The remnants of Frostfall pushed and pulsed; and they were no different from the icy kingdom he dwelled within. The prince of glaciers, of rime, of snow and chilling, nefarious elements gave into wanderlust, entreating the balance of his cravings and yearnings with more savage, inspired interloping. Instead of conspiring to chase the world with his melancholy, finesse the streets with his charms, or rustle up age-old defiance against the world (vengeance spun so desperately around his heart he hardly knew anything else anymore), he turned towards the Threshold, where gates were locked for the unknown and strangers were regarded as potential. By simple recollection his last opportunity to ensnare another into the Basin’s frosty confines had gone less than ideal; too much mischief, too many games, too much devilry had toyed and snagged, snarled, but the maiden he and Enna had bothered, irritated, and annoyed was long gone now. He wasn’t bothered by that particular failure like he was with so many other remarkable defeats; this one had brought him elsewhere, down into the reaches of amusement and diversions, into scalding, wayfaring graces and the shards of beguilement. He’d been enticed by debauchery and nefariousness (because it’d been fun, it’d been dastardly, it’d been wicked), and while the devilish boy had grown into a man, it didn’t mean his sentiments had followed suit. If anything, they’d been dragged thoroughly into insolence, destruction, and ruin. His causes were becoming far less noble.

But he still stretched his warrior strides through the forest, launched over pieces of thawing brooks and snow-laden boughs. Orsino, just as wicked, just as ridiculous, chased after him like a Stygian whirlwind, and together they were fox and demon, interchangeable and tethered. The fiend raced and the kitsune hissed, and their menacing, minatory outlook were all mercenary, behemoth strides; he laughed as sticks crackled and they made a general ruckus of the world around them. He’d never been quiet.

The pervading sense of the unknown haunted his senses though, and they slowed to a purposeful motion, more intense, more deliberate, less chaotic and menacing. His ears perked, listening for the notion of strangers, tipping his skull towards various directions, nares widening to scrape against what information the woods had to offer. And there, breathing only yards away from him, was a beast nearly camouflaged by the stark amount of white (and then darkness, as if he’d been folded from light and shadow, and Erebos liked him already, simply for the sake of his coat and its eerie representation). For several seconds, the soldier, the beast, the infidel, merely breathed, watched the plumes of his exhale puff into the air, before curling his lips into a firm, welcoming smile. Orsino did nothing of the sort, simply staring at the stranger with golden eyes and cunning, wily munitions.

He drew no closer, but remained charismatic all the same, a hint of ruffian barbarity stored in the depths of his soul and reaching along his features. The youth maneuvered his cranium downward in a show of respect, before hastening it back upwards and deliberating on what to do next. In his childhood, he would have bounded with great exultations, whistling, hooting, and hollering, but greetings now needed to come with refinement, with technique, with something more than infernal abyss. “Welcome to Helovia. I’m Erebos." He paused, tilting his head to the left in a careful perusal, a study, an examination, before proceeding again, the same smile simmering on his face. "Who are you?” The curiosity started, simmered, down the length of his voice and upon his face, but nothing more. The questions, unraveling, toiling, down into the depths of their knots and ribbons could be instigated in their own time and place – but what the stranger wanted, what he intended to do amidst these ramparts, fortifications, and spellbinding enigmas, would be what set him apart from all the other known inhabitants.

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want

Oh, there were secrets lurking between the folds of snow and shadow. He didn’t know where or when or how, but the unknown was a brutal, chilling blast brooding and brewing at his ruminations, winter’s last tilt before the great thaw. The scion’s ears twisted back and forth, skull processing the quandaries, the queries, laced and layered within. The other glanced off to the side, but the warrior’s eyes didn’t follow the meaning, the hollowed vessels of paranoia or lack of refuge. He was simply curious, inquisitive, and diving into schemes, snares, and ruses, untying threads and digging pitfalls. Too much intrigue, too much speculation bounded and leaped and enticed; and he suddenly wanted to pluck, to unravel, to unwind everything. The questions drummed a merciless serenade, back and forth, back and forth, in a restless, Machiavellian shade, disastrous and deceitful, blistering and barbaric. He knew about hidden wares, cloaks and daggers, had pressed and played with so many pretenses that sometimes he forgot who he was supposed to be playing (Ignatius - his fiery grandfather, who led tempests and wars? Nepdon - a calmer, more composed ancestor? Belial - a demon, a piece of forgotten treachery, a fallen bit of Lucifer regime?). He lived them all at once and then none at all, using their names and callings because no one knew who they were. Hardly anyone could recall the depths of their prestige, of their mythos, of their stories, and so he acted them out in ruthless deliberation – making enemies, making friends, exploring and reigning with many names and only one face. It was a different kind of danger, alluring and tempting and inveigling all at once, lighter than vengeance but dastardly and vicious just the same. Eventually, perhaps, it’d catch up with him and he’d be forced to simply remain Erebos (and he was proud to be that silly little boy from the Basin, born from the Reaper and the rain, but sometimes it was so much more amusing to be another beast, another burden); but those moments had yet to come.

However, he wasn’t the one delving into the masquerade today. Another shuffled into the masque, donning his disguise, and the soldier played along – allowed him to lead the game. I am no one the stranger said, but Erebos wanted to laugh, to chuckle, to grin like a Cheshire cat, preening from the darkness and hedgerows. Oh no, you’re someone he smirked, snickered, from within his mind, and Orsino hissed there too, and together they were conniving, eldritch infidels, pondering over the length of how much this one wanted to hide. What lay buried underneath the markings, the unknown accent, the noble sway of his words? There was more to Bull than he was willing to reveal, and perhaps given time, given patience, given charms, the boy could extract the mysteries held within. Whether he’d do anything with them was another set of circumstances altogether – but he was a behemoth of intellect, study, and calculations. The prince thought naught of conspiring to disentangle surreptitious strife, to slink past covert missions, to unthread precious, cryptic, arcane rhythms. It sounded wildly entertaining.

There was an acceptance to his breath, a permitting of lies to his grin (how much was true, how much was myth, how much was concocted, conjured, simply to survive?), and the regal, defined notion of innocence slipped along his features, past the indentation of his brow, of his sword, until his eyes settled back on the blended beast and his easygoing smile turned into words and phrases. “What do you seek here, Bull?” Then, he immersed himself back amidst the threads of silence, waiting, dedicated to patience, to perseverance, to determination.

[Thank you. -blushes- But don't sell yourself short, dear. Your writing is sublime. <3]

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want