EREBOS

All great men, either current or foretold, had to return home eventually – even when hunting down clues of murderers and assassins, even when scampering for an unknown egg, even when playing for stone empires or stained glass. The little scion trudged through the snow and the chilling vestiges, encased himself in the raw filaments of ice, of the cold, of the constant winter embrace and would have it no other way. He’d traversed down into the valleys of dunes and beaches, of sand and sun, he’d wandered amidst verdant fields and picturesque bliss, but they’d never feel the same as the Basin: he belonged there, to the eaves and the icicles, to the tempests and the lakes, to the murky caverns and the strange mirror, born into renegade, pariah dreams and barbarian hordes. He wished for no other sanctuary, no other refuge, than the beautiful expanse just over the horizon. The Steppe, a Siberian revelation, was one more whimsical journey towards his shelter – had he not been curious, inquisitive, and intrigued by another being nearby.

If he yearned to be sneaky, he could have crouched behind a rock, stared, contorted, gazed until an appropriate time to escape or query, but a boldness fulfilled him, scorched his veins, ignited his bones, and instead, he followed the trace of this unknown scent. His strides, still lanky, still gangly, balanced precariously through the snow and ice, chiseled the same fortitude he encompassed and composed amongst the aurora lands, firm, precise, boyish, juvenile elegance to ensure no faltering, no stumbling. The lad’s gaze, a steady, piercing, eager blue, emblazoned past the crags and stones, staring into the endless void, hoping to spy, hoping to spot, the creature residing amongst the confines: unknown, unguarded, undetermined. When his resolute stare finally managed to capture the other occupant, he first noted the wings; Pegasus, a future flier like Aithniel, but where his fellow musketeer was ivory, ashen, and horned, this girl was not – painted in intriguing hues, traversing from alabaster to sienna. She was entirely foreign to him, not a face pressed into recognition, not a feature aligned to any other character, no bloodlines tracing and passed down from generations of Throat bearers or noteworthy ancestry. Perhaps she was new, agog and interested in the ways of the world like all youths were, conspiring to blend barren knowledge into future wisdom (even he was tempted, wanting to ask about her wings and if she could fly yet, what could she see from the glimmering horizon, was everything as beautiful and luminescent as it seemed). Absconding the opportunity, he chased down a icy path and emerged from the chilling crag, sometimes a Neptune behemoth, other times a winter hellion, bestowing a devil-may-care grin through boyish interludes and childhood greetings. “Hello!” He pressed his voice into a riotous crescendo, buoyant, light, springing and pervading through the frigid expanse. Then he fed her a lie, because he wanted to, because it made him laugh, because games were afoot and his unruly motivations pulsed and roamed. He stole another predecessor’s name, honored them through fabrications and falsities. “I’m Nepdon! Who are you?”