Were the Reaper not the epitome of control, he may have sunk back into the shadows and slithered away to escape the injustice, the confusion, the ridiculous proclamations swindling back and forth. Instead, because he was a master of constraining emotions, maintaining indifference, reticence, and nonchalance, he allowed the inner portions of his mind to sear and seethe, and like bewitching, intoxicating flames, they unraveled. The first notion was of complete, utter bewilderment: Ophelia had actually been invited and lived within his land, strung up and gazed upon like a princess, like a virtuous, incandescent angel, and it made him want to tear and rip apart the idiots, the fools, who glanced with slackened jaws and admiration. He ignored Sialia’s seditious crackles, he ignored the wandering children, and he ignored the spiraling remnants of his confusion roaming in a constant, everlasting circle (because what did others see in her?), but he couldn’t disregard the obnoxious sway of the General. His piercing, penetrating stare roamed to the beast, and he snorted in response to the ridiculous proclamation, because Deimos had experienced the femme’s sway several times over, and the only impressions made had been contracts, hasty moments of his past life as commander of the soldiers, or her inept wanderings into places where she wasn’t wanted. The deep notion flooded over his irritated lips, settled into the tense atmosphere, seared into the undulating coil of his fierce, ferocious expanse. “I am acquainted with her political machinations. You greatly exaggerate her capabilities.”

But then, of course, the rest of the absurd opus conjured across the plain in the form of their patron God, justifying Torleik’s speech (someone had to be joking) –

And another gavel fell – Ophelia, given the position as Lady – Illynx, tossed aside, forgotten, and his frustration peaked so intensely, so savagely, that he almost couldn’t contain his rage. It burned, it boiled, it seared, it smoldered, down past his lungs and out his chest, like a breathless, restless, heathen declaration, casting aside all innocent connotations and virtuous bracken, coating the inner layers and lacquer of his structure like a devil’s scripture. His thoughts were an overwhelming bout of questions and queries, loathing, contempt, disdain and derision for the strange, untoward notions and moments brought forth to him. Who was she to deserve the throne? Who was she to capture the icy crown? What had she ever done for the Basin? What made her worthy, when all others had worked tirelessly for the icy walls and the guarded caverns, guarding, protecting, enduring, time and time again, forging their livelihoods into the rime, into the snow, into the frost, while she did nothing? He clenched his jaw and gnashed his teeth, bit back subversive oaths towards the deity, and stewed in malevolent silence, drove his nefarious mind into other filaments, gestures, so he wouldn’t be cast into the underworld for murdering the newest sovereign of the auroras.

For, if Ophelia was replacing the GildedBlade, where was the latter? Though he held no great feeling for the banshee, she was at least capable, strong, enduring, and like a thorn in his side, he figured she’d be around forever, tormenting them all with fake smiles and golden conspiracies. But now – she’d drifted away? He was almost irrationally angry with her for fleeing and leaving him with the remains of this stupid display, but instead, he pierced through the shade, stared at the God, and hastened his query. No congratulations to the Forsaken, no clamoring or kissing at her feet. He searched, scoured, unwound for answers, for reasons why these tedious moments even had to occur. “Where is Illynx?”