Wicked and depraved, seeking desecration in the hints, in the show, of absolution, wandering death flocked to the autumn hillsides, the icy pathways, the promising apertures of shadowed parlors and eldritch abominations; an eternal fixture of waiting, of patience, of infernal glory and the tides of power. Where he reigned, the earth quaked, where he maneuvered, the lands shuddered, and where he pieced, stitched, together the seams of machinations, of calculations, the realm swindled, stole, and absconded beside him. The Reaper, tied and woven by the devil’s own tenacious hands, lingered in the stature of conquest, in the palisades of victory, but couldn’t obtain any for his own harem, naught but the tender resignation of survival as they plunged and deluded from pestilence, as they remained frozen, bestial shades in the snow, as they positioned themselves in flights and fallacies of repose. He clenched his jaw and thought of turbulence, of war, of ichor and swords, of activity relished and sanctioned by hellish barbarians, when peace was struck with heady blows and the dais of his favored pastime was brought back to life: but now, he was left to bid his angles, reset his clock, devour and consume the listless swings of time. The moments were spent winding his way through the borders, the fringes, brewing destruction and calamity from the whirlwind delusions of tranquility and awe, relishing unholy tempests, brandishing and brewing the innermost desires of an abhorrent mind, eternally two steps away from unfurling, unveiling, unraveling acrimony. Faith in his power, conviction in his prowess, credence in the demonic ministrations of his supremacist vows brought the cruel, callous distortions of their supreme world to life, and with one passing summons, a call to his arms, another storm, another force, another tempest, was brought into their regions. The Lord of the winter world followed suit, a methodical pace, a Machiavellian mind, a ferocious air swarming over the vicious winds and chilling air; matching its void, its containments, with the reticent pinnacles of his ever-reaching soul – blood will have blood.

They stand near the sentinel, stark forms against the mountain backdrop, Sialia, the seemingly loyal soldier with bands of blue and unknown snippets of nefarious qualities (all of them had some poison within this carved bit of avaricious plumes; one had to contain venom and vitriol to survive the monstrous ramparts, the heathen beacons), and another mare, foreign to his penetrating gaze, blending into the scenic gallows, white on white, the offering presented to him over the Orangemoon horizon. His approach was made on silent gestures and haunting strides, a plague, a daunting, intimidating force of nature, walking death, a crusading scythe, plunging and enlightening the world with his conjured presence. The beast, the demon, the barbarian, extended one slip of his skull towards Sialia, hushed and grateful she’d brought something, hopefully of merit and value, from the iron gates and padlocked Threshold, then slid his piercing, infidel, cold stare over to the femme. He had every intention of measuring her worth, her strength, her perseverance and resolution to their kingdom, to their pinnacles, to their peaks and valleys. But first, he had to play the social game, one he’d never cherished or delighted within (the games and laments of conflict and combat were far more entertaining), eclipsing the hollowed sphere with a curt accord of his vocals. “Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” He paused, searching the outline of her smaller form for a spark, for a sign, of indulgent decadence and nurtured rancor instead of the warped, flailing giggles bounding off the sections of ash and smoke, a reason for her search to end there, amongst the brooding, scathing forces. “Who are you?”