The Reaper wallowed and waited in silence, accustomed to the regime, the plunge, the occupancy of its quiet, consuming air. His son would have filled the moments with exuberance and enthrallment, Huyana would have found some gentle comment to lull and pass the time, and Deimos didn’t know what to do but remain completely composed and hushed, another mark of the grave. The sound of the ocean behind him was a rush of treachery, a listless, languid crawl of the deceitful, and portions of his soul itched to return back to its nefarious depths, perhaps to avoid the uncomfortable bite of socializing, the inevitable awkwardness creeping and slithering into his skull. The monster nearly wished for a battle, for a barrage, for an assault or siege to sink his teeth into and gallivant across the horizon as his poised, inevitable self: an infidel amongst the rubble, a sinister opus across the dais of war. To admit these mutinous thoughts was an enduring frailty, flaw, and failing in his pathway, and out of spiteful nuances and belligerent stubbornness, he stayed amongst the gathered bits of inaudible wares. He paid heed to the Haruspex’s bow, the shifting of the companion layered in his sarong, how it seemed to needle and nestle closer, perhaps sensing his dominion, his supremacy, his nefariousness – the beast uttered one insouciant sigh and looked away, as if ashamed he’d kindled fear out of a child. The precariousness of his essence were inevitable foils: either the world was intimidated by him (and he longed for his enemies’ quaking hearts, their torment, their affliction, their shambled virtues and their pummeled bliss) or scorned his flesh (a devil, an infidel, a beast, unholy and discordant); but he’d never yearned for his own to shudder in his wake or sneer at his presence. The patterns always twisted and distorted in the chosen iniquities, where fellow leaders discarded him or familiar patriots shirked at his shadow, and he remained much of the same, tethered back to his bestial shades, to his licentious veils, to his desolate, forlorn turbulence. He’d long since managed and learned how to protect himself amongst the whisper, the chill, of solitude.
 
He tried now though, struggled with the pieces and portions of discourse, scalding his thoughts into small talk or something earth shattering to invoke into the sand. He was not a master manipulator of words or phrases. His machinations were reserved for cold-blooded calculations, where to maim an opponent, how to devastate, when to destroy, but he parted his mouth, turned his piercing eyes back to the painted Ashamin, who seemed keen to try and reward his Lord with something other than trepidation or distaste. “Hn.” The grunt, the snort, the blunt, curt tone of agreement flickered and faltered out of habit. Irritated and irked by his semblance of uselessness, the beast tried again, aiming not to stumble this time. “I enjoy the ocean.” Then he cast his gaze back towards its features, the rolling surf, the rigorous, devout strength, and grew ever more taut and rigid in his nonchalant guard.

@Ashamin