He was silent, decadent, wolfish rapture, a seething, smoldering blend of acrimony and upheaval, sizzling and piercing, puncturing and lancing, a heathen, a turbulent, loathing bracken feasting on the hills. He was a manifestation of fear and loathing, of contempt and oblivion; brutal, vicious annihilation, abhorrence and nefariousness. He was also death, menacing and ultimate, an eventual end to everyone and everything’s prowess, ignition, and unfurling, pushing past the virtues, the follies, and consuming the foolish, the inept, the inane, trapping them one by one on the ends of his powers, on the fringes of his Lucifer annihilation, relishing in the lethal throngs, in the shadowed throes. But amidst his darkened clamor, his polished avarice, his confident assurance and antagonistic sway, existed a frame of uncertainty and condemnation, seized and possessed as a sword, as a shield, as a lethal consignment to oblivion: so when others saw him, they feared, so when others came close, they shirked, so when his herd prospered, when his herd reigned supreme, he drifted away from their gathering, from their surges, from their conquests and triumphs; a constant, statuesque, marbled vessel of Mephistopheles’ fatal, final caress.

On the hunt, on the prowl, the beast’s lacerating gaze notched upon individuals nestled amongst the horizon, nestled upon the borders, hallowed and hollowed beneath the Sentinels’ watchful eye. When the machines failed to react, not extinguishing, not flaring, not mauling an imminent threat, the impenetrable annals of his mind piqued and seethed, pondering over the juncture in which they boldly clambered – likely one a newcomer, one a guide to the wintry hills and the damned mountains – and the voices were too merry, too chipper, so even as he neared, he nearly thought to wither away from the raw contentment and the measured glee. Instead of bowing to the iniquities of escape, instead of murmuring and wandering back into the murky depths of brewing, brooding calculations, he challenged himself to the perilous edges of conversation and congregations - perhaps the most powerful of his enemies – drawing some audacious line between the simpering parallels and the keen, curious notes with his immoral fixture, with his avaricious, cretin posture, with his calamitous existence. His stare ran rampant, from the blue, ebullient femme (like the ocean, but not the rain, and the solid, nefarious contortions of his heart grew all the more bitter, all the more rancorous) whom he’d seen waltzing amidst their world from time to time, to the foreign, ivory mare, almost capable of blending into the surroundings. With his son’s challenge clawing at the back of his mind, at the bending, intangible wake of his flaws, of his faults, the stoic, nefarious King lowered his crown to each, and provided the barest of vocals, of introductions. “Welcome to the Basin. I am Lord Deimos.” Aligned and tempted into the hall of cretins, his intangible, nonchalant features hinted at naught of the various, brewing thoughts swarming his cranium: curiosities and inquiries, posturing towards the ivory stranger (who was she, what did she seek, what did she hope to gain from their wares?), until he settled another round of his deep, blunt voice into the fray. “Who are you?”

@[Tiamat] @[Wicka]