Through the winding eaves, through the patchwork nettles of crystals and scorned deliverances, through the arts of indifference and the callous shambles of liberation, they’d been offered emancipation again. Deimos coveted it through his wicked grasp, his trenchant grip, his malicious, conspiring calculations until it brewed and brooded over the surface of his reticent enamel, burst from his lungs, sizzled in his bones. News spread from the tips of electric harpoons and rugged daggers, where resting scabbards lay, sheathed and forlorn, tedious and desolate, harboring for the moment of escape from the endless abyss of their pestilent hideaway. Hours had been whittled away in the aspects of the unknown: how long they’d have to bend and break in the confines of this hellhole, how long they’d measured their ravenous appetite, how long they’d all been sullied and driven to virtuous plumes or unsung violence. Finally, resolution simmered deep into the pits and the pendulums, searing, ferocious, vibrant, and audacious. Their kingdom was not in ruins nor buried under rubble. Their palace was not consumed or devoured by the aching hymns or laments of salacious wraiths. Their thrones did not lie in tatters, stone thrown into lakes or streams. Their banners still flew, rapiers and cutlasses, their emblems still remained, their pride, their glory, their refuge, their sanctuary, their home endured, persisted, stood tall, brilliant, icy and mutinous. Mighty, stalwart, titanic, avaricious and yearning, a monolith of steel and treachery, waiting, remaining, halted and paused until they touched its rime surface, its cool contortions, its heathen, icicle palisade.

For once, his careful consideration, his riveted composure, his solid, rigid, taut movements were not a factor amongst the warren, web, and maze. His motions were a nefarious opus, marching, meticulous, conniving and purposeful, not a single wandering step, not a moment of lost bearings. Swift, quick, rapid, war machine tethered to a place, a hold, a sanctuary of enmity, apathy, and hostility, beckoning his soldiers, his troops, his comrades, his patriots, to awaken from their earthly slumber. They were permitted to obtain the auroras, the hills, the snow, the pinnacles, once more – to be gnawed on by the wind, to be chased into its scenic avenues, to be blessed and corrupted over and over again, swallowing dreams and anointing maelstroms. Through his diligent strides, he murmured, he trumpeted, he commanded and demanded, shirked the soulless, the heartless, the tired and the forsaken, beating a restless, fervent temptation from the inner sanctities, the columns of crystals. How many still strayed, earnest, eager, just as ferocious, just as wild, just as untamed? How many would they be unable to find, lost in the fathoms of the bestial shades? How many would follow? How many would stay true? Were they just as ardent as he, committed, dedicated, to every inch of the emboldened frost? Into the arches, into the primrose paths, into the blighted and denounced, he pledged the right of their advance, the chiseled armaments they’d discarded, deep, booming, dominance refined and regained. “The Time God has granted us permission.” Did it drift far enough for their ears? Would they hear the bells, the croons, or the hums of their world begging, yearning, imploring to be taken back? He stood, bellowed, christened, ordained, king, lord, and death, aching for the weapons, the people, the legends of their realm to unfold. “We are returning to the Basin.” Wraiths, ghosts, specters be damned – the world was theirs again.


[Gathering place for Basin members to gain info in moving back. I’ll give this thread a couple days before we head to the Basin (likely on Sunday/Monday).]