For a beast constantly attempting to destroy, to ravage, to ruin, summoning and discarding the remnants of his wickedness, of his immorality, was improbable and nearly impossible – instead, he was merely confused by the sheer amount of innocence pervading the atmosphere. The Lord glanced briefly at Arah, because for several moments he was almost lost, forsaken ages ago to bleak, forlorn pits of desolation and heresy, lacquered and layered in wicked, perilous crimes, a monster aligned with other behemoths and barbarians. The Reaper was reminded of Huyana, of rain, of peace, of repose, but even her innocence had been fortified, had been galvanized, and this femme, draped in lamb garb and chaste, puerile form, seemed ignorant of the wolves gathered around her. Ordinarily, Deimos wouldn’t have bothered to frame a single whim of care towards the realm of irreproachability, those incapable of being tainted, compose his normal venues of nonchalance and indifference, compress recherché back into the folds of his imperial dominance, for they were what they were, discarded demons finding shelter with their own barbaric kind. But she’d been brought into his world, his den, his throne, his empire, and all the protective, overbearing, overwhelming nuances of his beatific, ferocious onslaughts clawed and rasped, grated against his senses. How many times had he blocked thieves from poaching upon his brethren? How many hours had he spent guarding borders? How many seasons had he rumbled and grumbled and annihilated, watching as they fell or conquered. Known sentiments won over his Machiavellian considerations, the imbalanced cataclysm of unholy ramparts and soulless sieges, for the Impersonator wouldn’t have been foolish enough to bring someone into their threshold without ensuring some strength, some vigilance, in the stranger – and perhaps, in the deepest denizens, they could use her virtue, her righteousness, her ignorance of the darker edges of the world, to an advantage. Whether or not she’d be altered, destroyed, morphed, and altered along the way was an unsettling predicament (because they’d all been trapped and snared in some beguiling, choking, strangling sculpting; he hadn’t always been an emotionless, hollowed soul, Arah hadn’t always been slightly haunted, once snagged and tortured). His stare fixated across her frame, along the painted sanctions, upon the flutters of her voice and all the whims contained within, uncertain if he was securing her lifeline or path to ruination. He didn’t respond wholeheartedly to her smile, managing to restrain a slight fold to his lips other than a grim line, chiseling his voice into the void. “We have a use for herbs.” She could go within the medic field, much like their Time Mender, chase away agonies and miseries, forget the tribulations behind them. The notion set him a bit at ease, only furrowing his brows for a short consternation, clipping his speech with their blunt adherence. “Perhaps you would find solace within the healing rank. You should consult our Time Mender, Lena.” Her acceptance, manifested and folded and tucked away, gave over into chilling, frigid, mercurial pursuits – she’d belong to the mountains, to the summits, to the peaks, for as long as she could stand it (or bellow into its antics, assimilate into the warrior paint and vestiges, the rancorous persistence).