They were thriving.

It was a respite, a repose, a strange, dignified sanctuary from the unwinding days of nothingness – where one swiveled their eyes to find silent, unsung decadence, the rapture and reverie of decay, or the indistinct measures of silence and diminished grandeur. Despite the constant onslaught of turbulence, of storms, of everything muddled, martyred, and murky in between, the Basin was suddenly left with voices at every corner, with citizens flanking the caves, with guards patrolling the borders, with the Sentinels’ gleaming eyes and the dignity of triumph laced to their muscles, their movements, their motions. The Reaper, usually bent, traced, and drawn into sullen, brooding indignation, was suddenly permitted to peer upon his citizens, his brethren, his kin, with a matter of pride. They were the ones who’d done this. They, with their scabbards and swords and shields had extinguished doubts, had assuaged scathing wounds, had mended and molded their pursuits, their dreams, their ambitions into reality, and it was a reverential moment to witness the transformation take place. He watched from the shadows and he stared from the Stygian caves, he sketched and outlined every nuance and notion his people made, and the nefarious bits of his heart were torn and reassembled at their willingness, at their strength, at their courage and perseverance. Tirelessly, mercilessly, unrelenting and persistent, they wound their valor, their prowess, their cravings and yearnings into distortions of dominion, supremacy, and authority. They deserved the recognition, the finesse, the taste and relish of power, of distinction; domination at their grasp, invoked, incensed, and incandescent - and as one more wandered into the borders, led by his troops, the monster aimed to prove his gratitude.

He still maneuvered as a piece of the devil, as an emblem of Lucifer, as a banner of Mephistopheles, rancorous persecution, licentious predilection, a sovereign threatening to scorch, to scour, to invoke disorder and chaos at the reign of his treachery. But the penetrating, piercing weight of his glare was softened by the edges of esteem, dignity, and regard for those who traversed his grounds; the coldness wasn’t as harsh, the chilling detachment wasn’t as apathetic, aloof, or indifferent. Audacious, bold, and iniquitous, he maintained his nonchalant, impassive outlook, he remained coated and veiled and dappled in enigmatic enmity, a varnish of the intimidating, a loathing, scalding brute, but the menace, the vehemence, was quiet, soothed, appeased by all of his odious heathens scuttling amongst the corridors. The Lord’s response to Rexanna’s summoning wasn’t out of disappointment, nuisances, or a voracious appetite to devour into raptorial prowess, but to see, to wonder, to ponder, over the makings of one more into their fold. So the beast, the barbarian, the sovereign, was swift in his proceedings, embarking closer and closer to the borders, catching the golden Phantom’s glint, casting her specific words and phrases as he appeared into their small throng. “Rexanna; congratulations on your efforts.” He followed the procedure with a short, crisp, blunt nod of his skull, granting her the acknowledgment of her ventures to the Threshold, on bringing new blood into an old venue – then tilted his rancorous gaze towards the sable stranger, studying, examining, forming opinions before transgressions. Would he be another noteworthy figure to add into their prospering empire, or merely another forgotten face within the next season? The pernicious, poisonous efforts slid across his tongue and pooled along his mouth, conforming to the guile of many welcomes and assemblies. “Deimos, Lord of the Basin. Who are you?”