He danced across the water, stretching out his cloven hooves in a searing, fluid movement, one motion a savage strike, the next, a sinuous, unwinding assault. Each maneuver was an art to the bestial waltz, a sculpting of perfected machinations, of knighthood calculations, of blackguard ambitions. His tail had become a serpent, his crown had become a sword, and as he lowered the great, massive skull, he swung his cutlass towards invisible enemies and brutal, barbaric opponents. He imagined one was a great, giant Colossus, painted black and white with dragons on either side, roaring and beating and massacring, and he, the gallant, intrepid boy, swung his rapier into the Goliath’s chest – waiting for his last breath as he felt into the ocean. The soulless, merciless, unrelenting surge of calamity didn’t end there, and he whispered into the void (Do your worst) as Orsino envisioned another filmy, transparent foe to wield against (sometimes a Haruspex with a bear skull, sometimes a face he’d yet to meet, yet to scour, but he could picture them as a vicious adversary, come to snatch away his beloved brethren). He hardened and devoured, ravaged and plundered, pillaged and marauded, until his sides were lined with sweat, until the sun made the air too sultry, and his breaths came out in reverent waves. Then the prince closed his eyes, felt the lines of muscles and power filter, flicker, through his entity, sank into the acrimonious turns, the undulating coils, and the rapture in bestowing an iniquitous force. He heard Orsino through their connection, almost a quiet, contented purr, as if he’d done something right for a change, instead of disappointing the beast over and over again.
 
As he stretched, advanced, wandered off the lake’s surface, another’s scent came wandering in, pulled by the cold-blooded wind, clambering along until it reached his nares. Erebos didn’t recognize it, felt nothing and no one from the strange smell, and flicked his eyes towards the borders. The sable fox, suddenly at his feet, needed only to smirk, to snicker, to pulse his maddening wake before both were off, chasing after threats, secrets, cloaks and daggers.
 
The scion had met others at the threshold before – some friendly, some neutral, though he’d yet to encounter anyone eager to barge in, threats lingering, pushing, shoving, fervent for a disaster. The Sentinels, despite their idle decay, were still imposing figures, and managed to dissuade too many from peeking any further into their midst (and perhaps his father’s presence, reigning death and depravity, was a deterrent too). It seemed the newcomer hadn’t bothered either, as no one poked their craniums into the glacial valley – and he was suddenly free to patrol, to scavenge, to peek and see what lingered outside their door.
 
The mare was little, dark, and gold (he was instantly reminded of Rikyn and his gilded patterns, but he figured his friend would be offended, somehow, someway, by being compared to the slender form pressing against the snow and ice). He’d never seen her before (even amidst monsters, he could remember several names and faces, but hers wasn’t one of them). She was embroidered with spikes, and he tilted his head from beneath one of the Sentinels (because he belonged, and she didn’t, and he had nothing to fear from being born amongst the chill and frost), curious and pondering over the odd weaponry. But instead of voicing his initial inquiries, he chose to call out along the void, pressing his whimsical smile, his Cheshire grin, into the boundaries like a guardian of the North, like a devil biding his time. “Who are you?”

  Erebos instantly had the feeling he was being appraised.
 
He’d been on the receiving end of judgments before – from those he battled, from those he chased, from those who wanted to look upon the son of the Reaper and see if might bestowed might. Some days he knew they saw nothing; a boy of little worth, come to play amongst the fireflies and demons. Some days he knew they saw a foolish little blackguard, come to simmer and seethe in his vengeful pursuits. Some days he knew they saw something there, lurking beneath the surface, come to wine and dine and devour them all.
 
But this was different, not scathing, not loathing, not scathing or sinister, analyzing, scrutinizing, and imbibing in a different light – something he couldn’t truly name, but it echoed along his cranium, his skull, on instinct and compulsions, inclinations and tendencies. She appeared distant, but coy, siren-esque, choosing to bask in frigid winds and summer splendor instead of the high seas, beckoning for avaricious escapades, burying her lords out in the sand. Perhaps she was a viper, sent to earth with spikes laden with venom, perhaps she was a moth, drawn to too many flames, perhaps she was a caterpillar, biding and clawing her way on black and gold feet, innocuous to some, fatal to many. He sifted and scanned in turn, and when she continued to glance his way, like he had something to offer her (he didn’t stop her from looking, couldn’t if he’d wanted to), he drew his smile upwards again, a great grand grin, trying to hide, to mask, a sinister, mocking laugh.
 
Before he could respond to her (Ovi, she’d serenaded, a mellifluous tune), she approached the Sentinels, attempted to persuade and inveigle with a smirk embedded in catty wiles, and spoke of cloaks. The lad’s brow arched, but that was the end of his speculation  - for no sooner had she finished, Enna arrived, and the depths of his devilish soul crooned at her infernal essence. They were two halves of the same whole, both immoral, both iniquitous, both scaling a wall of scathing dreams and ambitions, both clutching knives and daggers to the throats of their enemies, eager to cut away, piece by piece, morsel by morsel. Lucifer ambitions and Mephistophelean pride shielded him from her temper, but not her touch, and his frame nearly turned into the simmering caress, as her mouth grazed his hip, fervent on snickering and smirking from beneath his friendly, amiable grin. The prince’s gaze turned to hers, asked a silent query, and was given his answer as her features shifted, blunt and keen, cold and mercurial.
 
A game, she seemed to whisper.
 
But there were two amusements sizzling along the air, one he couldn’t quite name (still a worthy diversion, however, because whatever it happened to be made Enna cover his frame with hers, and he could nearly touch his lips to her ear without her flinching, scowling, or fleeing), and the other just beginning. The scion’s gaze followed the healer’s, along the stranger, until they rested on the withering Sentinels, decrepit and eerie, poignant and haunting. Seasons before, they would’ve been more than just a barren threat, but a hostile certainty, a vicious, brutal siege on those who dared to trespass. Now, they were mere artifacts of Engineers and their sons tinkering on heartless machines. 
 
Then came the contemptuous notion, spreading, circling, pervading his skull in a vicious swirl, and Orsino responded in kind, laughing, laughing, and laughing, a vehement hiss flooding and flickering through his ears. They were one and the same too – cruel and vindictive, brutal and irreverent, acting as two feral beasts, one standing as a noble, regal prince, the other, a Stygian fox nestled between the former’s front limbs. It only took one silent command for the kitsune’s cunning invocations to spiral; on quiet, inaudible threads, he coaxed and chanted, he called and courted, he stunned and imagined darker plains of soulless whims.
 
The delusion, illusion, and mirage were brought to life. One of the Sentinel’s enormous heads began to move, twisting, turning, in gnarled, metallic growls, in wicked hymns, in disastrous tugs and pulls. It creaked and groaned, stretched and moaned, and shifted its empty gaze solely upon the stranger.
 
The boy’s features remained friendly, charismatic, and cordial, his words a genial warning, missing the puncturing, piercing shards of the ominous provisions coiling along his crown. “I hope you have a good answer.”