The Reaper thrived on anarchy. He lived for the sensation of chaos, of bedlam, of mayhem weaving its sinuous, treacherous arches, eternally plunging his nefarious glances, his Machiavellian ministrations, down into Tartarean compositions. He’d been too immersed in the fangs of decadence, in the reign of terror, to ever let relish anything else but the malicious gleam of vengeance, the taut, rigid edges of violence, the toiling urgency of tribulations – of constant vigilance, of unsung, unholy vehemence. His breath was an enduring coil of danger, his presence an everlasting maelstrom. His body was tied and tethered together by the strings of devastation, sinew pulsing in maddening plumes, in the strangling, suffocating elasticity of remorseless, heartless rhythms, a skull undulating belligerence, movement and motion promising annihilation, all wound in the bestial swing of abhorrence, in the barbaric plunge of a wicked scythe. The King had been christened and anointed in the archaic press of war, of crusades, of molten, infernal hues, sparking, inciting, provoking until clenching fists and armaments blasted holes through fortifications: he’d been brought into the world, born amidst the tides of Isilme, as an agent of destruction, of ruin, of annihilation and upheaval. He’d been granted, sullied, sculpted, and molded into deplorable, horrible machinations, and perhaps it was about time he returned to the ferocious endeavors of a satanic predator. The circle of potency was incomplete.

While the world tumbled about in its idiotic sway, scraping at old wounds, grasping at scars, struggling to establish triumph over the insurgence of listlessness, the demonic, Lucifer sculpture was pulled into Hotaru’s words, enticed by the bounty of their worth, by the danger they’d drawn, clawing and prying, rasping and grating, because retribution had reared its nefarious head. How long had it been since the Doctor’s lover had been murdered, how long had it been since one of their own had been tattered and maimed, ripped apart and destroyed? All they’d discovered were loose ends, shambled, frayed monuments, unwinding, loathing bitterness, rancorous knots tied in sullen fringes. But now a name, a declaration, a bite amongst the thorns and brambles, revitalized the conspiracies, the traps, the snares, shorn and sewn into the bellicose veins of the Reaper. There were possibilities, endless whims, indulgent wiles of absolute decadence, conquering, devastation, upheaval, sedition and splendor, all wrapped in a taut bow, curling, coiling, ravishing down into the depths of his avaricious mind. Hotaru had presented them with a wonderful opportunity, and he grasped it with a ferocious snicker, a chaotic smirk. Revenge, war, and annihilation - all of the birds lined up in a neat row, ready for plucking. Beneath the tent’s enclosure, their nuances, their sentiments, their hate could leech into the sanction and reign supreme, and all the ambitions, all the aspirations, he’d warranted since the days of living amongst the Edge cliffs could be seen, visualized, tasted, and refined.

The fact that the Forsaken was in on it, agreed to the propositions, only made it more sublime. There didn’t have to be any cunning measures to trace her steps towards war. She glided along the path like all of them, consumed, devoured, and swallowed by the soulless temptation of annihilation. Midas and the Falls, Oxy the murderer, strung up on the gallows and hoisted by their own foolishness. The Edge aligned with them, indulging in their own schemes (and who would have known they had it in them – peacekeepers and do-gooders suddenly enticed by the notion of warfare?), the Throat would hold no regard, and all of the pieces would align perfectly: a turbulent, virile storm. He confirmed what they all thought, what they all wished, blunt and keen. “We will fight.” He paused though, riveting his glance towards the silvern mare, clenching his jaw together at the contemplation of what could remain of the Edge. Did he want to lay claim to a world he once tried to protect? The answer came with little pause, with hardly a need for consideration. He’d plunged his blade into the ice, into the rime, into the glaciers and summits, peaks and valleys, for far longer than the shoreline and cliffs; the Basin had bestowed him everything, and he wouldn’t forsake the arches of time, the realm of chilling wind, for something he’d barely known. “The Basin is my home. Should we be victorious, I will remain here.” He was winter, after all – what would he be without the chilling winds, the barbaric paths? A noteworthy nod was given to both femmes, dipping in reverence to their cunning, to their ministrations, to the combination of Machiavellian exploits fortified and kindled. “I will go to the Falls. Allow me to assemble soldiers for the siege.”

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.

The beating, bleeding confirmation of war hinged and harpooned along his sides, pressed in the glimmers of a smirk, the tremors of a song not yet sung. Sieges and assaults were his oeuvres, were his masterpieces, were his tapestries woven in blood, rich ichor dabbling down the stitched seams, the careful, tactician brushstrokes; he carved bones, he lacerated skin, he pulsed bedlam and arched mayhem. For too long he’d yearned for this, craved it in the bellowing annals of his licentious creeds, yearned for its thriving, blistering revolution: to have success, to have victory, for his beloved Siberia. Time and time again he’d sculpted through the follies of their wake, rising and diving and plunging and growling when they emerged conquered and defeated, when they had the simple taste of conquest dancing and simmering upon their tongues, but became so utterly incapable of grasping it whole. They needed success, they needed victory, they needed the riveting, ambrosial touch and relish of vehemence, of violence, of true, pure, abhorrent upheaval, to trust in their capabilities, to thrust their swords through an enemy’s chest, to obliterate an audacious foe. They needed a win to notch across their hides, to score across their banners, to announce their mastery, their dominance, their supremacy, with true, final distinction. They were the monsters of the north, the treacherous demons of the ice and snow, and this moment, this chance, this opportunity, could ensure, could cement, their superiority. Gone were the days of the lost Edge, the rancorous exploits of fallen brethren, gone were the days of a split cadre, running rampant into mist, fog, sand, and stones, faltering and stumbling and bumbling their way through. They were persistent, they were fierce, they were persevering; an enduring tribe of warriors, of cretins, of infidels, waiting and watching for their malicious ambitions to be fulfilled: and here it lay before them, encased in Falls losses and Moon speculation.

He’d seize it alongside them. He’d carve their names across stones, across statues, across fallen lands.

The Reaper nodded to each of them (a job well done towards the Impersonator, a fleeting bob of his skull to the Forsaken for being a willing participant in the art of warfare), a silent slate of manifested, composed sedition. He bristled, pulsed, pervaded with vigilant savagery, visceral brutality, embarking down the wayward halls of cruelty, of ferocity, with a polished, kindled stroke – one touch, one promised reverie of potency, of death, of damnation, and he was ensorcelled, rapidly approaching the rabbit hole. His agreements passed in quiet ambition, in billowing folds of sinister, nefarious arts, turning just as they toiled into their sectors, shifting in the shadows to begin finding his soldiers, one by one, bidding them a newfound holiday, a conspiracy-laden request.

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.