The Reaper had watched his son from a cavern, curious to see the antics he put on display given no chaperoning, no cajoling, nothing and no one to safeguard a foolish prince. His eyes narrowed as he gave another, unfamiliar and unrecognizable, a shortened version of a tour. The Lord presumed she’d be another addition, someone Erebos had plucked out of the Threshold or down in the valleys where he roamed, sincere and beaming, bright and brilliant like his mother, capable of assurances and cleverness to tether him to so many. He’d paid them no mind or heed as they wandered along the lake, bouncing and laughing, young and brazen, but as they grew closer to the Haruspex’s cave, his attention had shifted to his own branch and bramble of intrigue.
 
What would they be attempting in the grotto of the God?
 
He didn’t fear the deity, not entirely, but had always been apprehensive and wary of any meeting with the hands of Time. The being had always been surly, snappy, distasteful and loathing, a keen, blunt blade lacerating all of their skin. He half-expected to be electrocuted every instant their paths crossed, when they asked for information about monsters, when they tried to negotiate quests not yet completed. Despite his avoidance of any reverence, for the King had never truly prayed to any higher power (he knew his tenacity, his worth, his might, and didn’t need to compel or cry out for more), he understood and respected the notion that the God protected their sanction and sanctuary, their empire and sovereignty. As a warrior, as a blackguard, he could respect the omniscient presence and persistence of sparks and tick-tocks.
 
But he couldn’t have children wreaking havoc with the immortal.
 
Deimos proceeded slowly, precise and predatory, stalking their shadows as they smiled, laughed, winked, and then disturbed the dust, the quiet, of the chamber. Diligent and silent, quiet and deadly, he crossed over the aperture with a dangerous, deadly warning: his essence a poetic juncture of damnation and treachery. Erebos must have felt it first, jerking his head towards his father as the invocations wove through the threshold, uncanny, deadly, unfurling, uncoiling, at his obvious displeasure. His features broke from their nonchalance to arch his brow at his son, impassive tones chilling the chamber even further. His scolding vocals marched and toiled, soulless and disappointed with Erebos’ lack of prudence and rationale. “Not your wisest choice.” Thereafter, he pulled his necromantic chords back, away and away, permitting their plumes back into his Reaper figure, a living scythe, a breathing devil, before sliding his piercing gaze upon the young femme. While peering at her features, at her face, at her physique, he was struck by a force of recognition he hadn’t encountered in seasons, in years (not since her body was found, ruined and sullied by the Moon Goddess and Gaucho, a marionette to murder). Rather than show his surprise, his bewilderment (other than a slight widening of his narrowed eyes, like he’d seen a ghost brought back to life), the rattling inquiry was pulled from his throat, harpooned back upon her frame. “Who are you?”