The beating, bleeding confirmation of war hinged and harpooned along his sides, pressed in the glimmers of a smirk, the tremors of a song not yet sung. Sieges and assaults were his oeuvres, were his masterpieces, were his tapestries woven in blood, rich ichor dabbling down the stitched seams, the careful, tactician brushstrokes; he carved bones, he lacerated skin, he pulsed bedlam and arched mayhem. For too long he’d yearned for this, craved it in the bellowing annals of his licentious creeds, yearned for its thriving, blistering revolution: to have success, to have victory, for his beloved Siberia. Time and time again he’d sculpted through the follies of their wake, rising and diving and plunging and growling when they emerged conquered and defeated, when they had the simple taste of conquest dancing and simmering upon their tongues, but became so utterly incapable of grasping it whole. They needed success, they needed victory, they needed the riveting, ambrosial touch and relish of vehemence, of violence, of true, pure, abhorrent upheaval, to trust in their capabilities, to thrust their swords through an enemy’s chest, to obliterate an audacious foe. They needed a win to notch across their hides, to score across their banners, to announce their mastery, their dominance, their supremacy, with true, final distinction. They were the monsters of the north, the treacherous demons of the ice and snow, and this moment, this chance, this opportunity, could ensure, could cement, their superiority. Gone were the days of the lost Edge, the rancorous exploits of fallen brethren, gone were the days of a split cadre, running rampant into mist, fog, sand, and stones, faltering and stumbling and bumbling their way through. They were persistent, they were fierce, they were persevering; an enduring tribe of warriors, of cretins, of infidels, waiting and watching for their malicious ambitions to be fulfilled: and here it lay before them, encased in Falls losses and Moon speculation.

He’d seize it alongside them. He’d carve their names across stones, across statues, across fallen lands.

The Reaper nodded to each of them (a job well done towards the Impersonator, a fleeting bob of his skull to the Forsaken for being a willing participant in the art of warfare), a silent slate of manifested, composed sedition. He bristled, pulsed, pervaded with vigilant savagery, visceral brutality, embarking down the wayward halls of cruelty, of ferocity, with a polished, kindled stroke – one touch, one promised reverie of potency, of death, of damnation, and he was ensorcelled, rapidly approaching the rabbit hole. His agreements passed in quiet ambition, in billowing folds of sinister, nefarious arts, turning just as they toiled into their sectors, shifting in the shadows to begin finding his soldiers, one by one, bidding them a newfound holiday, a conspiracy-laden request.

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.