Frustration and collapse seemed to be an imminent culmination of these fleeting past months, undaunted and untouched by their relentless derision and their scathing abominations. Heresy and animosity, abhorrence and corruption, could only scratch so far at the enamel of the world before it came crashing down again, and if he were not a christened King, he may have relished in the chaos. He may have fumbled and toiled in the glory of its devouring essence, a witness to the world burning, searing, scorching around him in waves and knots of sinuous obliteration, contributing to the decadence, to the upheaval, to the wild, vicious assaults breathing turbulent air, ferocious horizons. But the Reaper was not left with these options he would have taken in childhood or juvenile pursuits, for the mountains, the peaks, the valleys, the lakes and streams, the frozen, carved monoliths and summits had given him a crown, a throne, and nestled deep in the scarred, blackened regions of his nefarious heart, were his patriots, his family, his brethren. They deserved moments beyond the bestial antiquity of failure, of collapse, of vanquished arms and munitions, triumph from the splintered sieges. For once, instead of leading them down into the trenches of anarchy, of lawless entropy, of savage discord and unholy disorder, he had to utilize the information given by another fleeting, fleeing being, sacrifice Machiavellian designs, cold, callous calculations for that strange, foreign essence of hope. Deimos was forced to admit that his power wasn’t enough, that his ruses, his schemes, his precision and prowess, couldn’t protect their entire world from foretold devastation, from wicked, slinking monsters who crawled across silent voids, who warranted death and pestilence with a greater satanic reverie than his own veins, than his own necromancy; and he wasn’t sure which wound scarred him the most: being incapable of shielding his herd from the storm, or realizing there were limits to his domination.

He wasted no time in prospering the news, short, brief candor brandished along the intertwining halls of their glacial kingdom. To even leave this empire was nearly admitting defeat, his jaw clenched at the notion, at the doom, at the damnation; his strength could only undermine so much, his determination, his resolution, his keen malice and menace only fused few individuals from the halls of their palace. With each pulsing beat of his brutal crescendo, the monster, the heathen, warned, declared, and commanded the urgency of his demands, the onslaught waiting to tear them apart. “The Basin is not safe.” A spark of rage, a hint of vexation, a whirlwind of wrath contortions pulsed from his enmity, resentment, hostility, hatred for the constant maelstroms he hadn’t concocted on his own. “We must go to the Sanctuary.” A name carved from divine pedestals and paragons, and he still wasn’t sure if it matched the moniker, if they could be saved from the webs, snares and pitfalls lined before their feet (but he’d certainly give them a chance). “Follow me.” Then his voice was bade back into the depths of silence, and the crooning murmur of his announcements continued through the poignant decibels of his summons, a constant force until he turned down the destined pathway, yearning to lead them to liberation, security, a sanctum away from their true home. Then, perhaps, they could destroy whatever deigned to reign supreme over them again.

[Basin fleeing thread. In order to move it along, you can post here with your character fleeing the Basin and heading to the Sanctuary. Follow up thread here.]