He had been send on nefarious wiles, malevolent, atrocious undermining, a sleuth, a bloodhound, the silver-tongued Prince with a bosom filled with iron shards and the teeth of wolves, to a realm titled with the Edge of the World, had spun villainous ideals within his barbed mind, catacombs, the Labyrinth within his immortal flesh, a umber, a shadow to guide the footfalls in which she stepped upon with delicate diplomacy and eased speech, yet among the way he had trailed off the route, foolish, careless— to what vermin could harm the spawn lined down from the DemonKing? He was Lord, and no pitiful welp would so much as brush a hair stroke across his elegant hide before he struck them down, made them bow, kneel, beg as pups, and then bring the severed domes back to his Mother, the Queen, the acerbic dam to which he served, for she was his deity and he her demigod, and he would slay all who dared to intervene with her divine strategy, layout, twisted metaphors, baneful royalties had no need for mere peasants upon the wind.
But the barbarous Prince had not expected the ruthless, the personification of dread, of anxieties and frightful thoughts, had not expected a Reaper, had not expected a scythe, tipped in the drink of the Underworld, and the ire that blossomed as splatters of sanguine liqueur at the realization that he has been foiled by a beast, a false God, a mortal with the title of Hades (for he radiates the bitter, biting, Siberian kiss of death, it dances, cackles, the penumbra is lined with a trillion eyes) and it infuriates him, for he is the rightful Prince of demise, of eradication, not this demon with a crown sat upon his dome (and yet, perhaps, within the catacombs, the pits of a hissing, writhing mind awaits the touch of anxieties, of terror, of panic, for he has never experienced a mortal that radiates such divine power and he queries if this is one of the four divines he has heard of since coming to these lands known as Helovia).

But nay, he is entrapped within a prison, a tomb, aching sinew from his capture, boiling, feasting upon veins and flesh of his frustrations, his vain endeavors, and he regrets his choice of action in straying from his dam's side, for monster's did not dwell with Queen's of Hell, and he would fall away as dust within the wind, frail, limp, a newborn kit in comparison to a wolf, a lamb for the slaughter— he gazes outward, upon all four knees, bleary cardinal spheres alive with utter contempt, loathing, revulsion, harks flattened within the charcoal tresses, a crude sneer rivulets across his maw, jagged, keen, crepuscule cackles as the feigned rests cerulean upon a Prince, a Lord, and in callow and cavalier tones he mocks the King, silvery smooth, "You would do well to bow to me, false God, for the DemonKing reigns supreme among such foolish mortals as those whom would come in his name."

A flinch, a wince, he is sore and bruised, and with a uptilted maw he snorts, steam rising within the hyperborean cold, bitter, ice clings to his sinew and he shivers in response, attempting a diplomatic solution. "I am the heir to the throne of the DemonKing, son to Confutatis, the Great, the nefarious, the Queen of lands to whom you shall never see. I am certain they would pay a high price for my safe return, false God."

It is not to be, however, for he lowers his dome, and the Prince recoils his own in a mixture of unease and haughty abhorrence, he reeks of the Underworld, and he is swathed in a revere of death in all its glorious mixtures, demanding, unwavering, impassive, and the sneer upon his dome merely grows, glowering, before he draws back his maw into a lazy yawn and spits in the direction of the lying, so proclaimed deity, rotten teeth and stained lips, hissing, snarling, daring.
"You will never get it from me, fool. I have no reason to fret, for the DemonKing will see to it that your corpse rots in Hell, whilst mine is lifted up among my kin. I will give you once last chance," a baritone, a rich vocalization, a damnable sentence that must spell his doom. "KNEEL."

Rebuttal and retraction, disclaim and refutal, swathed in a imperturbable and damnation— he laps at his cracked lips, a uneasy sneer at the unsettling velvet beryl of his spheres, a precarious snort escaping his all too parched throat. He would cackle, deem him to the clutches of the DemonKing, the foredoomed and detestable grasp of his dam, and his maw would carve itself into a carnival grin— but it is not to be, for the jagged skull faced smile freezes, wavering in place as a sudden hyperborean chill takes ahold of his heart, raw and frigid, and the spawn of the nefarious Queen finds himself petrified, aghast at the twilight that begins to dance along his vision, onyx pupils dilating in alarm. Forth it comes, as a prowling lion to a fresh kill, atramentous and sinister, purloining any barbarous, self-righteous cheerfulness that had bubbled up as bile within his throat dying as the last remnants of a candlelight fire, a ominous grip tightening a noose upon his lungs and heart, and no matter how hard the wildly beating organ pumps, his veins seem to emulate ice.

The infernal, hellish fangs, wicked and corrupt, villainous and devilish press fingers to his sweaty neck, dissolute and heinous, two can keep a secret if one of them is dead— and he arches his neck inward in fright, deliberate and sluggish, malignant vows, pernicious hymns, maleficent and malicious, convulsing under the strain, trembling as a babe fresh from the womb, annihilation and demise, eradication of the highest regard, necrosis weeping acerbic tears upon his flesh, and he struggles with valiance, strangles and suffocates upon his own saliva, perhaps he is to strangulate here, to perish, and as he withers and dwindles, drains and collapses within himself, overtaxed and fatigued, a dull throb of agony lacing across his sinew he wonders, where is Mother, would she wish for him to die here, at the feet of a isolated serpent?

Cruor splatters upon the alabaster snow. It is his own, spluttering from his own hacking maw, dribbling down his dome, and he feels vulnerable and aging, frail as a elder and limp as a suckling, and so, the whites of his eyes gleaming he cries out, curses the Reaper's name, and crumbles beneath the dread of where he shall go if he falters under the false God's name.
"The Regime," he croaks, dithering in self-hatred and treachery. His Mother would despise him. "We are led by Tyradon and my dam. My band seeks to rule— each herdland by violence and thievery, to strike the sucklings and babe's when they sleep. To purloin the most impressive, one by one. To infiltrate with spies. Mother.. and I were to go to the World's Edge." He constricts upon the earth, wretched and wane. "I know of seven of us, and naught more. The Rotunda is our base— leave me be, you cur. You've gotten what you wanted," (and his voice is bitter and sullen as winter's chill is cold).