All my life I’ve been searching for something

The Basin was a watchful empire, paying heed to its solo aperture, and no sooner had both patrons of the mercenary leagues (brawn and might, tenacity and spite, voracious swords and valorous hearts) clung to the outline of the familiar and strange, so too did Tiamat. The General paid his respects as she touched upon their shoulders, a lull of gentleness he’d never have, proffering a humble bow, a boyish smile, but didn’t ask her, didn’t say anything, that would lead him down to further ruin (but the queries were there, locked and loaded, all ferocity and bitterness, and because she didn’t deserve it, his voice didn’t lend their rancor into the air). Orsino almost laughed, cackling in their connection, a brim of cruelty and abhorrence funneling out between them, and his jaw clenched tightly for the smallest of seconds, swallowing down the bile, the unrest, the unholy vigor pulsing along his lungs, his heart, his soul. He wore his pretenses like a glove, familiar and charismatic, embodying all the noble appeals and allures, a grin, a smile, blurring lines snatching him away from the truth beneath the rubble and ruin.
 
But the raven-girl offered a distraction, and his mind tended to it like a moth to a flame, gesturing over the name she granted: the Mountain that Knows, and suddenly all he wanted to do was ask her what she knew, not acidic, not vindictive, but incensed and invoked by curiosity. Did she know why Kaos had sprung from beneath the Gods’ noses? Did she know how to pick herself up again even after she’d already tried and tried and tried? Did she know how to look ahead instead of backwards (because he hadn’t figured it out yet, and the world just kept mocking him over and over again; a cycle of his indulgences, mercurial and tempestuous, rising out of spite, out of irreverence)? He didn’t voice these inquiries either, it wasn’t the time nor the place, and just listened, something he still found difficult to do when the rest of the world sizzled, smoldered, simmered, and seethed against his skin, ears perked, gaze steady, head tilted to the side in a culmination of wonder and amusement. She’d been granted a quest from the God of the Earth (and then he remembered his own quest from the Sun God, when he was a child, and he’d still yet to learn all of the lessons the deity had extended, because he was young and stupid and terrifically opposed to anything but defiance, sedition, rebellion), and required their water from the hot springs. His stare slid over to the aforementioned springs in the distance, wafting and waiting, bright plumes and puffs of curling air promising soothing gestures and unlocking tightened muscles, but his magic had prevented him from ever enjoying such a leisure – however, if another needed it, he couldn’t sense a notion, a reason, for preventing them. His father would’ve pondered over threats, over warnings, over oaths and ultimatums, and even as his mind spun, he found he was empty of sentiments for turning her away.
 
“I don’t see why not,” he shrugged, the Cheshire grin still there, poised and aloft, indulgent to the Mountain raven, then swinging his skull to Tiamat, who, due to titles and crowns and mantles all too heavy for them to hold, had the final say. If the sea mare was concerned, one of them, either Weaver or himself (for both were utterly capable, and it seemed Weaver was left out in the cold, despite her swift advances on a foreign soul), could always escort the winged visitor to the corresponding springs, then ensure she was on her way. 

(something never comes)

erebos

never leads to nothing—nothing satisfies

but I’m getting close