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08-25-2013, 07:00 AM
Corrupted evening flanked by the moonlit body cast a ruinous shade over the bounty of the Threshold; he swiveled through the fine shadows, distorted and diabolical in the heathen waves of constant nocturne. Within the eternal stretch of malice and insurrection, his senses pricked, ghosting over the corporeal boundaries, writhing and withering in the slinking, sedition splendor, combing for wandering fools to destroy, for wayfaring bodies to snag and add to the denizen of the Basin. The former were for enjoyment, to pass moments in recoil and grace, to finesse the inept from the living, sever last breaths from lungs, collect final heartbeats. The latter was for power, for prestige, for strength amongst the rolling valley, the chilling winds, the rapacious caves. The Reaper’s movements took him deep into the ravenous coils of the corridors, against the rippling pool of water, along the foundation of vestal armaments springing from the alms and arms of its feverish boughs. His severe gaze pinpointed upon a frame nearby, gazing at the multi-hued fish within the pond’s hold, and he nearly left, for how does one gain such foolish intrigue in fish, when he noticed the horn spiraling from her brow, the loud whinny exuding from her vocals. The beast nearly snorted at the inanity of the moment, but chose to remain neutral, reminded himself of the necessity of a growing herd, numbers aligned for soldiers, for sleuths, for phantoms and menders. His expression remained in its near-constant nonchalance, fused by lack of emotion, taut, rigid, as his stride drove him from veiled shade and into the luminous nuance of the moon’s elongated fingertips. Unfortunately, words were a necessity in the stretch of time, and though he’d rather remain silent, study, examine, posture over the future use of the mare, he allowed his harsh, rarely-used voice to strangle the cordial air. “Deimos, of the Aurora Basin.” He paused, considered nodding his head towards the individual, solidifying some form of greeting, but then decided against it, waited for her to be worthy of the movement. Instead, the General breathed an inquiry. “What do you call for?”
