Ministrations of the archaic, deadly hymns, driving spears, axes, and cutlasses into the heart of the inept, the frail, the foolish, ghosted through the icy threshold of his regime. Amongst the empire he channeled and maneuvered, a current of frigid monstrosity, a ripple of arcane, reticent blades, a pervading essence of coiled malice, of behemoth vows, of eldritch convictions, harbored in the denizen of his composed contempt. The relentless pariah, the heathen fuselage, the fortified Reaper, solidified a brilliant crescendo of merciless bastions beneath the canals of his footsteps, of his hoofprints, an ardent beat, a vicious convolution, of fiendish havoc crawling, slithering, amidst their molten pathways. Nearer and nearer he crouched amidst the foils of Birdsong, laying waste to their idle wiles and their passionate wellsprings, triggering the rapid discernments of loathing, of superiority, of dominance, so as he approached the unknown void, the zealous stranger painted into the mountain backdrop would feel the tear, the chasm, the merciless venture of his vehement crusade. His eyes narrowed, his speculation emerged, and his cold machinations chiseled deep into the barbaric shelter: who was this child, lost and adrift, coming to rest beneath their sentinels, crying out for an answer, a response? What did she want? What did she yearn to convey? The demon’s approach was on infidel steps and powerful strides; malicious and unholy, avaricious and licentious, scraping against the icy confines with his own paralyzing, Siberian presence, piercing glare examining the silent guards – noting they didn’t attack, they didn’t surge, they didn’t puncture or condone – and twisted back to the obsidian and white filly, consumed in the feral plain of peaks, of treachery, of death valleys and chaotic caverns. A mechanical reverie, a scraping barb, an arctic framework of tones and vocals lacquered and stoked the air, swelled in chilling, impassive puffs of air. “I am Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” He lowered his skull, a predator investigating his prey, an act of great scrutiny, surveying her structure for faults, for flaws, for purpose, for prowess. The young could be molded, guided, and sculpted – but only if willing; he had no intention of playing babysitter for curious endeavors and reckless journeys. “Who are you?”

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