Death marched within the parcels and parlors of silence – a cruel, interloping chasm of hollowed vessels and empty shores. His immoral sanction drummed and contorted, coiled and curled, just as it had always done, a chilling, remorseless pattern of hushed vigilance and fervent vehemence. Frustration melded to his core now, strung together with bits and pieces of remorse, with tattered remnants of reflection and brooding, but none of it wore upon his impassive, nonchalant veneer – as if the frayed remains of their banners still shown on his scythe, on his cloaks, on his daggers. He was the essence of winter and the void of spring, like a hole, like a cretin, like a fiend, gnashing on the cold adornments, on the glacial walls, trying to overcome what he was powerless to stop. No matter what they did, the results always seemed to be the same, and the cruel, savage, sinister vacancy of the Basin took a hold on his blackened, decrepit heart – made it seethe, made it blister, made it crack and sever until sedition spread through his bones, through his blood. So his movements and motions were an unrelenting vow, pressing closer and closer to the pine and fir, to the shifting shadows, to the quiet realm, until his merciless, piercing eyes took in the borders, dotted with figures, individuals, promises and convictions that the future could not be so dim.
 
The first was Mortuus Nox, blackened structure emphasized against the torrents of snow, and Deimos had always found him to be a strange, enigmatic puzzle. For a devil who possessed so many demonic entrails, so many eerie, otherworldly strides, the beast had taken to healing. Perhaps he was much like their old Doctor, D’art, rustling and brewing up potions laced with poison, with venom, with artifice, instead of the nurturing, soothing aspects – but the Reaper had never bothered to ask. If the shadowy stag was content, the Lord had no reason to ponder the notions further, and he didn’t hesitate to mold his skull into a firm nod in his direction (for protecting their borders, for arriving when no one else had). Thereafter, the chiseled, remorseless grace of his Mephistophelean finery twisted its way to the other notched beneath the Sentinels’ empty gazes, and for a moment, he was caught off-guard. His impassive, stone, marble surface failed to convey the abrupt alteration to his sentiments, except the subtle tilt of his head, etched, sketched, and sculpted in curiosity. “I remember you,” he stated, blunt and keen, vocals restless from lack of use. The mare had once reminded him of all the snow and ice covering their world – but instead of beauty, compassion, and tenderness marking the cold exterior, she’d been harsh, she’d been mercenary, she’d been brutal. Her ivory hadn’t been dipped in purity or virtue, but cast into the immoral rectory of vermin and violence – she’d been amongst them all too readily. He’d do the same for her again, if she yearned (because there was always rooms for more snakes in the garden, more asps circling pitfalls, more strength, more might, more venom stretched behind their snowy flags). “I trust your talents are still the same.” There, a tiny smirk appeared, caught and cornered between bestial ambitions and ferocious intentions.