Nefarious prose riddled and rankled through the treacherous, deplorable corridors of his movement, unholy, carnivore decadence, sprung from the heels of Mephistophelean severity. Seditious motions were a familiar, plunging cord of resolute, writhing, feral predilections, seething and searing through the outer folds of his malevolence; he embarked, he stoked, he incited, along a callous, heartless path, the brooding, brutal king amongst his people, unfurling from his throne. He couldn’t be subtle within the confines of his tundra, even if he’d tried, incapable of masking raptorial finesse and rapacious greed, for it was an inborn menace, driven and unleashed straight from his core: death and demise, waiting beyond Tartarean gates. Everything else remained an enigma: his thoughts, his feelings, his sentiments and ruminations; wrapped and shrouding his features in the rigid, taut veil of indifference and nonchalance, the invocation of protection he allotted himself since his first year on earth. The Reaper would have continued measuring his hours, blotting the hillsides and glaciers with his aloof presence from sunrise to sunset, composing sinuous, savage, licentious bearings, guarding, smoldering, had the familiar presence of Wynter not been granted. The monster didn’t yield to haphazard calamity as he’d done before in a thickened state of apprehension, the bonded to the ivory griffin had been taken, tortured, and the notion it could happen again, to any of his members, to any of his brethren, made the mordant embrace of his devilish contortions curl. Instead, he lifted his behemoth gaze to the fellow demon, arching one abhorrent brow, saving and bartering away all the ferocious, taciturn blends for another occasion (an intruder, perhaps, waiting in the wings for the oeuvre of Deimos’ prowess, when his sword plunged straight through their heart, when his necromancy granted them absolute iniquity). All he received in return was a cool imploring from the companion, a wave of plumes and feathers, the dusting of invitations, one more summoning towards the borders.

Whether or not this meant he’d been tamed, bought and sold to whomever’s beck and call (a price for a crown, or because his kin knew of his tumultuous curiosity, of his unrelenting intrigue?), he followed in bestial temptation, through the pine and fir trails, amongst the hedges of moss and undergrowth, never ceasing, never pausing, invoking his scrupulous, fierce, imminent procession, indiscernible, detached steps, ruthless harks, scanning the horizon for the sight, the reason, for his presence. Beneath the soulless stare of the sentinels rested Arah and an unfamiliar being – another newcomer, perhaps? – he marched in his diabolical, malignant sway, a piercing, pulsing maelstrom of domination, of supremacy, of ruin and bedlam overwhelming reckless, infidel slaughter, a rough form of a sword flanked and steeled for protection, for vigilance, for violence. Upon his infernal approach, the devilish slate of his eyes were reserved first for the Impersonator, a respective bow in place for her efforts, and swung quickly in swift, kindled recoil and grace, along the stranger. Gilded, reminding him briefly of their Thief, Roland, but unique in his other markings: a withering tree crawling, decrepit, like gnarled fingers of an outstretched bough (the fixture of haunted children’s stories, witchcraft and misery and crones shrieking, harpies in the dead mist), antlers sprouting from his brow, and a strange lantern-light hanging from its edges (his brow arched again, the breaking of his stoic prowess for just a small, minute moment, because he didn’t know what it was for, how to use it, or why a beast would have it – rising speculation and inquiries reeling in his mind, but not coiling past his lips). The sovereign passed another short bob of his skull to the stag, possessing the deep crescendo of his sinister vocals into a potent flare. “I am Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” He tilted his head, curiosity enticed and allured, continuing in the same, singular pattern as many moments before. “Who are you? What do you seek here?”

Layers of patience, composure, and silence comprised his reticent, nonchalant being, angling his cranium in varying degrees to watch, study, and scrutinize the other occupants of his kingdom. The Impersonator proffered the stranger’s name: Tilney - before Sialia wandered into the fray, then back out. He bade her a swift nod, then tethered his piercing eyes back upon the golden stag. Another one to assimilate into their ranks, another one to brood, chisel, and unite beneath the mountain summits, along the glacial rime, across the vicious sector of poised armaments and swinging gallows – the King had always believed firmly in a strong, mighty herd. They were brethren, they were kin, and they were a dominating, pernicious force, from the furtive wings of secrets, cloaks, and daggers, the barbaric hymns of soldiers, to the specious, furtive Menders, and the industrious Weavers. He poured his strength, his diligence, his monstrosity, his tenacious, behemoth persistence into the peaks and valleys, and expected the rest of his world to do the same. Some were capable, persevering beasts, and others disappeared under the mettle and scorn. Would Tilney be up to the challenge? Would Tilney impart his talents and skills into the treacherous pathways, the rancorous edges, the hushed, satanic finesse? Would he be capable of remaining in the icy world, with its chilling fortifications, its illustrious secrets, and its remorseless fringes? The Lord’s ears flicked once or twice, catching the chestnut’s own words, seeking a home, a family (of brothers in arms, of beasts and vermin and Lucifer creations?), not as a warrior, but as one of the menders, soothers, a doctor with his lantern light pouring over patients. The Reaper paused and mused over the notion, crafty, Machiavellian mind churning over the probabilities; one could never have too many healers, especially with recent actions (invasions, constant spars, idiotic, puny morons seeking their fortunes, their livelihoods), and the cave containing herbs needed to be well stocked before Frostfall made its next appearance. Through the vivid, poignant silence, the reeling, Mephistophelean danger, the remorseless King finally announced the feral declaration. “You may stay.” He paused, continuing to glance at the lantern hanging from his antler’s, pondering and wondering over its infernal creation and purpose, but saying naught about it all over again (could he blind his enemies with it? Did it hurt when it hit an opponent’s jaw?). Instead, he proffered some names and addresses to follow, and call upon when necessary. “Find our Time Menders, either d’Artagnan or Lena, for tasks and details with your rank.”