Winter’s abhorrence, the acerbic abyss, the frigid labyrinth toiled and tangled: the fiendish dabble, the heathenous trickle of a maddening pulse, the bravado of potential lurking in the midst of destruction, of chaos, of a slowly building crescendo, pervaded his fiendish mind. Even as the GildedBlade arrived, the piercing trappings of the Reaper’s gaze remained entirely riveted upon Jakar and all the sinister workings of prowess wrapped amongst their confines, brooding forbearance, keen acrimony and cunning entropy. Polite, well-mannered, reasonable, and handed admittance by the Engineer, all that remained were the meticulous twines of his capabilities, the faculties carved and sculpted into his nuances and soul. Weaker dominions, useless, flailing fools, were to be forgotten, left amongst the decrepit and ignorant, but others, with unfailing glory, with hinted triumph, could be measured and sculpted into anarchical melees. Could he fight, bring peril, muster defenses, shatter lives, brandish steel, massacre and condemn? Could he devour enemies, sanction and deliver them to their graves? Could he ravish and toy with annals of ruin and wreckage, lay waste to empires, cruelly erupt precipices and palisades? Could he abscond, steal away streamlined information, spy from drawn shadows, pluck and discard with cloaks and daggers? Could he manifest machines or break apart materials to create something of worth, of value, of merit, possess the livelihood to destroy others? Or could he even conduct the art of healing, mend and assuage, then tear away the tiniest slips and snips of poison into the opposition’s drink, watch and witness the breakdown of organs and sinew? Ulrik wouldn’t have brought the beast from the shackles and locked corridors of the Threshold without some purpose in mind, and the chilling calculations of Deimos’ thoughts were tethered to the snippets and contortions of another beast added to their halls. The Basin was a land of treachery and survival, an assortment of wicked tendrils and deceiving apertures, a seething, brewing land made and distorted by the ruinous fixtures breathing life into its cold, nefarious hands; would he be another leant into its glacial cycle? Impassive, reticent, as intimidating and Machiavellian as ever, the demonic monster didn’t alter his appearance for the sake of curiosity, but allowed the depths of his tones to convey the aspects for him, pitching the blunt, corded tone of satanic gifts and lordly venues. “What services can you provide?” For there were rewards, bestowals, riches, to a creature christened with possibilities, prospects, and promises, and the slinking auroras always endeavored to seize one beholden with conviction.

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