The Reaper, solidified maelstrom and contorted behemoth, maneuvered amongst the outskirts with the shadows, with the murk, with the brazen, stoic interludes of Frostfall’s entropy. Like a bow, strung taut and yearning, eager, for the opportunity to wreak havoc, lay waste amidst the measures of peace and deliverance, craving, demanding, urging the blackguard, barbed bits of destruction, he stole across the wide expanse of snow and valleys. In some redundant, witless sentiment, another soul had stepped near their borders, and the temptation, the enticement, of luring damnation and demise into their sector goaded him onward – a fiendish whisper, a hostile breeze, an alluring carnivore predilection carved, molded, sculpted into the unrelenting pace of his stride. He remembered all the others as if they were merely yesterday and not seasons long since past: the idiotic pegasi and their emboldened venture, ultimately leading to bleached bones and stolen wings, the vacant-minded wolves and their fervent display of audacity only leading them to slaughter; the brutal machinations of twisted, torn, forlorn souls beseeched by curiosity and massacred in their ignorance. The faces changed, but the idiocy and imprudence did not – eternally wrapped in the same, undaunted shade of moronic ventures and imbecile delusions, daring to peek into their world, curiosity melding into cosmic adventures, ending in the barren fuselage of a broken, embittered body. While they rarely stepped into the fold of other herds, at least without a goal in mind (war, bloodshed, emissary debuts), they were not often rewarded the alike courtesy: the bold and the brave spent their wayward days climbing up the mountain peaks, closing in on winter expanse, and then being beaten, scolded, scorched, by the merciless harpoons they harbored within. The Lord, Deimos, with his severe, indifferent frame, with his devilish prowess, with his infidel schemes and Machiavellian calculations, would brandish his knife again and again; each time they came, his rapier would be extended towards their throats.

He was not the first to arrive. His visage held none of his disappointment, void of emotion except the pernicious nonchalance of his piercing features: at the very least, if there were to be witnesses to ichor and ruination, Deodat would be a trustworthy participant. The eldritch titan’s stare riveted upon the Corporal for an instant, bestowing a gratified nod, for he’d guarded his home, locked eyes with a potential enemy, a foolish wanderer. Moments later, amidst the intimidating juncture of his poisonous, treacherous countenance, he studied, considered, examined the prospective intruder, her ivory wings, her gilded markings, her fatuous, inane stature. How long would it take to tear her apart, feather-by-feather? The only words he heard her utter across the icy vestiges was her request, and by their standards, unfortunately, he could not launch and shove his sword into her chest. Perhaps in a later instant, if she goaded, if she wished, if she yearned for the touch, the taste, the relish of anarchy, he could provide the villainous venue. For now, he had to adhere to their compacts and covenants, and stoked the fire of his deep vocals, allowing the fierce friction, the ferocious bedlam, to soak and sear across the frozen earth. “I am the King.” He paused, the puncturing shade of his dangerous figure staring upon the winged femme who stood amidst the sentinels, waiting for one idiotic moment where she slipped beneath its eyes and felt the languishing bridge of pain, of chaos, of collapse and disorder. “What do you require?”

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

He waited, unmoving, statuesque depravity, the abysmal, embodiment of Satan’s gifts and Lucifer’s tactics, a chilling opus drawn and fused into the rebellious boundaries. The silence stretched and the crowd gathered (the massive Beowulf, and another pest entering the fray; gilded Thranduil), and the reasons for her ineptitude, for her persistence in remaining amongst those who did not want her went unanswered. For a few moments, he merely stared at her, marveled and in awe of her rampant stupidity, of her blundering stitches, of her inability to utter a single, decent explanation – and then the frustration grew. Was this a game, to tangle attention from the likes of many, to dot the horizon with those who’d come to witness her poor attempt at communication, at her imbecile methods and movements; a study in ignorance, an education in idiocy? Was this a childish exposition, a method of travel and curiosity, unfounded and moronic? Or was this all some ruse, a ploy, to distract them from other endeavors, entanglements, or enemies brooding and brewing in the limelight? The Reaper’s eyes narrowed, and his overwhelming stature spurned and spun the layers and lacquer of sinister, nefarious designs, tending to the notions and actions necessary to ensure the mare left, whole or quartered. The impassive, stoic glare fixated solely on the winged femme, with her unworldly demeanor and foolish remarks, and picked apart the granules of his deep tones, offered her one more opportunity to state her case, her reasoning for traipsing into their Siberian void, for donning her form beneath the blades of their sentinels, of their drawn swords. “I will ask only once more: what is your purpose here?” A rare bestowal rendered and given, but he didn’t partake or describe the damned, floundered sentiments of those who’d refused to give chase, to respond accordingly, who’d refused to go back from whence they’d came: after all, the beast, the behemoth, the Lord and winter King was always content with violence, with villainy, with cutting and splitting apart the ineffectual.

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

The level of insolence and presumption surged and flared; no sooner had he demanded her reasons did the Corporal challenge her – not to leave, but to stay, embarking down futile rings and flailing ineptitude, and the flowing, thickening barbs of fury swam over his frame. Were he not a specimen, an epitome, of control and restraint, the knots of his sedition would have garroted Deodat, instead, his puncturing stare resonated upon the folly of the fool’s inability to discern reason and fortitude. He didn’t want threats to linger within their walls, he wanted them gone, vanquished, vanished, torn asunder, shorn to ribbons, bones bleached by the sun, hidden beneath the ice, crushed into violent, spoiled fragments, indiscernible dust in the freezing hold: yet, the Corporal had managed to not only override the notion, but he wanted to keep her in their land. For what reason? To what end? Molten, ignited, kindled, the monstrous infidel strung his silent thorns towards the painted idiot, allowed the simmer, the sear, the incantations of his anger to draw near, pervade, surround, only pausing in his disquiet, in his ferocity, in his building crescendo of disapproval and irreverence, to cast one ear towards the wagging tongue of Thranduil. Oddly enough, amongst the gathered, he was the only one who provided anything remotely useful into the ridiculous antics and frantic capriciousness, and he swerved his cranium to regard him in deep speculation, calm and compose the lighted fuse burning in his veins. If he spun any truth, because he didn’t trust the gilded beast, the sentiments were absorbed, snagged, and snarled: Aurelia, on trial in the Edge, capable of burns (and he thought of his home catching on fire, pines and tundra tipped into embers, cinders, and ash; glaciers melting and fumbling, of their members suddenly subjugated to unwinding bits of coiled, serpent interludes because of one moron and his inability to think beyond his irrational calculations). The Lord, the Reaper, the Siberian sovereign, tipped his head towards Thranduil’s retreating form, the only form of respect he could currently bestow, before meshing his ultimatum amongst the world. Rough, built, languished, and layered on abhorrence and loathing, the bestial beat, the savage whispers, the corporeal threat, the satanic opus, of his rapier tones meant brutality, meant promises, meant convictions and creeds – he’d adhere to them even if they couldn’t. “Enough nonsense. One false move, Corporal, and she will be given to the Edge.” If Deodat had no ability to control the femme from burning their palace down, Deimos would.

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