“They were created by Ulrik the Engineer, and we’ve yet to find another of his caliber,” the prince shouted, only appearing on the Stygian opus of the horizon at the last set of inquiries, late, nearly unnecessary, but still a tangible bout of curiosity, a strand of sword brutality and rapier might, a brewing cauldron of inquiry and decadence. His voice pulsed again, less wild, less exuberant, but still alive, ignited, incensed by the memories of Rikyn’s father, of days spent watching the crafter build his magnificent oeuvre; an ode to destruction and mayhem, the past brooding and brewing. “They used to ward off intruders and invaders.” He tipped his head towards those gathered – already tempted into the midst of the pavilion and aperture because he’d seen them lingering along the border, two soldiers, one healer, and an unfamiliar beast lurking. But he hadn’t attempted to appear out of the blue, by way of shadow or light, merely inclining his way onward and onward, a steady, pace until he’d reached their plateau and only heard the scraping of questions, the bits and pieces, the finite gathering littered across their landscape – his head tilted thereafter, granting the careful study to each in turn that he hadn’t allowed himself prior. Orsino rested at his feet, meeting steely gazes with his own gilded, ominous decorum; Enyo was a bright speck of youth, batting at the kitsune’s tails when he wasn’t looking – and the General rested his glance upon the newcomer. The wounds were the first thing he noticed, likely in urgent need of care – arching his brow chiefly at Mortuus Nox, presuming the sable stag would work on them promptly, despite the strange refusal (maybe the newcomer didn’t anticipate such a fuss – but the Basin had fine healers, capable of coaxing the Time God’s power to the forefront, reversing the hours, the span, of injuries). “I’m Erebos, General of the Basin. Welcome,” he finally reported, all cheeky grins, all charisma, all calculations behind the generous smiles and the welcoming, genial attitude, cordial and affable to his comrades too – bestowing those bobs of his head for the soldiers who’d dragged the newcomer from the locked corridors and heinous gates. His great, grand skull schemed in the midst and measures, pondered over what this beast would become – where he aimed, where his talents laid, where he intended to press and coax, where he’d lay the foundations of his worth. The scion’s father had always craved the knowledge of others’ capabilities, where to best apply them to the empire, if they could tinker, if they could fight, if they could spy, if they could mend, and the youth tried to follow suit, stepping out from his anguish, from his grief, into the parallel throngs of uniting their broken, patchwork realm. “Do you have any particular skills? We have quite a few ranks that require filling.” In essence, it was an offer, an invitation, one step further into allowing the newcomer into their wolfish halls – instead of being left out in desolation.

Erebos

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