Failure lofted a haughty breath over their carcasses again and again, an unrelenting force of embarrassment, shame and humiliation. Like the loss of the Edge from seasons before, sieges and assaults ignited, burned, should have, could have, been a daunting, ruthless bombardment of brutality, savagery and nefarious munitions, desert walls and fortifications torn, a forest sundered to ravaged branches and ashes. They’d yearned, longed, desired masses of peace and harmony distorted, contorted into the cruel machinations of their gathered forces, ruined, obliterated, severed and ruptured, armies ripping and rippling upon a dais of war – virtues and repose forgotten, stomped, defeated. Instead, it was they who’d been soundly chased away, retreating into the particles of ice and air, heads low, tails tucked between hind legs like foolish, inept dogs. They’d been made to appear weak, foolish, mindless travesties snickering and smirking from the bitter winds with nothing to call upon but the audacity of their insurrections. A seditious splendor should have unraveled from their malicious chords, and all they were bestowed, delivered, condemned were the righteous sacrifices of those who finished their battles (and whom should be thusly rewarded), and the beasts felled into dunes or soil. Even their Lady, spouting raptures and reveries of annihilation and subjugation, couldn’t untangle her contemptuous threads long enough to finish her fray; a campaign doomed into Tartarean, cynical smirks and chiming laughter. Who was to take their threats, their treachery, their pernicious prowess seriously when they couldn’t enact their sinister convictions? Was it all unfounded arrogance, and no pride lingered in their hearts? No distinction for power, for malice, for menace?

Frustration bled into the General’s mind, sentiments varnished and lacquered with the searing, smoldering air of ire, wrath and discontent. It swarmed and wrapped around his veins, piqued across his muscles, until the undulating coils of his muscles longed to destroy his own patriots. These were his soldiers, his warriors, his creatures sworn to the depths of glaciers, peaks and valleys, and for some portion of the catastrophe, he felt responsible. Had he not asked the right individuals for the cause? Were they too altruistic, feeling, compassionate and benevolent for the opponents they snared, snagged and brutalized? Had they not been inspired to commit to the aforementioned deeds? Had he not trained them enough? Had he trusted their abilities too much, presumed and assumed their capabilities were beyond those displayed? Had they seen too many of their brethren falter, stumble, crushed into the floor, and decided to save face? Or had something else altered their cause, distracted them from the means of victory? What was more pressing than conquest and triumph? What more did he have to do to ensure their cooperation, participation in destruction? If the Reaper had been a more talkative creature, he may have concocted and composed a berating, cruel speech, shouted from the canopies of caverns and pinnacles, a dangerous, treacherous snake sinuously winding down their necks. Instead, he stood amidst the swelling darkness, villainously composed, features rendered into reticent marble, bearing the scars of his own successful duel, proud, dominating, supremacy in the Stygian shades, the piercing, puncturing slate of his stare turning to each individual summoned. Deimos, behemoth, monster, and commander of the Basin troops, growled one singular demand, and expected answers from the turbulent, mindless heat of their debacle. “Explain your abysmal performance.”



[A thread for those who defaulted in the Throat/Edge invasion.]

@[Psyche] @[Arah] @[Ulrik] @[Farenjer]