The Siberian walls responded to his ruthlessness with their own savagery, tangible, corporeal wrath and iniquitous inquiry pervading their surroundings; chipped away particles of contempt and loathing, reserved for the shadows, the stains, the specious world seeking to distort and contort them. They were fully capable of crushing the enemy, of brewing annihilation and possessing devastation, grasping, clenching, drawing blood and scattering sinew, predilection and monstrosities settled across their invocations, their ravenous raptures, their rancorous reveries – and as they gathered one by one, he pledged a sinner’s oath, a King’s conviction, a Reaper’s scythe through the maddening pulse of his veins, the searing rush of his callous calamity. They would show these ingrates, these buffoons, these inept patrons of the sinuous realm what danger really looked like, how treachery truly felt, how absurdity and ignorance led kingdoms into ruin; because the Basin didn’t allow the hands of time, the slinking grind, the crawling entrails and innards of idiots to maul and besiege them. They would cherish, swallow, consume and devour the hooves that sought to tread upon them. No mercy, no clemency, no compassion or forbearance – the Regime had lost such delusions the moment they touched and scalded a member of the tundra, the icy kingdom, the Northern sovereign. The promise of wreckage, of havoc, of chaos and bedlam drummed against his ears, flooded through his demonic soul, pierced the puncturing shade of his surroundings, and his comrades flickered into the boughs, into the alms, of their armed fortifications, malice embroiled, contained, matched within each cretin, each figure, each fiend. Throughout their queries, he listened, embraced the notions, the ruminations, the speculations, the search for massacre and slaughter (in the gleam of the Doctor’s eyes, in the coiled, curled vehemence of Ulrik’s machinations, in the bloody specter of Deodat, or the haunted eyes of Arah), before his silence faltered, and became replaced with his deep, penetrating vocals. “An outcast band, the Regime, lives within the Ancient Rotunda. They are led by a skull-mare, Confutatis, stole several of our own, and likely aim for others.” He paused, stole glances towards others, and gave no names to those who’d suffered (a quick, swift stare towards their Impersonator would reflect who’d been locked into grievous oubliettes, who sparked an inferno, who incited and forged a fight pulsing through his muscles, through his core - blood will have blood). “They seek a home– but it will not be ours.” A refreshing task: the overture, the symphony, the orchestra of war, for they were the only songs and requiems he needed to sing. Those who longed to ravage and storm their castle would find more than slivers of ice and frost-laden land: beasts of distortion, ruination, massacres and termination. All they needed were opportunities, ghosts and wraiths spirited into audacity, led to slaughter. “Increase patrols, seek out information, imprison and bludgeon the beasts who dared to touch those of the Basin.” With one already in custody, boiling and festering in the condemnation of a deadly touch, an impending demise. Deimos, barbaric King with his court of malicious infidels, allowed his eyes to gesture towards the sentinel, and then back along the throng, the barest hint of a smirk etching its place along his malevolent lips. “Will you assist me in their destruction?” Bring me their heads.

[Let me know if there's a certain task you'd like to employ. ;D There will be a board updated in the Basin secret room soon.]