The infernal King marched along his grounds with abhorrent solemnness, the wicked Reaper surveying his kingdom time and time again, a phantom blackguard, a tarnished pariah, a wraith, writhing wrath. The world was conspicuously darkening in shades of chaos and anarchy, but he was incapable of pinpointing the cause, the distinction, the purpose, and poignant edge of calamity. They’d been thrust into heathen maelstroms before, some by their own doing, others by the seething brim and boundaries of otherworldly divides, shaping, twisting, contorting, and distorting to their own malevolent designs, always conquering, always devouring, always surviving, even in the wake of devastation and ruin. But maneuvering around his throne, his empire, his sanctioned hall of hell and unholy vigilance, no answers were provided for the strange shackles and the spreading pestilence – and he pondered, calculated, ruminated over the distinct alterations of the realm. How was he to secure his people, his brethren, his comrades and citizens without proper information, whereabouts, and the poignant scheme of the unknown? Ignorance was not bliss, and enigmatic turns down the rabbit hole were not where he yearned to be; a frustrating glimpse into the abyss only solidified unresolved obscurity, a blank slate thrown into bestial chasms. Adrift and unwound, he paced amongst the vivid clearings and desolate peaks, forced decadence into grandeur, pulsed a maddening concoction of intimidation and sedition, with no solutions in sight. A call drifting amongst the caverns, the summits, the segments of snow, ice, and wind, went unanswered and ignored for a turn of moments, and he continued to wander through the midst and murk, carnivorously attempting to conquer the shades and cloaks of clandestine secrets. Reticent and impassive except for the irritating flick of incomprehension (for he fared too much and too often into its wake, like some ambling, bumbling, stumbling child – and all he wanted to do was immerse himself back into the hymns of battle, the drums of war, something known and relished), he only turned his skull towards the sound when it pierced through the sky again. A rancorous sigh almost left his nares, but he quietly smothered the annoyance, striking out against a rocky, mottled path lined with the frigid wares of his sovereign.

The summoner was a known figure, one of sneaky, serpentine airs and odd, pungent exasperation; Deimos never queried for his company on any occasion. But since his presence was required, he pulsed and pervaded the realm with pervading menace and overbearing tyranny, following the dying vestiges of Thranduil’s asp assemblies. Features blank, apathetic, immune to the fools of others and the beseeched vexation of the world’s surrounding plagues, he ambled into the presence of the gilded stag with a nod of his cranium, a nonchalant exterior, a dangerous, Machiavellian forbearance. He noted the gilded Phantom’s appearance was even odder than usual, but he couldn’t quite make out the reason (or care, truly – unless there were some hazardous notions running about and he could go slay them before nightfall). His deep, clear vocals beat a sinister manifesto in their blunt candor, the harpooning treachery of his stare riveted upon the opposing stag. “What do you require?”