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.