The full arch of his loathing, of his contempt, of his abhorrence and animosity towards the scents wandering into his empire culminated in an acrimonious motion, heightened by hate, by malevolence, by immorality and iniquity. His movements mauled divinity, persecuted virtue, punctured paragons, mauled and maimed, seared and simmered until the depths of his callous, contorted, coiled wrath composed haunting, withering, decaying savagery. Unholy sedition, seething, finessed forbidding, argent domination, reticent maelstrom of simmering, antagonistic prose, roaming sepulchers and tombs, graves and gallows, imperious, annihilating. The only conviction he bore was mayhem, wild, fierce, and feral, rampantly clawing at his bestial precision, at his unforgiving reel of raptorial predilection, devouring, swallowing, consuming the traces of rectitude. Had Mirage severed their delicate treaty, laughed, mocked, and jeered at the strangled chords of his wish to acquire their prisoners, and sent her minions to chortle amongst their glacial walls? Did she practice hypocrisy again along the cliffs, the shoal and forest, weave lies and deceit into conventions and contracts, bind and caress it with the sumptuous declaration of mendacity and pretense? Was it a way to conspire a severing of the pact, to force him to brutalize her members, to rip and tear until their corpses called and heralded another invasion, massacre and devastation? Were they here to spy, to discover, to speculate and peer into the cold, chilling armaments, to bend and break down the caverns, the unforgiving hostility? Or had they arrived to die, to lay bleeding, bent, broken, by his heathen brushstrokes, by his wolfish depravity, by his nefarious necromancy? His mind reeled, rankled, incised, enraged, sculpted the opus of his barbarity, of his licentiousness, taut and strangled into the cool composition of unholy insurrection.

The Reaper’s appearance before the three individuals gathered at their borders promised elimination, obliteration, revolution by the dying strands of their final breaths – but their words, crossing into bellows and wavering trebles, confused and perplexed him. A gift? What had the Basin done to deserve presents? Was this an attempt at speciousness, posturing some Trojan scorpion to tear down their peaks, summits and pinnacles? Would it scald and sear children, blind them into the traces of darkness? What was the purpose of this strange anomaly? The Lord’s mind reeled, calculated, but the vicious slate, the Machiavellian armaments and savagery, couldn’t fathom the cause, the weight, the motive or justification for the glassy figurine. He stared at the seemingly icicle composition, the blatant sculpting of a remorseless animal, rendered for the Basin, for their poison, for their venom, for their power and distinction (and did it silently sneak into the corridors of their regrowth, the Edge proclaiming they were a mere exoskeleton, waiting to crush them beneath footfalls and daggers?). Only after a period of further merciless contemplation, did his piercing gaze land upon the beasts, formidable, dominating, death and demise, and opened his mouth to posture the inquiry of his deviousness. “Why?”


[edit: that awkward moment when you thought everyone else had posted. I can take it down and wait for Quilyan? D: I'm sorry.]