Void of anything but malice or hate, the rancorous, seething multitude of his ruminations calculated and conspired amongst the summits and glacial hilltops, poised against the clouds, the snow, the sky, as a demonic, intimidating figure. A constant, beckoning source of menace, of contempt, of searing, smoldering havoc, he varnished the world with the finest Lucifer and Mephistophelean brushstrokes, yearned to paint empires in ichor, in chaos, in anarchy, blessing the invocations of a dark, furtive acrimony. He shifted amongst the rubble and stones, glancing across the malicious coils of his valley, the promises of gallows, the swift, churning creed of sedition, pausing in his infernal indiscretions at the scent of a newcomer and the familiar presence of Arah, beckoning across the horizon, curling and pooling amidst the clarity of Tallsun’s last siege. The Reaper, hardly the social butterfly, contemplated avoiding the task altogether – preferring to rummage through his earth, his realm, with a fervent, vehement stride, striking down enemies, intruders, and fools. Instead, the monster, the behemoth, the beast, adhered to his title, all without a sigh or a chance in his nonchalant features, repeating the interloping cycle of meeting and greeting. Part of it was an entangled bout of curiosity, to see what the Impersonator had brought from the corridors of the Threshold: were they strong, formidable, bestial, or virtuous, puerile, someone needing to be molded into the craft of licentiousness? Steps followed and flicked, flint and brimstone, across the venue; a maneuvering fortress of nefarious, cretin exploits. He may not have been the worst creature to meet within the Basin, because there were even some less amiable cretins lurking along their dungeons, their caverns, their walls, but he wasn’t a gentle, affable welcome wagon. Instead, he was a scrutinizing force, a Machiavellian design, a figure entrusted and endowed with too many devilish oeuvres and sinister, recherché ploys, configuring avenues and ranks, yearning for war and tasting the fine relish of victory, wanton for the opportunity to shove his blade into another’s throat, chest, removing their hearts, their breaths, touching finality and demise and quietus with a plunging knife.

Upon his arrival, the Lord bestowed Arah with a noteworthy bow to his chest, she’d exceeded her efforts through Thresholding and such was to be commended, and considered her one of his few companions. Thereafter, Deimos’ gaze narrowed, speculating, studying, and examining the newcomer with a polished, wicked eye: deep, furnished chestnut, gilded chains, and horns - all garnished with a smile. Probably not a newfound soldier (though he could be mistaken, sometimes thorns were nestled and nettled deep within flowers, serpent airs and wiles clinging to the forefront when necessary), but she could be useful for other purposes. He inclined his skull towards her in a short, gruff nod, then clung to the similar notes of rough speech he’d embodied time and time before. “Welcome to the Basin.” He paused, still reticent, still nonchalant, a stoic monster drenched and soused in upheaval, in sedition and insurrection, but hardly a master of eloquence (all of his elegance, all of his finesse, was reserved for battle, ripping and tearing, clawing and rasping and killing). “I am Deimos, the Lord. Who are you?”