DEIMOS

The Reaper

The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

Barbarous entropy and decadent acrimony, the taste of puissance and the relish of pernicious, venomous dedication, like an ever-present shadow, a maneuvering monster, a calculating cretin, he marched in carnivore pursuit, pride bared, regarded in the strength, in the domination, of their successes. Part of their recent victories had been physical prowess, his own matching sinister designs, others’ pulsing, rippling undulations scorching one another’s hides in hopes of assailment in practicing skirmishes, motivation for supremacy, for absolute sovereignty drenched and dousing. Another portion and reason for their increasing ascension were the spirited thieves, the stealthy brigands, the mutinous mercenaries, grasping, toiling, scraping away at secrets, at armor, at trinkets and lies, crossing over enemy lines or clawing their way through open halls. The Reaper had never imagined their overwhelming prowess to be in anything but brawn and power, scorching, slaying, courting flames, loathing, contempt, and damnation through sieges and assaults, but he’d always been a titan, a demon, a devil brought up to believe in war, in upheavals, in seditious displays and haughty deliverances. But now they’d reached a new era, a new regime, covered and tapered in illustrious, specious skills, artisans of veils, shades, and concealments, blistering with new faces and masquerading finesse. While some of his citizens followed the bracken veneer of battle hymns and malicious drums, others crept, slithered, and slunk their way through the gallows, along narrow chambers and unlocked doors, admiring thresholds they shouldn’t touch and finding their way amidst the apertures, tilting their heads to withheld conversations. Deimos respected their vigilance, their talents, their mastery and capabilities, because while he drenched himself in the grating, minatory enticements, they dove into deeper fathoms; and he wasn’t sure which one was more treacherous, which one was more dangerous: the brutal, anarchical swell of disaster and entropy, or snagging, snaring, the encoded messages leading them there. The powers coincided, never collided, linking, fusing, meshing together in a tumultuous, searing force, and he enjoyed the alluring, beguiling reach they seemed to hold in their grasp.

He presumed those responsible for the potency, for the potential, should be rewarded for their efforts.

The eldritch titan’s steps followed after one scent in particular; heedless, ruthless, diabolical, he matched it beat for beat, stride for stride, until the Tallsun wind nourished naught but her presence, presiding near a few of the distant caverns. In truth, like so many of his inhabitants, he knew almost naught about her (and they towards him; he knew how to keep secrets too, polished reticence, nonchalance, impassivity with rigid, unyielding confidence): rose-hued, embedded with a sword, capable of pursuing enemies far and wide for information, for ornaments, for armor, for bloodshed. Once, she’d managed to puncture and pierce a fierce, feral enemy, one he’d managed to recently plunder, and even without enveloping knowledge, sagacity, or wisdom of her past, her present prose and poise was formidable enough to neglect simmering histories. She served her station with keen aptitude; the ethereal ruin was satisfied with the results. As he neared, the reign of his silence persisted, unreadable, indiscernible, an unattainable infidel motioning across stones and rubble, and the cretin gestured into the wind, attempting to catch her gaze before his voice reached across the dominating void, dropping his cranium in a curt, brusque bow, deep vocals piercing across the recherché atmosphere. “Hotaru.” The address was foreign on his tongue, seemed too spring-like, too warm, but perhaps even the calling was deceptive, and he nearly smirked at the notion. There were foxes and warlords in the dens, snickering and scheming, Machiavellian tides and currents sweeping. “Your furtive expertise has been noted and appreciated.” He paused, glanced over the voracious skyline, sought avaricious longings in the widened apertures, where the mountains were kings and the valleys were queens, and the Basin was admired for its brilliance, for its power, for its condemnation and ferocity. Features unchanged, they roamed back along to the pale femme, who had managed to excel in cunning, in wiles, in snares. “Are you interested in a promotion?”

@[Hotaru]

DEIMOS

The Reaper

The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

The Reaper did not shy from power. He embraced it, coveted it, utilized and wielded it on a daily basis, stoking, kindling, instigating and provoking the immoral, licentious munitions of his presence: he’d learned what it meant from an early age, to be bestowed, credited, and warranted with such gifts. In his youth he may have been frightened of his own capability for barbarity, but those days were long gone, and now he maneuvered and motioned in nefarious emblems, in ghoulish compositions, in sinister manifestations, breathing havoc, wreaking condemnation, harpooning devastation. In turn, he would bestow his people, his comrades, his patriots with the same, surround and encompass them with the fine points, the vigilant edges, the crushing, barbaric display of potency. He was far too aware, far too confident, in his own dominion to be threatened or endangered by their prowess or potential, and instead, he yearned for them to become great, bestial beings, swinging axes and rapiers and scythes through the iniquitous voids, titans loosened from their chains, behemoths rumbling through jungles, through corridors, through caves and caverns until they’d obliterated what they sought, what they craved. He’d reward them their given due, their just desserts, their earned pieces of victory and conquest. Thranduil, sneaky and furtive, had been granted his role, slithering and sinuous, unwinding into the shadows as a Thief, and while Deimos couldn’t give the rose mare the same title (for now they had two brigands, speciousness at their limit), he could give her a new rank, a more influential angle, a step above mere spies and shirking wraiths. She’d done her part, she’d heralded many stories, many secrets, and she’d furnished stolen goods and taken the skull-face for a time – the femme deserved her honorific. He didn’t move, an immobile, intimidating fixture of marble, Tartarean guiles and wiles, Lucifer’s favored creation, preferred sword, preferred beast, still impassive, still nonchalant. His narrowed stare, reticent and unyielding, a molding of phantoms and devils and fiends locked in infidel scabbards and eternally eager to unleash molten depravity, snared and focused on her wan smile, on the fairy essence so easily embossed and imbedded across her sanction. But he led a den of predators, of carnivores, of monsters, and wouldn’t be swayed by the ruffian, siren entanglements of a temptress; she was just as dangerous, just as treacherous, as the rest of them. How else had she obtained so many codes, so many trinkets, so many lives? While brawn could overpower, while death could shape demise, she still filled in gaps of their soldiers, still warranted a gift few of them could possess. He seized her words, the greetings, the coos, and ignored the simpering poison beneath them; he was venomous too, and it would be interesting to see which could sting, paralyze, and devastate more. While she undoubtedly plumed and preened at his compliments, for they were few and far between, he conjured the rest of his sanction, the drumming diligence of his tones, the reasoning for seeking her out from the entanglements of the day. “Impersonator.” If this wasn’t enough for her, if she was greedy and grasping and covetous, she could always claw her way through the webs and warrens of Thieves, and challenge them for the subterfuge throne.

@[Hotaru]