The Lord mulled and ruminated, speculated and stared, listening as the waves rolled against the endless, unwavering tide, as the indifferent air pulsed and pervaded amidst the cool embers. The Throat seemed to have more in common with the Siberian lands than previously thought; protection, safety, security for their herds was an absolute necessity, and despite quarreling measures, they all still fought for the same goal. If the complexity bore any other roots, the Reaper ceased the process there, because he didn’t want to be like them, in the hot, blistering sands, and chose to brew and brood in the silence, watching the sea churn its power in nonchalant currents. While Thranduil continued, and likely conspired, the beast became wholly distracted by the thought, the notion, that they could one day be like the ocean: consistent, treacherous, deadly and always, eternally potent. A necessity, but a diligent curse, a building, dangerous storm, full of life, full of essence, full of pernicious schemes and clawing, grasping drifts pulling the inept off-balance, sending them careening, gasping, drowning in the wake of immoral demise – the lethal schemes paused as the Thief spoke again, embarking over appreciation (something the King received very little of and never truly expected, beyond gruff nods and turncoat smirks) of protection. Here he almost snickered again, because that was his role in their world, the power, the strength, the dominance, preserving, shielding, and assailing when brigands flourished and shadows crouched and condemnation thought it could spread its fire through his icy warren. He chipped and scalded and slayed, the glacial sword, the rapacious rapier, the voracious, ferocious cutlass. But the gilded fiend wanted more, another coveting mercenary, another avaricious infidel, because the world was never quite enough; yearning for spells, for incantations, only the eldritch behemoth could bestow. Death.

The heathen gave no indication to his agreement except a calculating stare, a Machiavellian persecution. A portion of him acquiesced purely out of iniquitous, licentious amusement, turning his frame towards the stag, channeling and funneling the puissant interludes of his toxic invocations. Did the beast seek to manipulate him? The notion was almost comical (and shouldn’t the other male have been more ashamed that he didn’t have the capacity to end the little rascal himself?) – but he’d still grant him his wish. If his soulless, heartless, relentless pieces and portions were spread further into the lands, into hearts, showcasing fear, displaying terror and triumph, than so be it. He wouldn’t argue or negate a ceremony of contempt, loathing, or chaos. The depth of his gaze scalded from Thief to circlet, where the amulet seemed to rest, innocent and forbearing – then the rapture of his immorality scorched upon a flock of gulls, innocently gliding high above Thranduil’s skull, searching for their next meal, for their next sprig of salty air. With little warning, other than perhaps a brief nod towards the swindler, the raw, ghastly, wraithful coils of his magic flowed to its bounty: conspiring with elegant, devilish contortions, unwinding, uncurling, uncoiling at its masters’ bidding, at the Mephistophelean charades. If they happened to fan too close, a little nearby, the Thief’s cranium, Deimos would say naught; his aim faultlessly maintained and marching towards the birds, waiting and watching for the moment they felt his ire, his wrath, his mastery, and dominance, the slash of his scythe. Only thereafter did the Reaper end his quiet onslaught, deep and blunt. “No reward necessary.”

[Suddenly this table seemed very appropriate! ;D]