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?”