The Reaper had barely strayed from the borders in recent days, watching, waiting, witnessing the beehive throngs gathering and nestling beneath the encroaching metal of the sentinels. Day in and day out, the world, the mass, the crowd had assembled, buzzing and droning, vexing and irritating. If the machines didn’t keep them at bay, the monster was sure to follow suit: depraved, wretched, and horrible, a demon from the mists and midst. Their purposes always seemed incredibly foolish, mundane, and tiresome: gallivanting across heathen riches, daring to spy into the illustrious haze, yearning to find and describe the dominating forces, the bestial throngs, the demonstrative potency of the Basin’s finest. He'd been severely limited in being able to express his taste, his penchant, for demise and catastrophe, for forcing fools and idiots away from their empire, and today was doomed to be like all the others. Though he couldn’t be sure of why these particular creatures had arrived, they didn't appear threatening, dangerous, or treacherous; not intending to destroy something Deimos had always attempted to protect. At the very least, as he drifted from his ramparts, a slithering shadow, a sinuous beast, an intimidating behemoth, the approaching gliders (all three marked by wings, Pegasus assemblage; and he remembered another one of theirs flying into their world, seasons ago, dancing in with a unicorn, and the latter never leaving) had all heeded the warning presence of metal and domination. He'd administer polite, political denominations in respect. Following after the Forsaken, who chattered away with the group (discerning she was acquainted with them, and he wouldn’t be permitted to fire some nefarious stares or brooding fixtures), he was all the more the silent infidel, the hidden sword emboldened and unholy, one more licentious web and weapon they had tied within the chilling confines and the glacial walls. He drew closer, a few yards away from the winged individuals, piercing eyes landing upon each and finding no significant recognition; though the silvern one looked vaguely familiar. He bestowed a nod to all of them, a brief, cordial gesture, solidifying his etch of power and title, the reason he was marked alongside them, arching one brow in licentious curiosity. “Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” As they drifted further inward, guarded and proffered, protected and safeguarded by treaty, by armistice, and the overwhelming inquiries gnarled and knotted with his Machiavellian mind, the calculations, the machinations, began to rise and curl. What was their purpose here? Did the Dragon’s Throat already yearn to rescind their contract? Was something awry (and could it be crushed, beaten down, ripped apart, scorned and mauled until there was nothing left, until bloodthirst was sated and savagery satisfied)? Or was there to be a mere exchange of information, as Ophelia had done for them time and time before? He stood a length away from them, stiff and unyielding, a measurable, deadly foe entangled and sculpted by the shoal and shore of the lake, as the Lady gave voice to his queries.