He ventured out into the wilderness – free and untamed, jubilant, buoyant, and savage, drinking in the morning air as if he were a hungry, wolfish predator. They clambered as one bestial unit, over sand and soot, over rock and rubble, over ruin and paradise, slithering in and out of shadow until it wasn’t certain which was which; watery pelt dyed in Stygian pursuits. They were a discordant ideal; so strung by exuberance, but so tempted and tethered and tied together with temptation (enticement, the layers, the lacquer, of danger, of treachery). Though the prince had been instructed by their General to aspire to greatness, to never fold, to preside like a strong, diligent being, he’d nearly always been pressed to these potentials, by these demands, on his own. He’d chased after glory and triumph and vengeance with determination, with diligence, with rapier wit, trials, and tribulations – the slash of his sword and the mercenary degrees of his follies. The world was full of merciless victories, and he’d found them in sea beds and in the folds of darkened forests, between the nooks and crannies of Gods’ sagacity, along the sable corridors and nestled amongst the Machiavellian pursuits of his own companion. Actively recruiting, however, was another measure entirely, and though he’d hunted for beings, individuals ready and eager to make names for themselves, he’d only been marginally successful. Sometimes games were meant to be played, and he’d smirked, snickered, laughed when things went awry and chaos erupted by the trench of his footfalls – and other moments had been calculated with increasing favor. There was no telling what was due for them on this winding road.
 
They slowed and wandered for a time, over hilltops and beyond streams, flowing down the broken barbs and boughs. Orsino sniffed at the ground and would growl, grimace, hiss, or merely frown, and Erebos wore his handsome features into roguish delight when they finally caught an unfamiliar scent. Rendered into silly, carnivore bliss, they traversed over the fallen logs and sprouting brush, leaping over brooks or stepping lightly upon their precipice simply because they could, delivering catastrophic strides across valleys and puncturing, piercing, slabs of log. Minatory decrees and degrees were only measured on the cruelest-looking branches, shifting his skull downward so his cutlass met splintering wood, then traversing on, finally pursuing the stranger entangled into the enigmatic threshold and its locked gates.
 
The unknown…that tempted him too.
 
When the pair, fox and boy, soldier and kitsune, finally glimpsed upon the femme, all they could see was red. She reminded him of the Blood Falls, crimson and blood, tangled in the knots and plumes of rushing water and edges of uncertainty, struck by crème hues and far larger than he. He presided in silence for a moment, determining how to advance forth, before walking forward, confident, assured, self-possessed, as if he’d always belonged here and there (and he had in most cases, born and bred in the wiles and wilds of the Basin, raised to be secure and composed). “Hello!” His voice ricocheted along grasslands and oaks, clambering in a silly spiral of boyish charm, tipping his head to the left in careful perusal, then nodding, bobbing his head, in assurance of respect she’d likely earned somewhere along the way. Erebos continued moving, closer and closer, until he was yards away from her frame, out of shadow and appearing like he belonged on the edges of uncharted, furtive sojourns (or in the fire, in the flames, where the darkness carved a brilliant, blazing inferno), an amiable smile adorning his face. “Welcome to Helovia. I’m Erebos, who are you?”

Erebos

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