Loyalty was an eternal light amongst his boundless, Stygian shadows, his body had been their deadly munitions, his carcass had been their soldierly forbearance, his skeleton and enchantments had been their arms, alms and animosity, wild, barbaric and brutal, a chiseled, archaic sculpture of sedition and splendor, of decadence and licentiousness. He’d been a knife cutting and carving into the flesh of their enemies, he’d been a storm brewing for their horizon, he’d been the butcher to pluck feathers from skulls and pride from hearts. He’d committed the actions of his people, of his brethren, of his Lord and Lady and their absentee mouths, schemed and maimed, ripped and torn, for the silent, unsung generations to come, had protected, guarded, secured and sundered for the yearning, for the longing, of fiendish whim and caprice. The feverish roar of Illynx, with her banshee requiems and ferocious laments, for her beloved Psyche were concocted and composed through layers of incomprehension. The former Empress had been unharmed, strewn and sinuous, asp and venom flying, spewing across the vicious tirade and turbulence of her own undoing, of her own upheaval, but the only harm lacquered across her brow had been a broken horn, a cataclysm wrought from battles not gestured from his form. If she thought of Psyche as weak, as feeble and infirm, as fragile and unaware, then she did her memory no credit. The GildedBlade’s criticism was an unfounded, inept quandary, a flickering, floundering denouncement, and the confidence, the assurance, the composure and calm, impassive, statue reticence failed to fade away from his marble countenance. His claim only rose further when Huyana, suddenly a storm, and Arah, the ivory impersonator, spoke of his vigilance, his allegiance and adherence. Were his few virtues so readily forgotten by a creature who’d thrived and benefitted from their actions, their reliability and devotion? He parted his jaw, leaned close towards the golden mare’s ear, chiseled finality into the chilling, glacial precision of his words, irritated by the stupidity of her exploits (who shows weakness, sedition and brewing maelstroms to their kingdom, to their empire?), a perilous, grinding whisper. “Cease displaying your ignorance.” The piercing juncture of his eyes slid over the gathered forces, the dwindled army, the throng of mishap and failed invasions. He’d deliver them assurance of their previous Queen, but no more. If they sought her frame, they were free to wander into the marshes, veils and shades, allowing the boom of his grating, demanding, cool apathy drain over the din. “No harm fell to the previous Empress.”

Usually a satanic webbing of chaos, the beast conceded when they required support, faithfulness and commitment, dedication to a cause spiraling into the depths of desecration. Instead of reeling into her ploys, her further, spitting regards were ignored, and he took his turn listening, attending to the compatriots united and tied to the bounty of previous phrases. To Huyana, now Oracle amidst the cascading derision and scorn of their world, he gave a simple nod, a hushed congratulations, and to his daughter, a subtle smirk, fleeting and unwinding, reserved for only her sight, then gone, vanished as he proceeded to the next set of vocals. Arah, whom he’d trained, whom he’d battled amongst, whom he’d seen time and time again honor her valiancy by tossing her frame into their frays, received a deep chasm of respect, and he collected her reliability with another silent display of humility, a gesture of his powerful cranium, imparting his strength upon hers. Torleik spoke next, and he remembered the soldier he and the Engineer had recruited amongst the Threshold, nonchalant and brooding, apprehensive and almost unwilling, suddenly poised and interested in the Reaper’s prior position. His hardened gaze considered the stag for a moment, the recent wounds – had he spilled blood for them, and he, death and Lord, had been unaware of the threat? Had Torleik demonstrated his usefulness through enigmatic pulses and pulls? A short, curt, terse proclamation followed, intrigued, perplexed, and pondering. “Your candidacy is acknowledged. May you prove your strength.” Would Torleik be a suitable warlord, driven to annihilate, persecute and unravel the flailing empires beyond their walls?

The notion was an curious image, and as he continued, to a beast he didn’t recognize, the behemoth realized the impact he’d made across the lands had been more of malice, menace, vehemence and distortion; corruption for Kings and Queens to wield, instead of knowing and recalling the tempest’s name, Deimos, demise and death entangled, enraptured, enticed. But the stag yearned for diplomacy, and while the monster had been granted many gifts, ambassador provisions were not one of them. To offer the right to another would assure his time would not be wasted upon petty arguments and treaties, and he’d be free to orchestrate the drills of war and the pending, savage bombardments of their valor, of their potency and mastery. “Give me your name, comrade, and you shall become a politician.” The nurse, Lena, followed, and he recalled her loyalty, her junctures into invasions, her recruitments and mending measures; and though she yearned for another consul whole, the essential ties of her mending, assuaging bestowals left him with little choice. “We cannot lose your value as a healer. However, please provide aid as necessary.”

Already conversing far more than he had in many seasons, Deimos progressed to the centaur, a beast he’d accepted for knowledge, curiosity and machinations – the ideas, the notions, the calculations the strange-armed cretin could offer were worth the oddity and anomaly of his image slinking across the Basin. Reinforcements and fortitudes to their caves were an interesting, appealing topic, and he crossed into it with stratagems and tactics spinning their meticulous, diligent webs amongst his malicious mind. “What do you suggest?” A spotted Scholar approached, speaking of more caverns, and despite having plenty of them, the avaricious enmity of his callous cravings leant to more exploration, to more intrigue and possibilities. “You may examine them further. Take another with you.” It would benefit them more to have the endless bounty of information at their hooves, at their daggers, of secret, specious runes uncovered and ensnared. Finally, it seemed his speech would subsume and be rendered into silence, for as Roland, another impersonator, slunk into the region, granting naught but the appearance of his devotion, the Reaper quieted, allowed for the conversations to continue, the promise of advancement, of supremacy, of dominance, to spring into the gulley of their glaciers.


[Feel free to respond to questions, concerns, rank things, i.e. if anyone is willing to go with Frost Fyre and come back with info, if anyone has any other crafting ideas, etc. If you have not posted, you may still come in to provide your insight, ideas, or notion for ranks.

I would like to have this closed by November 25th. Post order is a lie. :DD]

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.