry confines, was an aspiration come true – and he thought in earnest of all the things they could do and all the sights they could possess with their young might. The scion would have to introduce him to Rikyn and Aithniel, all the other flourishing babes growing beneath the swell of the icy kingdom, and they could all run through the parlors and halls as renegade minstrels, blending into the surroundings as future chieftains. His sentiments altered, a severe morphing, however, when the tone changed; a note in the schism, in the pattern, manifested into dreadful arches and ghastly hymns. Death had beckoned, stolen, swept into the corridors and latched upon Adelric’s own sire, and he was left destitute, rotting in the forlorn fixtures. Erebos had been immune to the travesty and tragedy of demise in his short life, and though his father seized and drummed the satanic magic, the devilish incantations, he’d never truly used it in front of his son, nor upon someone he cared deeply for. The little prince, with all his exuberance, with all of his wild, energetic finesse, couldn’t begin to understand how the spotted colt felt. Surrounded by family, content in the confidantes and intimates gathered amidst their sinewy webs, he’d been given and granted the well wishes, the freedom, and the prosperity of blossoming with education, with instruction, and with wondrous opportunities. But what of Adelric, now hastened into the status of orphan, with naught and no one to guide him? He sculpted his frame back into a respectable air, quiet, silent, drifting into the abyss, watching, listening, unsure of how to react or what to do, pondering over the measures of his mother’s stories, of his father’s domination, and how they’d carve their regrets, their rancor, their heartlines. But the golden stag moved into their void too, and Erebos merely stared, in wide-eyed wonder, as he uttered the chains, the reverberations, of actions and recourse. Murdered; a harsh word, a guttural hiss, a portrayal of sinister demonstrations and chaotic opuses, he stayed beside the GildedBlade and wondered, pondered, imagined the horrific scenario.

His brain couldn’t conjure the images, had no background or prior knowledge into the comprehension of such a bloody state, but he captured the notion, the tangled eaves of Illynx and her irritated stature towards Thranduil, the secrets kept locked inside the minds of his friends, the multitude of furies ruptured back and forth, over his head, causing his juvenile mind to swim in ferocious befuddlement. A series of questions leapt and bounded along his cranium, daunting and overbearing, refusing to be thrown into the mass of voices, but still seeking clarification. Was their father a bad beast, conducting terrifying, tyrannical affairs in the midst and mist? Did he deserve to die? Why had others attacked him, if he was the opposite of what they’d said? What made others yearn to murder? While not voiced, the passionate collection of his brow, sullen and fallen due to his friend’s poor circumstances, he leant his sincere, wholehearted apologies for their dire whims. “I’m sorry about your father.”