Cold and colder still, he churned, empty, wicked, a malicious bough of anarchy and primordial, heathen throngs, immersed and spilling from his decadent form no matter his ruthless silence; a constant presence of winter even when its season was not raging outside the cavern walls. Echoes of discord, of devouring, of absconding and consuming each virtuous pluck of harpsichords, each fall of pedastaled paragons, fueled the fibers of his movement, of his motions, even as he followed the wiles and wills of their newest Haruspex, slipping from the chords of virtue time and time again, a fiendish, wild masterpiece Hades smirked at and the rest of the world evaded, avoided. Recent upheavals and seditious exploits had not charmed him into any further shades of charisma or compassion, if anything, they had spurned him into more bouts of isolation and detachment, peering into the caverns’ grounds with rendered nonchalance, with notable insouciance. He drummed one nod for the newly ranked steed, looking every bit a fledgling in the wares of the looking glass, ignoring the calls of the wolves outside their doors (for he was every bit a predator as them, sought carnivore invocations, bore the rites and poise of barbarians and minatory predilections, could feast upon their slaughter when he was done here – he’d like to rip them apart over and over again if they made good on their billowing, bellowing threats). His eyes, piercing, eldritch immorality given life and acrimony, roamed only to the mirror poised amidst the room. Contained, roaming, thriving, within the timepiece was a being he’d fought against over and over again, perhaps both enjoyed employing bitterness and rancor, mortal against deity, brandishing fists and words and vehemence layered in between – but he didn’t what to expect at this particular venture. The sparks flown from the prior meeting, after initial debacles, had ensured they’d actually done something right for a change, and while he should have been somewhat uplifted by the notion, his features, his notions, were still carved and sculpted from decaying stone. He couldn’t predict a Gods’ whims, fancies, or movements, only respond, only retort, only reply after brutal annihilations, after scalding remarks, or destructive potency. The Reaper faced the mirror as if waiting for his next punishment, because he’d been berated after the Forsaken’s rise to fame, and he’d been scolded times before that; never truly playing into the immortal’s pawn plays or puppet roles. There was one, wild, fiendish sentiment brewing and brooding in his chest, that perhaps their ideas, their notions, their ambitions may run a course of luck and not be struck down – but he left that thought aside, casting it back into rubble and ruin. Time would tell soon enough whether their measures would be brought to fruition, or shoved back into the folds of anarchy. Rigid, taut, and unyielding, he brought his gaze back to the painted stag for a moment, for a brief, fleeting speck of junctures and abominations, rendering one question that could be considered kind if it came from another mouth, another soul. “Are you ready?”

He waited, a belligerent tapestry of patience and distortion, staring over the potent anarchy, the sway, the swell, of the reflecting abyss. He paid little heed to Thranduil’s appearance, to Ode’s wandering, to Ashamin’s strung silence – merely embarking in a sea of curiosity and meticulous pondering. The monster was almost expectant of something (for when the God of Time manifested himself there was always some great source of dramatics and theatrics, dominating prowess to ensure he still reigned over their mortal selves), and his piercing glare watched and witnessed the mirror cast its sparks, ignite its fury, and he wondered what he’d be lectured for on this occasion. But as the face warped, as the dial altered, naught jumped from its threads, from its glass, from its veneer, but the bright, blinding sparks of storms, of electricity (and now he thought he was about to be punished – his form grew all the more rigid and taut), swarmed and bellowed: the taste of triumph and victory, the anarchical pulse of malady and defiance, a soundless bounty of words echoing (look to the east), then naught at all. No deity. No explanation.

Deimos in his childhood years would have screamed in confusion and outrage. The present behemoth merely stared, still patient, still composed, but befuddled and spellbound by the strange reception they’d received. What did any of it mean? What were they to do? And because he was not an oracle (and never would be based on his defiance of the Gods many times over; his irreverence was rarely received well), because he had naught to go on, he turned his indifferent features towards the Haruspex, and listened to his words, his explanations, his take upon the subject.

A great change – when wasn’t there change? When weren’t they prescribed to a host of trials and tribulations? When weren’t they surrounded by ridiculous antics (wraiths, demons, pestilence, shadows, sitting in caves or fetching for the Gods’ latest project)? What was in the east? Instead of lurking in his eroding force, in his stubborn, tenacious frame, he managed to bestow a nod and conjure words amidst the frustration and the impending whims facing his herd yet again. “We will prepare as best we can.” How and what for would be determined amidst the snow and the chill, along the restless avenues of time, space, and persistence. They’d persevere, just as they had before, over and over again, never truly uprooted from their resolute ferocity.