Rebuttal and retraction, disclaim and refutal, swathed in a imperturbable and damnation— he laps at his cracked lips, a uneasy sneer at the unsettling velvet beryl of his spheres, a precarious snort escaping his all too parched throat. He would cackle, deem him to the clutches of the DemonKing, the foredoomed and detestable grasp of his dam, and his maw would carve itself into a carnival grin— but it is not to be, for the jagged skull faced smile freezes, wavering in place as a sudden hyperborean chill takes ahold of his heart, raw and frigid, and the spawn of the nefarious Queen finds himself petrified, aghast at the twilight that begins to dance along his vision, onyx pupils dilating in alarm. Forth it comes, as a prowling lion to a fresh kill, atramentous and sinister, purloining any barbarous, self-righteous cheerfulness that had bubbled up as bile within his throat dying as the last remnants of a candlelight fire, a ominous grip tightening a noose upon his lungs and heart, and no matter how hard the wildly beating organ pumps, his veins seem to emulate ice.

The infernal, hellish fangs, wicked and corrupt, villainous and devilish press fingers to his sweaty neck, dissolute and heinous, two can keep a secret if one of them is dead— and he arches his neck inward in fright, deliberate and sluggish, malignant vows, pernicious hymns, maleficent and malicious, convulsing under the strain, trembling as a babe fresh from the womb, annihilation and demise, eradication of the highest regard, necrosis weeping acerbic tears upon his flesh, and he struggles with valiance, strangles and suffocates upon his own saliva, perhaps he is to strangulate here, to perish, and as he withers and dwindles, drains and collapses within himself, overtaxed and fatigued, a dull throb of agony lacing across his sinew he wonders, where is Mother, would she wish for him to die here, at the feet of a isolated serpent?

Cruor splatters upon the alabaster snow. It is his own, spluttering from his own hacking maw, dribbling down his dome, and he feels vulnerable and aging, frail as a elder and limp as a suckling, and so, the whites of his eyes gleaming he cries out, curses the Reaper's name, and crumbles beneath the dread of where he shall go if he falters under the false God's name.
"The Regime," he croaks, dithering in self-hatred and treachery. His Mother would despise him. "We are led by Tyradon and my dam. My band seeks to rule— each herdland by violence and thievery, to strike the sucklings and babe's when they sleep. To purloin the most impressive, one by one. To infiltrate with spies. Mother.. and I were to go to the World's Edge." He constricts upon the earth, wretched and wane. "I know of seven of us, and naught more. The Rotunda is our base— leave me be, you cur. You've gotten what you wanted," (and his voice is bitter and sullen as winter's chill is cold).