DEIMOS

The Reaper

The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

The eldritch extermination simmering beyond the boughs of their home, far into the reaches of specters and wraiths, damnation and condemnation without a voice, without a soul, without the body and corporeal form to destroy, to annihilate, to unravel and eradicate pulsed at the forefront of his demonic mind. While he swallowed corruption, while he swung and punctured, pierced and harpooned legacies of virtues, while he mauled and left martyrs bleaching in the sun, he existed in physical, tangible threads; chaotic, bedlam innards and infernal strings. This thing beckoning across satanic reveries, according to their soldier, held no beating heart, no taut, rigid flesh, no lungs, no air seeping from its eerie mouth. Naught, but entangled infidels with an unknown existence and desire, yearning for wickedness, filtering and flowing throughout the lands. The mighty, the resolute, the battle-hardened and beastly, ferocious and monstrous, the winter Lord, the Siberian ruler, the icy, statuesque monarch, would not allow some foreign, barbaric soul entomb and sepulcher his world, his land, his followers and patriots. Though he would feverishly stand alone, a solo cretin, a terrifying menace, against the currents, against the gallows, against the chains and oubliettes seeking to conquer and consign them to oblivion, reality settled across his brow, into the hardened, stony mettle – he couldn’t manage without assistance.

Illynx’s plans echoed, formulated and cajoled for those capable of wielding crafts. He accompanied as the severe commander, though inept with tools not involving bloodshed or war, he could still manage to supply information, support and contribute wherever they needed a strong body, a warrior’s finesse or blackguard’s prowess. As crafters and weavers molded their frames into the threshold, he paid them due respect, a firm nod, acceptance of their capabilities, trust in their skill, expertise and ability. Fending off the heathen aspects should be a fit contrast to their prior wiles - for so long they harbored and brewed animosity, and to suddenly have an acrimonious breath beating down their spines was a curious alteration. It heightened his awareness, his loyalty, his devotion to the pervading grounds of glaciers and frost, of treachery and deceit, specious beauty, and if their longings were etched and sketched correctly, remaining unfettered, unperturbed, still, silent, the chilling opus. With his cold, commanding candor, his voice slunk into the reaches of their doldrums, knowledge passed into the depths of desecration; necessity bowing into the thick, swelling layers of deception clouding and crawling across the bog, the marsh, inching closer and closer. “The Spectral Marsh harbors an unknown, evil force. We seek to guard our perimeters by increasing patrols and fortifying borders.” He paused, perilous gaze glancing towards Illynx for scarce, few moments, permitting her to supply further wisdom upon the impending words unfolding along his tongue. “There are plans for sentinel statues. We request your aid in crafting these creatures.”