The sweeping arches of damnation slinked and crawled amongst the slithering catacombs; an infernal, noxious essence, the pouring of ailments, the scouring of afflictions, and he knew it all too well, infused with the same all-pervading toxins. The world was filled with them: brooding, malicious, abhorrent creatures pausing and swirling around the irreverent beat, the seditious crescendo, the heathen raptures and infidel turns, destined to maul, to destroy, to seize and seethe. The cackling witch, with her spells and invocations, with wicked incantations and cataclysmic intentions, had somehow tempted the gallows, spun Sialia into invitations, and sullied the tempestuous air with her zealous bombardments - we (more than one not in body, but apparently in mind), not even of a perfectly sane skull, set forth to air destruction and terror. For a few moments, he simply stared, set the reticent, penetrating stare upon both femmes and pondered over the nuances and sentiments brewing amongst the infiltrating figures: if Sialia had been beguiled into the fall and ruin of Beloved, and if Beloved could wreak havoc, not upon their own fellow demons, but the inept, the weak, the foolish, and the ignorant. Was she to be a warmonger, hackles raised and enticed to gore, shredding the world, the realms, the empires, blow by blow, bite by bite, or an uncontrolled blight one would eventually have to put to rest as they turned to feed upon their comrades? Does it suit you? Which was the more appealing: the notion of opposition slain and fallen, bones bleached, ichor spread, bedlam shrieking and beckoning its wild constituents? Or the rampaging violence of another, suddenly wasted upon their own flesh and blood, the divine, the sword-ed? He gave no finite answer, Machiavellian interludes already painting portraits and exhibitions of horror, of malice, of menace burning the gauntlets of the witless, drumming deep tones into the borders’ high arches and tainted apertures. “Perhaps.” He didn’t shirk, he didn’t flee (for it was not in his nature – an unyielding foe from the arts of desecration) from her closer proximity, for the more she drew towards him, the more she’d feel the overwhelming fumes of death and demise. A portion of him was drawn into the flames of her potential, into the snares and pitfalls, eager to give rise to one more beast who promised condemnation and Tartarean regime, but he queried, inquired, questioned, the fae as if he couldn’t surmise her potential. “What are your talents?” The Lord, the Reaper, son of embers and stone, yearned to hear what she could truly concoct, inspire; if one more searing surge, if one more ravaging doom, could be executed and plucked from the edges of their meeting.