Restoration is brought upon cleft argentate hooves and tenebrous, briny oculus, as if he had not marooned the vicinity as one may pluck tick's from a mutt's flesh and toss them into endless abyss. The important thing is that he has been brought back to that which he has slaved with meticulous air at.
There is flourishing coppice and absinthian upon his tongue - the only good thing coming from his endeavors righteous kin, a cinereal feather tied with crude work into mane (he wishes it upon his cloak - and yet it was difficult enough with the aide of a stranger from another land and the convincing actions taken beforehand to get it anywhere in his frame) which shall be remedied with the assistance of a Weaver if the Basin remains upon all pillars as he had last left it. Ah - but in his lapse of concentration he has blown over the memory of the last thing that promised superb celestial blessings from a world of snow and frost. Arah.

Beginning tendrils of endearment creep upon icy sinew (like the spring blast across winter fields) in recapture of creamy skin and aureate pearls - brutish rack's adding only to the mere splendor of the woman who had come before him. He would allow no mere filth to touch the hem of the woman's flesh, for she had been divine in every right, merged with infectious exuberance and a song akin to morning birds (she lacked all the horrific feathers, too).
As these thoughts came to and fro, Crash frowned upon the realization that, in his unexpected absence (he himself is not quite sure where he has gone and perhaps he has been drugged) rats of the sky and Earth alike may have groveled at her hooves and marred, ripped a glass frame into submission. I hate them. The hornless ones.
It rings through his mind as a torrent of arctic waves - shame and regret bubbling within a raging core. I've returned.

He has come to pause atop a hill, a pool of freezing liquids (he does not doubt it will be icy to the touch, the chill of autumn pervades with brute force) below a thirsting jaw, mouth dry with sickened apprehension and misgivings. I've returned.
Crash does not notice he's spoken it aloud - dazed and low toned, careless of the consequences and aftermath his voice may bring, starving predators he does not know exist, and that is when he sees it.

It has been a fueled belief (with ease) that the hornless and feathered filth of landscapes and airways have been corrupted and diseased with inbreedings between beast and equine (the hornless have evolved past nothing and the feathered have come into existence by equines who dawdled with birds too long whilst hormones rage within their guts) - always a demand within his mind that he is superior and his kin are superior and they are the divines set to rule foolhardy mongrels that should bow beneath his hooves, he did not expect them to have gotten any more doltish then they had already been.
He was wrong. He was also wrong when he thought feathered could get no worse then this.

It's a pitiful thing, decay evident in rotted flesh, hanging limp from a emancipated frame as if the monster before him has had little to devour in its loathsome existence. Yellowed bone peeks from within ripped and bloodied sides, intestines laid barren from within a husk of a outershell (its colon hangs limp from a tear in its left side), there is something green and sickly strewn across its battered, hideous bodice, its lower jaw absent from its facial features. A milky white orb examines him with what seems to be a hungry stare, attracted by what little noise he has made, and he resists the urge to throw what he has in his stomach out unto the ground in repulsion of what he sees before him. The right hangs by a strip of loose nerve - a mangled wing attached to its withers, feathers wilting and drooping away to reveal blood and cartilage.
The most bothersome element of the situation is that the monster is no more than a mere babe.

For what seems to be ions - Crash does not respond. He does not move, expression fixed in a mix of horror and distaste at the abomination that presents itself to him (it is groaning something unintelligent that he does not focus on remembering) and stumbles up the hill toward him. The sounds come out disfigured - somewhere within its throat, and it becomes apparent that the lack of jaw has stripped a vital element of a equines (any equines) skull.
It does not have a tongue.
It doesn't have a tongue.

"What th-"
And then it launches itself toward him, a mad scramble for cannibalistic meat (the tendons in the creatures pillars gleam red).
He does not have time to sneer and curse - for drool salivates down a nonexistent tongue and what in the name of all that is living has sent this demon forth from the clutches of Abbadon himself?

He does the thing that comes most natural.
With a stay in his side he dances and whirls - the broad exposure of his rump is faced towards the demon - and then those same cleft hooves have turned into weapons and the front of his frame has lowered to raise the hind.
He hears bone crunch instead of see them. He feels the collision of a small frame thrown from his (the thud of rotten flesh is the worst of noises) and then there is a resounding thud as it's frame hits Earth and splashes into water (he won't be drinking that now, thanks).
And yet as soon as hooves hit solid dirt once more and he turns to observe what he assumes to be a dead thing- it is moving again and attempting to rise and shock ricochets through his system.
Kill it - a wild glaze has entered into his eyes - kill the abomination and he is cantering downhill horn, neck and dome dipped low and the demon raises itself to attempt a turn towards him as he hits.
There's a smack and a sliding noise of wet organs against the brunt force of a knife - it hits it's neck and he feels it slide through the other side - and then he is ripping and yanking and its skull is hanging limp as a child's toy.
A gurgle of blood is the only noise from it's throat - there is vermilion on his horn and vermilion on his chest because it has splattered against his obsidian and alabaster coat - there's bloodthirst in his bones and as his head raises again he rears.

A crunch of bones and a snap of a spine is sounded as a bugle throughout the Threshold. A maniacal laugh is coming up from his lungs and extending out from his maw - it's deep and the sensation of battle sends adrenaline coursing through his veins. There's wriggling and it's pressed into the ground but he doesn't stop crushing and beating and he finds that same wedge he found so many years ago - there's feathers in his mouth and he yanks and it comes loose with the overwhelming scent of a rotten corpse.

Everything goes dandy from there.
By the time he has gotten done with the pathetic excuse for a creation, red dribbles down his chest and his front pillars and back pillars and croup - there's red staining his belly and his hooves and a thirst has been quenched deep within his pounding heart. Squelching noises come from the pressure of hooves on intestines spewed across the ground - there's a pulverised head and brain juice is splattered across his iron shield and tch.

This is when a smile creeps across his face - macabre as it appears - there's a trickle of blood from his mug.
"Ah." Vocals have constricted into something deep and dangerous and dark. There's a raspy sound that comes from chords that haven't been used in a long time. It's exhausted from laughing.
"Thanks for the welcoming committee."

He'll have to wash that filth off his hooves soon.
In the mean time - he'll deal well enough.

The consequence of the Devil's strivings were meager in comparison of the marvelous feat accomplished all those eons ago - when a flecked (and wretched) woman teetered off the edge and into the deranged, when the aftermath of his accomplishments had been a bloodied, decapitated wing at his hooves, quivering akin to a fresh fish caught and forced unto land.
Even with this knowledge in mind— it has been centuries since Crash had been contrived to safeguard himself from the like of the avian filth; and never by the hands of a soulless mutation of one at that. Entrapped within the sensation of bloodshed and strife once more, perspiration running in rivulets down his spine to his stomach and dribbling from his chest. Lungs heaving— adrenaline having turned his very veins aflame with pulsating voltage. During the procession of the onslaught upon his ship, he had neglected to notice a stranger gazing forth from the darkness and cover of foliage— a scent familiar and the noise of crunching leaves beneath the stranger's hooves startling him but a second before the brute spoke.

In a flurry of cleft hooves and flashing obsidian atop his dome - the Devil pirouettes to meet what he assumes to be yet another apparition of Hell come to Earth; only to meet sapphire and mahogany, snow and ice, charcoal and precious gems.
The scent is what saves the Prince of Blood before him.

For within a haze of bloodshed that blindfolds him with the lust for more - more savagery, barbarism to fuel his endless desires, the reminder of the Basin is strong within the contours of his mind, and with malevolence he tranquilizes the beast within the rolling pits of his soul with loathing in the case of his kin, too, belonging to the soulless wraith he has encountered before him here. So much as threaten me, dog, and I'll remind you of your place.
There is fire in his blood and fire in his eyes and he will burn him if he must.

And yet - as words spill forth in dark acclaim of his success the Devil allows the stranger of his homeland to pace, to appraise, to size up a potential recruit. Old memories.
A brand spills forth from the Prince's maw in reception of his coming - a contemptuous slide of the gaze downward to meet the wraith's ruined frame. Maybe he's not so bad afterall. Indeed - the Devil may find he even likes him. A ghost of a sneer drapes across his face in akin dislike of what he had slain - a abhorrent mutant in which was to be disposed of, and the Devil had done his job with glee. "Crash Course. Feel free to call me Crash— Déodat."

I am afraid I can’t offer you an explanation for that, but I can say evil things are brewing in Helovia… That thing very well could be a part of it.
Aphotic cackles are drawn forth from a splattered cardinal mug as morbid amusement is found in the filth beneath his hooves. He scuffs what's left of the mangled frame with spite - low tones slipping once more from easily moved lips. "It's an abomination. A diseased rodent from our lesser cousins. I've always suspected the rats of the ground and the rats of the skies to be foolish.. I didn't expect them to be quite so brainless when I returned." Macabre humor drips from his sardonic song. "Indeed. They seem to have fallen even farther down the food-chain in my absence."

Once more the Devil listens to the Demon: A offer of residence far too familiar and sweet upon his tongue to be refused. He wonders if the Lady of the Basin - Psyche the DarkEmpress shall await him with open arms once more into the ranks of those whom carry the same disdain of the lesser kinds.
"I came to Helovia in what seems to be eons ago. The Basin was my home then, as it shall be now." A flicker of uneasiness spreads as a illness across the map of his mind, queries troublesome as fly's on a warm summer's eve nibbling at his essence as if it is their right to do so. Arah. Darkness.
He should have never left.
If something had happened to her- "Tell me, my brother. Does a woman by the name of Arah dwell among you still? And what of our Empress- I assume she still stands in good health, no?"