It was a day made for adventure – crossing over narrow seas and devastating immoral enemies, slashing through jungle vines and thickets, crashing, rolling, and colliding with the best of the best. It held a collection of assembled recklessness, dashing and brewing, boiling and smoldering, down into the depths of his youthful cranium – so it became filled with sentiments of boldness, of audacity, of others trembling in his wake, of becoming a dastardly, gallant piece of the land. The hours soothed his restless soul and clambered with possibilities, so when he glanced over the horizon promises, assurances, and vengeance didn’t stare back, eager and fervent, biting and ferocious.
 
He ran because he wanted to. He rejoiced at the wind biting his cheeks, his eyes, his brow, and his mouth. He regaled at the ice digging into his daggers as he slid over their illustrious wake. He laughed, hooted, and hollered when Orsino chose to splash into a puddle, then scamper across leftover pieces of glacier. He burned away at the relentless chords of ebullience and enthrallment, piecing together the layers and lacquer of his scorching schemes. Together, they pierced the quiet, absolute stillness like sharp shards of predators and poetry in motion, one regal, refined prince, and the other a Stygian cloak of shadow and duplicity; interchangeable given the hour, the month, the season, the moment.
 
They would’ve consumed the Steppe, eaten, devoured, hoarded in avaricious pulls and ties, had another’s appearance not hastened his curiosity. The boy had launched precariously over an incline of snow, not bothered by what could be on the other side, too bold and wretched to believe anything else could puncture him beyond the ivory desolation. Before Orsino could even kindle their connection, to warn, to jibe, to twist or mock, the warrior’s eyes had narrowed to a distinct perusal – because there in the distance, was a mare garbed in orange.
 
The hues were too prominent, striking, and pronounced against the pale surroundings, out of place, like she belonged in rainforests or dunes, where a tigress could melt and mold into tall grass or sandy shoal without being seen. Even if her colors hadn’t given him an excuse to cease his movements and merely stare, the rest of her had. She was an entirely different figure than what he’d seen before – and the boy had traversed, over hills, over valleys, over cliffs and oceans. He’d accompanied friends along vast plains, conquered demons, felled monsters, became a savage, miscreant fiend, made companions from equines and Pegasus alike, and never had they been fashioned like her. Her wings were on her head! The youth almost had a notion to reach across the void to merely ask her how she flew, if they were wild, strong, and untamed, if they could lift her off the ground and soar into the clouds. Strange, Orsino remarked, shaking his foxy cranium, too bewildered to remark anything else.
 
Erebos thought they were magnificent.
 
Even as he crossed towards the stranger, slowly, encumbered by the deeper snow, he noticed other peculiar things – a shiny beacon (a halo?) resting just above her head, disappearing, then reappearing, then vanishing from sight again, like an angel distorted. Perhaps she tread thin lines, roamed between tainted darkness and beguiling light, had fallen from the heavens and became too brambled, nettled, thorned, like the rest of them, incapable of returning.
 
He instantly wanted to know more. He craved too often, gave in too easily to the flights of wisdom, sagacity, and inquisition, but he’d rather have been a curious beast than one mired in nothingness, in expectations of destiny, incapable of making his own fortune. “Hello!” The Basin prince bellowed from across the void, a winsome, charming smile sculpted along his lips.

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in

Another flame, another torrent, another gale of laughter erupted from the lordling’s throat as the seraph’s bonded, an actual tiger lunged out of the snow – not towards him, but Orsino. The sable fox’s immediate reaction was to hiss and spit, growl and threaten, hackles and fur raised, tails bristling, jaw widening to show his glistening ivories. When the large cat continued, sniffing and pawing at him, the indignant, wretched words and curses spewing over their connection were not worth sharing or repeating; a bit too harsh, grating, and horrendous. Erebos’ laugh was jubilant though, starting from a small chuckle to a wild, untamed guffaw, taking absolute delight and merriment in the kitsune’s misfortune. Make a new friend, Orsino? He ricocheted along their bond, looking away as the Stygian beast flexed his claws in the prince’s direction – incapable of keeping a straight face as his stare riveted back to the mare. “Quite the companion you have,” his words reverberated on another quiet sanction of sniggers, smirks, and snickers, not rude or demeaning, merely as if he hadn’t been amused in eons, as if he’d forgo all his menace, all his malice, just for a little more amusement and diversion in his life.
 
Already charmed by the predatory pursuits of her familiar, his scrutiny lanced back upon her, the stripes, the vivid hues, the wings, the halo – all beguiling, enticing curiosities. The lad still wondered if she was a piece of divinity, another fallen deity or half-god, like Aithniel, brought to mere mortals to provide them with providence, sanctuary, or blessings. Maybe she was luminescence, with gilded eyes and enlightening shards, elegance strewn and laden with lines and purity – or not that at all, but a deceptive siren, sent to lure creatures to their doom – the black marks a coating of predators and carnivores, a warning to those who embarked too close to her halo, devilish scratches and garb sanctioned in her gaze. Was she duplicity, scattered by specious remnants, honored by vicious intentions? Or merely wandering there, cast into snow and ice, haunting a field of desolation, and still harboring for it? He may have interrupted her singsongs or glow, traipsing where he didn’t belong (but that was always the way – burrowing a little too deep into wounds and lacerations, into barbs and nettles, until he found them stabbed into his hearts, his lungs, his soul, and then they stayed there, locked in the toils of his hate, his loathing, his contempt). His skull tilted this way and that, in general directions, in charismatic intrigue, watching the ghost of her smile appear, conducting his on a grander scale, pleasant and amiable, restless and youthful.
 
He presumed the next set of words would follow the necessary course – they’d share namesakes, herds, and then stumble on some new path – he could coax a few inquiries over her bonded, or magic, or invocations, gifts of the earth or why she wore a signal, circlet, of heaven. So he was struck, suddenly, eyes peeled back from where they’d followed Orsino’s route of escape, by the query formed out of thin air: are you lost?
 
Sometimes, he almost replied. Some days he spent too many hours whittling away at devilish contortions, at how and why and when he’d sink his vengeance into the ichor of the Goliath, watch his dragons falter, shudder, and fall along the earth. Some days he didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing with his life, playing soldier amongst ice and rime because he loved his family, because he was loyal to mountains, but all he really yearned, craved, wanted to do was annihilate and brutalize those who’d wronged his brethren. Some days he simply lived in the past instead of the present, imagining how things could’ve been if everyone hadn’t disappeared, left, or died.
 
But he didn’t tell her that. The steady, captivating depths of his eyes betrayed nothing; that he wasn’t fighting a losing battle with abhorrence and disaster, that he wasn’t sculpting his days with power and savagery. “No. I know exactly where I am.” But not where I’m going. He winked, then shook his head, inclining it towards the peaks in the distance, where the Basin toiled and stood, mighty and strong. “I live just over there.”
 
Erebos’ stare pinpointed back upon her again. “Are you?”

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in

The boy’s eyes only wavered away from the seraph at Orsino’s continued howling and hissing, grating sibilance brought on by discomfort, by disregard, by hate, by malice, unwinding and unraveling for the tiger (Mr. Teatime, he noted, and it made him smile all over again, a gentle calling for something bound to grow ferocious and savage). He watched them run, the jungle cat doing most of the chasing, as Orsino launched over piles of snow, gnashed his teeth, uncurled his tails and tried to whip them across the feline’s face. The sable fox might’ve glanced over towards his beastly companion, with a glare, with a sinister stare that spoke of just desserts and retribution, but Erebos said nothing to him over their connection. He merely allowed him the opportunity to be assaulted and assailed for once; a fine bit of revenge in its own way, for the cold, dastardly calculations of a kitsune and his Cheshire demeanor. At her laugh, his ears and features swerved back to her, brow arched, curiosity coiling a little further in his machinations, listening to the merriment bubble over the snow and rime (a trifle forced, perhaps, for his benefit? Or was she out of habit, never quite amused enough to explode into diversions?). The warrior leaned a little closer then, introducing his feral bonded from across the desolate plains. “His name is Orsino.” He wrinkled his nose a little, then shrugged, swindling his gaze over the layers of entertainment careening across the landscape. “He’s…always like that.” But, he admitted nothing more about the little hellspawn, the tiny infidel, the wrath and rage inside the bestial vessel, because he was more or less the same. They shared their strife, their hostility, and their acrimony. Orsino never saw the reason to hide his and Erebos covered the contempt, the treachery, with grins and warmth, politeness and composure.
 
Her apology brought him back, fixating his stare along her face, where feathers touched and fluttered, where ethereality kindled and some celestial adornments curled. In a way, she hadn’t erred, had no reason to apologize or wax regrets, because one moment his feet would be firmly planted, settled, rooted into the ground, and he’d known exactly what he was going to do, how he was going to do it, then somehow, along the way, it would get distorted, tear, rip apart, and he’d be left to puzzle out another path. In these instances, though, he’d been wandering, remembering, broken bodies in the snow, chasing an adventure, a glorious hallelujah, where he couldn’t see her golden form crumpled and bloody. Maybe it was lonely, when he stopped to think about it, but they’d been the last remnants of her, still, silent, gone. The prince did nothing to riddle her away from the building misunderstanding, only smiling a little deeper, losing a portion of his ebullience on a gentle gliding of snowflakes. “I come here all the time,” and he didn’t say why.
 
Then she giggled again, almost dreamy, almost consumed by an unattainable boundary, light and airy, eclipsed by Elysium complexities and whimsical, capricious delights. He wasn’t sure how to respond to her contentment at being lost, at her obvious enjoyment, at the soft, dulcet, mercurial intricacies of her venturing – perhaps her sojourn, her crusade, was far more amusing than his. He’d never believed going astray had been satisfactory or pleasant; when his motions, notions, were carved elsewhere, somewhere far beyond what he’d imagined, conjured, or hoped, he grew frustrated, irritated, annoyed, exasperated that he’d have to start anew. But the scion’s campaigns had taken him down so many other alternate alleys: from a lad who only knew he’d wanted power, who learned and scorched and loved, to a beast laden with primal machinations always coveting his throat, always crawling over his spine. There’d been days of innocence and joviality, and when they came crashing down, he’d had to make do with what he had: wits, determination, and endurance. The youth had no idea of what she’d seen, of why she’d want to be away from things she’d always known, and the inquiry rumbled from his mouth before he could stop it. “You enjoy being lost?”
 
The way she turned back to him, however, seemed almost incriminating, her eyes narrowed, speculating, examining him, maybe trying to find faults, to find misalignment, to place him from the shadows and demons escaped from their doldrums. He played with it, tilted his head absentmindedly, granting her the same fixation, except his glance was silly, mocking, features growing closer and closer until his breath could’ve puffed along her face (and he would’ve laughed if it had). His tone was in jest, but the words were devout and sacred. “Erebos, soldier of the Aurora Basin.” He even granted her a mock bow, folding his bearded chin towards his chest, before curling it back to its prior, regal position, son of a King, destined for uncertainty. “And who are you, exactly?”

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in

Orsino was deemed a lost cause as he wavered between snow and earth, hissing and clawing every time the tiger came near. The uncanny kitsune, hoping to extend some notion of his wiles, tried to outrun the oncoming feline, turning along a corner of caverns, rapidly curling and maneuvering towards the front, intending to be out of sight (and perhaps out of mind).
 
But Erebos’ mind was not on his companion’s irritation: her words fell with a poignant sense of reeling discomfort, pulling against his mind until he was forced to see, to understand, what she meant. She enjoyed being lost because then the memories of yesteryear couldn’t haunt, couldn’t compel, couldn’t seethe, couldn’t contort, couldn’t control her intentions; and he wanted to look away, because he knew he’d done the exact opposite. His past encouraged, blighted, deceived, and commanded every action he’d ever committed – when his friends wanted to run, he ran with them, when he found Arwen, dead and discarded, his hate morphed him, clouded him, altered him into a manifestation of vengeance and abhorrence, when Gods wreaked havoc and preyed upon lands, his distaste, his fascination, tugged at his movements until he was just one more monster on the scene, felling deities. She was far more free than him, not bound by the immoral lengths he’d traversed and intended to drawn upon; and he wondered what that sort of liberation was like – to simply not care and lay on the ground, stare at the stars, whistle towards the moon, indifferent, impassive, lost in her subtle, dreamy way. Perhaps she simply never allowed herself the notion to be concerned with anyone or anything, but that sounded lonely, forsaken, and isolated, like the cliffs they stood upon. He must’ve been staring, too caught in the rhapsody, in the folly, of the moments chiseled in front of him, behind him, all around him, too much boy and not enough man, touched and tarnished and mauled by the grasp of the past. Instead of flickering his eyes away, they stayed latched onto her, trying to decipher how she managed to live in such a state – where the world didn’t scrape its claws down sides or skulls. “But what happens when you return? When you’re no longer lost?” He blinked, mystified, raptured, bewildered, eager to comprehend the ways in which others worked, how the contradictions played a part when the illusion was destroyed, when reality settled and sunk across her sentiments and wounds. The prince turned away from her soon after, too close, unsettled, drawing back into the crooked, misshapen little beast he’d become; all deceptions and ruins, all enigmatic twists and turns. Maybe she was the paradox, and he just the mere, silly, stupid fool.
 
She’d humored him though, and for that alone he wouldn’t be rude, extending his eyes back to hers as she acknowledged his other questions. He hadn’t expected to meet the Diviner of the Throat – the title sounded righteous and superior, all knowing, omniscient, just like the Gods themselves. The lad, in truth, had always rather admired those who could speak to the celestial beings, who had the power, the designation, the distinction, to share secrets and subterfuge with those who could alter time and space (he’d never told Ashamin this; but that was likely due to being petty). Her connection to the sands, to the deserts, only increased his inquiries and inquisitions even more (and he wanted to ask her a lot of things all at the same time: what she thought of the land she lived within, if she ever saw the demi-God girl, Aithniel, and the rest spiraled off into adornments of lives changed, coiled away). He yearned to tell her that he knew of the Sun God resting amidst their lands, of the fire he’d christened him with, that he once looked upon his silly, foolish self and saw something there, but instead, the regal depths of his charismatic grin won over. “What’s it like to speak to the Gods, Maren?” His rich tones (matching her pitch and dictation for the name, humming along his lips like a warm laugh), his vibrancy, his exuberance, rippled along the core of his being, as if he could’ve been water and earth, rain and death, damnation and generosity all at once – and still so utterly confused at the world around him.

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in

The boy almost sank, down into the regions of purgatory (where he belonged; barely able to fit into the virtuous heavens, not yet ready for the crawling of demons) at her first proclamation. He’d expected something, anything, to render him into more wisdom, more guidance, but the obviousness she rendered across her tongue, like he was some oblivious fool, nearly caused him to curl away. Perhaps he’d irked and irritated her graceful presence and she no longer felt like entertaining his barbed, ridiculous soul – but he’d wanted so much more than the simplicity, than the nuances, than the essence and sprinkle of what could be and what might have been. She gave him something else moments later, and he tasted the word on his tongue, “Enlightenment,” like it was a strange, foreign substance. He’d been enlightened before, when murderers caved into their desires and bludgeoned innocence, when worlds cracked and frayed for no rhyme, no reason, when demons rose and the gallant fell, when Gods were no longer Gods, just the same as every other mortal – gone, buried, forgotten. He’d been enlightened when he gazed across the stars and imagined himself there, fervent, eager, ready for the incoming frays and the onslaught of revenge. He’d been enlightened when friends were no longer friends but disappeared portions of the past – ones he tried to cling to, to hold onto, even when they parted ways what felt like eons before and never tried to look for him, didn’t bother remembering his name, his face, or what he aspired to be (and he could recall all of theirs - Adelric who’d become the grand Doctor with his sewing needle, Asch who wanted to be a Queen, using the Rotunda as her throne). He’d been enlightened when he faltered and failed, stumbled and withered, decayed and became less of himself because he’d lost; when he’d twisted himself into a rancorous, bitter omen of distaste and discord, when he vowed to do so many things and pledged to so many lives. The boy must’ve been wasting her time, no more informed or developed than he’d been instances before – the same distortion of devil and knight, intrepid and valorous, but touched by too many nefarious deeds, longing for too many sinister arts.
 
But she was staring at him still, poised and effervescent, granting him more answers to his silly queries, reminding him she only served one God and she couldn’t call to all of them (but wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could, if they all could?). The lad still smiled, still grinned a Cheshire rampart, as she replied – of a value not suitable for words, for tongues, for mere mortals. He laughed a little at her hasty comment, felt like it was directed towards him, the youth fueled and persistent and always rampaging towards his next destination. Maybe he was ignorant and unknowing too – because he knew so much about the world and its strengths, its failings, but so little as well, like why the measure of his strength, of his brutality, of his heart never seemed to matter, or why some days, some hours, his determination wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. “Then you are blessed to have such an ability.” He coiled and unleashed, a knowing grin, a captivating stare, a whimsical wink, understanding, comprehending, at the very least, that he wasn’t worth the rapture and reverence she held in her finesse, in her potency. One day, he thought to himself. One day even the Gods will know me.
 
He’d looked down at the snowy ground along the interval, then across the vast plain to ensure Orsino was still alive, when her question sprang across his ears, caused him to jerk his head up and around, facing her directly all over again. The knight’s brow arched a few careful degrees, uncertain, unsure, of how to proceed. In normal circumstances he’d be the epitome of control – a polished lad seeking adventure, a prince bowing his head to every soul he met, a courageous, intrepid fool longing for answers he couldn’t have or fathom. He hadn’t expected the layers nestled between her query, the riddles, the enigmas, or why she wanted to know. Next to her splendor, he was nothing. The boy’s response shouldn’t have mattered, but he found himself taking the time to reply – because he didn’t want to proclaim he sought power in every inch of the realm, he didn’t want her to know that he lied through his teeth to get what he wanted, and he didn’t want to inform her that all he saw behind his eyes was the blood of his enemies, splashed and spilled across the ground, their bones bare, their faces vacant, their souls damned, gone, and his vengeance completed. “The world is full of so many things, but I imagine it as a stepping stone, a lesson in experiences,” he started, gaze ignited over the desolate area, the warbling surf of snow and ice. “I’ve seen power and devastation. I’ve seen hope and wrath.” His eyes chiseled back to her again, a little lost in the vision, in the sea, of angelic gold. “So I strive to see what I can learn from it, each and every day – and trust, eventually, I’ll be able to do something great and grand with such wisdom.” He ceased there, before he unraveled all the incantations, all the wickedness, of his cherished sagacity, and thrust the inquiry back upon her. "How do you see the world?"

Erebos

clever got me this far - - then tricky got me in