Thrown into the too much of the unknown, the beast rummaged in rampant curiosity through his lands, conspiring, unraveling, trying to understand, to comprehend, the fathoms of the recent tirades. They’d been sent splinters of nuances and hints: new lands, new monsters, new diseases sent to plague and destroy – but none of the meaning behind it. Instead, they simple seemed to fall into the same patterns as before: discovering, hoping, yearning, and trying to make sense of the horrors, of the tribulations, of the trials set before them. Given the chance, the opportunity, the moment – he’d ravage and devour and consume everything for his blood, for his brethren, for his kingdom.
 
But the empire remained quiet, so he too manifested the art of silence, choking back endless queries, maligned inquisitions, and devilish interest, because no one had the answers. All of them played the same game, wandering and delving further into the midst, but he didn’t want any of his Basin comrades pressing too deeply into the labyrinth, arriving at dead ends where even his cold, destructive threads couldn’t reach.
 
He’d conspire, he’d carve wolfish rapture, he’d search and scour the plains, death’s fatal caress, Lucifer’s darkened scion, for the tangible reaches of behemoth shades and calamitous fixtures, nailing, piercing, harpooning, puncturing until everything unraveled, until their chains were lifted, until the mysteries were solved and enigmas tarnished back into their predacious dens. But the prospects were fleeting, the carnivorous zeal remote, the boldness and audacity leaking into lethal prosperities, and all at once he’d found he’d wavered too far, trickling amongst the shadows of the borders as young Rikyn and another shuffled into the aperture. Deimos’ trenchant, bitter, rancorous plunge ended there – eyes narrowed, speculating, studying the newest arrival, slinking beneath the sanction of ice and sun, one more dangerous, looming creature to add into the abyss.
 
The boy was familiar due to his lines and connections: he could see the fine, daring pulls of Illynx, the audacious wonder, the confident, assured movements, all made and woven by the former Lady. He was nearly amused by his son and hers getting along, because only on rare occasions had he and the GildedBlade seen eye-to-eye (and he couldn’t help but wonder what she would’ve done as murders unraveled, as Ophelia marched into her place, as the Forsaken exited with no ties left). He gave the lad a firm, respectful nod, a chiseled slate of his speech, “You are doing well, Rikyn?”, before funneling his attentions solely on the other occupant.
 
The unknown came crashing back to his skull, reminiscent of a wicked, pulsing ache, as he surveyed her: splashed with so many intertwining, otherworldly hues, as if she’d come from somewhere well beyond their reach, their horizons, their kingdoms. He didn’t ask, he didn’t pry, but he wanted too – yearned to reach well into the depths of his inquisition and conspire from where she’d hailed, so different, so uncanny. Instead, he rummaged for any declarations, any well-wishes he’d somehow learned to utilize in his indifferent seasons and years. “Welcome to the Aurora Basin. I am Lord Deimos. Who are you?”

  Entangled and fixated on bits of enigmas and traces of inquiry (without death, without bloodshed, without persecution), he was allotted the carved ramparts of silence and intrigue, gazing back and forth from familiar to strange and unknown. He thought to give the boy a series of questions, dive past the layers of menace and wreckage and peer into the foundation of so many things: how is your father? Have you seen him? Do you know, some days, I actually miss your mother? But the words never came across, and he lowered his eyes, almost ashamed he couldn’t bring them to voice or speech – held back, tethered, tied by something unseen and intangible, as if the lost connections made him weaker, noted his faults and flaws, wove each and every defect so they became all the more prominent. He held onto many fixed lines and puncturing arches and demonstrative, devilish components, and to whittle away the fabrications, to peek behind the veil, to allow them to witness how far he’d truly fallen, was too much for his antagonistic prowess. So, instead of leaning into the fold, of becoming part of the chain between herd members and their ensnaring, guileless qualities, he stayed away, he backed off, he lingered in shadows and caves and catacombs; but afforded the boy the smallest of compassionate gestures, a fatherly nod, a hint of a smile, a ghost of the days spent with his sire’s engineering, tinkering sounds, a wraith of moments spent with his dam’s tireless lectures and banshee wails. “Thank you for your efforts,” was all that pulsed from his mouth, bestowing so many things in between: congratulations on finding his way back home, on becoming part of the ice and rime again, at still being a close companion to his son (a boy fashioned with so much rain that he had no issues grinning or reminding others of his existence), at doing his part in making the Basin strong, and potent. The Reaper knew he’d never given enough credit to the lad’s family, he couldn’t fill the hole, the void, left and resonating – but he tried, determined and resolute.
 
To the other, a femme coated in so many foreign interludes, he expressed his undying curiosity – a scalding fixture of his youth he’d never managed to erase. Ming Yue, from the Rift already presented a series of queries boiling and brewing amidst his skull, and maybe he’d been tucked into his caverns and glaciers for too long, because he didn’t recognize the strange, serene way she told of her land. Tilting his head, examining, studying, scrutinizing amidst veils and shrouds, the beast highlighted his ignorance, but proffered his potency and prowess. “Please enlighten me – what is the Rift?” Was it like his old home, Isilme, scattered and polished with the beauty of the ocean? Was it like his terrain thereafter, the World’s Edge, pervaded by mist and poignancy, haunting diatribes, menacing, lasting contempt? Before he could delve even further into the annals of probability and calculations, the searing taste of more queries funneled past his lips and out into the plucked, scattered, Birdsong edges. “What do you seek in the Basin?” Was there purpose to her wandering? Did she hold talent, or regards, towards anything in particular? Or had she come to be another of the Romani, listless, pondering, and only suited to wondering?

  He held a distinct talent for listening, for calculating, for maintaining his vigilance and examining the world around him – ears pricked, attending to the formidable whims of the earth or the capricious blood spilled and splashed across the murky grounds. He gave into the nuances and notions of a land from far beyond – the Rift - and it sounded so eerily similar to Isilme and all its foundations, all its heartfelt crescendos, that a spark of wistfulness nestled itself between the cracks of his nefarious, ugly, blackened heart. But the Reaper didn’t grant it a voice either, despite its desperate, poignant etches and sketches, of a life, of a time, far beyond the channels of mountain valleys and caverns and glaciers, where his father reigned and war was great and grand and hate was not so uncommon. It clung inside him, withering and decaying, defiantly scratching down the length of his chest and the coil of his muscles, reminding in all its bitter, rancorous barbs, of what could have been, what should have been, and the ways in which the earth always intended to leave him behind. The only thing he proffered through the haze, as Ming Yue wove her story of magnificence, opulence, and then decadence, was a note of more inquiries, more notions, more curiosities entrenched from the gallows of faults, flaws, and fissures. “What changed?” Had it too become encased in shadows, like Isilme, too tainted, too poisoned, too lethal, taking and destroying, ripping and maiming, until they were forced to leave? Until they had to abandon everything they’d tried so desperately to achieve? How much had she lost in the aftermath? What did she think to gain?
 
Therein, the King’s question became answered simultaneously: of newness, of foreign steps treading upon unknown soil, of a life changed and altered by the strange, fascinating swing of events. His voice, keen and blunt and invoked by candor, crossed amongst the throng, diligent, resolute, determined – she could easily play a part in their world. “You are welcome to stay.” And the boy too chimed in, echoing over the layers and days spent inviting and beguiling others to live and work amongst the frozen walls; his eyes glanced towards the youth again, smirking and proud, a true combination of his parents. The Lord was glad to have him there, a part, a hint of yesteryears and a reminder of mistakes to be mended, powerful, strong, and stalwart, ready to command and leap where his mother once reigned and where his father once tinkered. By habit, he glanced towards the sentinels, cold, metallic, and decrepit, shifting from the lack of maintenance, settling into the soil, like remnants of the giants that used to walk amongst their chilling earth; inspiring horror, terror, and tyranny.
 
What did they inspire now? What did he invoke and encourage?
 
He tried to ignore the bitter tempest waning against his skull, focusing his attention back towards the discussion of where the femme could go, what she could do, how she could slay ignorance and wander amongst the layers of brutality and villainy. “You have many options. We have thieves, menders, soldiers, philosophers, and engineers.” He paused, a phantom of the warrior flank, a beast made and christened by weaponry and treachery, treading where he felt the most uncomfortable and the most ashamed; bearing a heavy crown. “You do not have to decide now. You may discuss with those holding such ranks.”

   She spelled and spilled out the whims and capriciousness of the past, and he bent towards them, echoing over the same armaments, the same flaws, the same defects – always forced to yield to something he had no heart for. When he craved bloodshed, the world heralded peace. When he sought sanctuary and sanctum for his sovereignty, only chaos and bedlam could be found (and he always followed after it; too enticed, too tempted, to unravel the art of virtues and paragons). What she wanted, what she aspired for, couldn’t be achieved in their decadent world; her reserve and rapture for the Moon Goddess could only be truly beckoned within the folds of the Edge (and why anyone would want to pay tribute, beg at her shrine, claw at her barbarity was unknown to him, but he knew of her deeds, her deliberations, her manipulations and murders scored across the land – she was not worth any worship). He answered as the boy drew into silence, simple and matter-of-fact, “Our herd pays reverence to the God of Time and Spark,” despite the fact that neither the Reaper nor the celestial being boasted any great sentiment for one another. Deimos challenged, Deimos mocked, Deimos gave no credence, and Deimos offered no bows; paying heed to the being’s talents, to his care of the land, but the Lord proffered his preference for his kingdom by guarding it with unholy vigilance, with dark, intrepid insistence, with hollowed, haunted pursuits and persecution. How Ming Yue courted the God would be of her own volition; the winter titan wouldn’t fill her head with contortions and distortions of his cold-blooded assignations. Instead, his gaze sought out her exhausted countenance, her tired, haggard state, and opted not to remain in her stead, continuing to clamber for bits of wisdom and reams of indulgence; not when she required strength and salvation in a world that offered little of the latter and much of the former. Blunt, keen, and entirely consumed in the oaths and aspirations of calamity, of acrimony, he bowed deeply once more to the boy and enigmatic femme, leaving them to whatever tidings may spring from ashes, from soot, from dust and decay. “I will not keep you. Explore at your convenience.” Thereafter, he gestured to the wide-open plain, to the searing, scorching wiles of wind and earth, to a land covered in ice and passion, to searing armaments and festering ruin. “Enjoy the Basin.” Then, he too disappeared into the midst of shadow and disaster, another token of the sinister world, one more being pried from the cloak and daggers of devils and fiends.