DEIMOS

The Reaper

The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

The Reaper did not shy from power. He embraced it, coveted it, utilized and wielded it on a daily basis, stoking, kindling, instigating and provoking the immoral, licentious munitions of his presence: he’d learned what it meant from an early age, to be bestowed, credited, and warranted with such gifts. In his youth he may have been frightened of his own capability for barbarity, but those days were long gone, and now he maneuvered and motioned in nefarious emblems, in ghoulish compositions, in sinister manifestations, breathing havoc, wreaking condemnation, harpooning devastation. In turn, he would bestow his people, his comrades, his patriots with the same, surround and encompass them with the fine points, the vigilant edges, the crushing, barbaric display of potency. He was far too aware, far too confident, in his own dominion to be threatened or endangered by their prowess or potential, and instead, he yearned for them to become great, bestial beings, swinging axes and rapiers and scythes through the iniquitous voids, titans loosened from their chains, behemoths rumbling through jungles, through corridors, through caves and caverns until they’d obliterated what they sought, what they craved. He’d reward them their given due, their just desserts, their earned pieces of victory and conquest. Thranduil, sneaky and furtive, had been granted his role, slithering and sinuous, unwinding into the shadows as a Thief, and while Deimos couldn’t give the rose mare the same title (for now they had two brigands, speciousness at their limit), he could give her a new rank, a more influential angle, a step above mere spies and shirking wraiths. She’d done her part, she’d heralded many stories, many secrets, and she’d furnished stolen goods and taken the skull-face for a time – the femme deserved her honorific. He didn’t move, an immobile, intimidating fixture of marble, Tartarean guiles and wiles, Lucifer’s favored creation, preferred sword, preferred beast, still impassive, still nonchalant. His narrowed stare, reticent and unyielding, a molding of phantoms and devils and fiends locked in infidel scabbards and eternally eager to unleash molten depravity, snared and focused on her wan smile, on the fairy essence so easily embossed and imbedded across her sanction. But he led a den of predators, of carnivores, of monsters, and wouldn’t be swayed by the ruffian, siren entanglements of a temptress; she was just as dangerous, just as treacherous, as the rest of them. How else had she obtained so many codes, so many trinkets, so many lives? While brawn could overpower, while death could shape demise, she still filled in gaps of their soldiers, still warranted a gift few of them could possess. He seized her words, the greetings, the coos, and ignored the simpering poison beneath them; he was venomous too, and it would be interesting to see which could sting, paralyze, and devastate more. While she undoubtedly plumed and preened at his compliments, for they were few and far between, he conjured the rest of his sanction, the drumming diligence of his tones, the reasoning for seeking her out from the entanglements of the day. “Impersonator.” If this wasn’t enough for her, if she was greedy and grasping and covetous, she could always claw her way through the webs and warrens of Thieves, and challenge them for the subterfuge throne.

@[Hotaru]