.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
03-22-2015, 07:04 AM
Strength and dominion comprised and composed the summits, the cliffs, the valleys, stoking licentious finery deep into callous crags, subversive stone, and iniquitous immorality. Each member of the bestial Basin were courted and swayed into the conquering maelstrom for purpose, for reasons, for aspirations and goals – talents lain dormant, capability surmised or seen, varnished and gleaming. New blood stoked and held the enduring crowd from each and every cumbersome munitions, curiosity compelled new heights, sought avaricious plumes and sumptuous wiles. The Reaper couldn’t complain, even if public domain and fleeting conversations were not part of his esteemed repertoire (those segments were filled with coiled demise, with bloody, savage interludes, with miscreant endeavors and the devouring wake of devilish, unholy ramparts), as King, as Lord, as sovereign, he still held the duty of meeting with strangers, with interlopers, with the inquisitive and brave. Some flickering around the borders, indulgent and ignorant, had been turned away: demanding urchins, ridiculous fools, grasping, entitled dunces proffered naught but vigilance and violence, while others had been scrutinized, studied, examined, for their potential. If there was a flicker of ability, a bed of bedlam’s talent, the ruler acquiesced their request, granted them passage into the formidable chambers, into the wayward winds, into the chilling, rapacious halls. Another’s beckoning twisted and turned the funneling of his ears, and he snapped away from the dark caverns he’d been crouched within, a predator, a carnivore, amongst rubble, ruin, and devastation, lingering past the folds of the unfreezing lake, beyond the shards of the hot springs, a moving maelstrom, intimidating, overwhelming, breathing damnation through the fluid ministrations of his sinister sway. The piercing slate of his eyes fixated upon the lingering creatures beneath the threshold of the Sentinels (not buried or smothered by the fervency of their power; not foes, but allies, potential?), and upon his approach, he delivered a swift nod towards the stag, though readily unfamiliar, he’d been seen along meetings, and deserved a chord of recognition for his efforts (he’d brought the other here, deep into the denizens of the frigid, of the consecrated creed). Then, the monster’s stare became wholly reserved to the femme, all obsidian and violet, a blend of intrigue along her gaze, no pupils, nearly soulless in their scrutiny – but one couldn’t measure potency from the lack of something – so he tilted his skull a fraction, the avaricious behemoth kindling Machiavellian machinations. Giving naught else away except idle curiosity, the nonchalant features of the Reaper’s face only parted his jaws to anoint the newcomer with brief affability. “Deimos, Lord of the Basin. Welcome.” The introductions cast, he continued in curt strokes, only ensuing necessities, never one to express more than required. “Who are you and what do you seek here?” The answer was usually a home, but there was so much more contained within the singular word: whether they yearned for power, for subterfuge, for capricious turns of the world, or longed for it to remain unsaid, hidden, as clandestine as the rest of them.
[Sorry for the wait!]
