The permanent, enduring cataclysm of his callous carnage cast an imposing, seditious predilection upon a diplomatic faction. The reticent rapier, the recherché bedlam, the seething maelstrom of his treachery, of his tyranny, didn’t ebb, didn’t fade as the shadowy fixture glided into their open vestige, incised, enveloping, surrounding and pervading the loam with its severity, with its savagery. They knew each other well enough to not suppose the length of ineptitude or foolishness, to unwind in some sizzling duel, in some slinking, sinuous friction of resolution, demise and decay; but the underlying tension remained, of danger, of brewing convictions, of souls fastened to the chambers of supremacy, domination, and condemnation. Each time the ebony mare had crossed into their corridors, they had failed, from the smoking boundaries and fringes of the Edge, to the wayward pursuit of their lost kin, stolen from their glacial archways. The Reaper would not think her mindless, unintelligent or grasping for the fortitude of others, she’d managed to obliterate their attempts at upheaval, at revolution, at sedition. But to the dominion now at his command, these were faltering, stumbling, wobbling steps. Every humiliation, every defeat, every thrashing incited and invoked, enflamed and enraptured, until the stone bodies, the staunch, steadfast heathens, the clambering, dissonant fiends found perseverance, discovered ire, wrath, and outrage all over again; nettled across their hides, pricked along their minds, their skulls, their bones and flesh. Humiliations inspired the same for their opponents, and as his piercing gaze captured her presence, he pondered over the various ways to ruin them, to annihilate them, to punish and crush the pride, the dignity, the satisfaction at rendering the Basin at a loss once more. The demonic King wanted naught more than an end to their victories, to their achievements, to their fulfillments, and if given the opportunity beyond this venue, he’d take it, ensnare it, entice and tempt the sumptuous decadence, the diabolical insurrection, the unholy, licentious credence of their powerful opulence. The cowardly would be punished, the weak would be trained, honed, polished, and the keen would be unveiled, permitted to persecute the supremacy of the Edge. Yet, for now, he had to play a part he didn’t fully embrace, to clutch at those absconded from their hold.

Two indiscernible figures, with damnation, with fortitude, with might and brawn and cunning, were strangled into silence. The menacing conjecture of his hushed calamity, of his quiet acrimony, continued their invocations amidst the savage study of the femme, who’d arrived just as he, no one and nothing accompanying them. Both were far too dominant in their own regards to have need of these services, and in such a position, Deimos couldn’t afford ambushes, deceit or duplicity. The stolen babes and Nurse would never see the light of day if he were to stir further iniquity, feverish, devouring discord. After a few puncturing moments, he unwound his clenched jaws, fostered and polished the singular deliberation of his presence, of his demands. “We want them returned.” The Edge had seen what they would do for their kin, for their brethren, and if necessary, what’d they have to commit to again and again to express their discontent, to reveal and release their smoldering havoc, stoic scheming, harbored, harpooning strife.

@[Mirage]