Winter wandered, the Reaper roamed, a wanton warrior cast his wayward chords along the intertwining ice palace; through the haze, through the murk, through the chilling ire and wrath, he stole and absconded, chased an unrelenting yearning, a hazardous desire, of destruction and devastation. Amongst the frigid air, he was the monster lurking in the throngs and hills of snow, he was the face of demons, he was the force of infidels, the treacherous glimpse of the devil’s favored iniquity, breathing molten speculation, molding infernal reveries and rancorous pursuits, but without purpose, without objectives, he was just another fiend lost in the merciless boundaries, a slave to inaction. The undulation of muscles, the advancing mass of demise and licentious bidding emitted its nomadic frame towards the borders, where he’d seemingly existed for days without end, locking his calculating gaze to strangers of their frigid warren, or massacring those who dared to ramble into their homes with treacherous convictions. A new scent upon the wind enlightened him to one more moment along the mountain fringe; he indulged the heretic seams of curiosity, and wondered whether it would be the former or the latter. An enemy promised the Lord, the King, a dip, a lunge, an assult, into the subterfuge, a glance into the humming, crooning decibels of his favored song, the plague, the circumstance, the battle swing of intimidating rapiers and brandished cutlasses, ichor creeping past parlor doors. The notion sprung only briefly in his menacing mind, for no sooner had he surmised prospects of bloodshed did an outcry pour from the whims of their borders, and his seditious splendor was cut short, annihilated in one fell harpoon. Only a slight tinge of bitter disappointment lumbered through his sharpened membrane, a curt snort, before he continued to advance towards the beckoning reaches (another annoyance harkened for tender moments; because since when was he a beast so easily summoned by nobodies and strangers?).

He was not the first. A duo was already gathered in the folds and reaches of the peak’s opening, one recognizable in the form of Sialia the soldier, and the other unrecognizable, exuding the machinations of the Threshold and its unlocked portal (and perhaps, the distinct scent of their Engineer?). Intrigue heightened for the sheer nuance and notion that Ulrik had brought and urged the sienna beast within their confines; what had he seen in the stag? Power? Potency? Potential? Hate? Malice? The weight of menace grinding, rasping, grating in his bones? Or was he something to be molded, something to be mended from the ages and sages of virtue, to be bound into the unrelenting maze of heathens and behemoths? The icy shackles of the marble titan drew forth, keeping his conjectures and queries under lock and key, beneath the measures of his impassive, reticent exterior, brooding and brewing scrupulous designs through each worthy creature. He offered a concise bob of his skull to each creature, before tracing and aligning his pernicious stare towards the foreigner, parting his lips to ensue the succinct whims of his vocals. “Welcome. I am Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” Power, domination, and supremacy marked and etched, sketched and scored, the weight, the puncture, the scaling of his depths, and he wondered what the brujo wanted; if any of these things caused him acidic absorption, vehement toils, content fury, aspiring ambitions. “What do you seek here?” A home, or sovereignty?

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.