He whittled away the hours by honing his skills; extending his blade through fallen fir or rotting logs, polishing a quick strike, an inevitable blow, a deadly combination of movement and predatory motions through decrepit wares. It was a welcome diversion from all the strange nuances floating about his skull, churning his membrane from his defects, his flaws, his trials and all their heartless errors, to the actions he could concoct in his sleep: steady with a rapier, comfortable with a cutlass. Like a scythe, he dove through the nuances, rising towards dawn and lowering his body, his cranium, until his horn met wooden flesh, swinging it in one disastrous, bloody arch, watching the chips and rubble scatter like pieces of skin, sinew, and pelt. Satisfied for the few, restless moments, he built a crescendo of fire within his jaws, felt the rising pulse, the molten flame, the bestial whims conspiring along his maw, and was about to release it upon a hapless log, when a creature delved into the scene.
 
The King stilled, glancing and glaring at one of the kingdom’s smaller subjects; someone’s companion, recognizable and distinct, but he didn’t have a name to the tiny, deer-like creature. He narrowed his eyes, speculating and pondering, tilting his head for a fraction of a second; because rarely did companions seek him out – it was their guardians, their chieftains, who grasped for his attention. A severe thought came to his mind, and his eyes widened for a time, apprehension and annihilation wrapping a vicious coil around his mind – what if someone was hurt? What if another of his herd required aid? He wasn’t capable of administering any mending contortions, but he could certainly chisel and devour and mutilate anything and everyone intending to harm his comrades – so without delay, as the fawn turned and swiveled along stony paths and tundra corners, he followed as a massacring shadow, as a vehement haze, as a murdering cretin, intending to slay, to persecute, to cut and slash and obliterate a disastrous touch-
 
But they arrived into a clearing, into a familiar world, into naught more than a glade of rubble and ruin. The demon stared at the scene, blinking once or twice, deciphering what was truly in front of him – just the red and white Crafter and the Haruspex, picking apart the stretch of debris and wreckage that used to be the prison. No one appeared hurt. No one was endangered.
 
A low shuddering sigh left his body, and his glare lost its immoral, licentious degree; slipping along the grounds as if he were a tired, lonely king of demolition, and the ground-up turf was all his doing. Curiosity got the better of him as he lingered closer and closer, advancing towards the duo with all the sentiments of an intrigued cretin, an interested fiend, because for a time the dungeon was a cell for their enemies, and now it could only hold specks of dust and grain. But they’d gained new opponents, unfamiliar imbeciles knocking on their doors, and soon, perhaps once they’d managed to reconstruct what they’d lost (isn’t that all he did lately? Try to repair all the things he’d broken down?), it could house the seditious fiends circling their wares. His voice was keen and sharp, cutting through the swarm of stony remains, gaze settling upon one, then the other. “How may I assist?”

  His pattern of behavior didn’t wane, fade, or break – he watched, waited, as a great quantity of their empire floated into the midst, proffering him with a deferential nod, a token of respect, a word or two, and not much else. Their attention seemed mostly beholden to the gilded Rexanna, who wafted in with a much wider physique than originally noted, and the mint-laden Johnny, leading the minstrel march. The Lord stood, taking it all in, amidst the piles of rubble and ruin, akin to one left entirely out of the loop, merely observing, scrutinizing, studying the arrays of outcomes and disasters – some drama stirred, lurking underneath with prophetic, looming looks passed from one individual to another, until ultimately they all blended together and he couldn’t discern much of anything past: Who’s the father? and You’re simply glowing. He might have even tilted his head a fragment to absorb the rising spectacle: a nature of theatrics completely unknown and foreign to him. His children had all been granted by Huyana, had been pieces of death and rain, had been wonderful bestowals and gifts he never thought he deserved; a devil’s most precious treasures. There’d never been a question or query in his mind about where they’d come from or where they belonged – they were part of the thundering showers and the heart of demise, pieces and particles of virtue and immorality. It was only the sting of losing Huyana pricking and barbing and puncturing him now, curling in unholy thorns and nettles amidst his chest – he mustered a brief nod to all of them, and muttered a quiet “Congratulations,” across his breath towards the Thief, before staring off into the abyss, looking for rainclouds.
 
He would’ve grown into an even more aloof, reclusive, reticent beast had Johnny not told them of their mission, and then threw himself entirely into the work. Labor wasn’t violence, wasn’t vehemence, wasn’t coated in ash and soot and blood and barbarity, but it was a diversion from desolation. Instead of carving carcasses, he could annihilate rocks, and the thought almost loosened a chuckle from his throat. The Lord maneuvered past Frost Fyre and several others, choosing a spot slightly away from the quiet, curling, murmuring femmes and the seemingly distracted participants, not wishing to undermine the goals by draining lives. Perhaps, in a way, he sculpted another isolation entirely, tending to the task at hand instead of mooring himself in the hymns and hums of herd life, too stained, too tarnished, too unknown and savage, too wild and sinister, to partake in their admirations or praise. He coiled his muscles and pulsed with fervent, iniquitous movement, rummaging past fallen stones and silent scorn, pushing against displaced boulders, tending to the larger chunks of rock and crag, hoping and ensuring his constituents could administer the smaller pebbles without too much trouble or exhaustion. The demon was all strength and brawn and tenacity, tending to the newfound duty with the same unrelenting fury he always possessed, strung again by silence and unattainable finality.