Abhorrent disdain sharpened the potent heresy in his mind, molded the corrupted fixtures in the blighted, pernicious abyss as he watched them trickle in, ashes in the fuming friction of their failure. An intoxicating blow, searing and rearing as fallen triumphs, plastered against flesh and sinew, brewed by the fermented whims of capricious assaults. Had he trained them to inconstant arms in the militia, charging, dodging, then fleeing into the dusk? Had he urged them to become invariable beasts in the horizon, promising, assuring, then rendering hostilities too much, turning away from the cruelties they’d yearned to unleash? Ulrik, maddened and incensed, had perhaps disappointed him the most – one so capable, one so proficient, adept and experienced, shouldn’t have faltered at the glimpse of a leader stumbling. It spoke of the mechanic’s rooted position and certitudes; when things became immeasurable, seemed impossible, he chose to retreat. Would they have been able to gauge a success, had the soldiers gathered not withered and decayed? Would they have been able to conquer, finally notch a triumph next to their names? Would they have shown the world their capabilities, their immoralities, their villainy and violence? And would he, the Reaper, the General, given the same circumstances, done the same? The answer rendered immediately in his cranium, no, for deep into the crux of his licentious creed, treachery, puncturing, lacerating, piercing the enemy was always the forefront of his mind, to ruthlessly guide his power into the dying shield of others, to witness them quickly taken into an quiet demise. The chilling, cold reverie of his stare turned to Ulrik, ears listening to the lashing of his words, towards Psyche, towards the might of nonexistent warriors. His caustic candor followed thereafter, glacial, bereft of feeling or sentiment, phrases dipped in the raw brutality of the battle past. “Your disappearance urged more to follow.” Deimos couldn’t have his patriots choosing to follow the road of retreat, couldn’t have them blindly thwarting each plan he’d calculated and concocted, ruined and obliterated. Their sole occupation was to listen to his command, and not the heralding, the call, of sanctum and serenity. Glory couldn’t be grasped with tails tucked between legs, merciful whimpers or gallant, valorous hearts. He appreciated the solemn of allegiance to him, and only him, but it held no worth if actions spoke louder than words. “I do not doubt your loyalty, but you must prove yourself again.”

The beast’s head inclined towards the others, Arah, Farenjer, and he only fixed the same reticent expression across his features, looked down upon their cowering bodies or their silent acceptance of errant behavior. Excuses given and bestowed, but none of them solidified in his membrane, foolish and inane, inept and idiotic, like witless babes playing battle upon their hilltops – the Basin had been slighted by their pledged, oath-ed citizens, and he wanted a vow, a guarantee, that these fatuous, cowardly actions would not take place again. He looked to each, uttered his decree in the glacial expanse of treachery and animosity. “You will not be permitted to engage in another Basin action until you secure victory in battle.” He refused to send those who lacked conviction, courage or bravery, to another ground they longed to ensnare. Victory couldn’t be taken when individuals, citizens and militants forgot their purpose, strived for only themselves – weren’t his actions always for them? Could they not follow suit?

Psyche’s appearance was a subsequent whirlwind of theatrics Deimos had no interest in participating in. He witnessed her sinuous grind of malice, of menace, of distaste and audacity burning across her lips, spouting and spitting venom, vitriol, towards the mechanic, for all the poison he’d sunk into her prowess and position. The Reaper had never pledged his full allegiance to the mare either, his distorted heart and loyalty sunk deep into the land, stretched into its icy chasms and held the decadence, the depravity, the danger, of its sentiments into the layers of his indifferent flesh. But he held no regard to unveiling his disappointments in her leadership, which had once been formidable, cogent, or unraveling the ghosts of her ineptitude again, not in front of their residents. The damage was done; Ulrik had already voiced his petulance and contempt, inflicting raw damage to the broken carcass, horn and all, upon the Lady. If she wished to prove her might, her dominance, she’d have to bear it again, show her capability for those who’d witnessed her fall. His narrowed stare flicked quickly to the engineer and disappearing femme (what was this – another retreat?), the cool trace of his voice dismissing the layers of exaggerated maiming over the scene. “Discuss this elsewhere.” If she were so willing, so eager, to be rid of them all, it’d be wise to commit actions in the depths of confidence, instead of exposing all the rusted, shattered and splintered remnants of her control, her power, to the public. She allowed emotions to command and sway her direction, and unless she changed and altered the ways of her performance, perhaps her words would ring true.

[To clear up any confusion:
In order to participate in any future Basin battles, campaigns, invasions, etc. Ulrik, Farenjer and Arah must complete a victorious spar. Defaults will not be counted.]