The storm’s nefarious, haunting cries, its seething maelstrom, wicked and deceitful, didn’t alarm him, didn’t coax him into melancholy, didn’t incite or fester a length of raw sentiment. Deimos stared into the tempest and saw the woven world of might, of power, of feral animosity, of bedlam and chaos as auspicious images of their created heir and successor of his darkened prowess, of its mothers blessed heart; where the serrated points of his wrath met the seraphic rim and froth of Huyana’s rain, gesturing with wild abandon, with audacious glee, with the carnivore amore of death and rivulets. What would this child be, with grandeur and decadence lain at its feet? Would it consume, ravage and maim empires as he sought, or would it become intertwined in its mother’s repose, sing songs and cherish the earth?
The watery mare’s cry came across the horizon, and he wasted no more time dwelling on the notions. There would be plenty of days, hours and minutes to speculate on the prowess of their impending youth, and significantly less time to persuade its arrival. He moved from the shadows, one pursuing undulation to the next, winding and slinking from the cruel depths of showers and gales, squalls and thundering dissonance, beckoning the coming of a vehement rainchild. Pernicious and potent, naught ceased his movement, he didn’t bow to the ardent droplets, became devoured by their persistence, drenched and soused, but unrelenting, undaunted, ceaseless and persistent, he drove each remorseless step into the Stygian conjunctures and the raw enmities, punctured, pierced and lanced any attempts to thwart his motions. He followed her scent, recognizable even throughout the righteous furor, capturing the essence of Huyana’s unwinding location, moving ever closer to the cavern of her toil and exertion. The Reaper, eternally, poignantly silent, slid into the aperture in hushed decadence, became one with the gloom, the twilight, the constant, unwinding predilection of wind and droplets. His penetrating gaze fixated upon her form, laden amongst the chill and cold of the cavern, and sensed no further harm but the impending struggle of motherhood – his appearance alone should fend off any other likely threats. Not daring to tread closer, for fear his proximity would only pursue withering factions, demise and quietus over one of the few souls he’d never wield such satanic powers upon, he stood within the open threshold and blocked the ferocity, tied his pelt towards the untamed barbarity and violence, permitted savagery to knock upon his nefarious figure, of the day’s beckoning propitious, bewitching clamor. Stalwart, staunch and valorous for the creatures he’d come to cherish, he only uttered the finality, encouragement and strength of his entity into the dimness of darkened grotto. “I am here.”