[Beneath those enamel claws that part his skin, Eridanus shivers. The imagery of bloody war, with mangled bodies pulped beneath munitions and cleaved in two by blades is eerily familiar; and despite their wars having been realms and millennia apart, Eridanus almost feels as if he's at home on the field once more. It has been less than a year since he's seen a battlefront, and yet, a part of him craves it with his consort's weaved tale.

Gazing out upon the ramparts, the scent of gunpowder and magic in the air, the screams of projectiles and bloodied men—all of it shivers through him with sick nostalgia.

Eridanus cranes himself over the grinning mask of his consort, efforts made to give Lucius the room to gesticulate easily overcome by his own desire to peer into the murky pools of bloodshot eyes—gold rimming the abyss of pupils blown wide. His own expression is intoxicated, a flush finding its way to his pallid expression as he hangs on those words as if the man's tale were some grand foreplay.]

You placed the helm upon your skull to lure him in.

[The words are breathless as they leave him, and like a concubine attending to her master, Eridanus lays himself across the expanse of Lucius' scar-pebbled chest. His own clawed fingers toy at the tight, waxen planes of his Eternal's visage—and when he draws his next breath, it's with the pink of his tongue gliding over his lip in anticipation.]

The man was eager for glory and you served it to him on a platter with your own betrayal.