The wicked, nefarious turbulence called out to him like a siren, and he struggled not to stare, not to savor, not to leap out into the fray and thrust his rapier into the remnants of bedlam; nothing to lose anymore. His heart was a little more twisted, his mind a little more condemned, his soul a little more aligned with sinister grandeur and decadent defiance, worn down and whittled and carved by the armaments of his days spent on this deceitful earth. They’d been scorned, tricked, defiled, and marred by the petulant creation winding, curling, and coiling its way around the mire, and to him, that was enough of a reason, enough of a motivation, to part the marsh, to slay the dragon, to seek revenge and justice and vengeance – there was almost no point in pretending that it didn’t contort his skull into wild, savage fabrications.
 
But there were others to consider before he threw himself into fury and might; Ode, his cousin, proffering an idea of mere destruction, like an idle time, no longer seeking and cleaning out the lands beyond for carcasses and rubble, but pouncing and crackling it all in two. The notion left a pure, regal smile on the youth’s face, all princely despite its vile, ravenous intentions layered, lacquered beneath, chiseling sedition in his expression, in his eyes, in his features, suddenly, truly, Deimos’ son, the Reaper’s own flesh and blood, leading them into glory or disaster. “I like your idea.” Because he wanted to dig his daggers into something, anything; could pretend each bleached bone was an enemy, a fiend, a cretin, a Colossus who’d plunged his hooves into a child’s cranium, a beast who’d tried to slaughter a healer, all the invisible enemies dragging his friends away, allowing them to disappear into midnight reveries and brutal cataclysms. If they managed to conjure information from the wreckage, it’d only be all the more to snag and ensnare, intoxicated by the indulgence of enigmatic allure, demons chasing demons. Then more came, Weaver, surprisingly, though he couldn’t ascertain why – the same question layered behind his lips, but still not giving it voice (perhaps it was answered here and now anyway, since she’d approached, presuming he wouldn’t lead them into ruin and disaster; even though it was exactly what he intended for himself, the nothing lad with all his dreams and ambitions, with all his aspirations and notions, incapable of truly knowing anything). “Of course,” he answered her in turn with a wink, with a nod, with the same regal mannerisms cloistered around his features, pretending he wasn’t just as rotten as their surroundings, drawn to lethality, exposed to despicable ramparts and marveling at their prospects.
 
When another came into view, completely, utterly unfamiliar, a rigid guard came over him, protective, scrutinizing, gaze narrowing just the slightest (intending to preserve, shield, and defend his flock; what little contortion as there), because he had no idea of what thrived along these walls but monsters. His muscles contorted in a vicious ripple, body suddenly taut, composed, head drawn high, all nobility and power, before arching a brow at the address. The beast knew who they were, but nothing else was exchanged. “I’m Erebos – who are you?” It was a simple inquiry, for he didn’t know anything about this stranger, if he was a part of their empire, if he had hastened from some other boundaries, if he saw them nearby and merely presumed rankings.
 
Then there was Oizys, and he had to hold back his surprise at her appearance. Her mother had been shattered here, thrown and tossed and mangled by a bone monster, and the girl had managed to come again, back into the throngs and throes of chaos, back into the walking particles of grief and demolition. He didn’t know whether to admire her bravery, or simply draw to a notion of understanding – because every day he traveled over the embankment where his father had passed, and every day he wandered to the heart of the mountains and paid his respects to his father’s tomb. So instead, Erebos nodded, smile softening just a bit, impressed, amused, and eager, fervent, ready to jump into their disastrous dance.
 
“Let’s go destroy some bones then.” He confirmed, a playful hint to his charismatic grin, as if it was all one giant game – that they weren’t marching into heathen lairs and necromantic chasms, that he couldn’t see the altar rising from the horizon, that they wouldn’t be the next cretins abolished on the marshy floor. He simply wouldn’t allow it.
 
The General turned into the sinking, slimy, boggy hellhole, followed by his companions, the rustle of feathers, the vicious hissing of a fox, and set his sights on the first of many fragments of other creatures. He didn’t know who it belonged to – didn’t think about it, didn’t ask. He merely placed one hoof above its small, rounded edges, and shoved it downward, listening to the ricochet of splintering bone.