The prince, the scion, etched and sketched from icy throngs and battle hymns emblazoned the chilling walls and snowflake artifices, christened and anointed with awareness of glacial formations: he vaulted, he leaped, he sprung across vibrant, laden, deadly pathways, like a deer, like a stag, like a winter beast, chastised by the wind but ignoring its billowing warnings. Emboldened and steadfast, resolute and vibrant, his limbs carved and traced the outlines of ramparts, of fortresses, treating the thresholds of the arch like his personal playground: the outskirts of his homeland stretched and fashioned, sculpted and whittled, for his own enjoyment. He ducked beneath canopies of icicles and dared their punctures, he laughed and listened to the echo cascade and ripple through cavern walls, he scattered remnants of his lordly presence through the shadows and the light, a zest for life lined with curiosity, with corruption, with chaos. Erebos, blessed and consecrated, flamed and followed the pinnacles of pending disaster with little forethought; a child’s ignorance and bliss, incapable of constructing the concept of consequences until it bit and tore away at their seams, embarked with no purpose other than entertainment and diversions, when a scent muddled his senses, perplexed and altered his course. It was wholly unfamiliar, but laced with the murky sentiments and droves Adelric once held at their first meeting: like pine, like waterfalls, like flowers lacquered and layered into utopia, into paradise, so different, so morphed, from the reverie of his tundra, from his rimed landscape. For an instant, he ruminated, paused, shoved his little cranium towards the sky, lifted his muzzle to capture more of the warren, labyrinthine designs floating in his calculating skull. All he could gather were more questions, more inquiries; was this a friend of Adelric? Did they venture into the arches for adventure, like him? Was there another with them, one of these companions he sought for himself? The little fiend tossed his head thereafter, staring off into the distance where the inquisition built, scrambling amongst the glacial outskirts – scouting and scavenging, slinking and crawling, steadfastly resuming his movements with motivation stored and kindled.

He didn’t ponder if the stranger yearned to be left to their own devices, frolicking across caves and hunting out their motivations; too seized, too possessed, by the notion of crusades, of thrills, of escapades. Undaunted, valiant, courageous and plucky, he trimmed the trail the unknown pair had taken, stretching out small hooves across frozen murk and muck, ghosting perilous breaths in curling plumes, filtering and flickering the rebellious stead. Poseidon’s possessor pretended to hunt, acted as a predator, combing and slithering over the depths, hoping to stoke silence and quiet ramparts, enjoying the act, the part, reciting lines and syllables in his head: when sienna hide torched and rolled amidst the darkened parts of grotto entryways and stark, ivory palaces. He ceased motion, lowered his frame, stole a glance towards the companion, (a wolf - menacing hackles, brilliant fangs – he recalled the chasing, snarling, biting void, a pack hellbent on their lands – and then the destruction, the calamity, the violence and vehemence), and nearly lost the moment they wandered into another cavern. Only when they’d disappeared completely did he slip and sidle after them, reaching the aperture and listening to the cackles, the echoes, of their hallowed voices ricocheting off the barrier. The circumstances gave him a devilish scheme, and as carefully, quietly, as he could, the colt maneuvered his muzzle close to the opening, pursed his lips together in a menacing chord, an indulgent hiss, a stealthy sibilance, an asp’s breath reverberating along mysterious partitions and inner mazes, and impersonated a monster, a heathen, rasping and grating upon their door.