He wandered again, lost between the knots and gnarled edges of bitterness and rancor. The boy didn’t know whether to be listless, despondent, or angry, and too many of his days, of his moments, had been tethered by the latter already. So he allowed himself to be strung along by the pinnacles of anarchy and the chiseling, sculpting finality of knives, a dagger brushing against snow and rime, dusting over the columns of sedition spreading through his movements. He took a chance on the spiraling of open corridors and unlocked gates, where heathens and innocents gathered, some already blighted or condemned, others waiting an opportunity Helovia may never grant them, ignoring the painful edge corroding the nefarious armaments of his heart (when he and Enna had laughed and mocked through these woods – wretched little things). It was an open diversion, a chance to be the prince instead of the inept warrior, too ignorant, too stupid, too audacious to be anything other than a brazen fool, full of hopes and promises and incapable of fulfilling either. The pretenses were eager and fervent over the press of his skin, crisscrossed along the scars were tangible waves of affability and charisma, and bestowed upon the blights and blemishes and lines of swordplay were charms and enticements; a ring of muscles undulating and rippling below a mountain coat and a devilish smile. A child of death gentled by the rain, but never quite enough – if someone peeled back his layers they’d likely see all his virtues, all his benedictions, all his benevolence tarnished, stained, and tainted in some way, a little broken, a little disheveled, a little mangled and torn. The lightness and exuberance always sketched over his eyes barely existed, only when true delight struck him (and it’d been so long since then), so he painted a beguiling mask over them too, and the deep blue, like pools of water, like the wide-open sky, looked as if they were made from showers and tempests, instead of the brooding shadows crawling behind them.
 
Battered but never struck entirely down, his motions became more than howling chords of avarice and vengeance; a little lighter now, gliding over rime and frost, down into the valleys of strangers and the unknown, because curiosity was sometimes a better siren than even the outcry of death and damnation. The warrior’s movements were a practiced art; honed from his days of stretching across the lake and mustering strength in each particular direction, so when he twisted to the left all his opponent felt was might, and when he contorted to the right all his enemy felt was ferocity – and he maneuvered as if called to battle, hastened and summoned to the pinnacles of war. Orsino followed, a thread of sable and Stygian values, and together they were a picture of menace and debauchery, echoing past the chilling ramparts of the Basin and following the mercurial whims of a potent storm. He laughed as they sculpted their way into the thickening wood, ghosting through pine and fir, rampaging within brush and snow-laden trees, everything looking absolutely the same as the days before – and he almost found himself looking for Enna, for another soul to irritate and tease just to feel something other than irritation, but when he turned his head, there was only the vacant copses and desolate glades. Erebos took one breath, settling, cooling, the rising sensation of fury and contempt, clenching his teeth for the most minute of instances before channeling his pretenses all over again – back to the boy who’d always craved, who’d always wanted, who’d always been delighted with whatever happened to fall in his path.
 
Then he noticed a startling pinkish hue rising from the snow.
 
It reminded him of the dawn, when the morning sky gave way to dazzling, softened hues, when the northern lights subsided and allowed the earth to reawaken, and he found himself staring at it for longer than necessary. Sharper perusal and Orsino’s needling informed him that it was a being, not a part of the receding twilight, and he chuckled to himself, shaking his head because he was an idiot and the world enjoyed reminding him of his stupidity. When his mind finally caught up with his eyes, he noted more than just the dulcet finery of the mare, but smiles, hums, happiness floating and pervading the scenery, and perhaps he bit a piece of it off for himself, because a grin managed to make its way through his façade and become real. His was more devilish and dipped into mischief; made for demons and vagabonds, however benevolent and appealing, lips crinkled into a boyish simplicity. “Hello!” He offered a warm utterance of his vocals from yards beyond, crossing along the path of pine eagerly, easily, bobbing his head once in respect before proffering more of his words, more of his fervency. “I’m Erebos, from the Aurora Basin.” Curiosity played a greater part of his allure, and his head tipped a bit in wonder, pondering how she managed to stay so (seemingly) enlightened, buoyant and light in a world destined to destroy the shards of innocence and beneficence. “Who are you?”