#| threads. |

“Antonia. Antonia Antodottir.” She hummed, quietly relishing in the way Oliver’s hand brushed over hers. She leaned in closer as a gust of wind whipped her hair from her face and bit at her cheeks.

“Oliver is a nice name,” She said, “Are you named after anyone, by any chance?”

"Oh, yes, my grandfather; Oliver Einarsson," he nodded, beginning to wonder if Antonia was getting cold. Oliver thought about whether he should offer her his jacket or not. 'This isn't a romantic comedy, moron-!' he thought to himself.

"Antonia is a very nice name, as well. It sounds very majestic."

❝ Catch up! ❞ He moves under the night sky as swiftly as the wind itself, Temerian steel poised to strike Ciri from her side ( A simple blow she could have sidestepped regardless ) being tossed aside with a simple strike of shoulder. He weaved through the darkness as if he was night itself, cutting and slashing with a speed that matched own. Torches dropped and ignited the dry brush, spreading the light of cinders.

But something was different here. He moved faster, and struck with force that humans simply weren't capable of and yet he was.. Weaker. Impaired, though no less persistent. The last time they battled together, he could match pace with the Witcheress without so much as breaking a sweat. Now it was different. In truth, the distance from his realm weakened him. He was a prince of Blood and Darkness, not the living.

And yet stubbornly he remained, turning a fight she could have handled alone into a game. He counted his takedowns out loud, raced her to targets, vanishing in and out of shadow as if the darkness as if wearing darkness like a cloak. When the last fell, he tripped over himself and caught his balance on a fence. Laughing.

 ❝ Arguably, I'm the most stubborn in our family. Diana seems to think so. As does father... And Artemis— Well, our Artemis. Not Ms. Crock. ❞ He pauses, pursing his lips in thought. His mind searched for anyone that might object to that assertions, yet his lack of elaboration suggests he comes up empty. There is confused pride in that.

❝ That's 一 Well. No? Not entirely incorrect. ❞ He wasn't about to explain in great detail how he had knowledge of a greater, existing timeline. Not that he had any concept of said greater timeline held in store. The Fates didn't exactly make their plans known, even to the one tasked with ensuring that nothing of outside influence attempted to intervene. As he was questioned of his out-of-place nature, Viktor was able to read him with ease. And Zagreus knew better than to attempt to lie. ❝ I'm not omnipresent. I was just told to monitor your situation and make sure nothing... Meddles, for lack of better words? ❞

The Prince hesitates for a moment, shifting his weight in an expression of unease.  ❝ I'm more of a spectator, if that's the appropriate word? I really don't know much else aside from what I was told to was to happen. In horribly vague terms, I might add. Something about 'what is foreseen cannot be forsaken' here. ❞

He's shocked at first. The Prince of Hades did not expect acknowledgement, much less thanks. What kindness he gave freely was truly free. And so the Prince softens. He had an affection for the hearts of men, feeling such kinship with them that a lack of empathy and even detachment was almost impossible. And so, he returns the gesture. His breath exhales, and he ignores the murmuring of the people around him. Eventually, he dares to speak. His Runeterran was not perfect, accented in a way that was foreign even to the well-studied ears of the prodigy. ❝ Good to see you too, mate...❞ His smile is spring, tender and sweet. He pulls away after a long moment, his features falling more pensive. And yet the optimism remains.

The deathly Prince of Hades was not as cold blooded as his kin. In the depths of his heart was a kindness and desire to see the mortal world a better place than before with each passing day. It was one of his mother's qualities that he held in fond regard, even if he was not fully conscious of her influence. And so when Tav and their companions dealt with the hobgoblins and other such monstrosities, he was left to combat the Drow.

It was not easily done. He was weaker on the surface, his only solace being the cover of blackest night and embrace of the earth. That much they had in common, him and the daughter of the Underdark that he fought. But when it came to blows, he would not strike her down. There was undue influence upon her mind that compelled her to act, this much he could tell. As such, he instead delivered Minthara to the others and gave ample space.

It had been several days when next Zagreus appeared to the camp as a whole. In the dead of night did he arrive, making small greeting to the others before he once again set his eyes upon Minthara. Cautiously he approached, yet true was his intent and sincere was the concern that bled into his voice. His accent strange and foreign, the Common he spoke not as refined as one might expect. Yet passable nonetheless.