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?”