The endless cycle bore repeating and repeating, circulating in an unraveling, fettered core. They raced and rushed from the Threshold, general sentiments, aspirations, and ambitions coiled amongst their sanctions, bleeding nuances or fading remnants of a life once lived; all the while, the monster roamed his sector, the hidden weapon, the furtive sword, locked and clasped in the icy sections of their newfound sanctuary. If he didn’t hold a throne, he probably still would have been the brooding, unrelenting aspect to the glacial walls and heathen outcrops, another barb, another thorn, in the absence of virtuous endeavors and puerile efforts, sinking into cataclysm wiles and nefarious ruminations, bending and cavorting with devils and demons. And still, he was the welcoming party to their arrival, one last gesture to impart them with acceptance or dismissal. The latter had happened more often from intruders, the foolish interlopers coveting attention and entitlement through their wandering ways, and he’d administered the briefest of their considerations (and then threatened, warned, and intimidated when all the former decrees went unheeded, driving his sword through their hearts, through their sinew, through their flesh, listening for their last breath, extinguishing the final remnants of their idiocy – another of the inept no longer bothering him). Those that were worthy, however, were given due consideration, a narrowing of his piercing gaze, a raw, unholy speculation: where would they fit? What did they yearn for? Were their convictions the same as the rest of their mottled lot, often tied and tethered to bestial, bloody factions, rampaging into licentious creeds, tarnishing and tainting their souls? Or would they have to hide behind shadowy veils and silent tents, more furtive entanglements, more specious regards? Deimos the Reaper was already renowned for his outlook on life: he killed, he massacred, he devoured, he destroyed; but his herd had long since meandered in those footsteps since their creation, puttering about the Steppe until someone found their suffering, their melancholy, worthy of granting them land. What would one more do for their empire?

Thranduil and a newcomer were on the horizon. A portion of him didn’t truly enjoy granting the gilded Thief any amiable affects upon his successful ventures, but then another portion of him knew he was obliged to do so (perhaps one of the few Lordly things about his character, if one forgot the overprotective gestures or droll attempts at politics). Upon his approach, he proffered the slightest nod towards the golden brigand, and if there was a smirk sliding along the edge of his mouth, he noted naught of the sort (because the stranger; a light-hued femme seemed quite attentive to the mercenary and it made him almost laugh); to the other, he granted the same, ceasing movement as he stood before them, imperial and potent. His presence was of strength, of dominion, of unholy supremacy and overwhelming prowess, because he was Mephistopheles’ honored recipient, given too many arts and strokes of the infernal, and hardly any of his charming charisma. Reserved, reticent, and nonchalant, his features stoked naught: blank slate, while his chilling eyes rested like rapiers, gazing upon the pale mare in quiet speculation. What did she offer the Basin, and what did she want in return? “Welcome.” The tones were gruff, blunt, keen-edged as always, rarely in use and even when they were, the notions were spare, few and far between. “I am Deimos. Who are you?”


@[Thranduil] @[Rexanna]