An ethereal, enigmatic relic poised and mused beneath the summits, peaks, turrets, and barricades, restless, immoral, irrepressible, maneuvering past dying, withering highlights of the forlorn edges and the crisp, autumn doldrums, motioning, unwinding, the heedless persecution of another primordial peril. Since the days of war had passed, he’d been left to indifference and nonchalance all over again, with no enemies to butcher, with no cold-blooded cadence to compose, with no chiseled, promised forbidding, he was alone to bear the vivid violence, the minatory, sinister terror behind his eyes, through his limbs. A tireless heathen, he stoked the fires of hell and wandered into their vibrant, venomous clarity, living stone and hushed marble, a constant slinking, crooning, brewing of immorality and licentiousness, crossing over the wires of mayhem, administering and maneuvering the pawns of his predilections: ensuring the confines of his brilliant, wintry towers remained just the same: lush, supreme, and dominating. As if eternally granted the craving, molten sedition of strangers lurking in the midst, as if newcomers were always eager to be seen in his scrutinizing, cold, remorseless ether, the monster became fully aware of unfamiliarity crinkling across his borders. Was it another brooding menace chiseling their way through the boughs of demise? Was it one more foolish being intending to stick their head where they didn’t belong? Was it a trace of curiosity, building, brewing, and brimming until they couldn’t see anything but mountains, strength, and determination? With his own leashed, tethered tenacity, a boiling crescendo of malevolent, menacing convictions, he slithered amidst the Basin, the Aurora King without a scepter, only a gleaming scythe, only a rapturous title. The Reaper, eyes narrowed, insouciant, seditious mind combing and carving its wake, sketched himself forward in the midst of a skulled femme (not Confutatis; he would have hissed and drawn his blade, ran it straight into her heart – this one had been at meetings, had wandered within the icy outcrops; he just had no name to her features), and a gray stallion, tall and smiling. Deimos offered neither grin nor leisurely tones, presuming there was purpose to these endeavors, to these pursuits, to these strolls beneath sentinels and hallowed horizon beyond simpers and snickers. The beast lowered his head briefly to both, then tilted his skull a mere, minute fraction, ensuring inquiry where the rest of his features had settled into perfected detachment. The chilling rasp of his blunt, rapier tones arched ferocity in their nefarious influence, in their sculpted ramparts, gaze kindling a diabolical stare; a heartless behemoth administering argent domination. “Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” He strangled the cold, unrelenting air with his own bestial, barbaric influence, traced his stare to the silvern stranger, and ushered the weight of the visitor’s ambitions, of his titles, of his wealth. “Who are you?”

[omg I'm so sorry this took so long.]