Belligerent and brutal, he listened to the frayed, reclusive speech of a destined monster, and bid his time in muddling over the irreverence, the corruption, and the benefits of another morality extinguished. To his end, Mortuus Nox couldn’t know of all the trouble, all the trials, all the tribulations they sought day in and day out, the corruption they unraveled, the lavished, varnish of destruction and bloodshed they clawed and rasped against, for, towards – how intricately they designed, danced, and deliberated around pretenses, around holes, around catacombs, finding the delicate balance between audacity, repose, and anarchy. They found sinuous blends of serpentine motives and actions, maneuvered in ruins, gardens, citadels, and tombs, riddling and executing, annihilating and devouring. The icy walls were the last places to keep a soul away from misfortunes, maladies, and turmoil, because their world, their empire, their sovereign reveled in it, revered it, centered their policies into eldritch flags and flown titan whims and bestial mayhem into the brink of their motions, their movements; every heinous thought wrapped and guarded into antagonistic prowess, into pernicious exteriors. Their history was written in blood, anguish, perseverance, and defiance. Perhaps the newcomer realized this and simply didn’t care: wanted the treachery, yearned for the abhorrence, the depravity, the ominous, mighty strides and the unrelenting prowess. Maybe this was the tempest he longed for, intending to scald the rest of the world in his path (and wasn’t that what they all craved, deep in their minds, all irreverence, all corruption, all dragging their scythes through an enemy’s chest, behemoths, monsters, and mutineers?). Nox could be another sculpture, another creature, another cretin, added to their combinations of healers and spies, warriors and engineers, a pariah, a ghost, a wraith, on the horizon, blending, brewing, contorting, and distorting the ways of the realms, one more slot the frozen empire declared fit, strong, and enduring. He cast his searing gaze upon the stranger, the one who hid, but still extended fragments of his thirst, of his greed, of his presaged, augured sentiments – and delved no deeper. The Lord permitted secrets, silent, quiet, unsung loathing, piercing, puncturing immoralities, and waited for the licentious plumes to strike (the Reaper caught the tendrils of the other’s eerie grin and narrowed his eyes in the briefest of speculations) – so instead of indulging any further into the reticent void of Nox, his deep vocals extended into an offering. “Perhaps you would like to join Rexanna as a fellow Phantom?”

[SORRY FOR THE RIDICULOUSLY LONG WAIT. ;_; @[Rexanna] @[Mortuus Nox]