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The world was in a constant state of movement, and he’d learned that he had to adjust, or sink beneath the perils, the trials, and the tribulations. He didn’t erode quite like his father, bit by bit, piece by piece, one miniscule motion at a time, but in pulses and waves, a restless mind reaching for the stars, for the denizens, for oblivion, staring out over the vast walls and mountains as they were called to order again – and he followed, taking his sire’s place as one of their wandering blades. Erebos wasn’t quite a scythe, had yet to master the irreverent, immoral stride of the Reaper’s weapons and entity, but he embodied daggers and swords, a fine Cheshire grin, a beckoning multitude of schemes, of soulless designs, that would eventually ruin or escalate him, to triumph, to damnation. The prince was a lingering slate of the unknown – thrust into roles and titles, paying homage to a broken, beaten-down world that was suddenly fighting for its place in the onslaught of terror and treachery (a chaotic twist, a flame he couldn’t quite resist) - succeeding, continuing to persist in the anarchical realm of Kaos and his bone monsters.
He played his part too, a wicked, boyish, handsome smile chiseled along his features (as if he were not made of abhorrence and vengeance), bobbing his skull to the Queens, trying to forget the wrinkle in time where his father had stood there, nestled along the valley, a king of the north, a sovereign of the chilling winds (all ghosts now, labored and done, succumbed but not finished, not until he too was good and buried). He listened as well, ears swinging back and forth, while his gaze cast and sorted out the chosen beasts, laden with their worries and complexities now – to Rikyn, his beloved friend, were he whooped and shouted for his blade brother with an exultant joy (Thief; christened into secrets, cloaks, and daggers), to Ode, driven back into his cave of hours and minutes, and to his own fellow soldiers, Wessex and Weaver, honored and named to statures of Corporal. A touch of pride scalded over his chest, and he didn’t mind puffing it out for the world to see, pleased, satisfied, content this wondrous army of his was going to make a name for themselves, by blood, by fortifications, and by defending the illustrious cold. “Congratulations!” He shouted for them (Enyo clicked her beak by his feet, Orsino hissed something ridiculously feral), over the swell of the realm, a defiant, seditious sort of splendor curling and coiling within him; waiting for the days where they’d all draw their blades and march into scalding ripples of war and melee, before casting his sights back to the sea mare and fairy sovereign. “Ode and I will be patrolling the Marsh soon, if others would like to join.” His beguiling smile reappeared, a lure, a cast, a sense of humor not burdened by prior patrols ending with bear assaults and wounded prides. The news of the electric wolves was a divine one too – because his father had started the project, and the youth intended to assist in ensuring it was completed (predators everywhere; carnivore rapture and opulence). “Let me know if there’s anything else my soldiers or I need to do,” he swept back to the monarchs, before bowing back in the same impish decree.
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