Political ploys, consul and diplomatic queries had never been his fortitude, too shackled, too locked in the haunting resonance of his nefarious exploitations, his ferocious yearnings, his diabolical trends. While the crown was not yet comforting or settled upon his skull, he’d taken to the duty, held the scepter beside his scythe, woven reticent features into regal apertures, where the indifferent shards of his eyes could behold the withering armaments of his enemies, the quivering ineptitude of cowards, and the strong, stalwart, staunch valor of his constituents, comrades, and companions. The beast was relieved the unknown femme didn’t explode with shocking derision, with lamenting, quaking, shuddering requiems and dirges; for the cretin had no part in offering comfort or solace, and likely would have been forced into curling, coiling animosity again. She didn’t screech for her sister’s frame, she didn’t shout or bawl for the inhumanity of a usurped monarch, she didn’t treble or wane in fortitude at his news. Instead, she appeared to contemplate the next torrent of her actions: to fade and wither back towards the unknown, to embark upon a journey of vengeance, or to stay, linger, loiter in the familiarity of their treacherous duplicity, of their heralded fortunes and restoring purpose. The calm, composed sentiments provided a moment or two to reflect, to collect, to settle the parts and positions of the swift course of occurrences taken place over a matter of days. The Reaper reflected on the state of his deeds, the callous, cool indifference towards the Empress who’d led them from their icy threshold into mighty, brutal hazes, aided in her triumphs, in her conquests, and then watched, witnessed, as she slid into upheaval and ruin. The calling out of her failures, and others who’d followed suit, had culminated in a fiery bombardment of frustration – Ulrik the Engineer unwinding from his apathy and into molten rage, the infernal vexation of a venomous asp tired, deluded, caving in as wounds reopened and festered. Then, Psyche has given it all away.

His jaw clenched, once, twice, and his piercing gaze wandered towards the mountains, the peaks and valleys of his empire, his kingdom, and the world beyond, the territories and loams he longed to ignite, unravel, for the sake of glory and conquest. The Empress had tried, had attempted, and when she faltered, her body folded into the cracks and crevasses, shadows and disappointments swallowing her whole. Would the same happen to him, if he could not provide the aims, the wishes, the ambitions of their trenchant, mordant horizons? He glanced back towards the nameless mare, permitted the rough grate of his voice to flow into the hallowed grounds once more. “After her failure in an invasion, another asked her to vacate the throne.” And she had, a rancorous, bitter shell and shamble of her former self, taken to the shadows and the unknown. The impassive cords of his face remained, still, resolute, unrelenting in their merciless, bestial bombardments as the truth continued to be unveiled from his mouth. “I am unaware of her location.” Chastened, subdued, but never by his motions or movements, she’d been driven elsewhere, and as a distinguished, hardened mare, he was assured she remained just as treacherous, just as snakelike and coveting as before, mending the broken eaves of her resignation. Finally, he permitted a brief introduction. “The other one gave the crown to me. I am Deimos.” He twisted his head for a moment, emboldened by the length of curiosity, by the familiarity, not by blood, but by the bonded garbs of former ousted citizens, living on fringes of glaciers and caverns. “You fought with us in the Edge.”