The General spent hours weighed down by nothing but grief and agony, climbing to the tallest heights and summits in the kingdom, looking upon on the rest of the world with naught in his heart but emptiness and misery. He thought about tossing himself off the fortifications more than once – everyone in his family had either gone or perished, so why shouldn’t he – except the poignancy of promises, of convictions, of accursed vengeance wove too closely through his blood and kept him in place. So he wallowed in his misery until the dawn rose, high in the sky, vivid with illustrious hues, and he stared at it, narrowed his eyes, and was nearly urged to spit at its decadence. He maneuvered from misery and guilt to waves of bitter, unrelenting anguish and contempt, and the abhorrence was easier to hold beside him, picking his way down the mountain with such brutal, rancorous acrimony that even Orsino bit his tongue.
 
There were still things to do in this realm, but lord, he didn’t want to commit to any of them.
 
He forgot about the title fallen over his shoulders. He forgot about the tenuous weight of oaths and assurances laden from his lips. He forgot about the shackles and tethers suddenly keeping him bound to this sovereignty, and just pieced together remnants of movement and motions – blank, indifferent, coveting his father’s old expressions as he wandered from plain to plain, from rime to valley. The black kitsune was nothing more than a wayfaring mercenary at his side, looking everywhere but at the crestfallen boy who kept threatening to fall apart. The companion drifted his sights and settled them upon beasts by the lake, and the prince clenched his jaw, kept it tightly in place, tried not to remember the lengths of a funeral, the cascading droplets of an early spring rain. The fox lowered his head and trudged onward, while the youth stood stock still, and watched them for a few moments, uncertain whether he should proceed back into shadow, retreat, brood, reflect on his misery until the sun fell again, or reemerge and attempt to be a phoenix, rising from his father’s fallen scythe.
 
The scion might have committed to the former, had one of his Soldiers not been a familiar form: Beloved, strange and unnerving, but a willing compatriot to misdeeds and ominous etchings, like a sketch of canvas he could never accurately predict or understand. The other was entirely foreign to him, winged, likely a newcomer – and for a moment he thought his father might come, summoned from the wings, ignited by curiosity and intrigue, welcoming the stranger with his own brand of hospitality. But no ghosts emerged, no wraiths inclined.
 
Go, was all Orsino hissed, snapping Erebos out of his trance, and the prince yielded only out of habit, following the floating songs of ladies and soldiers, struggling not to lower his head and unravel at the seams, obliging movement and motion until he’d reached the quiet, lulling songs of the lake and proceeded no further. “Good day,” he called over the horizon, nodding his head because it’s what his mother had always said to do to anyone he met, raising it back when it was proper, bestowing a smile that almost certainly didn’t reach his eyes (haunted). “I’m General Erebos. Who are you?” He extended towards the painted Pegasus, and the title still sounded strange across his tongue, stupid, asinine. But he remained amiable, rose to its pretenses because it’s what he’d always done, forcing pretenses along his mouth when all he wanted to do was be alone, be away. “I trust Beloved has treated you well,” and here he raised a brow, almost cunning, nearly himself, urged to delve into chicanery and charisma because it was familiar and known (and his lines were nearly a joke unto themselves, for he’d seen her capabilities, heard the warrioress’s promises before). 

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want

Unseen motions and moments transpired – Erebos could feel it through the tucked away insinuations, the barbs and thorns kept close at hand, the riddles floating through manic giggles. He tilted his head and bore his pretense well, because it was all he could do to stay present in the world of furtive, specious secrets, too many unsaid notions and schemes, and if they intended to wield deceptions he’d do the same; duplicitous and mercenary until the bitter end. The newcomer offered her name (Weaver - and he almost laughed because of the symbolism of the mountains and the title prospered across her lips; then imagined she’d take up knitting the cloth and become Weaver the Weaver), and his smile deepened, not Cheshire, not smirking, but kind, friendly, composed, seemingly genuine when all he yearned to do was bow his head and be left alone in a cave to shed his mask and sulk. We haven’t a clue what she is good for came Beloved’s reply, and his brow remained arched, intrigued, cursed with the notion to chuckle once more simply because he didn’t know what he was good for either, and maybe they could all bask in the equanimity of nothingness and ineptitude. He could drown in its weight and no one would notice until it was too late, and they’d shake their heads, clamor something about worthless princes and too young, too stupid and he’d proven them right all along – he wasn’t meant to be anything or anyone.
 
But the boy failed to sink now. He swallowed down the lost senses, the guilt, the apprehension and confidence eating away at his bones, at his marrow, at his flesh, at his schemes, wallowing delicately between the unknown and the foretold – piecing together chosen words and phrases, pretending he had a notion glimmering between his teeth, tongue, and grin. “Perhaps we have a rank suitable to your talents.” The scion shuffled closer, gaining ground along the lake, nearly daring himself to run across its surface, but pondering over it a moment later as a means of escape, if the whims and mercurial exploits turned back upon him. His voice was charismatic and appealing, granting choices, options, on the hinges of the prominence’s icy peaks and valleys, eyes sliding back to the painted mare, to his demonic warrior, curious, intrigued, interested. “There are soldiers, crafters, healers, scholars, and sleuths to pick from.” Endless opportunities and the needs to fill them were an eternal demand; with the Basin’s strengths faltering, they’d all had to step into roles (maybe some unsuitable and here he thought of himself, of the boy General who conspired to ruin and devastate but only his own targets). What she yearned, craved, and wanted to do could be instrumental, monumental to their empire, or designated to flicker away, like so many others before her (and here the youth seemed to pinpoint his hopes on her being incapable of disappearing, pleading, begging, that she’d be one of the strong, one of the determined).

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want

“A rather reputable talent, nonetheless.” He laughed, not mocking, but purely amused, a tinge of mischief springing across his tongue, because more of them could use the skill of not dying. Then his heart hurt, his chest bled out severe, acrimonious urges (to run, to flee, to get away from joking about death when his father had just taken his last breath). But he didn’t let them know, didn’t let them see, pretended the effect was merely nothing, happenstance, so the cruelties and enigmas didn’t play out across his face, didn’t render him into anything but the hospitable, young General, trying desperately not to fail. The boy’s head tilted, lips curling in a content, gratified exposition, a charming turn, a careful study, another brief examination towards the newcomer garbed in black and white. When Beloved offered naught else but more of her manic giggles (and what were those supposed to mean - in context, in contrast, in phrases and ruminations?), he obliged the stranger, courting tenacity and ambition, yearning for the masses to join him on hunts, on patrols, on strolls towards devastation and recoil. We could be strong again might’ve been a spiraling noose on his tongue, imagining their frozen world heralded by a bounty of mighty, stalwart cretins, ready to defend its glacial walls, its wondrous, snow-capped towers, and show that his father’s legacy could live on (he could be something) through endurance, through fortitude, through leagues of strangers becoming a force to be reckoned with. He’d lead them there, consecrate, bless, anoint them with the savage arts, the nefarious motions, and they could show the world exactly what the Basin was made of (blistering, scathing machinations and condemnable revelations; all in due course, all in due time). “We’d be happy to have another soldier amongst us.” His grin twisted into something revenant, holy, pure, virtuous, gallant, defiant to the mercurial whims thundering over his soul: torn and twisted and polished into too many different roles and pretenses. “Once you get the lay of the land, we can spar, if you’d like.” Then she could learn more than just how not to take one's last breath, and they could succeed (they could triumph).