The die had been thrown, the measures cast, the pawns reflected: and the beast, once the sole King, found himself with two more constituents to add to the wiles of scepters and thrones. Instead of focusing entirely on those matters, however, he was more strung and stung to the pinnacles of consul and emissaries, reaching out for brambles and thorns and nettles to collect and discard along the way. He’d been settled into caverns, into grottos, into catacombs for far too long with naught to show for it other than the pieces of his absolute indifference; nonchalance, reticence, and seditious exploits rarely advanced anyone in alliances and armistice. With the Forsaken gone, with newfound skulls being crowned, the one who’d held the longest stature of sovereignty became obliged to follow the lines drawn in the sand; embarking on a finite mission involving Weavers and crafters. He refused to acknowledge what this meant (if he were suddenly no more than a mere lapdog, or doing more than he ever yearned, ever thought, he’d commit beyond legions and battlefields), leaving it another time, another place (or abandoning the notions entirely, for they made him think of weak calculations and efforts wasted in sand and soot), and merely scraped against the granules of late autumn’s vestiges; pulsing the maddening thrust of nefarious savagery, striding and striking amidst vicious limbs and immoral flesh, a Lord, a Reaper, becoming salvaged and composed into an interacting presence amidst more than just caves and shadows. Deimos’ purpose was reasonable and certain, a credence flickering between empty threats and ridiculous words, and his searching began with a few empty, hollowed vaults, mutinous features peaking and poking his cranium through various crypts, hoping to find the Engineer within one of their darkened, enclosed depths.

One could say what they willed of Ulrik, but at least he never queried, never questioned, never harpooned Deimos’ social skills. Perhaps their enamel, their lacquer could even rival one another’s in the cool, chilling juxtaposition of absolute composure and defiance, of arrogance, of subversion. He liked to think they were allies, comrades, in secrets, in lies, in power and condemnation, without words, without phrases, capable of understanding each other without the need for small talk and endless diatribes. They were tied to the same stories, the same myths, the same plots and musings, held the same comprehension, the same foundation – the haunting mist of the Edge, the blinding glimpse of refugee whims and ferocious bearings.

But the last time he’d seen him, the Weaver had been weary, had been tired, had been shelled and shackled by a fallen King’s untimely departure. What had happened to him since then? Was he a ghost? Was he a wraith? Or was he more than just a exhausted phantom, reeling, recoiling, and renewing - tumbling back into his monstrous, titanic wake (and suddenly the emperor missed those days of old, where consequences for their vile actions were nothing and no one could seize, no one could possess, their unholy vehemence)?

Eventually, the potent heathen managed to discover the right chamber, catching the familiar scent of the Engineer, gesturing and speaking into the midst, into the hallowed dusk, into the foils and crumbling forces, a summons, a beckoning, a means to an end. “Ulrik – I require a moment of your time.”

@[Ulrik]