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.