Behemoth potency wrapped and lacquered in callousness, in silence, in unsung hymns of demonic contortions, flanked and regarded the eerie slinking of the sunset, the Cheshire bloom of another evening’s genesis. He drenched himself in the vestiges of the Orangemoon, coated in darkness, in death, in decadence, carving one nuance after another, one puncturing, piercing motion through the veil, the shroud, of unfortunate souls. Smoldering, rancorous, embittered by so many instances, by so many moments, he merely moved as a quaking, treacherous scythe, a blade fixated on naught but the fledgling night and the promise of desecration (because that was what he knew, that was what he could cherish: the persecution, the wrath, the contempt never left him). Too predacious, too ravenous, too consumed by other notions, other ventures, other altering decisions, he hadn’t noticed the disappearing acts his members had played until it was too late.
 
And he was always too late.
 
Vexed, irked, and irritated by the course of previous days, he hid his face behind steel and disregard, nonchalance and recherché, finding no end to the debacles, the scales of charades, the flights of foolishness, and vigilant madness. Iniquitous and annihilating, licentious and brooding, he simply brewed amidst his kingdom, presiding away from his throne, trailing through barbarous, savage, sinister pathways, misaligned and wicked, unholy and persistent. Allured and beguiled by the subtle trail of another’s scent, by the wrinkling of time and the strange, uncoiling taste of far, far, far distant memories, he traversed the vast, icy plain and simmered beneath the wake of falling snow, narrowing his gaze to stare at the glowing horizon. Only as he proceeded closer and closer, ignited under the beckoning sunset, arrayed by a sinful twist of sinuous, chilling oeuvre, did he note who wandered into their borders all over again – and as she cried out into the fuming twilight, he thought of chaos and wrath, of skulls and extermination, oddly grateful that at least one suddenly yearned to join them once more. At least someone wanted to trace the snow and bludgeon the weak. At least someone still believed in them. Didn’t they deserve it? Didn’t they claim it? Weren’t they, somehow, someway, still powerful, consuming, and devouring?
 
He breathed, he loosened, he lost the taut, rigid contortions of his flesh and sinew, and nodded towards the mare as he stood before her, yards away, another mysterious entity brought into enmity and fatality. He wanted to ask her many, many things, where she’d gone, what she’d done, why she’d drifted away (and perhaps then he could know, understand, and comprehend why others had done the same, fleeing the glacial slate and the dreams of power), but instead, because he faltered and stumbled in the same way he always had, he merely nodded, and stained the paragon whims, the virtuous flakes, with the press of his mouth and the deep coil of his tongue. "Waprevah.” The Reaper, the King, the northern Lord, only said one more phrase, and leaving the rest to the void. "You have returned?”

  He wondered what she expected of him: scorn, ridicule, refusal? Her tone was too quiet, too flat, too edged with tranquility that he had nothing to lash out against – she was not the cause of his exasperation, of his frustration, of his keen, blunt edges or the torn layers of loyalty and disaster. She’d disappeared like the rest of them, but instead of staying amongst the gallows or straying to another kingdom, another sovereign, serving an old enemy or lying amidst more grandeur, she’d returned. There was something to the adherence, to the allegiance, to the faithfulness that after eons and decades and moments away, she’d bothered to stray back to the winter landscape, to the bludgeoned, bleeding mess. How many would crawl back? How many would stay away? How many had he scorned unknowingly, pushed aside while he disappeared into the shadows’ fathoms, lost again to the torn armaments of desolation and misery? The silent vigil, the blank slate of his features rested solely on her, on skulls and recherché, on the bond of secrets, on the searing, scorching unknown, violent and chaotic, restless and unholy – he nearly asked her why she’d bother to come back to their land, to their world, to their empire, when nearly everyone else sought to escape it. So, for once, the Reaper showed no wrath, no anger, no insolent, bloody rage to beckon and quake and unfurl, displaying only the potent opulence of his power, of his desecration, of the lives he’d somehow managed to ruin in the wake of his burdening throne. A crisp note followed suit, mouth barely parting more than a minute whisper, curling and conspiring through the air as an irreverent rapture, as a particle of sin draped and drenched in far too many layers. “You may stay with us again,” and will you, truly? his skull pondered and bade into silence, and the dangerous fringe of his eyes mustered the query, the curiosity, the inquisition of where she’d been and what she’d seen and why she chose to come back to them now, as they all began to drift apart. None of the queries left his throat, none of the sanctions and devils’ accord were thrown into the midnight air; because maybe all that mattered was that someone still believed in their faith, in their power, in their condemnation, and it was enough to satisfy his avaricious plunge, his grasping, covetous enmity. “How do you wish to apply your significance?”

  The earth was full of impertinence, cheeky and insolent, straining and calling for justice where it’d yet to be obtained; he hadn’t expected it here, in the throes and throngs of twilight’s chill, in a serene aperture of returns and renewals. But, the previous, calm, tranquil state was suddenly bludgeoned by the mare’s statement. I would happily take the position of Thief… - he wanted to laugh at the absurdity, at the weight of entitlement, at the quick, swift nature of her hunger for supremacy. “You are presumptuous,” he declared, mutinous and subversive, staring at the skull-faced femme and wondering what on earth had possessed the mare to believe she could acquire such a rank with no fulfillment or regard to the position. Was it sheer audacity or pure ignorance? Was it a lust, a determination, a drive for power in whatever form, or simply a manner of the unknown, incapable of understanding how one came to find themselves near thrones? The Reaper had always been a cretin who rewarded his other fiends’ efforts, who believed in hard work, who cherished the labor of his fellows and slaved alongside them: patriots to their duties, to their creeds, to the mountains and the icy, chilling wings. He had no room for brazen, overconfident creatures that did naught but flee the scene, only to come back with a request for brawn and bravado, for merit and gifts, for rewards they’d not deserved. What had she done that would warrant such a ridiculous request? The Lord was reminded of so many seasons and years before, when emboldened beings showed their faces at their doors and demanded entry, when they’d achieved naught, when they could offer naught, when the layers of his frustration, rancor, and treachery caught flame (and played a wicked, torturous dance, invoked and conjured death and demise – he could always do it again). The fiend’s eyes formed a scaling, scathing mark, narrowing slightly, disheveling his careful, nonchalant mask for an arch of a brow, for the hint of insurgent, seditious decadence, dabbling and procuring the notions of his speech necessary for the task. “You have yet to prove you are worth the title.” Blunt and keen, candid and direct, he continued, providing avenues and alleyways in which she could shape her ambition. “We earn our ranks. Show us you want it.” If she truly craved, if she truly yearned, then she’d be able to delve into her aspirations, sink her teeth into secrets and furtive schemes, demolish snares and tarnish reputations – and if she didn’t, she’d be one more of those who’d failed to carry out their targets, and it wouldn’t matter to him. “You may start as a Phantom.”