While the world slept, Lothíriel wandered.

She had slipped past the threshold of her mother's cave with resolve and caution, every step further away from her dam's side, a stride closer to freedom. Spindly legs had taken her down the winding mountain paths she had committed to memory solely for this night, following a trail of stars as she wound down to the valley and the lake, shimmering with ethereal light. Her eyes turned heavenward to watch the play of color which had been so bright during the night of her birth, and did she did not feel afraid or guarded, but at peace; tranquil, as if nothing could lessen the beauty of this night.

The filly moved onward.

In time, she reached the Basin, cool but tired despite the balmy night. Lush grass tickled her pasterns as she contemplated her next move: Lothíriel did not mean to disobey Mother, but curiosity had egged her on to explore the world at night. Insects buzzed and chirped, a glittering caravan of light-bugs clustering around her; settling in her mane, on her horn, until she seemed half a goddess. She smiled—yes, this was well worth the risk of getting caught.

Through a color-lit world she strode through, encouraged by the summer warmth and dancing lights above her. A pleasant wind brushed through the wisps of her growing pale mane, causing the bugs to scatter into the breeze. She did not feel desolate in this loneliness—nay, rather the contrary; the wonders of the night filled her with awe, with fascination, leaving no room for hard-wrought feelings. She closed her eyes and sighed, savoring this delicious moment.

But something was amiss.

Eyes opened, and Lothíriel sniffed softly: her suspicions were confirmed. There was a stranger in their midst; she could discern its abnormality from the sweet, clean smell of the Basin and all its inhabitants. There was a new question posed to her: should she retreat? Should she reveal her suspicions to Mother? Or should she confront this intruder by her lonesome, so vulnerable to attacks?

It did not take much contemplation.

Within moments, an inky form sliding through the half-lit darkness was evident, but there was something irrevocably strange about this stranger. She watched him in silence for a time, comfortably swathed in the night, though the pallor of her hair, the faint glitter of her eyes and the brightness of her half-grown horn would have easily given her away. The girl could not say what made this stranger so strange; she narrowed her eyes and studied him. He had no horn. He had no horn. Lothíriel could have gasped. Mother had told her about these creatures, though she had described them with a fondness and gentleness that the filly could not sum up at this moment. Her tail gave a contemplative swish, and she found herself moving toward him. There was a certain graveness to her features which seemed so misgiving to its youthful, delicate features, the swirling colors of the borealis dancing through her eyes. Pale night-flowers sprung in her wake, leaving a glowing trail which underlined the child's otherworldly appeal. She approached him. "You have no horn," Lothíriel observed coolly. It was not unheard of that a unicorn may lose a horn in battle, though they were often shunned as others, as untouchables. The girl paused, wary of this nighttime intruder. "You're not supposed to be here."

& when she walks, her footsteps sing a reckless serenade.

Piquant portrait of a pernicious predator pursued the unfamiliar scent wafting through his kingdom, strange, foreign, and it ignited, incised, the hostility, the acrimony, the animosity, the fuel of his hatred, his loathing. Contempt in a vicious haze boiled and brewed against his senses, pervaded and pummeled his frame, swindled and barbed the containment of his motions so that they were mere echoes of abhorrence, moving contortions of wrath, ire and ferocity. What drove the inept here over and over again? Did they long for the touch, the taste, scintillating, smoldering relish of treachery? Did they enjoy the feeling of corruption, of damnation, of death and demise slinking over their bones, into their lungs, across their veins? Did they desire the contamination of their ignorance seeping into their membranes, where reality slunk and slithered them into an untimely grave? Did they already have a reserve of catacombs, and simply waited for the hour of their quietus, chosen by their own hand? Did they harbor ambitions of exploration, driven to curiosity and inquisition, dabbling into labyrinths and enigmas? Or was it sheer stupidity, wandering amongst the temples of ignorance, blasphemous, audacious and idiotic, foolishly stumbling to chambers unknown, pressing their witless hooves into the columns and palaces of stronger, sturdier empires?

A hollowed, hallowed void, he followed the entrails, the innards, of the outsider, carving, crooning, sculpting severity in each nefarious step, in each sinister stride, mauling, distorting, harpooning mutiny and sedition into the diabolical chains of his movement. Would this newcomer fall just as hard as the last trespassers – cracked and broken, a combination of inanity and brazen, impudent, presumptuous hags, one devoured and swallowed, consumed and unraveled, by the brutality, the barbarity of his invocations. He’d commit the same actions for protection, for security, for sanctuary of his brethren, and the brimming, scathing insurrection of his malice, of his menace, bending and tearing, ripping and maiming, until they never crawled out of the world they’d crossed – sequestered and planted into the soil, dead, forgotten, renounced and abandoned to the glaciers. Like his Siberian world, the stoic, impassive reticence of his features cast an iron shade along his unattainable presence; the Reaper with his scythe and scepter, eager to swing both into the heart of his opponent. Loth’s appearance only heightened his perilous, ominous existence, to shield her from the nature of folly and foolishness, and as he marched across the plains, he drew himself in front of her tiny form, extended the deep resonance of his grating vocals to the dark stag staining his sovereignty with incomprehension, depth or ability of thought. The demand, the command, hissed through his clenched jaw, the precarious, piercing depths of his baleful, minatory stare penetrated the ghosts of fallen mortals past, pledged immorality through the incredulous upheaval. “Leave.” Following thereafter was a ripple, an alteration, an abomination, crawling from his frame, unleashed, longing to ravish, to ravage, to paralyze, convict and devastate, unsung, unholy, feral desecration, intertwining across the land, reaching towards the infidel’s feet. Death guarding the front doors, a silent, chilling opus, a satanic canvas of maelstroms, execution and slaughter, chasing away the cobwebs of the imbecile’s indiscretions.

[Deimos is sending his death magic towards Konstantin.]

'Of course I don't,' he replied, mystified, as if were the most normal thing to lack such an important component. Did he miss a heart as well, a liver, a stomach? The world is endless in its wonders, Mama had once told her, perhaps in an attempt to pacify her daughter's fast-forming ideas into temperance and tolerance. Lothíriel thought about it: but the world is also boundless in all its terrors and maladies. She frowned. He turned completely to face her. But what a daft thing to say, she thought, as Papa's shadow emerged from the nighttime. Her sire's form swiveled between them, an insurmountable wall between the girl and the unknown. In a way, she was glad for this, but the yearning for knowledge of this creature's breed made her uneasy. He did not seem happy, and the sentiment was perfectly clear—leave.

This was the first time Lothíriel would ever comprehend the complete imperium of her father's ability.

It happened in a heartbeat: there was a rush of dark energy, and suddenly the intruder began to wobble, careening dangerously backward and leaving a patch of dead grass where it once grew lush. With a detached curiosity far beyond her years, Lothíriel ducked her head to watch this spectacle beneath the line of her father's belly, eyes wide with wonder. "Papa," she whispered,"will he die?" It was unclear to her whether she wished it upon this stranger or not, but if her father thought it right, then the filly would not question it further. Two things were clear to her in that moment: that she was boundlessly proud of this talent of her father's, and that the hornless, the intruders, the others deserved to bend their knees.

What was that for? he demanded. The girl frowned—were all such creatures so dull? Mother's compassion and grace must be far beyond the reach of her own if she ever sought to love them all. He looked so bare without the benefit of a crown upon his brow, and his dark tail seemed like untamed brush. Her frown grew deeper; she did not reply to him in the case that her father might have wiser things to say, but the question seemed obvious. He was an invader—one without a horn, no less; wasn't that the way of things, the natural order?

& when she walks, her footsteps sing a reckless serenade.

Insolence and impertinence never drew favors from the Reaper’s bestowal. Instead, they fueled the flames of his fervor, of his fury, of the arms and alms cursed, blessed, seeping into his veins and promising the dregs, the dredges, of humanity to linger, crushed, beneath his hooves. Ferocious munitions, satanic, nefarious, diabolical calculations and abominations slunk, slithered and crawled along his chest, intertwined with the mass of brutality tied infernally to his wicked, specious mind, brewing, festering, unwinding and unraveling as the cretin stayed, idiotic, caustic and trenchant. Deimos had been brought up not to underestimate the potential of others, to pursue, study, examine the strength, the diligence, the faculty and capacity of another – but this one seemed to have little to no matter contained within his minute membrane. The stranger shuffled away, weak, shivering, quaking, feeling the rush of death but not abiding by its warning, by its command, by the hedonistic display of the Lord’s meticulous necromancy, and his ire flared once more, as if the tombs of stupidity rolled over and over again into an endless cycle of anomalies and nonsense. How many times had someone trudged upon their borders, brazen, hostile, creeping amongst the corridors as if they were entitled, belonged to the icy thresholds? What had they done to earn the right, the reputation, to sear, to smolder, to herald demons from their caverns, from their peaks and pinnacles? What drove them to insane acts, to dangle their lives so perilously over the gaps of the wilderness, over the villainous opus of their iniquitous ambrosia? Why couldn’t they heed omens, forebodings, augured oaths? Did they believe he wouldn’t enact or impart upon them? If actions invoked eloquence, Deimos was the most fluent and articulate of them all – betraying naught across the void, the expanse, of his features but the reticent recherché of a terrible, horrible beast, the monster haunting the threshold of his kingdom, promising, the choking, smothering, suffocating chords of his unholy manifestation.

The interloper deserved no sympathy, no empathy, no volley of queries or questions harked from his grating breath, and he was only offered the barest sibilance dragged from his lips. “You are trespassing.” He proceeded closer, advanced, supremacy, domination, pressing deeper, across the languished depths of blades and grass torn away from their livelihoods, ensuring he’d commit the meticulous, deliberate contortions and distortions again, drowning the wake of morality with the artful elegance of his sins, his licentious barbarity. A predator, a wolf, a vulture, a carnivore sprung from the sectors of his loathing, his contempt, his revulsion, a hot knife, a sinister blade, a rapier and sword plucked by Mephistopheles’ hands, inclining forward, until he seemed naught more than a few breaths away, strands of life sinking into the fathoms of one moron’s idiocy. The irreverent, depraved enchantments uncoiled again, merciless, ruthless, relentless, ghosting in a silent, hushed throng, maniacal, feverish, wanton and longing for his skin to simmer, for his flesh to boil, for his bones to crumple and waste away in the chilling, vicious wind. They advanced, grasping, crawling hands of the devil, Lucifer’s fingertips bewitching, alluring, beguiling the victim to an early grave, left to rot, to wither, to decay in the final finesse of cold-blooded anarchy, apathetic derision, impassive supremacy. Only Loth, his bold, intelligent child, received another remark before the curling, curving ministrations of his magic was sent upon the beast again. Will he die? “If he refuses to leave.” A haunting, hushed lullaby of execution whispered along the grounds, crooned its calamity, murmured its malevolence, and embarked along another journey to the intruder’s frame.

A R A H

I never live in the past like the forsaken.

Voices, they were angry and causing. Ears perked as they caught the sound waves, interest was also captured. Frowning, the ivory doe began to change her course. Long slender legs carried her through the Basin, to where the sounds did not echo but began. What had caused upset to plague her homeland today? Continuing down the frosty land, Arah was cautious and creeping along as quietly as possible. It there was anger then she probably did not need to concern herself with other personal conversations...only the closer she got to the voices the closer she got to the borders of The Basin. Assuming that a trespasser had been caught, the mare intended to make this intrusion her business. So she arrived and immeadtly recognised Deimos, the Lord of The Basin. Beside him was his daughter, while Arah did know know this at first she heard the little girl say papa. A smile crept along her lips, maybe death's friend had a soft side after all.

Eyes turned to sweep over the intruder, angry that this stallion clearly had no respect for the boundaries or the social lines that would should dare to cross. Already the smell of death hung thickly in the air, Deimos was using his gift. Apparently nothing was holding but her Lord unleashing his full potential. Standing next to the awesome power that was her lord, Arah began to wake the magic with inside herself. The Basin did not have time for intruders, especially those that did not belong here. If you did not have a horn, you would not be granted access to The Basin. The entire population of Helovia knew it. Feeling the magic gather up inside her, the spy of The basin smirked at the one who had stupidly thought to enter her homeland. "It would have been wise to turn around straight away..." Her voice was gentle polite. "Never mind that now, I'll escort you out."

Stepping closer the mare unleashed her newly found magic. Her eyes burned bright and her smirk did not falter. Most would have laughed at the idea of Arah escorting people away. There was little the intruder could do, when she grasped him with her magic's grip his mind became her prisoner. With complete control over one's mind they become nothing more than her puppet. "Lord Deimos, and my Lady, you may accompany us if you wish."

Turning her full attention the the stallion again, Arah gently whispered into his mind, magic seizing control, for how long...well she could only guess. 'Turn around and walk away. You want to leave us be.' He should be able to fight her, after all she did not belong in his mind. Arah wondered if his natural defences would be what pushed her out of his mind eventually, or if he would simply just take control of himself again. Narrowing her eyes, Arah tried her best to keep control, but the threat of being pushed out constantly lurked in her mind. 'You don't want to be here' she whispered trying to sound strong and confident, her goal was to keep control so he turned around and walked away.

" "
529 words.
[Drawing by aeolle]

Evidence of his callous cruelty, of his infidel iniquity, of his infernal immorality, of his power and domination and chilling, apathetic features were rendered in the cold, hushed sweep of a fallen body. Protection and damnation, corruption and blackguard munitions, smoking invocations strangling the errant atmosphere, choking, gliding hands, satanic, diabolical stratagems, pulsing, pulling, suffocating until the press of his indifference was solidified in the haunting effigy of the still, silent figure. The puncturing slit of his gaze fixated upon the crumbling, staggering form, the witness, the cause, the gallows and scythe, the executioner and monster. It was gratifying, to watch the faltering, flickering audacity of the inept crash, wither, decay, become one with the tomb he’d dug for himself. If the Reaper could have composed the same action, the same image, the same obliteration and elimination of each weak being doubting them, threatening them, and wandering down the corridors and halls of their glacial kingdom, the grounds would simmer and smolder beneath the weight of his animosity. He’d murder, maul, tear, shred, and mutilate in an eternal cycle, watch the world burn around him, to secure this kingdom, to shelter the waves of bounty and power, to restore a legacy of supremacy, of authority, of potency, dragging the rest of the earth beneath his hooves until he heard their bones snap, their flesh warp, their bodies heave one last, shaking, wavering sigh, the final, pressing breath escaping into a numb void. Even as they filtered into his lands, one by one, idiocy, ignorance, dunce ruminations and reveries cloistered and held between thickened skulls, he’d wage his brutality into the nefarious heartlines of his Machiavellian abhorrence, show, display, the armor, the strength, the futility and fortitude of the Basin. He’d be the sword, the rapier, the cutlass, pressed against throats, slicing across sinew, the throne and the crown, suppressing, enduring, cutting into the chords of the divine, the righteous, the reverent and the reposed. The figure in the grass, lucky to escape the press of death, of demise, of the finale following quietus, tombstones and hallowed voids, would perhaps realize the culmination of his antics – that in another moment, another time, it would happen again – end the same way, with his corpse decaying in the sun and silence.

He held no desire to keep the beast amongst their caverns, their prisons, their dungeons and oubliettes. Too many times had he held captives to no true avail; for messages, for trespassing, for all their chiming, lunatic nonsense, and in the end, they’d only escaped, pled, whined and gave motive to their lands. The behemoth was not forgiving, not merciful or lenient, but visualized no need to continue housing the interloper. Were Crowley, Ulrik or perhaps even D’art around, he’d bestow them the opportunity for torture – but with only his daughter and Arah, heedlessly devoted to partake in guarding their walls, the venture would be pointless. The Impersonator likely held no regard in torment or persecution, and so the measures of his calculations were sculpted in removing the trespassed carcass from their home. If he’d had the Centaur nearby, he could ask the strange beast to toss it over a cliff, down into the rubble, across stones and peaks and the sudden, swift stop, but the option was not there either. He tilted his head towards the body for a few moments, considered, ruminated, pondered and wondered. The grate of his vocals, to Arah, to his daughter to ensure she understood their ambitions (but certainly not warranting her assistance; she would only be a spectator), flooded into the virile hiss of the malevolent tides, the vexing, frustrating webs clambering amongst their icy sheen. “Drag him?” A query to ensure the ivory femme’s support, to command the situation with his pernicious tongue – the only option remaining beneath the threads of violence and anarchy sauntered into his malicious contempt and he nearly smiled, for they could always leave him to die.

A R A H

I never live in the past like the forsaken.

As the stag fell to his knees, Arah frowned. That could not be her magic effecting him...could it? She didn't have the ability to hurt people with her mind control...unless she told them to inflict damage on themselves. Suddenly the stag gave out all the way, collapsing to the ground in a troubling heap. Taken aback the ivory mare wasn't sure how to react. "It can't be my magic..." a whisper intended only for herself. Her golden orbs were still staring down at his form, however the will for her magic to take effect was fading. Carefully, she began to release the stallion from her magical grasp. The doe was gentle in the withdrawal of her presence within him. After all it wouldn't do to leave the stallion as a bumbling heap, who, for the rest of his life, was never able to speak coherently again.
If her magic was effecting him psychically, then who knew what damage it could do.

When she was fully free of his tentative mind, the mare glared down at his dark form, angry that she was not able to control him the way she had wished. The mind control was still very new to her and this was the first time she had used it. Perhaps in time she would gain a better understanding of how to control those around her. Angrily Arah tossed her head, and continued to glare down at the black stallion that was clearly going to be the bane of her existence today. Magic had never failed her before, was she weak because she could not control this intruder? "He won't move, I can't get him to listen, I'm not sure if he understands." The doe looked over to Deimos, an apology written all over her face. Then she glances to The Reapers daughter, she hoped the younger filly didn't think too unkindly of her failure here today.

The Lord of The Basin spoke to her, his tone made her laugh. Perhaps dragging the annoyance away from their home and psychically forcing him to leave would be much more fun anyway. The white doe flicks her eyes back to Deimos and grins at him. "Drag him." Moving to stand beside the collapsed stag, Arah smirked down at his useless legs. It's so unfortunate that he had been stupid enough to wonder into their lands, in the end though, it was him who would end up having a horrible day. Her eyes stared down at him for a little while longer, a smirk still caressing her lips. Drag him. Raising her crowned head to look at her lord again, Arah pauses and waits in silence. As one who never had commanded others, The Impersonator waited for him to direct her. After all, she had never dragged another living being before.

But this should be fun.

" "
So sorry, RL has been really busy.
476 words.
[Drawing by aeolle]

The intruder continued to prove his worthlessness, lying amongst the frosty ground in silent, serene repose, fixated and staying in his strangled, smothered, inert state. The notion to simply end the trespasser, watch as his form was stolen of all breath, of all existence, of all presence, robbed, absconded, entombed by ice and shards of contempt, crossed over his mind, remained a tempting idea. He’d be allowed to rot, wither and decay in the chilling Siberia, clawed and picked over by roaming scavengers, a vultures’ dream, bones bleached, dried, acrid and as inane as his actions, a constant reminder of stupidity allowed to desecrate their kingdom, ravaged and pillaged until his heart ceased its ignorant beating. A skeleton of the decrepit, of the ineffectual, of the fatuous, of the asinine, rubble and ruin conformed to eternity in their relentless, merciless labyrinth: a threshold, an empire secured, distorted, and still notoriously savage. Arah’s agreement with his prior plan was the idiot’s only salvation, and he spent the next few moments expanding the solution within his barbaric mind. Stepping toward the fallen creature, precise, supreme, dominating, bestial, ferocious and unwinding, he towered over its forlorn form, and even now, considered how easily it would to crush its skull. One raised hoof, one puncturing, lacerating bout of power, one simmering, seething motion, and the execution would be complete – but then he saw Loth, flickering on the sidelines, too young, too vibrant, too innocent to be fully initiated into the hellhole of their designs. The scheme filtered away with a discontent sigh, and he lowered his cranium to study their quarry. A smooth command flowed from his scathing lips, followed by a gesture of his heathen head towards the Impersonator. “The tail.” He started near the interloper’s crest, ensnaring his ivory dentals around a massive hunk of mane (if any were pulled in the movement, he didn’t care), waiting for Arah’s stance and position before advancing, tugging, heaving and tugging towards the borders. With any luck, the collapsed form would send a message to passerbys – they were not to be underestimated, time and time again, over and over, that their merciless contortions would continue to erupt, boil over, seethe and simmer until their abilities, motives and power was recognized. Those that trifled with the Basin learned to regret their exploits, for their icy world, their frozen kingdom, their glacial, unfaltering sovereignty, failed to forgive or forget.

A R A H

I never live in the past like the forsaken.

The Lord inspected the fallen form and she waited. Patiently, silently and obediently, after all, Arah did not lead here. She had publicly chosen Deimos as her leader and of course she would stick to her word...but as the old saying went, actions speak louder than words. It was not long before Deimos made up his mind, her golden eyes rested on him. The tail, of course she would have the lovely honour of the black stallion's ass in her face. Smirking at the thought, the ever dutiful mare moved to the rear of the collapsed annoyance. Watching Deimos in front of her lead by example, she hastened to follow, gathering the stallion's tail up into her mouth. She wasn't partially tender, holding him by the base of the tail, where his bones sat underneath.

Making sure that she had a firm grasp of the intruder, then they began to move. Deimos tugged and she pushed, shoved, attempted to propel the stag forward while mentally cursing the extra fat that may have gathered on the stallion's body. Still, the mare did not complain to the Leader, she would not be weak in front of the Lords' eyes. Instead she maintained a steady and complimentarily string of curses. Stupid ass in face...should have just listened to mind control....ass in face...bloody asshat of an intruder.

Pushing until they reached a good distance from the border, the Ivroy doe spat the broken strands of hair out of her mouth. They fluttered back down to their owner, her anger shone brightly in her golden eyes. "What a pain in our asses." Apparently it was a day full of asses. Arah knew that Deimos was not one to make cheerful conversations and the mere thought that he might banter with her nearly caused a wave of hysterics. Still gazing down at the form of the intruder, the ivory mare considered removing key bits of this memory. That would surely create some entertainment, but it would also be cruel and Arah was not so barbaric.

Turning a back to the collapsed form, Arah glanced to Deimos. "Will you accompany me back to The Basin? Or do you have pressing matters to attend to?" OF COURSE he has pressing matters to attend to you idiot...he's the freaking lord of The Basin. Gods...you're so stupid sometimes. A chilly breeze blew past, it whipped her light mare around her ankles. Embarrased by her rather stupid question, The ivory mare avoided any potential eye contact with The Lord of The Basin.

" "
427 words.
[Drawing by aeolle]

Heeding his decision, Impersonator and King drew lines in the frost, heaved and tugged, hauled and lugged portions and pieces of wasted, inept flesh. Had D’art or Crowley been there, mocking, laughing, choking down bits of sardonic, trenchant, mordant atrocities, he may have asked them to allow their Hellhounds a mighty feast. They sorely lacked either Weaver or Doctor, and so he and his loyal constituent were forced to convey the foolish sculpting and molding of giving an idiotic carcass a final chance at life. The ideas of simply ending all the actions altogether, shoving one serrated edge of his sword into its throat, chest, or barrel, burying his daggers over and over again into shards of cracked bone, or even tracing the whispering bombardments of his necromancy once more continued reappearing, stronger with each dragging motion concocted and driven. If Arah had not been there, and only his precious Loth breathing in the midst, he may have been forced to conduct any of those prior inclinations, and so when they finished, leaving an unconscious fool to the heresy of chill and treachery, he acknowledged her with a steady, firm nod, a quiet, grateful measure of his vocals. “Thank you.” If the vocals were too hushed, too inaudible amongst the mountains, he did not press for anymore, or bestow their honor twice, cold gaze fixated back along the borders, tiny Loth measured in the distance. The Reaper refused to participate in the attempts of lighthearted banter, such attempts would be easy songs and ditties for others amongst their brethren, concentrated upon the stretch of land, their kingdom, their home, and how many times he’d have to guard their icy palace. Only when Arah managed to gesture a series of queries did his sinister stare manage to bend back towards her ivory form, formulate a nod to her first. They’d return to the Basin, to the Auroras, to the rimed, frosty land that remembered the price of their glorious steps, that rekindled and stoked the fibers of his strength, of his demonic, infidel inspirations time and time again. He’d conduct his villainy, his violence, until the glacial fell apart and he was left immersed, destroyed, buried in its old, glacial walls.