The boy and fox sauntered through one of their preferred haunts, gallivanting because it was freedom and disaster, soullessness and monstrous, ruthless and satisfying. They wandered amidst ghouls and goblins, combing endlessly for treasures neither could claim, pretending to be wraiths and demons, unaware of how much their souls and beings had altered into true fiend fruition. For a time, for a space, they lurked amongst shadowy corridors and howled at the moon, at the snow, laughed until their ribs hurt, gazed across the endless, Stygian horizon for a chance, for an opportunity, to harness strength and unleash power. Temptation stoked a fine edge in their hearts, in their minds, in their blistering, smoldering, searing inclinations, urges and impulses kneeling on barbed wire. They patrolled a vast empire of hazes and mirrors, of inky reflections and terrible tremors, watching the ghostly frame of their breaths mingle between the snow and the sky. Beneath boughs they feasted on runes and puzzles, stared upon labyrinthine pools and collections of blood – heightened their awareness of danger, deception and treachery – then wondered when they’d be the ones everyone feared. Their steps were mirages and their footfalls were calculating, eventual menaces, potential cretins, a foundation of fools and Machiavellian guises, and for all the world they played along a great many stages, contorting the arts of their satanic brows and their bewitching, alluring sketches. One smiled and the other brooded, one smirked and the other marauded, and together they were whittled pieces of foreboding flesh, minds emboldened and tethered together in discordance, in hostility, in the funneling and fueling for something, for everything.

They forced away unpleasant notions and sentiments. They forgot envious requiems and petty jealousies. They discarded and neglected the feats of failure. Instead, they listened to the wind and the snow, the ice and the rime, the piercing void and the hollowed sanctions of the nefarious – strung together in features and faces of the charismatic, of the gentle, of the ebullient.

The prince heard a stomp nestled amongst the thickened wood, and listened to the trees betray their other prisoner. He tilted his head for a fraction, giving way to curiosity, to friction, to movement and motion other than destruction and mayhem; following over an enticing, luring fragment of scents and smells he’d encountered eons before, and another he had no notion of. Even while Orsino grumbled behind him, for the kitsune would rather prance back into midnight shards and collect more ruin, more exploitation, more demonic forces for their future, the prince meandered and stoked, courted and shuffled, as if he were a piece of the frozen forest. Only when they’d arrived amidst the same shadows as the girl and her companion, only when he recognized the speckle of pelt and the elongated horn, did he call across the nocturnal boughs. “Sjal!” He grew closer, losing his imitation of a monster or wraith, plaguing the otherwise malignant world with a grin, with a smile, with a radiant glow of regal abandon and captivating glee. “Congratulations on your companion!” Orsino hissed something barbaric, and Erebos ignored him entirely – stare floating to the griffin, then back to the femme herself (Psyche’s daughter - he reminded himself; a child of the mountains even if she had no yearning to be amidst them). With an effervescent ease, he settled into the pockets of shadows and brutality, beguiling and unwinding, kind and considerate (and so, so very enticed by the lengths, depths, of his curiosity). “How've you been?”

It was nice to see old friends, especially when they seemed to be growing and thriving. He’d been so used to disappearances and bumbling excuses, for chasing dreams of conquest and villainy with musketeer regard, and watching it unravel so bitterly, so ruefully; for trying to encompass and hold something no longer in place. He considered the princess a piece of the past and an edge to the future; she was a mystery, but also a token of what had framed and eclipsed their great empire, even if she had no wish, no will, to claim it for herself. But the prince had managed to coax a smile out of her, and he wanted to entice more (more and more; always his way, too bold and too greedy). His eyes, however, floated to the companion first, for he remembered the days of endless searching, eternal yearnings and cravings for a beast of his own (and he had one now, but where did the covetous beckoning end?). The griffin, Ansgar, was intriguing, cat and bird combined, and he enjoyed the length of her wings and the conspiring lilt to her stare; his ruffian smile widened, captivating and beguiling, appealing and unwinding, a devilish torch intertwined across his rogue features. Orsino rolled his eyes in the depths of the darkness, hostile and obnoxious.

She’d been exploring Helovia, and the little beast, intending to pursue and hunt whatever track, trail, she chose, cast his curiosity, ignited his senses, to mischief and rumination. “What’s been your favorite place so far?” Where had she traveled? Had she puttered down primrose paths, chiseled and swept paradise, run between shadows and demons, tucked herself, secluded, forsaken, and alone, amidst the depths of winter, or the underground caves? He yearned to know, to relish, in sights he may not have seen, and to proclaim the venues he’d investigated (the rotunda, with its beautiful, kaleidoscope hues, the peaks and valleys where he’d brooded, where’d he found death and hate and malice, the hollows of the Gods, where he prayed and preyed), to share in the spectacles of Helovia and its mastery. Perhaps one day he’d know everything about every nook and cranny, hide his snares, wares, cloaks, and daggers amidst their layers, and no one would notice until it was to late. He could brandish arms one moment, and alms the next - a contradictory barb of scion and devil.

She’d asked about him though, and a part of the truth stuttered, swallowed and consumed by the depths of silence. He’d been biding his time, calculating and warring, playing skirmish and campaigner against members of his herd, or complete strangers, desperately trying to become stronger, more powerful, a force to be reckoned with. He didn’t want her to know he’d begun his quest for vengeance, for justice, for requital, enraged and alone, attempting to be an individual worthy of savagery and sinister arts; a bellowing, cackling minstrel of war and defiance. He didn’t want her to realize how utterly weak he’d been, fumbling and stumbling and losing to one of his own. He didn’t want her to think him silly or stupid when he’d somehow managed to lose all his friends along the way (how Aithniel had yelled in the midst of all that chaos, how Rikyn had become all the more enraged, how swiftly everything tumbled out of his reach). So instead, the boy wove something simple, effortless, gliding eager, prying hands from the depths of his resolutions. There would be a time, and a place, where everyone would know who he was. “Oh, I’ve been exploring too.” He paused, and lowered his voice to a whisper, as if in possession of a great, grand secret. “I took up the rank of soldier. I’ve been sparring. Hopefully it’ll make me stronger,” he finished with a wink in the funnels of darkness.

Then the topic shifted, and the bundle of sibilance poised and scowling between his limbs was rendered his opportunity to reign. Erebos laughed, dipping his head to stare at the petulant barb of foxy convictions and building hatred. “This is Orsino.” His muzzle pushed the hissing kitsune out into the open, so the depths of his gilded eyes could be seen amidst the Stygian refuge; like he belonged to the tainted, wailing whims of the fiends and monsters – and perhaps he did. Perhaps they all did. “I found him here, actually.” Maybe that was why they preferred the haunt, both were so intricately tied to the crows, the cretins, the carrion building, festering, and withering in the decaying veils.

Thereafter, out of place but touching nonetheless, the demon glanced at her again and smiled. “You’ve grown.” In heart? In mind? In body and soul? His meaning was enigmatic, distorting, and shaped by the lacquer of his allure.

He regarded her lightly, an arch to his brow, a princely, regal, invisible crown nestled between his ears, as if measuring her statements with noble regard and not in the bewitching way they glided through his skull. It’s a suitable rank for you; like he’d found something, anything, to be in this strange, possessive, cruel world, you’ve grown very strong already; like he hadn’t been floundering, stumbling, and tripping over himself since the moment he’d become so enamored, so fixated, on vengeance and reciprocity. She had no idea how weak he really was. She had no notion of what shaped and chiseled his weary, ridiculous, scarred foundation, what magnificent, terrifying horrors pulsed through his thoughts, his feelings, his sentiments at the image of destroying something that had mauled one of his own. Likewise, he had no idea about her, nothing past the outline of her body and the lineage simmering through her blood. He rarely knew about anyone these days – moments had become sprinkled with small granules of nothingness, earmarks and sketches and watercolors of minute details. They could fill a book up with their pages of naught, meaningless, pathetic attempts to understand and visualize the way the earth worked, the way others thought, the way corruption sunk and boiled and brewed over another’s mind. Each time he turned around, the opportunities seemed hopelessly lost, because his friends died, disappeared, vanished, or simply drew away from him (and why – he wondered, for all he’d ever done was cherish them – but maybe that simply hadn’t been enough). While he never forgot them, while he yearned for their presence and prestige, they didn’t seem to want the same from him, and the notion stung deep in his chest, somewhere in his carnivorous heart. No, I’m not strong, he yearned to say, but admitting it aloud seemed harsher than the sound of his own rancor. Instead, he simply smiled the same everlasting, charming smile, a little bit wicked, a little bit boyish. “Thank you.”

Orsino, however, didn’t have the same possession of charisma or appeal, ceasing his hissing only to glare at the other companion with wily, conniving, menacing eyes and threatening postures. His fur raised, onyx on sable, drenched in the unholy vows of the Stygian terrain, his fangs were brandished beyond his mouth, incredibly, ridiculously foul. Erebos eventually had enough of the tedious, molten display, snarling over their connection with his own malignant claws. Get a grip, he murmured, and the kitsune, somehow, someway, actually chose to respond to the proclamation (a surprise to the lordling, who couldn’t remember many times or places the fox had actually deigned to listen; what on earth was this supposed to mean?), shifting his way further under Erebos’ frame and pouting, away from the griffin’s keen eyes.

The lad shrugged, offering no explanation for his bonded’s antics because there simply didn’t seem to be one. Jealousy? Ruthlessness? He’d shown the latter amidst battle, a raging, burning hostility that swept and morphed and stuck to the infidel’s brow as if he’d relished the release between the fox and himself – the barbaric, savage, sinister methods of their movements and motions.

But he didn’t dive any further into it, because Sjal’s query, the flick of her lashes, the layers of her inquiry pulsed and incensed his attention. His eyes, with their piercing, puncturing hues, riveted solely upon her, upon her question, upon the lacquer dusting and embossing the darkening shades. There was a reason they haunted, they stalked, they crawled, slithered, and crept through Helovia – a purpose, a rime, a conviction driving and colliding with their sinew, their skin, their sanctity and sanity. Erebos thought he knew the answer, and it seemingly came to him all at once, a truth sizzling along his tongue and mouth, carved from his lips without any hesitation. Bold, audacious, it toiled with his grin and allowed it even more allure, even more beguiling, unwavering, persevering glimpses into his presence, into his mind, into what he thought of her, the girl who’d once been looking for something (salvation?), on the snowy borders of the Basin. “You belong here.”

Erebos eyed her, curious and inquisitive, as she failed to yield to his simple statement. Do I?, she questioned, and for the boy who’d always known where he’d belonged (deep in the mountains, amongst the snow, the wind, the chilling, barbaric winters and bestial summers, a soldier, a knight, a blackguard), the question was confusing, perplexing, and befuddling. Perhaps he’d been blessed since his birth, pressed into caves and ice, sprinting across the rime, gesturing and hollering and whooping with his friends as they chased down mysteries, stories, and adventures. He’d never truly wanted for anything except more (more anguish, more devastation, more potential, more magic, more invocations to conquer and control). But why shouldn’t she belong, down in the depths of a world her mother had tried to conquer? Why shouldn’t she aspire to dream in the heights of clifftops, in the verdant hallows of valleys, or in the dark, eerie spaces of the Deep Forest? “Why not?” He questioned her automatically, without much forethought, brandishing that bold, audacious charisma he’d polished into his entity, with whimsical smiles and Cheshire grins. How many avenues had she truly explored and not seen herself within? Why couldn’t she make herself a home in the whims and worlds and empires throughout Helovia? Why couldn’t she find herself an ambition, an aspiration, to claw into, to grasp and clench and hold, incapable of letting go until she accomplished it? What held her back? He couldn’t quite fathom what tied and tethered her to nothingness – not when she likely had all the potential, all the prowess, to become something other than a remnant of her dam’s existence. He didn’t imagine her as one of the many who passed through – wraiths, phantoms – and then floated off again, no purpose, no reasoning, tucked into their souls, as if they’d never existed at all.
 
So the fiend grew closer to her, too intrigued, ignoring Orsino as he glided back into the heathen regions of shadow and damnation, speculating in the wild, untamed ferocity he possessed so readily, so confidently. He’d been lost before – down in the doldrums of the unknown, not comprehending the levels of his weakness, of where he was supposed to go next, on how he was going to achieve everything he yearned and craved. Maybe he could assist her in puzzling out the next step in her path? To see where she fit, in between the lines of sand, stones, rubble, and mayhem? He smiled, always the beguiling, alluring, little beast, proffering his guidance as best he could. “What are you looking for?” Was it to harpoon the countryside, the kingdom, the legacies of yesteryear? Was it to reign and rule? Was it to glorify prosperity for herself, for her kin, for all the legends coiled in her blood? He only glanced around for snippets, for advantages, for fractures and chaos that could lead him down the alleys of his quest for revenge – but surely she had something better, something hopeful, to sink her teeth into. 

The youth had realized long ago that the title prince meant very little. Princes couldn’t slay dragons. Princes couldn’t revive the fallen. Princes couldn’t beg their mothers to stay. Princes couldn’t entreat their companions to remain nestled in peaks, valleys, snow, and wind. Princes could watch and beck and call and scream, and still, nothing would happen. He was the son of a King – but in days, seasons, months, and years spent in a world that could be collapsed by the brush of chaos, by the sting of corruption, a moniker was naught. It didn’t lend him any accolades. It didn’t anoint him with wisdom. It didn’t reward him with crowns or jewels, garb or armor, noble intrigue or fundamental truths. He’d only been granted with the sagacity of his sire and dam; who’d spent their lifetime carving, sculpting, and reigning (raining too he wanted to say, watching his father still look for Huyana on the horizon), with stories, with notes and sketches, with traces and foundations – he’d been privileged, but he’d also wandered from heathen cliff top to eldritch fountains, drawing on what he’d been taught and what he could discover. The boy took what he could, snatched and held and grasped and tore, swearing never to let go (and he didn’t, that much was certain, when he visualized the Colossus toppling, the giant’s dragons falling, everything crashing and burning because that was going to be his role in life – avenging those who couldn’t do it for themselves), to always cling to those memories, those people, those beloved, cherished whims and moments. When she spouted about birthrights Erebos wanted to scoff and snort, for simply being born didn’t mean one was entitled to greatness, to empires, to thrones; a beast had to earn their regime, had to challenge the world. When she drifted about tales (of Psyche the DarkEmpress, about a woman who had led them from refugees to mountaineers) he wanted to hear them all, again and again, let those legends pierce through his ears and ricochet along his skull (because they’d been about defeat, but also glory, a chance to snatch what had been destroyed). When she wanted answers, he simply remained silent, allowed her to boil over, to simmer, to wash over her layers of calm, dainty composure. The scion knew went to be quiet too, to permit the world to play its part, for the earth to unravel or shades to collide.
 
After she’d succumbed to the ferocity, to the agony, to the pinnacles of her frustration, Erebos dared to stare, wondering over the girl who was so infinitely lost, pondering over the child of another luminary and what she was supposed to do with her life. His features were rendered stoic, nonchalant, and he could’ve been a picture of his father, a chiseled miniature of death and damnation, of corruption and chaos, had his eyes not held a glimmer of kindness, a gallant intrigue delving into their chassis. The words formed along his tongue were quiet and blunt, balanced and simple, truth spilling over his mouth before he’d even had a moment to stop them. “Princes and princesses aren’t entitled to anything. They have no claim.” They didn’t cease, rolling like a wave, like the pools that could gather beneath his feet and lift him above the water’s edge. He thought of Rikyn, once a prince, and then only an Outcast, wandering and wandering and wandering in search of something – professing only the things he’d acquired for himself. “We have to earn everything we crave just like everyone else.” His head tilted a fraction, devilish and mercenary in the forest’s nocturnal bloom (and he might’ve looked savage, wild and untamed, a foreshadowed bout of misery and disaster – how he’d lead himself to ruin, or how he’d topple towers, cast his sword deep into the chest of his enemies). “I don’t expect to be Lord of the Basin because my father is.” He sighed on the wind, casting his eyes elsewhere, curious and seething. “I’ll become something on my own – because I wanted it, because I obtained it.” And then he softened, the glimmer of tears along her eyes, the bitterness, the rancor thriving along the edges, gave him pause, and he proffered, bestowed, a more lionhearted gift. “But if you still hope to know about your mother, you should come to the Basin. I’m sure my father would tell you everything you wish to hear.” Orsino sneered amidst the brush, and the boy still gave him naught to go off of – tying together his proclamation for the girl who seemingly had waited and waited for the right moment to fall in her lap. “You don’t have to stay, but you can listen. You can see if it’s the right place for you.” Sjal would be able to view the world in which her mother had thrived, then seemingly fallen – if it’d be enough to stand under her old shadows, or carve the way to creating her own. 

The fiend could feel the chill, the scowl, the twisting of her features upon him – as if he were scum, delivering truths she’d either already known or simply didn’t want to hear. He faced them with an easygoing placidity, neither reigning in treachery, danger, alarm, or cruel, malicious designs, not a rogue, not a monster, eyeing her eldritch gaze with a flippant, calm, brazen air. He expected something to slip past her tongue, sizzle on her fangs, poison perhaps, venom launched and harpooned, slithering and crawling towards his wake to intoxicate him in her rage, like her mother – some great asp, some unleashed cobra, no longer tamed by charms or songs. Instead, however, she seemed to give in to the aspects he’d rendered, and he watched, silent and enduring, strong and tranquil, as her mask was strategically notched over her eyes all over again. He almost clucked in disappointment – he’d rather enjoyed the relish, the sensation, the pulse of her ferocity, because it meant there was something down in her marrow, in her bones, beyond the quiet, frozen girl who claimed to be borne from Psyche, who held a griffin in her grasp, who was speckled and dotted and marked for something she didn’t know, didn’t see. Even after she focused away from him, back into the marbles of monsters and demons, he almost gave way to a sigh, thinking nothing had transpired, that all the silly wisdom he’d managed to gather in his days had been ignored, rebuffed, scorned for the past and never the present. The devil wanted her eyes on him, believing him, for he uttered truths, because he wanted to help, wanted to guide, wanted to christen her with something, anything. She shouldn’t be left rotting, festering, withering in shadows. “Everyone has the opportunity to be great.”

His voice isn’t quiet. Its smooth and magnetic, captivating and drawing, a portion of allure meant for Machiavellian disciples. Its alluring and beguiling, another token of the shadows and Stygian regions, where he could’ve been flanked and draped and clothed in Lucifer pictures and portraits; bending over the lines of forest roots and coffin catacombs. He believed every ounce of his speech, for he’d seen greatness, for he’d witnessed triumph, and he knew he could snag it for himself. “But its how they get there that matters, I think. Its what pulls them to become something.”  What inspires you? he wanted to ask her, but he wasn’t sure what her answer would be. He didn’t know if she even had one, ready and prepared, beyond the scope of seeking answers – what was she going to do when she found them?

“You’ll find a purpose,” he assured her, in his calm, composed stance, where coiled muscles met handsome, silly, miscreant flesh, where the drumming of his vocals conjured livelihoods and promises. He was an oath, a proclamation, and a devilish accord all rolled into one – so secure, so capable, so bold and audacious, willing to lead the lady to wherever she wished. “I always say what I mean,” he winked, as if he’d never told a single lie (Ignatius and Nepdon excluded, he murmured to Orsino, like he could cross fingers behind his back and neglect other scattered remnants of a misspent youth), leaning towards her, eyes akin to mischief and discord. “Follow me,” he echoed on a grin, turning away from the shadows, towards mountains and eaves.

[Feel free to post again? :D I can get another thread up for us tomorrow in the Basin. ^_^]