The light overhead had been fading for a while, painting the sky with hues of blues, golds, and pinks. Of course, paired with the stranger colors of greens from the Aurora beginning to settle in for the evening. The sunset of Birdsong was chilled like winter, but full of life. A life that I hadn’t felt much of lately. After the meeting with the Sun God, I had gotten sick. The same blackness that had succumbed so many more equines. I wasn’t sure how to cure it and I wasn’t sure what exactly was happening to me. My vision was fuzzed in places, memories reaching back up to pull me away from reality. Or at least, I hoped the visions weren’t reality.

I took note that perhaps I had begun to mistake people. Though I couldn’t be so sure. Beings of my past were reappearing lively and fresh. My dead child had returned and while he wasn’t by my side, I felt as though he was still wandering, perhaps in Helovia. Perhaps closer than I thought. However, those thoughts had passed due to the issue at hand. Ophelia, a creature I had heard about when I joined in at the meeting – the one who seemingly disappeared without a word – had attempted to take the one Uni in the Basin that I had a strong professional relationship with. I wasn’t pleased with it, but I also knew of someone else that wouldn’t be pleased with it.

Wandering to the Lake’s edge, I dipped my crown into it. Hoping to shake off some of the black sludge that began to trickle down from my eyes and nose once more. The edges of my lips stained black with the hellish slime that seemed to engulf me inside and out. I watched the water for a few moments before turning my aqua gaze away. The slime beginning to trickle again, meshing strangely with the already blackened markings that lined my face. Heaving a gentle sigh, I knew that I couldn’t appear at least partially presentable to my Lord – but I would try. I would try my hardest.

That’s when I called out for him. Deimos. The Reaper. The one that scared the life out of me from the day that I met him, and still did to this day. After my calling, I broke down in a fit of coughing. Hanging my head lower and closing my eyes for mere moments, water still dripping off the chains that adorned my horn and forehead – a gift from Tembovu. A silver lined teal feather from Ilios lined in my mane as well, gifts from a short life lived in Helovia that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

And with the wind of the sunset chasing my dual toned mane and tail, my cream and golden bodice waited in a partial state of agony, pain, and frustration for my Lord to show his face. I only hoped I didn’t mistake him for someone else as well.

"Talk?"

rexanna

awaken to the eyes of glazed humor.
the haze in my somber eyes… it burns… so cold.

The world was amiss again: another venomous spiral of the wicked, of the duplicitous, of the deceitful. But the Reaper didn’t know where to start or how to understand it; where to condemn, how to unravel, where the melee twisted and turned, how he could slaughter it before it untangled, damaged, and ravaged his people. No stranger to chaos or diabolical designs, too full of Tartarean regard, too fixated on the friction, the menace, the formidable eaves of uncanny, eerie echoes, he remembered the ways the earth had betrayed them. He recalled monsters in the shape of their friends, bleeding and haunting and annihilating until they were all forced underground, fleeing and escaping instead of fighting. He recollected souls swept away and destroyed for no reason at all, found laden with clues pointing to Gaucho and the Moon Goddess. Each and every time, naught could be done but wait, agonizingly wait and wait and wait – and he hated every moment, every stitch, where he was just as helpless as the rest of the realm, biding their time until the next axe fell. The demon could only remain idle for so long, trapped, incensed, blistering and scorching and reverberating annihilation. Caught in the abyss, in the hollows, he consumed what little information he’d gathered, on the ruffian parlors, on the entombed and enshrouded glee, on the malicious, cruel ardor floating between horrors and blades.
 
He maneuvered across the Basin as a reticent, cold, incensed rapier, intending to polish calamity, yearning to lacquer sinister, savage pursuits into the devilish croons, into the plundering factions wreaking havoc on his disciples. But a call howled through the sunsets’ eaves, familiar but weakened, ensconced in the bleak calamity threatening to unwind all, and like a faithful cutlass, he followed, drawn to the annals of vengeance and deliberation, squandering the thoughts of his safety for the predacious anarchy of information, of callous, malicious threads roaming together, tied, tethered, and knotted. In between the void, the hollowed, the sunken, gaunt reaches of his compassion, he saw the golden traces of her stance, the roll of her weakened composure, the pressing hues of the remaining light dimming, unkind and blistering as they turned membranes black and silence into hacking. Even Rexanna, a phantom amongst their thieves, had been swindled and tarnished by the noxious fumes.
 
The Lord’s head lowered, yards away, gazing at her by the lake’s reflection, unsure of what to do, what to say: because he always cherished death and its heedless, ruthless wiles, because he encompassed its pleasures, its rites, its raptures, and wouldn’t know how to relish in its opposite. “You are unwell.” Deimos fed and consumed on too much of the malevolent, on the cruelty of the earth, on the ways horror pressed its way through each and every column, blade, or serenity; but when it glimpsed and touched over his brethren, he fought and bit and tore against it. But how could he destroy something within their own frames, poisoning, scorching, and unraveling their beings? His once nonchalant features distorted into visible vexation, annoyed and irked by being futile, ineffective, and pointless, a sword without a head to cut – only a Reaper, only a weapon. Ignorant of her true whims and wishes at his arrival, he pressed his sovereign score back into the lost rays of light. “Shall I fetch a healer?”

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.

Eyes flickered back and forth from debating on pressing my face into the chilled waters once more to allow myself to be more presentable, or to stand there in wait, feeling the sickness slide from my face in a pit of shadows and demons. It had graced my face with more black markings, my fur sticking together in weird ways as well as the cream that found its way between my usual black markings turned dark and hidden beneath it. Ears flitting back and forth to my surroundings and back, pressing against my neck, I waited still unsure whether or not I should do something about this.

Eventually, I decided that even doing so would be no good as it would happen when we spoke. Though at least I could look a bit healthier? More normal? Turning my body ever so slightly, I heard a voice reach me. I froze ever so slightly, trying to place the voice to the face, but having not much luck. I blinked slowly, turning to face the speaker only to see a mix matched glimpse of creatures. Half of his face was blackened like death, the other side nearly skeletal – though covered by a thin patch of skin - carried patches of a palomino coloring. Eyes widened and ears nervously twitched. What could I even say to that?

Then I registered what the creature had said. ‘you are unwell.’ I nodded slowly, unable to miss the vision before me. The rest of the body, granted a healthy distance away, was split the same as well. However, one horn stayed black and the other stayed a pristine white. Much like the King back home. I closed my eyes for mere seconds, opening them once more to see Deimos. I breathed a sigh of relief before he began to shift into the very same mix match doll I had seen before. ‘shall I fetch a healer?’ The creatures voice began to shift in weird ways, pausing in weird spots, and just all together so very strange.

“I’m not sure if a healer can cure this.” My voice trembled slightly and I caught myself for a moment, continuing the gentle trick that had worked moments before. Closing my eyes momentarily to open them to my Lord. The person I wanted to see. And even though the visions were shifting, I had hoped I was speaking with who I wanted to. “My Lord, we have an... issue...” I breathed lightly, glad he kept a distance. I didn’t want to be the reason the Lord got sick.

Feeling a hint of a cough urging on, I turned away from him. Head swung over near the water once more and breaking into another coughing fit. Sniffling to myself and shaming myself in my head for being such a mess before him, I turned and faced him again – the patchwork doll. “Someone tried to steal Thranduil. Someone I don’t know personally, but one I’ve heard of.” I lowered my gaze again.

“I intercepted her. The one I believe to be called...” Taking breaks where I needed them, I closed my eyes again opening them with a slight anger and upset that flashed within my azure gaze as I steadied them on Deimos. “Ophelia.”


"Talk?"

rexanna

awaken to the eyes of glazed humor.
the haze in my somber eyes… it burns… so cold.

  Death and destruction, demolition and desecration, held its limits; he had no prowess over the eternal flow of sanctuary and havens – could only bestow its arts through vigilance and violence. Rexanna required neither. He was left to mull and frown, furrow his brows into a deeper etch, a finer sketch, frustrated at his inabilities and ineffective sway: only heinous, only discordant, only brutal, only barbaric. His eyes never left her as she seemed to visibly wane before his calculating, nefarious stare: an arch of illness, of disease, floated along her features, hazardous and veiled, cloaked and malicious. Afraid, suddenly frightened (an itch along his spine, a crawling, pricking allure reaching below his heart and out across its solid edges) for the way the realm had concocted to plot against his kind, his comrades, the spokes of his voice reached, fractious and emboldened, taut and minute along the slide of weakness and potency – an unknown venom, an acrimonious toxin strangling the air. “Do you know what can?” He knew naught about its infernal predilections, the way it choked, the way it muffled, the way it punctured and harpooned the senses, unraveled and unhinged. How many had it touched? How many had it scalded? Was it to be like the last disease, rampant and unyielding, turning and twisting and changing everyone and everything in its path? Would they be forced to hide away again (and already his stubborn, wretched, despicable mind devoured the notion; he couldn’t be the coward once more, leading his people to grottos and catacombs, unsure how to fight against something invisible and insane)? The beast, once so callously indifferent, once so eager to execute instead of listen, nearly folded back into the notion of examination and enigmatic quandaries, when Rexanna pressed ever further  - to the true nature of her summons.
 
The subject sparked, then incensed. It was an unfortunate inclination the Basin had towards being stolen: they were frequent targets. Perhaps some were too bold, too audacious, too detached or infernal. Maybe some were utterly deplorable and deserved the snatching, the snaring, the traps and gambits; but the rest of her words hung so precariously over the threshold, riling an inner malice, a contorted, distorted, misshapen cluster of hate and contempt. Ophelia - aiming to strike at had once been hers.
 
He’d thought her idiotic before. This act cemented the sentiments.
 
To what end did she seek Thranduil? To what purpose did she rattle their chains? Did she wish to delve further into her hypocrisy, absconding those she once protected and served? Was it meant as a warning, a siren, an alarm, a foreboding motion of her oncoming maelstrom? Was she sinking into her promised vengeance? Hadn’t she already done so with her dramatics, with her antics, with her ridiculous petulance along the Throat? And why target the gilded Lord? Shouldn’t her loathing lay with him – pinned upon his belligerent chest because he refused to grant her what she craved?
 
Didn’t she know he’d hunt her down? That he’d be the monster all over again? That he’d be the horrible, depraved predator, stalking and hunting, devouring and consuming, until she was absolutely nothing?
 
The art of bedlam chiseled its way back to his face: gone were the fleeting remnants of compassion, replaced, varnished, and consigned to oblivion. Mephistopheles, Hades, Lucifer, a primordial scythe, an arched, detached heathen returned to the vestiges, harpooning infernal incantations though his closed jaws, through his treacherous, unforgiving distortion; drawn back into the sketches of annihilation. A tempest, a gale, an inferno, turbulent and searing, simmering and seething, restlessly poured upon the earth as a rapier, a living blade: portending, auguring, promising persecution. “Thank you for the information.” He obliged, stared at her from the rim of his vile mortality, from the villain ramparts swarming his mind, ominous and subversive. “Do you know where she resides now? Or where she came from?”

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.

Watching the Reaper before me, I couldn’t help but to avert my gaze to his question. I had no idea what cured it. I didn’t even know if there were a cure. It was a terrifying feeling if I had to be honest. Knowing all too well that this disease was painful and not even knowing if there was a cure for it. Surely if I had to live like this much longer it wouldn’t even be worth living. That much I knew for sure. The anger and frustration that fell with this disease also having the power to shape shift and distort my vision when it came to other creatures, it was a wonder I didn’t mistake my reflection and speak to myself.

Ears perked to him as the air began to change around him. Eyes danced up to see the patchwork Lord before me, seeing his reaction to such a name. I didn’t know her, but I knew what she looked like and I pieced the information together. However, when his next words hit my ears I nodded in saying ‘you’re welcome’ before shaking my head ever so slightly. I hadn’t thought to search of where she lived now. But perhaps having feelers out in other herds I could learn if she was a part of them or not. Perhaps it would be a good enough option for Deimos unless he chose to seek it out himself.

Turning from him again, I coughed. Trying to keep it to myself and not quite as loud as it should have been, the movement caused my body to heave in a racking sort of way. Shaking my head to myself again, eyes trailed the fleeting shadows of Deimos. “Unfortunately, I don’t know where she resides. I’m not one-hundred percent sure it’s her, but she was here momentarily after I joined so I learned what she looked like and the description of her seems to fit. As for finding it out, I have acquaintances in the other herds. I can see if they can let me know if they know where she is – without being obvious, of course.” I spoke slowly, eyes watching the ground. “Unless you would like to take matters into your own hands, My Lord?” Eyes flitted up to his face, seeing the patchwork again, curious to see what he would like me to do.

"Talk?"

rexanna

awaken to the eyes of glazed humor.
the haze in my somber eyes… it burns… so cold.

  Too much of the unknown was a penchant for frustration, and it built and built and built over the layers and lacquer of his nonchalant, reserved gaze. It slowly, carefully, pervaded, thickened into a bitter, rancorous relish, dissolving through his stare and hardening the brutality of his taut, silent frame; at Rexanna’s dissolving, withering gaze, at the feast of enigmas, at the haunting melancholy of mysteries and their foul air, slinking and slithering and snickering. Too many whys and not enough answers strung him for a reticent, recherché, tactic, narrowing his brooding fixtures and staring over the horizon, attempting to smother the bits and pieces of hatred, of contempt, of pure, utter, distinct loathing from chasing over the cliffs and landing, launching, harpooning somewhere beyond the snow and ash. He was utterly powerless and useless in the face of disease, or even knowing where the Forsaken resided so he could acquaint her with one more searing, toxic, malicious gesture, bury her in the sea of her ridiculous antics, in the stupid, unwinding motions she so often declared.
 
But Rexanna’s offer was tempting; no matter how much he craved Ophelia’s annihilation, no matter how much he yearned, longed, wished to bury her beneath the sands and never hear, never see, never sense her presence again, he’d never been afforded the gift of discretion. The beast could calculate, conspire, persecute, and ruin, but the world would know he was coming in an instant; all death, all demise, all quiet, unholy measures – Lucifer’s dreaded scythe, Mephistopheles’ forged blade. Always a weapon and never a masquerade, his skills were unlike the slithering sleuths, persistent and smiling, goading and forbearing, chasing and devouring the truths, the riddles, the crimes against their kingdom. He was the executioner – and he doubted, when push came to shove, he’d receive the information he sought. Perhaps she held more connections than he – an easy task, when faced with brutal, keen honesty – and could ensnare, entrap, the veracity between hollow lies and hallowed regard. It was vexing all over again, to be so out of touch, to be so incompetent, to be so utterly incapable of doing anything for his cadre besides destroy, obliterate, and ruin. A molten sigh billowed past his lips, uttered before he had an opportunity to smother it, infernal stare regarding the Phantom with the slightest hint of reverence, respect, and the barest, meager interlude of petulance. “If you wish,” because he was begrudging and wanted to smother the Forsaken under his own accord, “and report to me soon thereafter.” He paused, bestowing a belligerent nod, strained and annoyed and so exasperated at his faults and flaws. “Take care of yourself. I will do my best to discover cures for your ailment.” It was the least he could do.

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.

The patchwork I saw seemed to move back and forth, no set edges. Almost like waves almost as it shifted Deimos’ appearance instantaneously. He sighed as he kept his eyes on me and I wasn’t entirely sure how to take that. Did he think I couldn’t do it? Or was it more of an ‘I wish I could do it myself, but I can’t’ kind of sigh? Pushing that thought to the side, I kept my black rimmed eyes on him, sniffing slightly to try and keep the sludge from escaping me further as I awaited his response. Though it was quick after his sigh that he told me ‘if you wish’. I was content with that little saying, easily. I nodded to him before he spoke again about reporting back to him.

“Of course, My Lord.” I offered him a small smile. Slightly thankful that he would entrust such a thing to a little Phantom like me. Perhaps showing I could handle this would promote me. I had always wanted to prove myself in the Basin and doing such a vital thing as finding out the homeland of Ophelia would benefit me in the long run. If she wanted Thranduil, he had plenty of backup. More in the unlikely of places.

I turned my head away from him for a split second before he spoke once more. “Take care of yourself. I will do my best to discover cures for your ailment.” Well, if that wasn’t a surefire way to know that I was doing a great job here at home, I don’t know what is. I turned my head back to him and nodded once again. “Thank you.” My voice was soft and held hints of just how thankful I was that he cared that much. Especially someone I had least expected to. “I hope to see you soon.” I offered him another small smile before turning away and going on my own path. I was going to find out where the pale creature lived, one way or another.

"Talk?"

rexanna

awaken to the eyes of glazed humor.
the haze in my somber eyes… it burns… so cold.