Mount Everfall your skin knew battle before it knew war

The resonate of approaching footfalls is not entirely drowned out by the pouring rains as overhead a rumble of thunder cracks and lets out a low, trembling rumble across the sky. Nero feels it as it vibrates through the rock under foot and tufted chin rises to blink rapidly twice as lighting streaks through the sky, leaving a tangle of electricity in it’s wake that causes the damp hair at his nape to bristle as it cracks and sizzles as it breaks the sound barrier. This reaction is hardly borne of fear, though. There is something that Nero has always loved about thunderstorms. His mother claimed they are born from Zeus; the mightiest god of them all. Nero simply thinks they are lovely — thunderstorms, that is. There is something wild and feral about them that attracts him as he disregards the bit about Zeus as carefully as he dares. He may not conform to the idea of religion quite as wholly as his mother and siblings but the harbinger of the mythos believes enough to be able to tell the stories accurately and with correct emotion. He does not discount their existence despite that there is no true and tangible proof of it. He cannot touch them, see them, smell them and until that happens he is not so easily a follower of blind faith.

The Macedonian’s muscles tense as the owner of the footfalls he’s heard over the low rumble of thunder and whip-like cracks of lightening as they grow louder and closer as the paramount of the storm draws nearer comes into view at the mouth of the cave he’s temporarily claimed as shelter. The silhouette of the male that hesitates just at the mouth of the cave, whose booming boof echoes into the depths of the cave that yawn just behind Nero, is broad and tall, as if he was carved by Ares himself. It is not trepidation nor fear that causes the slight hitch in the vespertine’s throat. Nero has always been an appreciator of the unique and contrasting artwork that is the male and female body and how he finds both equally and irrevocably attractive. If men are to be carved from hardened marble and forged of steel then women are borne of sea-foam as Aphrodite herself and made unbreakable by ivory and iron.

After a moment Nero rises from his position, shedding of the cloak of camouflage that the abysmal darkness offers him. “Come,” Nero invites honeyed, lilting voice given volume from the depths of his chest as to be heard over the increasing tempo of the storm outside. “there is plenty of room to share.” The Macedonian can be plenty selfish and in extending invitation he cannot claim he is being purely selfless. A terse glimpse is offered to the darkened skies outside but he is not at all perturbed by it.