The level of insolence and presumption surged and flared; no sooner had he demanded her reasons did the Corporal challenge her – not to leave, but to stay, embarking down futile rings and flailing ineptitude, and the flowing, thickening barbs of fury swam over his frame. Were he not a specimen, an epitome, of control and restraint, the knots of his sedition would have garroted Deodat, instead, his puncturing stare resonated upon the folly of the fool’s inability to discern reason and fortitude. He didn’t want threats to linger within their walls, he wanted them gone, vanquished, vanished, torn asunder, shorn to ribbons, bones bleached by the sun, hidden beneath the ice, crushed into violent, spoiled fragments, indiscernible dust in the freezing hold: yet, the Corporal had managed to not only override the notion, but he wanted to keep her in their land. For what reason? To what end? Molten, ignited, kindled, the monstrous infidel strung his silent thorns towards the painted idiot, allowed the simmer, the sear, the incantations of his anger to draw near, pervade, surround, only pausing in his disquiet, in his ferocity, in his building crescendo of disapproval and irreverence, to cast one ear towards the wagging tongue of Thranduil. Oddly enough, amongst the gathered, he was the only one who provided anything remotely useful into the ridiculous antics and frantic capriciousness, and he swerved his cranium to regard him in deep speculation, calm and compose the lighted fuse burning in his veins. If he spun any truth, because he didn’t trust the gilded beast, the sentiments were absorbed, snagged, and snarled: Aurelia, on trial in the Edge, capable of burns (and he thought of his home catching on fire, pines and tundra tipped into embers, cinders, and ash; glaciers melting and fumbling, of their members suddenly subjugated to unwinding bits of coiled, serpent interludes because of one moron and his inability to think beyond his irrational calculations). The Lord, the Reaper, the Siberian sovereign, tipped his head towards Thranduil’s retreating form, the only form of respect he could currently bestow, before meshing his ultimatum amongst the world. Rough, built, languished, and layered on abhorrence and loathing, the bestial beat, the savage whispers, the corporeal threat, the satanic opus, of his rapier tones meant brutality, meant promises, meant convictions and creeds – he’d adhere to them even if they couldn’t. “Enough nonsense. One false move, Corporal, and she will be given to the Edge.” If Deodat had no ability to control the femme from burning their palace down, Deimos would.

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