He smoked and scalded the lands with the glowering slide of his supremacy, of his potency, of his layered, lacquered brutality. While other beasts faltered and fumbled, he reigned (and sometimes choked, sometimes stumbled just as hard), striving to conquer over the pitfalls of his destructive force, trying to undermine the weaknesses of his own soul. A bit too savage, a bit too nefarious, a bit too sinister for the likes of the outside world, he slid and slithered amidst bracken and brutality, breathing in the chilling wind, resounding in the falling leaves, in the petulant snow, in the freezing footfalls and the predacious splendor. He prowled and marauded, because it was habitual, because it was instinctive, because it left him time to brood, time to stalk, time to be the King of death and the Reaping scythe, decadent and destructive, alone and composed. Adrift beneath the pines and fir, at home with the death of summer and the thriving of autumn, his nares snatched over the unfamiliar scent wafting from the borders, and like a bestial monster, like a noxious shade, he barreled towards it – uncertain if there was a threat at his doors (half-hoping, perhaps, encouraging ruin and devastation by his hands, by his sword, by his pride and vigilance, give me vehemence his mind crooned with vicious blends and toxic indulgence), or mercenaries requiring shelter. Hotaru’s circled there too, and the avaricious plunge of his strides escalated, a thundering configuration and conflagration, molten and simmering, unruly, unholy, never masking what he was – he’d worn the cloak of Lord for a long time, and the Mephistophelean prowess even longer. When his gaze finally pinpointed on the figures nestled beneath the Sentinels’ rusting, empty stares, he found he didn’t recognize the winged figure nor her companion. Deimos’ brow arched, delving into curiosity for a signature moment, because the stranger didn’t seem intent on storming into their castle, into their forts, into their walls – then his face resounded back into its impassive, nonchalant fixture, barbarity coiled beneath its shackled, icy exterior. “I am Lord Deimos,” he spoke into the void, on a puff of air that chiseled and sculpted its way through the cold, haunting realm; like ghosts and specters, like wraiths and phantoms. The beast nodded afterward, but had heard enough of Hotaru’s speech to indicate he didn’t need to question or query the unfamiliar mare further – falling into silence again, awaiting disaster or glory through the stifling lengths of curiosity coiling along his mind.