The realms contorted, convoluted, and confused, twisted paradigms and warped plains, and he welcomed the befuddlement with open arms, with an entropic, feral design. A portion of the decadent grandeur was the mere notion of violence humming and thriving, that he’d found something else to puncture, something else to destroy, something else to unravel and untangle, then massacre in his ferocious grip – and another was dedicated to the Machiavellian thrall and thrill of mysteries and enigmas. The desecration, the calculation, the manipulation of intelligence, clues, and incriminating the poor fool responsible (and protecting what was his own in the process – he of all knew the capacity for murder, for vengeance, for annihilation whispered and crooned in the blink of an eye). What traipsed around their world with more murderous inclinations, what maimed, ripped, and tore with little warning, with massive horror, with zealous terror, and left the rest of the earth to witness its craftsmanship? Was it an arrogant spirit, boasting and barbaric, a beast, an ogre, an individual of similar designs amongst their gathered, chilling constituents? A fumbling, inept, desolate figure of crude intellect, leaving their crimes committed like an open book? Or a skilled chess master, moving his pawn pieces one by one, collecting rooks, kings, and queens with a supremacist hand, a mocking jeer?

He wandered from the shadows, from the dusky halls, from the murky interludes to play informant and sovereign, gathering the puncturing details and particulars behind the impassive slate of his features and the bestial fumes of his carnivore prowess. The Reaper enjoyed, coveted, the anarchic affairs, hastened them with a warrior’s eye and a demon’s conviction, and molded them into the assembled crowd, chosen, plucked professionals, skilled, malevolent cretins in their own right and fold. His lordly malevolence would not be alone in the obscure machinations, extending towards thieves, doctors, and scholars, ensuring perceptive, intuitive means were warped together in their unholy onslaught. Brief, rough candor, the piercing blue of his gaze drumming upon one infidel, then the other, drummed and mired over the pervading air, proffering what he’d already taken from prior meetings, previous dins, conspiring instances. “A Pegasus has been murdered.” In any ordinary moment, none of them would have cared. A flier’s circumstances and demise could’ve been either celebrated or met with impassive nonchalance, another weakened being fallen, one less body to be rid of. “Perhaps we can identify the killer.” An ominous declaration, a sinister composition, an underlying course of potency, ruin, and havoc struck through the chords of his final words, all the shards and ruminations of their combined tenacity and power to undermine more and more ministrations.

[For Team Indignant:

@[Zikar-Sin]
@[Thranduil]
@[d'Artagnan] ]