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.]