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Expectations for a chase were dashed the moment a familiar voice coiled from behind them, and the warrior fought the urge to roll his eyes. The scavenging would have to wait until the newcomer was gone, vanished, out of sight, out of mind, not disturbing the grounds Erebos preyed on. He wasn’t surprised that the Laurelin’s initial greetings were curled in insults – the scion had known him back when childish escapades involved running after the stars and snatching up every vice, every virtue, and wondering what to do with them. Initially, Thranduil hadn’t left a bad taste in Erebos’ mind, but in this instance of vexation, where rage simmered, brimmed, brewed just below the surface, locked across his jaw, finessed behind his eyes, he didn’t have the time or the patience to cater to the other’s jibes. He attempted sedition, a sliver of fractious rebellion, altering his gaze to vague disinterest, ignoring the press of ire that the gilded beast had already successfully pricked, raised, incensed (he’d once been a Thief, a segment of cloaks and daggers, and knew where to strike, where to wound, where to hurt, and something about that both amused and annoyed Erebos, because he would’ve admired the power had it not left a mark on him). Adulthood doesn’t suit you, dearie, and the colt only bowed his head in respect (for his mother had taught him mannerisms lodged deep in his core, even if he’d preferred to snap and sneer) as Thranduil neared, as he smirked. The golden stag’s appearance did help him to settle, to draw back into himself, to polish the solid veneer of a prince who had every ounce of composure, every sense of control, every leisure and indifference tied to his crown. Without the knotted veils and indignant shrouds, he had the notion the fellow beast would’ve yearned to lead him down rabbit holes and warrens, to be devoured by the Cheshire grins and consumed by silver tongues: weak and weaker still. He had no intention of falling into another snare; he’d already been enticed into too many directions all at once (and the only one that called now was loathing and destruction, vengeance for something he had no direction towards). The little fiend from the mountains, the fledgling Lucifer daring to take flight, tilted his head, proffered the most feral of smiles (like a fanged vermin, a wolf descended from the glaciers, ready to howl), and extended his own salutations with an acerbic reply blunted by friendly tones. “Funny, we had high hopes for you too.”
The aspirations, the ambitions, the potency of his ventures stoked against his mind, caused him to turn away (and to Thranduil’s credit, perhaps even that notion was dangerous), coast a few strides away, sniff the air absentmindedly, as if coaxed, tempted, by something along the horizon; a curious venture, a reverie in vehemence, an exploitation of mild theatrics and pretenses. Maybe it’d be enough to push the Laurelin aside, persuade, convince, and coax him to somewhere or someone else who could amuse and divert him – Erebos had no intention of being stuck in a jester’s outfit. He’d worn it enough before, in foolish decrees, in sunken holes, bleeding and ashamed, in false promises, in convictions he still couldn’t fulfill (and it scraped against his soul, his essence, brash and brazen and impudent again; ignited and enflamed). Then Thranduil’s concern etched its way through the snow-laden void, and the soldier almost laughed, for he had no intention of telling that cretin, that creature, that Machiavellian brute anything that ailed him. Perhaps the former Thief could have provided him with noteworthy information, but the price, the cost, would be too heavy, too great, and the prince couldn’t owe any more debts. No weaknesses unraveled, no strings attached, no ineptitude cast into the light; his ineffectual mires would be his own, and he’d learn to sink or swim above them without assistance from brigands and mercenaries. So on a far friendlier smile, one that reached his eyes in hopes of waylaying the fellow demon (a devious mind playing a duplicitous one; too many hands shown already), he brandished a trifle phrase. “Nothing of your concern,” and walked a bit farther, down into a lane of thistles.
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[O] make them think they ever stood a chance
