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08-20-2013, 05:09 PM
The midnight oil of the heinous doldrums still ignited a constant flow of gloaming, twilight reaching past the pinnacles of their frozen terrain. He dabbled in its murky heresy like a long-lost companion, soaking his pernicious ardor in the satanic finery of its wicked, deceitful grandeur. The Reaper plummeted from peak to peak, drinking the devilish, infernal ambrosia of all the powerful, nocturnal cataclysms, wandering past the borders of tundra and rime, slinking into the noxious shadows, cloaks and daggers of the moonlit Threshold. Then he searched, distantly scouring the lengths of glades, shrubs and pines, becoming witness to weakness, to audacity, to pungent ineptitudes and lacquered ignorance; but what he wanted was power, deep, menacing roots tackling fettered chains, beings with malice carved into their hides, souls with menace etched into their souls. He pursued monsters with behemoths grinding into their veins, with precious abilities and masteries of the unknown, enigmas glowing in heathen reverie, titans and turbulence holstered to their brows. The Basin deserved those covered in prowess, potential, sumptuous swings of fiendish, wretched damnation, condemnation in the passing seasons; too many things were left undone, and many more warriors necessary for conquering the world. Commanding the air with a sinuous grasp of demise, of quietus, of invocations returned in their all mighty rancor, his movements slid towards one individual, his piercing gaze pinpointed upon ebony, horns, hushed tenebrous reigning in the darkening traces, frozen features matching the nonchalance and indifference molded across the General’s face.
Perhaps he’d not been as silent as he’d thought, for mere moments later the stag called out to the gloom, a demanding vocal nearly ceasing Deimos’s regard altogether – very few decreed his actions, and never a newcomer. He shifted and ceased motion for a moment or two, before proceeding from behind the fellow demon, procuring his authority and control with the pernicious machination of his stride, with the purposeful inclination of his ragged voice. “Deimos, of the Aurora Basin.” He swung his puncturing gaze to the beast again, studied, calculated, devoured the atmosphere with his raptorial consideration, as a predator stalks prey, as a hunter gathered forces to add to his proud empire. Yet, before he recruited another, he wished for more information, forced himself to ask queries (for one of his nature did not waste time pursuing aimless wanderers, motive was required). “What are your pursuits here?” A kingdom to stretch far beyond the means of mortals? Enchantments to quarter the enemies? Or mere nomadic tendencies, designed to waste time amongst wild groves?
