Excitement funneled and churned through the little prince’s body, fervent and ardent, swift and quick, and it flowed along his limbs and branched amongst his movements. Some contortions were wild and chaotic, frenzied and rushed, clambering through underbrush or laughing in the spring wind, brewing past the seditious, restless vestiges of his heart and clambering on the more ebullient designs. He was a master of diversions, enveloping over trails once or twice out of pure glee, foxtail, heathen dedication to craft and discovery, lancing and leaping over fallen logs and swaying with the breeze. Brilliantly, vibrantly alive, he soared with poignant amusement into cretin expeditions, danced on the embers and coals of prosperity, walked and waltzed beneath the promise of strength, of prowess. His steps pierced and punctured with effervescent qualities, drummed an infidel rhapsody, over the rapture, the reverie, of surging pride and building esteem, because through his molten efforts, his infernal curiosity, he’d managed to assist his empire in acquiring a new member. Grim, he’d called himself, but the massive beast had been anything but his namesake, kind and charitable, entrusting the youth with his valiant wandering skills as they traipsed through clearings and copses, clambered and ambled through thickets. Erebos, in his minute, mischievous plans saw him as a regal cretin to add to their clan (surely he wouldn’t mind accompanying the infernal, bristling musketeers on examinations and explorations), and the General likely portrayed him as a worthy asset: all in all, the adventure had been a wondrous endeavor. They’d gained an ally, a strong, durable behemoth, and raised the Basin’s potential to another enduring notch across the peaks.

Due to the untamed elation and animation, the child unearthed a constant stream of conversation and dialogue, hardly ever ceasing (unless he tripped unceremoniously over a rock, then quickly recovered as if naught had happened). The words were just as unrestrained as his motions, with wolf grins and impish smiles to match their possessor. “I think you’ll love the herd, Grim!” He waxed poetical on its qualities, on its prowess, bestowing grandeur and splendor where it was justly deserved. “We have a lot of strong people! Torleik is our General,” here the miniature beast paused to glance at the aforementioned warrior, enduring in his scrutiny of warrior tactics and prestige, pondering whether he should ask him for a lesson at some point or merely rely on his sire for the wisdom. “My father is the Lord! His name is Deimos. He’s really strong too. Our Lady is Ophelia, but I don’t know much about her.” The scion shrugged at the last comment, not yet enlightened fully on the ivory femme, but accepted her good-naturedly all the same. Maybe one day Illynx would come back, and Rikyn too, and the yearlings could all be together again.

His speech only ceased when they reached the icy ridge and glacial borders, movements stopping abruptly to gaze at the massive sentinel, the summits and valleys beyond. The sight only increased the bountiful esteem and honor bounding through his chest, and he gleamed towards Grim, bobbing his head in reverent appreciation. “Welcome to the Basin!”

[Welcoming thread for Grimalkin. ^_^ Feel free to join! @[Torleik] @[Grimalkin]

Perhaps because he’d lived beneath them for his entire life, Erebos had always given little thought to the power and prestige of the Sentinels. They were like towers, like behemoths, like every other portion of their herd: beautiful, deadly, snakes and snares laying in wait. They were proud things to be admired, shapely machines not entirely composed and perfected, gaping and shackled to the frozen floor, waiting for the opportunity to be completed and concluded (and oh, what kind of monsters would they be then?). His gaze crossed from them to Grim, watching as the other stared openly at the lofty machines; truly, Erebos hadn’t even thought he would have never seen such marvels. The little prince grinned at the gratitude, then gestured back towards the subjects in query, raising his head so he could stare and gape at them in full regalia, with their clockwork mechanics and unmoving gears. They were safe from harm, but enemies weren’t. “We call them the Sentinels. They’re not finished yet.” He glanced back at Grim, a cheeky grin playing over his features, dancing on the cobweb expanse and unfurling all of his knowledge upon the stag. Maybe one day the favor would be returned, and the miniature scion would dive deep into lessons and sagacity. “They guard the Basin. If anyone dares to intrude, they can attack.” Erebos had never seen it himself, but he presumed it would be a marvel to behold: emboldened, ferocious hardware and instruments clicking and clacking and assailing, catching hold of those who dared to harm them. “But don’t worry, you’re safe from them. You’re a member of the Basin now! They know.” He nodded in affirmation, as if it was easy to understand and comprehend how a structure and framework could know and process who cherished them and who longed to destroy their ramparts, but heedlessly, recklessly, he pressed further into the borders, imploring Grim to do the same. There was so much more to see, so much more to do, so many avenues and lengths to explore, and he beckoned, a juvenile commander, with sprite endeavors and minute twirls, prancing in the snow and icicles, emir of summits and mountains. “Come on! We have a lot of other things to see!” His head tilted a fraction, forelock falling between his eyes, crisscrossing along his brow in a ruffian picture, gaze narrowing to regard the newcomer. “Where would you like to go?”

@[Grimalkin]

The limber colt watched in rapt fascination as Grim seemingly came to life – an emboldened, audacious part of him was content in knowing he’d helped provide the gleam, the charm, and a prouder contemplation yielded to the Basin’s prowess and fortitude, because it was a masterpiece, an oeuvre, of treachery, of beauty, and everything in between. He lingered in their reposed silence, feeding on the fuel, on the kindling, of this raw world, the only one he’d ever known, the only empire he’d ever serve. The Siberian summits were in his blood, chilled and rapacious like the Reaper’s wake, harmonic and pulsing like Huyana’s love, and he could stand beneath its massive outlook, its potent insurgency, and bow to its wake without haughty traces or foundations. Maybe one day he would help its rise grow even taller, its reclaim grow even broader, searing, searching, scorching the earth; but they were dreams and ambitions for the future, and within the present, Grim deserved to know, to understand, the comprehend the full regalia of his newfound sovereign. But he seemed incapable of choosing an area, and the decision defaulted to the colt, a lad who couldn’t hold back his boyish smile. “My favorite place…” There were so many areas to choose. He’d wandered with his mother into the midst of the Time God’s mirror, had stared in awe and confusion into the reflecting glass, he’d meandered beside his father as they patrolled the borders, silent and sneaky, furtive and specious, and he’d danced along the peak paths, waltzing beneath snowflakes and icicles. His gaze swam and varnished back over the realm, quick, rapid, until finally pinpointing on the beautiful pool in the distance, strong and enduring like every inch of their capital. The princeling nearly bounced with excitement at his choice, features morphing into outlandish ebullience, eyes brimming in foils of elation while his voice ricocheted over the summit; if the pinnacles minded, they never said. “Oh – we should see the lake! The one that never freezes!” With absolute certainty, his movements became a blur of gangly limbs, a wonder they could be controlled at all in his rapid height alterations, rushing headlong towards the massive lake in the near center of the empire, gleaming perfection in the throngs and whistles of Tallsun. Maybe he could even show his newfound friend, for Grim had already earned the calling and recognition, his invocations and domination over the water…

@[Grimalkin]

The lacing of pride danced and wove its way through the colt’s chest at the antered stag’s exclamation – the Basin was beautiful, and though he’d played no part in its construction, the child could still feel warranted a little respect for the empire he rambled through. It could be cold, chilling, and frigid, but it also held the significant warbles of strength, of nobility, of regality, tough and enduring, no mountains crumbling, no summits sliding, naught but timeless, arcane perfection. Even the water, never truly under a winter’s spell, was marvelous in its concoction, and his eyes were always riveted to its placid reflecting pool, a looking glass spread and formidable, not deceitful, not specious; and some days, he could pretend to be lord of it, casting his hooves across its surface as mighty ruler of seas, waves, currents, and streams. The little beast watched and waited as Grim launched his bigger structure into the opulent wonder, turning and twisting into someone else entirely (it was funny to see such a massive creature suddenly contorting into a playful, jubilant creature; not many of the adults here would even think to carry on in the manners of foals). Inclined to join him, because what child wouldn’t want to be a merchant of diversions and amusement, the lad hastened his own series of joviality, waiting until the stag’s gaze was turned towards the shallow lakebed and the shuffling of stones and rubble; placing one limb on the surface, feeling it carry his weight, his lanky, developing legs, before presiding entirely upon its colossal wake. Poseidon’s long-lost descendent, he maneuvered silently, stealthily, while the newcomer splashed and cajoled in the cool liquid; the miniature heathen, with impish glee and fiendish charm, maneuvered like a serpent, slithering along his watery threshold, sinuous and serpentine. He didn’t splash, he didn’t plunge, he didn’t descend into the anarchy, into the swell, of the rippling tides caused and seared by Grim’s movements and antics, biding his time, pausing for a significant moment. Then, as the stallion turned to face him, drenched and soused, the colt ceased all motions, appearing calm, composed, and self-possessed, standing upon the lake’s finish and veneer as though he were lacquered to it himself, binding with the spirals and convolutions, the snippets of water and sea, gaze aglow, channeled and funneled into decadent splendor. He inclined his skull closer to the stag, twisting his smile into a feral smirk, a predator on the prowl, a wraith on the moor, pretending naught was out of the ordinary, noting the beloved stretch of water like he was gesturing towards the weather or the rate of summer humidity. “Do you like it?”

@[Grimalkin]