Diabolical insurrection reared its devouring discord in one more raptorial predilection, seething and searing, treacherous considerations winding towards the borders in another summons. A petulant portion of him, left over from childhood and renegade, imperious considerations, thought almost to ignore the beckoning entirely: too many times he’d been dragged across the grounds with no carnage, with no violence, with naught but harbored strife, newcomers, or wayfaring infidels yearning to search throughout their home. He was not the Basin’s welcome wagon, furnished and lacquered with sunny dispositions and hidden agendas; his reticent rapier was a howling bout of silent, unholy venues, bedlam destruction, impending, formidable menace, and the rancorous bits of his undulating prowess couldn’t conceal his distorted debauchery. It moved and maneuvered throughout his essence, a poet’s macabre glee, a bard’s taste of devastation and licentious creeds, savage temptation, heinous, ferocious danger - however, he still channeled motion, primordial, fiendish incantations blending into the light and hedonistic elation of an antagonistic prowess, breathing iron and intimidation through each masterful step, through each cunning declaration, the Lord, the King, the Reaper of winter and all of its recherché shades. His eyes wove a piercing desolation, scraping away at the scene laden before him: machines, sentinels, polished and gleaming in the sunlight, a rumbling threat, the first of many when one regarded the Basin. The stranger, at least furnished and garbed with a cutlass, stood along its outreach with some peculiar looking animal, basking in the hollowed sanction of their immoral reception. On molten chords, on vehement echoes, he regarded and slid in a blade’s gesture; a constant, reeling source of acrimony, hostility, and ruin, the foretold, the foreshadowed, scythe of abomination and havoc, narrowing his gaze, stepping into the boundaries, Hades’ settled near his chosen throne. Not a moment of recognition filtered through his core, no scents presented in an earnest fashion, no marks of devilry, no hints of whereabouts, meetings, or transgressions chiseled and sculpted along the scene – the creature was entirely unknown to him. Was he a threat? Was he a messenger? Was he eager to pull something untoward along the glacier walls, upon the rubble pathways, across the heathen summits (Deimos almost wished it too – because then he’d have an excuse to run his rapier through a lurking stranger, to taste the art, the heights, the ambrosia of violence again and again, drunk on its siren calls)? He spent a long, silent consideration beneath the wake of the sentinels, scrutinizing, analyzing, studying, and examining, an intimidating drum of quiet, an overwhelming, smoking contemplation, until he eventually parted his jaws in short, curt, blunt candor. “I am Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” The same speech, delivered again and again, informing the world of his mastery of the domain, of him, another weapon tucked into the Siberian reign. “Why are you here?”

[@[Kvothe] Do you want to be tagged each time? :D]