Labyrinthine figments punctured the air: foreboding, shadowed, and mired with unholy fibers – he knew naught of its filaments but the strange, dire consequences as the world became shrouded in disease and misery. His brethren choked and wheezed, his comrades shuddered and pulsed, and the realm gave only the barest hints of its entropy with new lands forming out of nothing, with Gods battling more demons and monsters, with walls becoming lacerated edges and bruised convictions. It was a startling array of madness all over again – a cycled, resentful plunge of discord from the past (and he remembered the fleeing feet and the annals of destruction brooding and brewing past their underground temples, the listless, immoral twitch of his muscles and the poignant, bitter disquiet). He had no intention of lingering amongst the threshold of lethargy, of helplessness, of heathen, primordial throngs again and again, stumbling and fumbling into further decay: the Reaper’s realm would be protected, guarded, and defiant until the end. He refused to run. He refused to escape. He refused to be tied and tethered into the knots of others’ layered destruction; he’d forge his own beautiful, elegiac ruin.
 
Deimos wandered between lands with bits of apprehension coiled amongst his chest and none displayed across his features: ever stoic, ever proud, harboring pretenses of nonchalance and indifference when every vein was taut, when every bone was inscrutable. Determined, resolute, and vehement, he forged his steps through the waking columns of the summer sun, staring out into the horizon and occasionally landing his gaze upon his followers (Enna, Mender and healer, his son, already a far better creature than he’d ever be), before blending back into puissance and anarchy, chiseling and sculpting his way through a path he knew well, but hadn’t touched in a lifetime.
 
The World’s Edge.
 
A world he’d craved because it reminded him of the washed shores of Isilme. He’d run past its borders and demanded entry: given when his power was deemed fit and suitable for Mauja’s plans. It forced the monster to recall the Moonlit Tides, the crashing, unwavering sounds of the waves molding its cliffs into smooth, embittered stone – but he’d never returned after they lost it. Even when they went to war again and again, he’d gone elsewhere – stole into Throat to inspire its demolition, crashed into the Falls to augur his vehemence, and never again mauled or stepped into the Edge’s glassy fixtures or foggy, warren abyss.
 
And as they neared its borders, it haunted him all over again: the days of frozen lords and icy promises and disastrous oaths, all unraveled, all torn apart, by dragons and thoughts of peace, hypocrisy and inconsistencies maiming what could have been – all their bedlam, all their strife – and then being cast off into the snow; reborn as withered, sinister, nefarious things, desperate for vengeance. In between those minutes, hours, days, and seasons, some of them had disappeared, had left, had died, and naught was ever quite the same. Their paths and trails had been severely altered, hushed or lavished, decadence in abandonment, terror, or alterations. Even he, brutal and sinister, had managed to morph into another figure: King of a frozen sovereign instead of just drifting in its midst.
 
So when they neared, when he ceased all movement, and merely stared, eyes widened in wonder at the poignant, nostalgic lanes, something evocative prodding and pummeling his senses; nares stole and took all the scents, all the memories, all the motions clinging to his brow, piercing them away, over stories untold, over maneuvers rendered incomplete. He ushered a single bellow, unaware and ignorant of who held which position, unsure of what would take place, rooted to the periphery of so many distant memories, snatched and scattered away.

[Basin/Edge alliance discussion/chitchat/exchange of information times? :D
Please allow Enna and Erebos to post first! ^_^]