DEIMOS

The Reaper

The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

Barbarous entropy and decadent acrimony, the taste of puissance and the relish of pernicious, venomous dedication, like an ever-present shadow, a maneuvering monster, a calculating cretin, he marched in carnivore pursuit, pride bared, regarded in the strength, in the domination, of their successes. Part of their recent victories had been physical prowess, his own matching sinister designs, others’ pulsing, rippling undulations scorching one another’s hides in hopes of assailment in practicing skirmishes, motivation for supremacy, for absolute sovereignty drenched and dousing. Another portion and reason for their increasing ascension were the spirited thieves, the stealthy brigands, the mutinous mercenaries, grasping, toiling, scraping away at secrets, at armor, at trinkets and lies, crossing over enemy lines or clawing their way through open halls. The Reaper had never imagined their overwhelming prowess to be in anything but brawn and power, scorching, slaying, courting flames, loathing, contempt, and damnation through sieges and assaults, but he’d always been a titan, a demon, a devil brought up to believe in war, in upheavals, in seditious displays and haughty deliverances. But now they’d reached a new era, a new regime, covered and tapered in illustrious, specious skills, artisans of veils, shades, and concealments, blistering with new faces and masquerading finesse. While some of his citizens followed the bracken veneer of battle hymns and malicious drums, others crept, slithered, and slunk their way through the gallows, along narrow chambers and unlocked doors, admiring thresholds they shouldn’t touch and finding their way amidst the apertures, tilting their heads to withheld conversations. Deimos respected their vigilance, their talents, their mastery and capabilities, because while he drenched himself in the grating, minatory enticements, they dove into deeper fathoms; and he wasn’t sure which one was more treacherous, which one was more dangerous: the brutal, anarchical swell of disaster and entropy, or snagging, snaring, the encoded messages leading them there. The powers coincided, never collided, linking, fusing, meshing together in a tumultuous, searing force, and he enjoyed the alluring, beguiling reach they seemed to hold in their grasp.

He presumed those responsible for the potency, for the potential, should be rewarded for their efforts.

The eldritch titan’s steps followed after one scent in particular; heedless, ruthless, diabolical, he matched it beat for beat, stride for stride, until the Tallsun wind nourished naught but her presence, presiding near a few of the distant caverns. In truth, like so many of his inhabitants, he knew almost naught about her (and they towards him; he knew how to keep secrets too, polished reticence, nonchalance, impassivity with rigid, unyielding confidence): rose-hued, embedded with a sword, capable of pursuing enemies far and wide for information, for ornaments, for armor, for bloodshed. Once, she’d managed to puncture and pierce a fierce, feral enemy, one he’d managed to recently plunder, and even without enveloping knowledge, sagacity, or wisdom of her past, her present prose and poise was formidable enough to neglect simmering histories. She served her station with keen aptitude; the ethereal ruin was satisfied with the results. As he neared, the reign of his silence persisted, unreadable, indiscernible, an unattainable infidel motioning across stones and rubble, and the cretin gestured into the wind, attempting to catch her gaze before his voice reached across the dominating void, dropping his cranium in a curt, brusque bow, deep vocals piercing across the recherché atmosphere. “Hotaru.” The address was foreign on his tongue, seemed too spring-like, too warm, but perhaps even the calling was deceptive, and he nearly smirked at the notion. There were foxes and warlords in the dens, snickering and scheming, Machiavellian tides and currents sweeping. “Your furtive expertise has been noted and appreciated.” He paused, glanced over the voracious skyline, sought avaricious longings in the widened apertures, where the mountains were kings and the valleys were queens, and the Basin was admired for its brilliance, for its power, for its condemnation and ferocity. Features unchanged, they roamed back along to the pale femme, who had managed to excel in cunning, in wiles, in snares. “Are you interested in a promotion?”

@[Hotaru]