In the seasons of youth and upheaval, dastardly deeds and wicked exploits, mischievous incantations and exuberant unraveling, discoveries were everything. They chiseled through the core, through the marrow, swam amongst the skin and veins, trifled and designed, sculpted and ruminated, over the delicate contortions of a babe’s thirst for life. They altered and swayed, diminished and deplored, rapidly distorted set foundations or manifested corporeal, tangible threads previously unseen – and this one was destined to be another composition of revelations and disclosures. For a prince as hungry as Erebos, for knowledge, for potency, for capability, for purpose, the unknown was a startling, magnificent thing, and he waltzed within it almost every day, yearning for the touch of enigmatic embraces, fumbling, stumbling, and bumbling his way through the essence of uncertainty and the obscure. Curiosity tangled with tenacity, carved and whittled a limber, lanky framework of billowing smiles and menacing foils, swaying in capricious tandem, in mercurial endeavors, searching and seizing for the right opportunities, to bask in a Gods’ presence, to explore the vast landscapes before them, to wonder what it would be like to hold the world in his grasp. Tethering him together were his family, his friends, lending him their constant hallelujahs, their enduring passions, their overwhelming support, and the little scion triumphed in many ways. So it was that he followed Adelric’s call from amidst the caverns, searching wildly for his spotted companion, marveling and aweing the surface of the lake as he struck against it and galloped across its surface, admiring the distinct bounces of strength and power polishing his stride (and so much of that was undiscovered as well – a map left unmarked), tossing his frame this way and that through the deep burrows of snow. The heralding duo, for Adelric was not without Tobias (a notion causing a smile to appear along the dark lad’s features, settled near the hot springs and its curling fronds of warmth, and he pursued in untamed movement, polishing off his appearance with a launch and a leap beside the appeared Aithniel. Charming and exalted, he met the trio with unfounded vivacity, exhilarated by allies and musketeers forged together beneath the same sword. The purpose of the meeting, however, was lost upon him – but surely, the notion would arise after excited greetings. “Adelric, Aithniel! How are you?” Catching bits and pieces of Aithniel’s speech, for she was built of curiosity too, no doubt, he lent some worthy information and tidbits, bolstered his voice into a molten inferno of jubilant airs. “He’s my friend! He lives in the Basin now.” Chiseling one more amiable smirk, he tilted his head and branched out the segments of curiosity building and bubbling in his mind. “Has something happened?”

He’d arrived too late for the fireworks, but the observant child tilted his head a fraction, studying the strange, scalding tension between his friends. While Adelric showed no signs of derision or rancor, Aithniel’s frame reveled in it; like a sizzling inferno, hastening scorn and contempt, and his wonder morphed into confusion, befuddlement, a furrowed brow and a wavering embrace of the unknown: the world twisted too many times in its enigmatic threads for the poor scion to keep up most days. “Is something wrong?” The concern chiseled its way through his voice, Huyana’s blood surging over Deimos’ indifference, and perhaps, in some way, his query had been noted and coated away from their stances, their odd regard for one another, with Adelric’s proclamation: maybe they’d both been upset by the news of death, contorting and distorting in a veil along the little beast’s head. Was it the notion of a deceased Pegasus that sketched Aithniel’s features into a fiery scowl? While he wasn’t touched or poignantly affected, she could’ve been – was it kin? A relative? A former brethren? Leaning away from the filly’s feelings, because she’d tell him if she felt like it, and if he pried deeper she’d likely point the glare towards his direction, he delved into the mysterious shift in the empire: we’re supposed to figure out who did it. The arch of tenacity washed over him, an impulsive, audacious spring, a bullish fascination with challenges, with enigmas, varnished and lacquered his sentiments; it wouldn’t take much to sway him down the primrose path of adventure, no matter how dismal, how dark, how bleak the image appeared. He listened, pricked his ears, mulled and reveled, clawed and explored, as the lithe girl spoke of her findings (and he was a little dismayed to offer none of his own, but surely, he could change that soon), mused and thought over the exciting crusades into the Throat, the ebon King of Spies and his illustrious occupation. “Sacre: a lord of secret agents.” His lip curled over in a snicker now, thinking about how amazing the notion sounded, and then how their exploits and escapades seemed fruitful even now. Could those they met; seemingly gentle, serene, and shy, be secret murderers, whisking and cutting away the living? Were they furtive, immoral crusaders, beckoning with siren hands and mermaid wiles, draining the rest of the living dry? The grin warped into a menacing, feral, impish decree, and he finessed the mischievous foundlings into exuberant vocals, laced and layered them with the piercing shades of bravado. “Then let’s stop the Throat!”