'What demons are these?'

The question takes her by surprise, and Rhiannon's gaze jerks back to the Reaper, absorbing his words, not missing the subtly changing of his features, the softening of his expression. Head tilting. Showing concern, no matter how subtle, no matter how vague, for her. The brindled woman's lips opened as though to speak, but the words would not come. Her throat closed, choking on the admittance that she was so hesitant to speak.

Would he think less of her? Scorn her? Rhiannon was far more apt at fighting physical foes than the demons that wrought havoc in her mind. Would Deimos understand? Would he forgive?

There was no way to know, and so with a deep breath, a shuddering sensation escaped her dark breast, and slowly the words came. "Demons of the mind, my Lordship, voices, misgivings of my own mental creation. They have plagued me for far longer than I have ever spoke of, even to Crowley." Crowley had not known of his daughter's declining mental state, because Rhiannon had not uttered a single word to him, either. And before she could, he was gone, swept off in the wind like so many others, and when they had crossed paths... Crowley had been a shadow of his former self, mind gone, rotted by a Godly disease that she had no understanding over.

That had been the last time that she had seen him, and she doubted that there would ever be another.

A quirk of twisted lips, a manic glaze to bi-colored eyes. "I am not right, but I am not wrong. The voices are silent." For now, anyway. Hopefully it would remain that way. From her answer she draws in the silence, waiting, letting their conversation continue as though her answer hadn't interrupted it. Deimos' following words are like the soothing, minty balm to a terrible burn, blistered flesh drinking in the hydration, the salvation, and she heaved another great sigh.

Forgiveness, mercy, salvation was hers, and Rhiannon understood Deimos' statement quite clearly. This was, potentially, her last chance, and she would not waste it. The devil was done with wasted chances and false promises, all of which she had returned, all of which she had given and shown when her Lordship himself had shown her so much more, had given her so much more. Rhiannon, quite boldly, considered Deimos a friend, and she knew that many others could not be considered the same, nor could they hope to achieve such mutual understanding from the shadowed, plagued King.

What came from graveled vocals next, however, drove Rhiannon to be completely undone. 'The Basin is your home. Cease fleeing from it.' His words were far more powerful than he had probably intended. Her breast ached so fiercely as though Deimos' long horn had pierced the very flesh, his words a physical, painful manifestation taking root in the pit of her gut, drinking in her blood, and it took every ounce of waning strength that she possessed to fight against the swelling of her throat and the burn behind her eyes.

The Basin was her home. Cease fleeing from it.

How right he was.

For a moment Rhiannon could only stand, two-toned eyes gazing amidst the distance, the scenery completely lost on her. This was her home. It would always be her home, and it had always been her home. When had she forgotten it?

A soft, wretched, pitiful expression stole her features, warping her smile with lackluster self-loathing, but she inhaled a deep, long, shuddering breath, holding it within her lungs before releasing it just as slowly. She could not change the past. No one could, but Rhiannon could ensure that the acts that drove her to this very place, this very spot in time, would never be repeated.

"I shall, my Lord," she murmured, her voice low, deep vocals mixed with grit and emotion, "There is nowhere else that I wish to be. Nowhere else that I wish to go, save here." By his side, doing his bidding, reaping what he sewed. Deimos could command her to kill, to murder, to pillage, and she would do so simply because the order left his lips. Obsessive? Maybe, but she expected no one to understand when she had nothing left to lose.

"I will prove to you that your mercy will not be wasted." Not this time. Not ever again. Supple muscles coiled beneath smooth, womanly flesh, her posture straightening, losing its wretched stance, head lifting and twisted horns poised proudly towards the skies. Never again. She had to remain strong, keen, willing... If she had nothing left to lose, then Rhiannon knew she had to make something.

A breathless whisper left her lips with another exhale, salvation soothing across her flesh, digging into her insides and settling among her soul, her spirit. "My skills as a spy are wretched and poor. I fear I will not be able to serve you as I should, but I will continue to do my best." Well, anything she attempted would be better than the nothingness that she had provided thus far. "I wish to continue to serve as a soldier as well. The battleground is where I am most comfortable." And, if she were honest with herself, Rhiannon felt that her skills as a warrior far out shined her skills as a thief. She was far better with teeth, hooves, and horns than with words and sly cunning.

A grin, sarcastic and flamboyant, stole across her face, and once more the brindled beast's two-toned gaze twitched to land upon the Reaper's shadowed hide. "Although I fear I am getting rusty. There is a difference between fighting and killing."