He watched; always watching, always waiting, always analyzing, calculating, drumming up conditions and oaths, assurances and allegiances, upheavals and chaos, eyes drawn to hers as she considered his queries, his questions, his statements. The beast felt like a child, chastised and overwhelmed by the proceedings again, a boy king instead of Lucifer’s opus and oeuvre, restless and unnerved by the tasks before him, hoping to be guided by a higher plain, by someone or something better than himself. His ears tilted, his face shifted, his gaze was naught more than eldritch abominations and visions of the sea (the moonlit tides, when they glistened and beamed, when his father was great, grand, burning against the horizon, when his sister lorded over the beach, when his mother looked on), still presuming an executioner’s cleaver was soon to be slashing through his nape. The Thief managed to keep the hatchet away, however, clinging to soft smiles and words of wisdom, sagacity, abilities he couldn’t grasp no matter how hard he tried (because notes and machinations about battle were one thing – but to keep them all together was another portion altogether, and he’d failed, he’d failed miserably), assuring him that the idea would pull through. “If you are sure…” his voice trailed off in hesitancy, in its age-old gravelly tone, punctured by snippets of power and defiance, wanting to do anything to tie and tether them in unity instead of disdain and spite. “We can see if another would be willing to go with you.” While the Lord was certain Rexanna could handle herself, build on persuasion and tactics, cloaks and daggers, harpsichord whims and mercurial pursuits, he wanted another there, either for persuasion, guardianship, or wits.
 
Another moment clawed at the Reaper, churning through his mind, enveloping his senses, sparked and incensed on the sentiments of coercion and inducement – he was so used to the battlefield with all its snares, with all its lies, with all its specious qualities, but now it flickered in ferocity, entangled itself down into his Machiavellian mindset. Was there was another way to encourage the band, the empire, the sovereign, to combine and blend? Was there another way to ensure they’d be together, strong and savage, enduring and tenacious? Was there a way to assemble and construct mighty forces again? Deimos’ stare lingered back on her for another instant, extending the proclamation, the notion, the idea to her for approval. “What if we were to hold a contest at the same meeting?” He paused momentarily, letting the conception, the visualization, gnaw at his skull and kindle along his tongue, brooding for a few instances or so, before proceeding again. “Some form of competition? To see who can recruit the most newcomers?” The piercing juncture of his gaze rested solely on her, pondering if she’d accept the wild conviction, if anyone would conspire to be the victor of such a game, or if that too was to be one more laughing stock on his road to ruin.

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.