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Something naughty and nefarious sizzled on the tip of his tongue. It rested in bits and pieces of treachery, slithering and cool, nonchalant and brazen, not as wholly indifferent as the rest of the world, but still foreign, unnatural (he couldn’t give them a name, these weird sentiments filtering and glowing and bursting amongst his skull – except perhaps boldness, audacity, a dip into rashness and impudence). Mischief crawled along his spine and rippled between the bones and sinew, tucked across marrow and deception, arching one brow as Enna sidled along his frame and nestled her way into his skin, upon his hide, through their quick, subtle movements. Given an opportunity to speak, he may have made a wise crack, a silly nuance or whim sparked and scorched by revelry and devil’s accords – but his eyes were naught more than stalwart, cheeky, staunch interludes – a glimpse into enigmas and curiosity and deepening, darkening chords. He laughed inwardly, chuckled at her embarrassment, at her discomfort, believing wildly in the art of impishness and juvenile moments, and sauntered closer as they all stilled, attempting to catch her amidst his ruffian stare. He hoped to make her giggle instead of wander amongst their threshold of uncertain parallels, but the more princely notions crinkled between the layers of his fiend, cretin exploits and the lad was beckoned into folds of silence, wonder, and awe.
Another burst into their minute gathering – spotted and calling for his father – and Erebos was treated to the image and apparition carved from stories, myths, and tales. He promptly became rooted to the spot, eyes widened, jaw slightly slackened (losing a few herbs, a bent stem or two), agog at the sight of this mythical being: Mauja. He’d been the King of the Edge before, his mother had said so, before they were thrown out upon the Steppe, before war became much more than just a passing whim, before Deimos had become General, had become Lord of the ice and snow. He’d been the beast from the mirror, polished and decadent as the God of Spark released him from time and space and horrors. He’d been everywhere and seen everything and knew power like the Reaper, knew sins and virtues and losses and effervescence – and the boy studied him like a true scholar, watching, fixated, and fascinated. He must have seen him before – amidst all these other games they’d all played, wandering amongst runes, temples, murders, and behemoths, but never truly had the time or the notion of who or what the creature had been. But he listened carefully now, examined and scrutinized and wondered, marveling at living legends, noting the light way he called for Deimos, how his father responded in kind, and how they seemed so readily accepted despite years and seasons passed.
When his turn came, the response was enthusiastic, kindled and regarded in layers of respect and intrigue; a bob of his head, a sparkle, a glint, a keen edge in his stare. He lowered the rest of the herbs towards his feet and Orsino’s begrudging hiss, extending the proper greetings, the bright crescendo of a scion lured and beguiled. “A pleasure, Lord Mauja! I’ve heard so much about you!” His smile, alluring and charismatic, said everything else.
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