The Reaper, solidified maelstrom and contorted behemoth, maneuvered amongst the outskirts with the shadows, with the murk, with the brazen, stoic interludes of Frostfall’s entropy. Like a bow, strung taut and yearning, eager, for the opportunity to wreak havoc, lay waste amidst the measures of peace and deliverance, craving, demanding, urging the blackguard, barbed bits of destruction, he stole across the wide expanse of snow and valleys. In some redundant, witless sentiment, another soul had stepped near their borders, and the temptation, the enticement, of luring damnation and demise into their sector goaded him onward – a fiendish whisper, a hostile breeze, an alluring carnivore predilection carved, molded, sculpted into the unrelenting pace of his stride. He remembered all the others as if they were merely yesterday and not seasons long since past: the idiotic pegasi and their emboldened venture, ultimately leading to bleached bones and stolen wings, the vacant-minded wolves and their fervent display of audacity only leading them to slaughter; the brutal machinations of twisted, torn, forlorn souls beseeched by curiosity and massacred in their ignorance. The faces changed, but the idiocy and imprudence did not – eternally wrapped in the same, undaunted shade of moronic ventures and imbecile delusions, daring to peek into their world, curiosity melding into cosmic adventures, ending in the barren fuselage of a broken, embittered body. While they rarely stepped into the fold of other herds, at least without a goal in mind (war, bloodshed, emissary debuts), they were not often rewarded the alike courtesy: the bold and the brave spent their wayward days climbing up the mountain peaks, closing in on winter expanse, and then being beaten, scolded, scorched, by the merciless harpoons they harbored within. The Lord, Deimos, with his severe, indifferent frame, with his devilish prowess, with his infidel schemes and Machiavellian calculations, would brandish his knife again and again; each time they came, his rapier would be extended towards their throats.

He was not the first to arrive. His visage held none of his disappointment, void of emotion except the pernicious nonchalance of his piercing features: at the very least, if there were to be witnesses to ichor and ruination, Deodat would be a trustworthy participant. The eldritch titan’s stare riveted upon the Corporal for an instant, bestowing a gratified nod, for he’d guarded his home, locked eyes with a potential enemy, a foolish wanderer. Moments later, amidst the intimidating juncture of his poisonous, treacherous countenance, he studied, considered, examined the prospective intruder, her ivory wings, her gilded markings, her fatuous, inane stature. How long would it take to tear her apart, feather-by-feather? The only words he heard her utter across the icy vestiges was her request, and by their standards, unfortunately, he could not launch and shove his sword into her chest. Perhaps in a later instant, if she goaded, if she wished, if she yearned for the touch, the taste, the relish of anarchy, he could provide the villainous venue. For now, he had to adhere to their compacts and covenants, and stoked the fire of his deep vocals, allowing the fierce friction, the ferocious bedlam, to soak and sear across the frozen earth. “I am the King.” He paused, the puncturing shade of his dangerous figure staring upon the winged femme who stood amidst the sentinels, waiting for one idiotic moment where she slipped beneath its eyes and felt the languishing bridge of pain, of chaos, of collapse and disorder. “What do you require?”

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.