DEIMOS

The Reaper

The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

If Deimos was disappointed to be working alongside those he knew almost naught of, and those who left little to impress him with in prior circumstances (he cast one glimpse towards Archibald), he said nothing. The promise, the decadence, the conviction of warfare was enough to override the calamitous qualms and diatribes between old constituents and heated subject matters, like forced, forged treaties ending with naught but floundering, stumbling armaments. He left the past behind them for now, forgoing and forgiving for the sake of time, diligence, and patience (the eagerness clawed at his insides, the fervency bled through his sight; demonic and sinister, an awakening demon rising to the surface all over again), and he stoked the finery of bloodshed near Ophelia, an overwhelming opus of brutality and savagery. The Reaper’s Machiavellian mind, his saturated, brutal machinations, were too riddled and invoked by the passage of war, by the sudden, crisp, embarking of annihilation to recall petty fortitudes and arguments, flicking an ear once or twice in the direction of the Forsaken’s conversation, adhering to the timeline, to the structure, of their assault. He had never been privy to the Falls’ location and whereabouts, and would be a blind eye amidst the shadows, eternally willing to massacre, to unwind, to uncoil, to devastate and obliterate, if given the proper bearing and orientation. He could lead his troops down narrow trails, over vicious plains, over scattered rubble and furtive, specious whims, just as long as there was a justified route. He nodded towards the notion of Kaj, the winged, gliding King of the Edge (had the world changed so much in the passing seasons, suddenly not swarmed with sable dragon-ladies?), confirming his sentiments and notions. “If there is a particular route you are aware of, we can follow you.” He preferred a side entrance, a veiled passage, a small, enclosed space, a clandestine maneuvering, secretive and embedded with cloaks and daggers, a suffocating, strangling force unfurling into the hallowed void, so as the main entry tore into some open clearing, his own icy brethren could surround, could promise, could wreak the devouring, swallowing, consuming havoc. “We can try to flank and fence them in.” A snare, a trap, a hole of devastation and ruin, no chance for escape, no ability to flee; chased into gallows, massacres, and abhorrence. Would they be trembling rabbits, shivering lambs, or shackled, tethered dogs, running loose, wild, rampant with terror and frenzy? Would the Edge, the Basin, be the predators, the carnivores, slashing at their throats, stabbing at their chests?