Curiosity was one of his stronger virtues (if he had many at all). It bent him in different avenues, in scrutinizing corridors, in long, slithering wakes of labyrinths, mysteries, and quandaries – lending him knowledge through examinations and precise, meticulous schemes. The Reaper was known for calculations, for Machiavellian tendencies, for a layer of coldness creeping over his bones and his thoughts, until the weight of apathy seemed the only thing tilting and turning his crown; but it was always interest first. He yearned to know and why things occurred, how to prevent or ensure it happened again, where he could pluck a particular strain and watch the world vibrate, reverberate, and collapse from the singular barb. He longed to expose weaknesses enemies had managed to display; he enjoyed crafting the measures of exploitation, of vengeance, of revenge. He craved the foundation of strength and power, he desired the taste, the relish, of bases, towers, and pyramids; how he could ensure his empire never fell again. He lived and breathed as a sword, as destruction, as a maneuvering weapon, but even a blade forged in death had to have other merits, credentials, and abilities – his aloofness, his forsaken, isolated mind, remained eternally shifted towards artful, cunning, wily means.
 
The Lord had known naught of the Riptide Isles when he’d first arrived – but he’d been driven to distraction by violence, by bloodshed, by foreign entrails and fallen gods. When he’d challenged Gull, he’d simply paid attention to the sand beneath his daggers and the hot, sticky climate, and his mind had once again been warped by vehemence and destruction. The pattern wasn’t evident along the evening squall, however, as he wandered down from his frozen hilltops and his illustrious, chilling winds for a chance, an opportunity, at digging through more than just dunes and currents. The beast, the demon, the infidel, no matter how deeply entrenched into the snow and mountains, had always been enticed by water, by rain, by the titanic emblem of the sea and Poseidon’s unearthly wake.
 
Even as he stood amongst the shoal and surf, it was nothing like any land he’d seen before. The Moonlit Tides had been soft and ambient, luminescent and cordial, an open invitation to a young, wild, untamed little colt and his kin, matching stride for stride in their distaste for the rest of the world. When he’d grown, when he’d wandered, down amongst the rocky, cliff ramparts of the Edge, there’d only been rebellious coast and threatening, looming treachery. As a wayfaring blade striking out against the Endless Blue, he’d found fire and ghosts, he’d found his daughter forging a future empire, he’d sensed a part of Huyana drifting along the shells and gulls; but here, here in this strange, unpredictable world, he felt naught. There were jagged isles scattered amongst the darkness, there were giant fronds and plumes intertwining their way along the coast, and there were bones of deities tied and tethered to the land in which they’d perished by mortal hands, claws, and knives.
 
And still, Deimos’ intrigue wasn’t sated. He clung to the nestled shadows, to the overbearing gloom, to the nocturnal sway of nefarious predators and jungle entities, staring into the abyss, and wondering just what levels of potency it contained – how he could use it, wield it, for the sake of the Basin.

[Open to anyone! ^_^]