Calamitous and irreverent, he stood amidst the aperture, the parlor, of ice and snow, framed and embellished King, slaughtering Lord, commanding death and heinous, devilish crimes: now at the disposal of welcomes and salvation. Instead of harpooning villainous threads, instead of launching into villainous convictions, instead of delving into the quiet, hushed essence of slaughter and annihilation, he merely remained, a piece of stone, of marble, of ice, too deeply entrenched in his study of the newcomer to invoke damnation; brushing and unfurling his machinations, his calculations, his ruminations, into the amiable fray. A slave to curiosity and intrigue, the barbaric opus often found himself pondering and wondering over the granted gifts of others, talents he found himself incapable of possessing (politics was a difficult enough venture, but healing was out of the question), but could utilize to benefit the savage, brutal, sinister catacombs of his seditious band. The unholy rapier, with his mind for battle tactics and his calm, composed noose, was content in studying, in investigating, in cold-blooded plots and schemes, wiles and fixations, to better suit the rime, the ice, the audacious blend of corrupted beasts and persevering guards. This Renegade the Impersonator had managed to find appeared ill-equipped for skirmished and violence (her horns twisted around her ears, incapable of stabbing one’s enemy in the throat, inept at slashing and lacerating and clawing their way through the thick of battle); though perhaps he was mistaken, and beneath the gilded and sienna veneer she held other maneuvers and methods to puncture and destroy her opponents. Her smile was soft, but was the rest of her? Was she mighty? Was she tough? Was she enduring? She had to hold a conviction of brawn, of tenacity, of perseverance, in order to remain within the chasm, the palisade, the empire, of pernicious, vicious strongholds, of perilous splendor, of terrible, horrific legions and fortifications – he surmised Arah wouldn’t have brought her here without some key element, without some noteworthy mettle. But – if she was too virtuous, would they carve their way through her soul and corrupt, condemn her? How delicate, how feeble, how dainty was she? Did her grin hold a thousand secrets, a million armaments? Deimos brooded for a length, pondering over Renegade and if she’d earned her name for defecting, rebelling, and mutinying, or if all her irreverence couldn’t be tied to a mere calling, but to action, to eloquence, to a gift lurking in the depths. His tones launched their fine, sinister oeuvre in the same taut, vivid ways as before, scorching and vicious, deep and piercing, rarely-used and kept under lock and key; speech, unfortunately, was not his expertise. “What are your strengths?”

@[Arah] @[Renegade]