He listened, features emotionless, guarded, blocked from the waves of thoughts mulling over his ferocious, fiendish mind. He paid little attention to the dramatics over the Time Mender, his child and Ophelia’s disapproval, he was not involved and subsequently stayed in the same measure – the only thing that truly stirred him was the response from the bulky draft. It was layered with warnings, threats, ultimatums that ignited, kindled, coiled amongst his calculating, callous cranium. Wrath distorted the demon’s muscles, intertwining with the sharp, caustic haze of his satanic bestowals, pervaded his soul with the arch of a furtive, heinous design. Archibald's words were the incredulous, petulant derisions of cossetted, indulged whims, lacing demands amongst the empirical skies, tracing their terrain over and over again with the consumption of accommodated merchants. Was this twit dropped on his head as a child, striding into their land, attempting to ensnare an agreement, and intimidate them into a compact? The Basin? The kingdom, the empire, ruled by cretins, by demons, by the ruthless, the merciless, the indifferent, ice, rebellion, contempt and loathing? The gall, the arrogance, that many had managed to conjure in the depths of their chilling terrain was an amazing feat; perhaps the cold bolstered, heightened, their bravados, laid waste to their weaknesses, their flaws, their wagging tongues that insisted on being hushed. Ignorant and unwise, they traversed upon a realm strengthened by exile, stalwart, staunch, confident, and the dimmest, dankest threats carried by murmurs of incapable beasts would not cease the calamity harbored within the Basin’s inhabitants. How long would it take to throttle the draft, how swift would it be to topple him with the waves of menace, the nefarious necromancy holstered, thrumming along his veins? Shouldn’t he be wary of his own pursuits, of his own failings, of wandering into a world unknown, foreign, infamous for its brutality? Never fulfilled, never gratified, avariciousness clawed in all of their gullets, like they owned this acrimonious world, scarring the din with more of their tremulous, whiny mewls and howls; gruff, ungracious, inhospitable clients. The monster’s penetrating stare remained solely fixated upon the voluminous stag, the pulsing, piercing blue mustering his own warning. The harsh tone of his vocals strode across the air, a vicious, virulent hiss. “We are negotiating.” They had not yet fulfilled any oath, they had not yet uttered a deal, a bargain, and already the dullard found himself worthy of trumpeting them down, of flexing might he couldn’t hold over their own power, dominion and supremacy. Another sibilation nestled from Deimos’s throat, and still, his vehement, lacerating glare did not leave Archibald. “Threats do not form contracts.” To try and endanger the Basin with barely veiled heralds was an ignorant, vacuous act. He had no intention of casting any covenant with a fool. To attempt a dragoon over their dominance was an act of audacity, presumption and idiocy - and they could gladly show him the error of his ways.
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[O] Confirmation [Roland/Arah/Archi/Psyche + others]
