The tainted, malicious cretin watched with the callous brushstroke of menace, rampant decadence, scintillating annihilation, a quiet, daring brooding as the newcomer hastened introductions, lavished respect, gathered her cloaks and daggers. She, Rexanna, didn’t quake in the brutal, ethereal presence of his consuming rampancy, didn’t shudder in the deplorable arts of his essence, didn’t shake at the cold-blooded cadence of his rapier toxins, didn’t flee at his arcane vehemence, the allure of death and demise. The notion was not disappointing (though, in some aspects of truth, he was contented when the world quivered a bit as he maneuvered, as he scorched, as he pierced). He glanced at her, a sweeping, scrutinizing form of fallen paragons and rancorous edges, pondering over her worth, her value, her strength and fortitude for the icy denizens and the chilling halls. They were all masters at something within the treacherous valleys, contained, controlled, taut and rigid, talented and defiant, molding together for ruin, for desecration, for upheaval. Was she a soldier, eager to train and dance for the battlefield, to slay and unwind, to cripple and destroy? Was she a thief in the night, fervent for the opportunity to steal secrets and hoard plans? Was she a healer, persistent on assuaging, soothing, or dosing her victims with a venomous rapture? Was she a scholar, bending her knee and will to the Gods? There were many avenues to traverse upon, scramble across the sector, beguiled and enticed into the acrimonious vestiges of the Aurora Basin, where pride never faltered, where characters endured, persevered, and sought to conquer, where the past collided with the present over and over again in searing, wanton displays. The Reaper took all her idle calm, all her tranquil force, and delved closer, narrowing his gaze, counting the ways in which she could be molded, corrupted, or devoured by the molten mountains and the ravenous pews. Perhaps Rexanna was already a behemoth, waiting in the wings, a sinuous, unwinding serpent, nestled and resting beneath a curtain, a veil, of gold and flowers, grasping and clenching for her opportunity to strike. The beast nearly smirked; he liked silent, slinking vipers. He enjoyed violent comrades. He employed masters of craft, of delusion, of Machiavellian properties, of vicious, barbaric interludes. How far could she be pushed? What realm of prestige did she seek? His calculations and machinations fanned in unrelenting waves, a fueled, kindled, brimming curiosity flickering amidst his rebellious skull, glad for the chance Thranduil had provided at gathering more and more wolves into their home. Words followed suit, brandished in their formal, blunt croon, a keen fringe of his unattainable brimstone. “What talents or skills do you possess?” He paused, eternally brief, reeling in the raptorial predilections, the writhing, coiling sentiments of iniquity and annihilation. “We may have ranks to fulfill your pursuits.”


@[Thranduil] @[Rexanna]