He gave her only what she deserved: nothing. Immobile and unmoved, Satan’s ascended cretin lavished and lacquered, planned and contorted, Lucifer’s favored malice with a penchant for design, for anarchy. He was cold and unyielding, rigid and taut, conformed and content to seethe and sear in the gallows of chilling wind or vestiges of belligerent sun, a perfected specimen of devilish condemnation and infernal devastation. She persisted, and he relished in his callous control, in his intimidating finery, in his indifferent, nonchalant wake, painted and cloaked in recherché, drawing not a single blade of sympathy, not a empathetic glance in her direction. His instructions and derision had been clear, labeled in the dominating sanction of prowess, of poison, of puissance, and if she dared to stay one second longer, she may have been forced to feel the indulgence of his strife, of his invocations. While he was the Lord of winter in the midst of summer, he still expected the heat to bow to his will; this idiot was no different. He crackled with grand, Colossus sacrilege, unfurled and unraveled the core of his Mephistophelean delights, felt the lethal courtship dance and simmer, awaken at the slightest hint, the triumphant ecstasy of warnings foolishly unheeded. It formed like a silent, impenetrable wall, a surrounding sanction of demise, of sedition, of delectable finality; if she took one more step into their ruins, into their lands, into their kingdom, his wrath would be the last thing she’d feel. Then he refused her, like he did so many other demanding, entitled fiends, basking in the glow of their claims, their rights, their opinions, with stoic, belligerent relish. “Leave.” Or die, the ultimatum singed, unholy and unheard, an inaudible but puissant promise, because all of his convictions rang true: unrelenting, ferocious, savage, and sinister. Thranduil’s presence, how neatly he edged and etched his frame into the fray (Deimos began to thought that he sought out chaos and bedlam much like himself, and the sentiment itself was dangerous but intriguing), commanding departure as well. The only other interesting notion fumbling into the venue was Cashmere’s herd – the Hidden Falls, reigned by Midas. Was this his way of showing vexation and irritation, by sending an annoying barb, thrown immaturely in their midst? The beast’s narrowed, drawn directly into the silver fool’s features, wondering if the gilded King wanted a message sent back, spelled and dipped in violence, in vehemence, in vitriol.